Paydirt

28

Thursday, February 2

Three Days Before the Super Bowl

Let the madness begin. Christine Gallagher surveyed the surreal scene outside the stadium where a radio station had set up a ten-foot high heap of cow manure. A man who won a drawing-or had he lost? — was about to leap into the fetid pile of crud from a diving board in hopes of rooting out a pair pf fifty-yard line seats to the game. The bullshit would be thick inside the stadium too, she thought, as the interminable press conferences had begun.

The hoopla and hype, fueled by a media blitz, had spread across South Florida. Overhead, a plane pulled a banner advertising an all-nude Super Bowl Cruise, featuring the talented lap-dancing ladies from Club Plutonium. There were street festivals, bay cruises, blimp rides, private jets, and theme parties with rivers of bloody Marys and mountains of stone crabs. Outside the stadium were corporate tents for manufacturers of soft drinks, athletic shoes, muscle cars, and even a little elastic bandage that goes across the nose and is supposed to prevent snoring, a handy device in the event of a typical Super Bore of a game.

A paean to capitalism run amok, Christine thought, then chased away the heretical notion. She was, after all, the marketing director of a Super Bowl team. With contract renewals coming up for the team's official soft drink, shoes, cars, sports drinks, candy bar, bank, and phone carrier-everything but jock itch powder-a victory could boost rights fees by millions of dollars a year.

Showing her credentials to a security guard at the press gate, Christine passed a pit full of alligators and crocodiles attended to by Miccosukee Indians in colorful garb. Entering the stadium, she wondered vaguely what other rapacious reptiles she'd be dodging all week.

On the field, more than two thousand reporters from two hundred countries jostled each other and moved in little clusters, like herds of well-fed sheep, from one player. The reporters, bobbing and weaving, tried to avoid bumping their heads on hundreds of video cameras, peering like cyclops, at the Mustangs, dressed out in uniforms without pads. There was a pecking order here, Christine knew, with the largest clump of sheep surrounding number seven, the quarterback who was as quick with the quip as he was in hitting the tight end over the middle. Now, the reporters circled Craig Stringer, alternately taking notes on small pads, then looking up to ask questions, their heads bobbing like bidders at an auction.

"I know you fellas like baseball," Stringer was saying to a Japanese camera crew, "but it's an undisputed fact that football players are smarter. In baseball, they got a diamond showing them where to run, and still, they gotta have coaches at first and third base telling 'em which way to go. If not, some fool would get a hit and run all the way to the right field wall."

The Japanese interviewer dutifully nodded while others in the cluster scribbled notes.

"Has football gotten too big?" a pretty young TV reporter asked.

"Heck no," Stringer replied, smiling for the cameras. "If God didn't intend man to play this ole game, why would he have shaped testicles like footballs?"

The TV gal was rendered speechless, and the others-lacking a philosopher or urologist among them-also remained silent, so Stringer rolled on, extolling pro football's charitable contributions and other good works. "The game brings together black and white and brown, men and women and whatever."

Murray Kravetz from Channel 9 squeezed through an opening between a Dutch photographer and a Sports Illustrated reporter, adjusted his toupee, then slipped a microphone under Stringer's nose. "Craig, you've been criticized for throwing the long ball too much. Any chance, you'll go more to your backs in this one?"

Stringer gave the old reporter an icy stare. "I wonder if y'all ever heard the definition of a sportswriter. It's someone who would if he could, but he can't, so he tells those who already can, how they should."

A ripple of laughter ran around the ring of reporters, and Stringer turned his back on Kravetz. The quarterback surveyed the throng surrounding him, spotted Christine, gave her the thumbs-up sign, then turned his megawatt smile back to the reporters. He was smooth, a marketing director's delight, Christine thought. He was driven to succeed in everything he did, and she liked that.

Naked ambition and he looks great naked, too.

But sometimes she wondered what lurked behind the perfect smile and twinkling eyes.

How does he really feel about me?

Christine had been aware from an early age that she was damn near irresistibly attractive to men. She had the looks, the brains, the personality. But, she also had the burden of money, and that attracted more than a few suitors by itself. The money made no difference to Bobby. If anything, he didn't like it. They'd both been struck by the lightning bolt, the thunderclap of love, and that's all that mattered.

But what about Craig Stringer? What was his agenda? What did he really want, a loving wife or a boost to the next level of business success? She couldn't read him.

And how do I really feel about him?

She didn't know. She set a personal deadline. By the final gun of the Super Bowl, she would decide whether to go through with it, whether or not to marry Craig. Sure, it sounded silly, but she worked best under pressure. She'd already semi-accepted his proposal but told him not to tell anyone until after the game, and she kept the ring in the little black velvet box.

I didn't even try it on.

