Paydirt

17

Sunday, January 29-Green Bay, Wisconsin

Bobby Gallagher looked out of the window and thought he was flying over Siberia. The frozen tundra of the American Midwest was below him, and he shivered just thinking about those poor cheeseheads who'd be sitting all afternoon in the deep freeze called Lambeau Field, situated on picturesque Lombardi Avenue in quaint, old Green Bay. At least he'd be cocooned in the warmth of the visiting owner's suite, the sole remaining perk of having fathered Martin Kingsley's only grandchild. It was the deal he had struck with his ex-father-in-law. In return for bringing Scott to the games, Bobby got a seat in the back row of the suite, adjacent to the table filled with steaming trays of scrambled eggs and French toast.

There was an awkwardness to these mini-reunions each weekend during the football season. Bobby put up with Kingsley's animosity because Scott loved his Mustangs, and because Christine would be there. Yesterday, Bobby got his hair trimmed and spent an extra five minutes choosing his clothing, settling on a double-breasted blue blazer that Christine bought him three birthdays ago.

Bobby and Scott had left Miami just after dawn, and now, on the connecting flight from Chicago, Bobby closed his eyes and let the somnolent drone of the engines lull him into a state of half-sleep. Visions of Christine filled his mind. Along with the blue blazer he now wore, she had given him a birthday card with the photo of two polar bears, one sleeping with its head on the other. "You're my favorite pillow," the caption read.

Like the bears, they had slept entwined in each other's arms, and he remembered the warmth of her in the bed next to him, the depth of her care and affection. He pictured her now, the curve of her hips, the heft of her breasts, the scent and sheen, the steam and heat, the taste and feel of her. All he wanted was to have her back, to be a family again.

As the plane began final approach into Green Bay, Bobby stirred from his reverie, thinking he wanted something else, too.

A little luck.

He didn't care who won today's game, just so Dallas didn't win by seven, eight, or nine points. Seven and nine would be disasters; eight would be an apocalypse-one-point-two million dollars! Any other result, including an outright Green Bay victory, and Bobby would pocket the vigorish of sixty thousand dollars. It would be his ticket out of bookmaking, his first step back to respectability. Maybe he would get reinstated to the not-so-holy profession of the Bar and keep Scott in private school in Miami, and-if the gods were truly smiling-someday win Christine back.

As the plane descended, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun, reflected off a blanket of fresh snow. The landscape was pure Americana, boxy barns and towering silos, sturdy white houses with smoke curling from chimneys, birch and evergreen trees laden with snow. Solid towns with stout-hearted names: Sheboygan, Sturgeon Bay, Beaver Dam.

And, of course, Green Bay.

Martin Kingsley stood in front of the terminal wearing a black cashmere great coat that stopped just short of his ankles. He'd arrived non-stop from Dallas one day on his Gulfstream 5 along with Christine and the front-office personnel. Bobby could see the older man's frozen breath hanging in the hair as he smacked his gloved hands together like a boxer preparing for a bout.

From the first time he saw Kingsley, Bobby was impressed by the sheer presence of the man-tall and handsome with a mane of flowing white hair. His tanned, leathery skin made his smile all the more startling. Kingsley's visage was well known. It beamed from the game day program-"The Owner Speaks"-from society page photos at charity balls, from slick brochures celebrating the expanded Kingsley Center for abused women, and from glowing Metro page accounts of tennis courts built for inner-city kids by the generous team owner.

Ten yards away was Kingsley's silver and blue stretch limo with a miniature Mustangs helmet for a hood ornament. Vanity upon vanity, Bobby thought. His limo, like his ego, was Texas sized, and he relished the attention it garnered at fancy restaurants and plush hotels all over the league. His driver often left Dallas two days early to pick up Kingsley at the airport when the Mustangs traveled. The league had become a haven for multimillionaires who loved the spotlight more than the game. It's only a matter of time, Bobby thought, before Donald Trump buys a team and plasters a "T" or even his hair-plugged photo on the helmets.

"Scott!" Kingsley called out, as his grandson raced toward him. "How's my boy?"

"Great, Pop!"

Bobby grudgingly admitted that the boy loved his grandfather and that the feeling was mutual.

Kingsley wrapped his arms around the boy, gave him a hearty squeeze then lifted him off his feet. "Whoa! I'll pop a disk. Pretty soon, you'll be the size of a tight end."

"A quarterback, Pop. I want to be a quarterback. And a holder, like my Dad."

"You'll do better than that." The old man cleared his throat and shot a look past Scott's shoulder, showing Bobby a smile that was colder than Green Bay's wind chill. "Hello Robert."

"Martin," Bobby said, nodding.

"Speaking of quarterbacks…" Kingsley turned toward the limo and the drivers' window zipped down. Langston, his uniformed chauffeur, handed a Mustangs jersey through the window. Kingsley grabbed it and gave it to Scott.

"Wow, number seven. Craig Stringer."

The jersey had grass stains on the tail and a smear of dried blood on one shoulder.

"Stringer wore it when he threw two TD passes in the fourth quarter to beat the 49'ers," Kingsley said. "He wanted you to have it."

"Cool! Thanks Pop." Scott put the jersey on, pulling it down over his ski jacket. It hung to his knees and, for a moment, made him look like a small child.

Clever, Bobby thought. Stringer, nearing the end of his career, was dating Christine and being groomed by the old man for a front office job. Just as Bobby had been.

You want me to stare at that showboat's name plastered on my son's back, you wily bastard.

"Stringer was lucky as hell on the last pass," Bobby said. "He threw into double coverage, the ball got tipped by the corner, and Nightlife Jackson makes a fingertip grab."

"Sometimes a man has to throw into double coverage," Kingsley said. "Lady Luck belongs to those who pursue her, to those who want her badly enough. Craig Stringer is a winner."

As opposed to me, you mean,

"And winning's all that matters, right Martin?" Bobby asked. "No matter the cost."

"Careful, Robert," Kingsley warned. "You're plowing mighty close to the cotton."

"There can be honor and dignity in defeat."

"Only losers think so."

"Hey, c'mon Dad. Pop. Let's get going. It's cold out here."

With his natural instinct to resolve conflicts, Scott had become the human buffer between the two men's escalating emotions. Bobby knew he should follow his son's lead and let it go. They should all duck into the heated limo, pick up Christine at the hotel, and head to the stadium. One big, happy, fractured family like so many others. But he couldn't let it go.

"Okay Martin. No debates today on society's distorted emphasis on being number one."

"Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing!'" Kingsley boomed. "Vince Lombardi was right about that."

"Does that mean it's okay to cheat to win?"

"It ain't cheating if you don't get caught."

"Now, that's a fine lesson. Scott, don't listen to your grandfather."

"Dad, please…"

"Scott, the winners make the rules," Kingsley said. "That's all you need to know."