Paydirt

13

Saturday, January 28-Dallas

Martin Kingsley drummed his lacquered nails on his mahogany desk and scanned the financial reports in front of him. Attendance figures, quarterly revenues, annual projections, income from local radio and network television, even sales of nachos and salsa. Revenue up a healthy thirteen per cent. But expenses…expenses were killing him.

Signing the free agents last year, then re-signing the veterans ready to bolt, gave him highest payroll in the league. Kingsley's file cabinets were stuffed with players' contracts so complex it would take a room full of Philadelphia lawyers to figure out how he was circumventing the salary cap, if not outright violating it.

The financials showed he was losing buckets of money on America's Team. But to hell with it! It's worth every last dollar, he told himself. They were just one win away from the Big Dance, the Super Bowl, and he could feel the atmosphere at Valley Ranch crackling with anticipation. Tomorrow was the NFC championship game, and his senses tingled with an electric buzz.

Damn, it's a fine day to be alive and be a Texan.

He'd had his annual physical earlier in the week, and the doctor pronounced him a remarkable specimen for his sixty-seven years. "You've got the heart of a lion and the prostate of a teenager." His long mane of white hair was brushed straight back, and today, wearing a tailored jet-black suit coat with silver piping, he felt vigorous enough to spar a few rounds in the gym or rope and brand some ornery livestock.

He considered himself a man who had damn near everything. There was only one missing element needed to fulfill his life.

I gotta get me a Super Bowl ring…the biggest, brightest Texas-sized ring they ever made.

All his energies were directed toward that one goal, and his assets were being drained for it. If they beat Green Bay tomorrow, they'd be on the threshold. But something else was gnawing at him, distracting him. The unfinished business of Robert Gallagher. It should have been finished two years ago. He'd crushed the little turd into dust and expected him to blow away like a West Texas tumbleweed. Would have too, if Christine hadn't agreed to that asinine split custody deal.

What a damn fool settlement! With Judge Bonifay-my golf partner for Christ's sake-we could have stripped the bastard of all his rights to Scott.

He still fumed thinking about it, Christine playing King Solomon with his grandson. He'd warned her there'd be trouble. Now, the shyster was refusing to return Scott from Florida and send him to boarding school. This time, he'd take care of Gallagher his way. Kingsley toyed with telling Christine his plan, then decided against it. She was too sentimental, too weak where the son-of-a-bitch was concerned. But she'd know soon enough, and when it was over, there'd be a barbed wire fence-or "bobwire" as they say hereabouts-between Scott and his loser father.

Kingsley shot the French cuffs on his custom-made shirt and glanced at his watch. No Rolex or Piaget. This was a solid gold number shaped like a Mustangs helmet and encrusted with diamonds. Two smaller versions of the helmet were fashioned into cufflinks.

Nearly noon. The plane was scheduled to leave for Green Bay in an hour. But it could wait. It was, after all, his own Gulfstream 5, the silver and blue "Point After."

"Let's cut back expenses," Christine had told him in their breakfast meeting that morning. Filled with pride for his little girl, he watched her expertly dissect the financials.

"You're a one-man oil shortage, Daddy. Why in the world do you need a jet with a five-thousand mile range?"

"Who knows, darlin', we might play an away game in Buenos Aires."

"I'm serious. If the bankers knew how cash poor you are, they could call your loans and wreak havoc."

"I'll let you and the accountants worry about it," he said. "I'm more concerned with beating Green Bay."

"Please don't brush me off like that. You get the monthly statements. You know what I'm talking about."

Yeah, he was leveraged to the brim of his handmade Stetson. While he could throw lavish parties with flowing champagne and mounds of imported caviar, he also gave express instructions to hand out pay checks after the banks had closed on Fridays.

"Once we re-finance, we'll be fine," he told her. He knew he was still paying the price for buying the team years before for a wildly inflated sum. Then, he'd poured millions more of borrowed money into improved facilities, salaries, and promotion.

Christine patiently went over the spread sheets, explaining that going to the Super Bowl would cost him money, the travel and entertainment expenses exceeding the payoff. "Especially the way you entertain, Daddy."

But what the hell? Winning is what it's all about. He'd let her figure out where the money would come from.

Over coffee and cinnamon buns, he listened as Christine kept leading him through the columns of numbers, endless digits revealing growing liabilities that piled up quicker than manure in a corral.

"Living large," he told her, "is important to my image. It's expected. It's what I'm all about."

"Maybe you could live a little more economy sized," she suggested gently.

Kingsley watched her, thinking of the resemblance to Dolores, his wife, who had died in a car accident at thirty-nine. Christine had the same fair skin, and with her blond hair pulled back, the same high forehead and widow's peak. Her green eyes were tinged with gold and seldom revealed what she was thinking. He'd raised a fine daughter and he'd raise a fine grandson, too, especially once he got that crackpot ex-son-in-law out of the picture.

"Did you see the P.I.'s report on your ex?" Kingsley asked.

She frowned, wrinkling her nose just as she had done when she was five years old. "I'm hoping we won't have to use it."

"Not use it? It's a godsend. Gallagher wants primary custody, and he's become a bookmaker! A disbarred lawyer turned bookie! Hell, the judge will laugh him out of court."

"Bobby's willing ton continue joint custody. He just doesn't want me to send Scott away to boarding school, that's all. Bobby's afraid they'll lose the bond they've formed."

"Good!" Kingsley banged a fist on his desk. "Scott doesn't need to bond with a common crook."

"Daddy, Bobby loves Scott very much and Scott adores him."