It had upset Craig, of course. And what would a shrink say about her unwillingness to test the feel of the ring on her finger? Not a damn thing, because a shrink would never hear about it, she told herself. A Kingsley doesn't need help from anyone else. Hadn't her father taught her that?

But when Craig showed me the ring, why was my first thought of Bobby?

Before she could answer the question, she spotted her ex-husband, press credentials looped around his neck, wearing khaki shorts and running shoes and a Channel 9 polo shirt.

What's he doing here?

Christine watched Bobby float around the periphery of reporters who surrounded Nightlife Jackson, just next to the crowd around Stringer. Nightlife looked relaxed with a silver and blue 'do rag on his head, his gold earring sparkling in the Florida sun as he extolled the virtues of the South Beach clubs. The weasel. Christine prayed that he wouldn't victimize any star-struck young women on this trip, but what could she do about it? Her father had told her that she couldn't solve all the world's problems, and maybe lately, she'd stopped trying.

She sneaked out of the horde of quote-hungry journalists just as Stringer was thanking God for his good fortune-"I gotta give a big hand clap to the head coach upstairs"-then followed Bobby from a distance. He seemed to be scanning the crowd, looking for someone. Christine edged her way behind a heavyset TV cameraman and watched Bobby without being seen by him.

Behind her, Nightlife Jackson was regaling the press with easygoing humor. How different his public persona was from his private one, Christine thought. A daytime charmer, a nighttime slasher.

"Any predictions, Nightlife?" someone from the back of the crowd asked.

"We're gonna smash, trash, bash, and crash 'em. Denver will be screwed, tattooed, and barbecued and ah'm gonna get me a championship ring."

"He oughta get a home-confinement bracelet," a reporter deadpanned. Christine recognized him as a wiseguy from ESPN.

"Hey Nightlife," the ESPN guy called out. "Is it true you majored in basket weaving in college?"

"Nah," the player replied. "That was way too tough. I studied broadcasting."

There were a few laughs, and Christine watched Bobby move away from the rat pack, heading toward the crowd around Buckwalter Washington who was describing his eating habits which included a dozen big Macs after practice. Bobby seemed to listen a moment and moved on, still not seeing Christine behind him.

She watched him approach the corral of reporters circling Chet Krause. The coach was dispensing his usual platitudes in a Texas drawl, worrying that his players were "tarred" from full contact practices and didn't seem to have the usual spring in their legs.

Cameras whirred and clicked, and utterly bored reporters duly recorded their banal notes. Christine watched Bobby move away again.

Who's he looking for? And why do I even care?

Don't y'all go calling us cowgirls," Shari Blossom was saying to a semi-circle of reporters, all male, all staring at the cleavage rising from her push-up bra underneath the blue shirt tied at her midriff. Her white shorts were cut into a V so far below the navel as to require regular waxing sessions. Completing the outfit were white boots and a white bolero vest festooned with silver stars. She chewed a pink wad of bubble gum as she spoke, occasionally cracking it between her molars. "We're the Dallas Mustangs Cheerleaders, and don't be fergittin' it, honey."

She winked at a paunchy, sweating, balding reporter, who furiously scribbled notes as if Shari Blossom, co-captain of America's Sweethearts, were disclosing the precise location of the Holy Grail.

"We're not cowgirls. We're not bimbos, hoochies, or Hooters girls. We're the pick of the litter and as American as apple pie. Or apple tart." She winked again and wiggled her hips.

The reporters nodded at the imparted wisdom and jotted more chicken scrawl in their little notebooks. Bobby studied this ripe peach of a woman, this symbol of healthy, innocent sexuality and, for a moment doubted his plan. Would Shari help him? Could she carry it off? Was he crazy putting so much trust in her? His life would be riding on those long, sun-tanned legs.

He'd known enough of the cheerleaders to realize that they were more than prancing, boob-jigglers with wide-eyed smiles. Although they might not have Ph. D.'s in astrophysics, they were savvy and sophisticated about men. They'd partied with Saudi sheiks and Texas oilmen, made commercials and personal appearances, and traveled the world. Shari was brighter than she'd let on, and if anyone could get close to Craig Stringer, she was the one. Besides, at this point, Bobby didn't have any other options.

It had been Scott's idea, though the kid tried to make his father think it was his own.

"Who's the most important player on the Mustangs?" Scott had asked him that morning.

"Easy, Craig Stringer."

"Absolutely. He's the bomb, but what does he do off the field?"

"Chase your mother, apparently."

"No, I mean, what are his weaknesses?"

"He's vain and arrogant, but those are probably considered assets in his line of work."

"C'mon Dad, get stoked. You were the team lawyer. What shaddy stuff has he been into?"

"Booze, women, drugs, the unholy trinity."

"Right! So…"

"So," Bobby said, picking up the pace, "he can probably handle one. Maybe he can handle two. But can he handle all three during the most pressure-packed week of his life?"

"What do you think, Dad?"

"I don't know, but there's a sweet Texas belle who might be able to find out," Bobby said.

"Hiya Boy Scout!" Shari called out, spotting Bobby in the crowd. "Long time, no see."

True, Bobby thought. He hadn't seen Shari since he'd walked her out of a Dallas courtroom, acquitted of a shoplifting charge. He couldn't claim much credit as it was Shari's testimony, or maybe her leopard print mini-dress that did it, the judge buying her story that the pearls from the Nieman Marcus jewelry counter must have been swept into her purse by "an act of God." On the way back to Valley Ranch that day, Shari allowed as how Bobby was her hero, a knight in a shining Benz, and she'd be oh-so-thrilled to show her gratitude if he wanted to stop by her apartment that night.

He politely declined, citing legal as well as marital ethics.

"You've never cheated on your wife?" Shari had asked, incredulous.

"Never have, never will."

She had looked at him suspiciously. "Most married men I know got two-toned ring fingers and fergit their wives names after a couple bourbons."

"Not me."

"Then you'll just have to be Shari's little Boy Scout," she said, leaning over in the front seat of the Mercedes to give him a peck on the cheek.

Now, Bobby gave her a wave and a Texas, "How-dee!"

"Be with you in a jiff, sugar," she said, turning back to her admirers and blowing a pink bubble with her gum.

Bobby watched her now, doing her blonde Barbie Doll shtick, the essence of Texas womanhood. She stood five feet nine, had ice blue eyes, a year-round parlor tan, and blonde hair parted in the middle and fluffed up at her shoulders. She wore her trademark pink terrycloth headband as if ready for three hard sets of tennis. According to cheerleader mythology, Shari would reward a man with a souvenir headband if he scored in her four-poster bed, rather than in Mustangs Stadium.

Her bare midriff showed a taut set of abs from daily workouts in the gym and her breasts were perfect globes, thanks to a the handiwork of a multi-millionaire plastic surgeon favored by Dallas socialites as well as cheerleaders. Her lips were slick with gloss and red as dewy raspberries, her eyes wide with seemingly innocent sensuality. A practiced sensuality, Bobby thought. This was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, whose entire being was devoted to the way she looked and the pursuit of pleasures given and received.

He'd long ago come to the conclusion that some seductive women are catnip, others are cats in heat. Shari was both. She could be cute and cuddly, the girl next door, or an outrageous vamp, frank about her desires and abilities. Either way, she was cherry pie ala mode, a rich confection for dessert.

"Mah head's just spinning from all your questions," Shari cooed at the journalistic posse, "so If you gentlemen are through, I'm gonna go talk to an old friend."

The reporters looked as if they could stay all day, but taking the hint, they moved off toward the team's weight-training coach to gather some profound quotes about squats and bench presses.

"Jim-mee!" Shari squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "How are you?" she asked, giving it that peculiar Texas twang, "Hah har yo-uu?"

He hugged her and picked up the scent of hair spray and pink bubble gum. "Just great, Shari. What about you?"

"Plum wore out, Bobby. After seven years of bouncing and jiggling, I got a bum knee, a herniated disk, and pre-menstrual stress three weeks out of four."

Bobby worked out of her clinch. "Jeez, I'm sorry."

"Even cheerleaders get the blues, hon."

"You fixin' to quit?" he asked, finding her accent downright contagious.

"Not 'til a rich, handsome gentleman pops the question."

Bobby steered her toward the sideline. "Can we go somewhere and have a drink?"

"Why sure, honey! Are you ready to take me up on an old offer?"

Bobby leaned close and spoke into her ear, long blond strands of hair tickling his nose. "I need to talk to you about Craig Stringer."

"Now why would you want to talk about a feller who thinks he's the only rooster in the barnyard?

"I know the two of you used to be close…"

"That's one way of putting it. If he'd be tense on the night before a game, I'd relax him. He'd pretend it was somethin' more than that, and I was just a rookie, fresh out of Galveston High, so I was a little starry-eyed and believed everything he said. It took a while and a bucket full of tears, but I finally figured out Craig would always be AWOL, After Women Or Liquor."

They approached the tunnel under the west end zone. In just three days, Craig Stringer and his teammates would come roaring over the same patch of grass where they now walked. Eight days that meant life or death. "Is Craig still popping pills?" he asked, suddenly. Sometimes the best approach with a witness is the element of a surprise.

Shari didn't blink. "Is Dr. Pepper sweet? 'Course he is. He just hides it from Coach Krause and Mr. K."

"You're sure."

"Tammi told me his bathroom looks like the Rexall store."

His look shot her the question. "Tammi?"