Ah, his sweet daughter was smart and beautiful but with little street smarts. He had shielded her from so much. Christine didn't know what it took to climb so high. Corners must be cut, deals made, hands dirtied. To win, you can't play by any rules except your own.

"Maybe there's a way we can work this out with Bobby so we don't have to go to court," she said. "I've even had second thoughts about the boarding school myself."

"Nonsense! Scott's a genius. All the tests show it, but his genius is untapped. If he hangs out at race tracks and bookie parlors, he'll be stifled, frustrated. He could end up a weirdo, living alone, collecting bottle caps and railroad schedules."

"You're being overly dramatic." She glanced toward a framed photo of the three of them-son, mother, and grandfather-standing under the goal posts at the old Texas Stadium. The photo was five years old, and Bobby had been cropped out of the shot, just as he'd been deleted from her life. A hole in the photo, a hole in her heart. "I just don't want to hurt Bobby any more than I already have."

"Hell, you've been too kind to him." He didn't like the wistful look in her eyes. "Has he been trying to contact you?"

"The usual. Flowers, cards, candy, even a crate of Florida stone crabs."

Kingsley harrumphed his displeasure, but he'd already known it. At the end of each day, he reviewed the security desk logs, scanning the names of every visitor to the Valley Ranch complex and reviewing the receipts of all deliveries. When it came to running a tight ship, Captain Queeg could take lessons.

"Daddy, don't worry. I won't make the same mistake twice."

"I know you won't, honey."

He was pleased that Christine was dating Craig Stringer. Hell, he'd set it up. This time, he vowed, Christine wouldn't let her heart rule her head. He'd help her lasso Stringer and bring him into the barn.

Stringer was a fine choice as a husband and future V.P. of operations of the team. He was a war horse of a quarterback, playing his last season, just ambitious enough to want to please his boss without wanting to kick him off the throne. The amiable fiction would be that Kingsley had turned over operations to his new son-in-law, the handsome, well-liked former All Pro quarterback. But Kingsley would still call the shots, and Stringer would be a well-paid martinet who would enjoy better relations with the Commissioner's office than his boss ever had.

How can I get Daddy out of debt and out of my personal life?

Both questions plagued Christine. Despite his bluster and bombast, despite trying to convince the world that he owned half of all creation, her father's finances were a disaster. Here she was sitting in his office, trying to get him to tighten his belt, and there he was spouting off about "living large."

Then there was her personal life. She just wanted peace. No private investigators, lawyers, or judges. She yearned for an end to the hostilities with Bobby and an end to their fight over custody and schooling of Scott. She knew her father was up to something in the lawsuit, but she didn't know what. He kept so many things from her. Still, she never doubted his love for Scott or for her.

If Mom had lived, maybe it would be different, but without her-without anyone- it's so hard to get Daddy to butt out.

She knew Bobby was broke. She knew he was humiliated over his disbarment, and her heart ached for him. But maybe Daddy was right. Maybe it was better to have Scott away in boarding school, rather than spending half his time in Miami with Bobby, subjected to God-knows-what influences. Though he meant well, Bobby sometimes showed poor judgment.

Either way, with Scott in Miami for six months or boarding school for nine, it would still be hard on her. She was guilt stricken and lonely when Scott was away. Sure, she'd fly to Miami every other weekend, or Bobby would bring Scott to wherever Dallas was playing, but still…she felt hollow and anguished in the stillness of her home without her only child.

I had a husband and a son. Now, no husband, and sometimes it feels as if I have no son, either.

Often, arriving at her empty, dark house after late meetings in the office, she carried her take-out Chinese cartons straight up to bed and cried herself to sleep. Her last thoughts were of Scott and Bobby and how she missed them.

Yes, Bobby, I miss you, too.

Ever since the nightmare of Bobby's televised press conference, Christine had felt torn between the two men, the conflict cleaving at her heart.

Maybe she should change her life, get away from her father. She considered leaving the team and starting a company on her own. Hey, she had an MBA from Wharton and a dozen years of business experience, but as the boss' daughter, she was treated with too much respect on one hand and not given enough credit on the other. She needed to make her mark. Her father kept talking about grooming Craig Stringer to be the general manager of the team, but would he, really? She doubted that Daddy would give up control until they carried him out of the office, boots first. And even if he did turn over operations to Craig, what would change for her? She'd go from daughter of the old boss to girlfriend — or wife — of the new one. In her heart, she knew she could do a better job than either of the two men.

"How are you and Craig doing?" her father asked when they finished going over the finances.

"I don't know, Daddy." Evasion was simpler.

"It's a perfect match," he said. "You have the same interests. You can talk football with him, and he can talk business with you. You both love horses, and you're both great riders. You want another child, and the Stringer gene pool looks damn good from my skybox."

"Daddy, please don't treat me like your prize heifer."

He steadied his gaze, his blue eyes cool as coins. "Can you give me one reason why you shouldn't marry Craig Stringer?"

"I don't feel enough when we kiss."

"Romance doesn't last," he said, shaking his head. "Security, common goals, commitment, and loyalty, that's what marriage is all about. Craig's a great catch and you know it. He's a good man."

"He's vain and a born womanizer."

"He's over that phase, darlin'. When he started seeing you, I made it damn clear he couldn't run around with any more cheerleaders or models, or I'd hang his balls from an old hickory tree."

"Daddy, I'm a grown woman, divorced with a child. It's not necessary to stand at the door with a shotgun."

He barked a laugh and said, "You get much older without marrying, I'll have to wound a man just to get you a husband."