"She's a rook from Denton who's pulling Saturday night duty in Craig's hotel room. As he gets older, Craig likes his girls younger. Gets more applause that way."

Now came the difficult part. Bobby was as tense and jittery as a horse at the starting gate. He didn't know if he could trust Shari, who looked at him with her photogenic smile, waiting. What if she turned him down and ran to Stringer, exposing the plan? What if she reported him to league security? His nerves felt like exposed power lines, snapping like whips, crackling with hot sparks. "Do you think you could sub for her?" he asked. "There's ten thousand dollars in it for you if it works."

She turned off her smile as if hitting a light switch. "Don't insult me, Bobby! Ah turned down fifty thousand dollars and a diamond necklace from an A-rab prince who wanted me to do splits for him in his castle in Abu Dhabi. Ah've given a lot away, but ah've never sold it."

She pouted at him. The approach had been all wrong. He felt his face redden and suddenly felt feverish.

"I'm sorry, Shari. I didn't mean-"

"Ah don't go to bed with anyone unless ah've got the itch."

"I'm know, I know, but he's an old lover of yours. It's not like I'm…"

"Pimping?"

"Yeah."

"What makes you so damn interested in improving Craig's sex life?"

He'd been expecting the question and had worked on the answer, which unlike many statements he'd made as a lawyer, was at least a half truth. "He's been seeing Chrissy."

"Ah git it!" Shari cried, showing a smile of perfect teeth the color of fresh cream. "This is about your ex. She's still got her brand on your hide, don't she sugar?"

"I guess so," he said, sheepishly. "They're semi-engaged, and I want to break them up."

"And ah thought Craig would chew off his own leg before he'd get caught in the matrimonial trap, but he's always lookin' to improve himself, and Christine Kingsley's just another step on the ladder. Now what can Shari and her pink headbands to do help?"

Bobby took a deep breath and sang it out. "Christine doesn't know what she's getting into. I need proof that Stringer's popping pills, drinking and womanizing again…and I'll need it all videotaped."

"Video!" Her eyes flashed with what he thought was anger.

Now I've gone too far. Damn, I'll lose her.

"So ah could be on 'Hollywood Tonight!"

He realized he'd mistaken her enthusiasm for anger.

"Hell yes. You could get your own TV series."

"You think I could get a book deal like Paula Barbieri?"

"Maybe. Did you ever sleep with O.J.?"

"Who didn't, honey?"

"So what do you think?"

"Ah think you're a smooth talker who could sell fur coats in hell."

"Will you do it? And will Craig go for it?"

"Hell yes, sugar! Any old night. Craig still comes sniffing around, but ah've given him the stiff arm the past two seasons. Been there, done that, and to tell you the truth, he ain't that hot. We won't be needing any extended play videotape. With Craig, it's always the two minute warning, then he's running the hurry-up offense."

Bobby laughed and let some of the tension go.

"What's so funny, honey?"

"I'm just glad to learn there's one thing I can do better than Craig Stringer."

Christine watched Bobby and Shari disappear into the shadows of the tunnel. She fought the urge to follow them, a dozen thoughts buzzing in her mind.

What was Bobby even doing here? She had checked with the media relations director. Bobby was listed as an assistant to Murray Kravetz at a local Miami TV station and would have press credentials for the game. What was he up to? And why had he sought out Shari Blossom? Christine tolerated the cheerleaders because they made money for the team, but their image as pretty playthings offended her feminist sensibilities. The girls were always polite to her face, but she knew they called her "the Axe" behind her back because she was always trying to cut team expenses.

There was something about Shari Blossom that bothered her. No, everything about Shari bothered her, she now thought. Shari was a throwback, a woman who wiggled her ass to get what she wanted. She also held the all-time cheerleader record for the most times per season that her top came untied during the Rockettes-like high-kick maneuver. Each time, her boobs would come bouncing out to the delight of the hooting Billy Bobs. And, each time, after receiving dozens of letters from the Southern Baptist churches, Christine would summon Shari into the office.

"I'm awfully sorry," Shari would say, reaching for sincerity like a soap opera understudy. "Next time, ah'll tie the top on tighter."

"Funny, Shari, " Christine would reply. "I always figured you learned a slip knot from some sailor passing through Galveston."

Christine had heard rumors that Craig was involved with Shari before they started going out, but he denied everything. "Chrissy baby, I never touched one of those girls. I believe in their illusion of innocence."

"Craig, if you could throw the football as well as you sling the bullshit," she said, "you'd already be in the Hall of Fame."

"You can get anybody you want to coach the team. The only guy I want you to get for me is that guy with the whistle."

— Gangster Frank Costello, in reply to a promise that the Washington Redskins would hire a famous college coach if Costello would invest in the team