Paydirt

31

A pulsating laser beam played across the spurting fountain in Bayfront Park. A string ensemble plucked away at Mozart, the delicate notes floating on the soft, salty air from the bay. In another part of the park, a Jamaican steel band banged away while closer to Biscayne Boulevard, the Junkanoos from the Bahamas performed their drums and brass routines. Neon lights flashed in the palm trees like madcap Christmas decorations, casting an eerie glow on the swaying fronds. Barechested Bahamian bartenders presided at torch-lit chickee huts, dispensing rum-filled coconuts and icy margaritas to thirsty patrons. Waitresses in colorful sarongs carried trays of fried alligator, Bimini bread, Haitian conch salad, Cuban media noche sandwiches, and Jamaican jerk chicken.

Billed as "A Caribbean Fantasy," the Super Bowl media party was a cozy little gathering for three thousand reporters, photographers, TV producers, team administrators, league officials, network executives, current and former players, corporate sponsors, salesmen-of-the-year, party girls (amateur, semi-pro, and Hall of Fame material) and various other freebie glomming wannabe-VIP's and hangers on.

And Bobby Gallagher.

Bobby was not here to party, although he did have a double date in mind. He was with Shari Blossom. Somewhere in the happy horde was the quarterback with the toothy smile and his quasi-fiancee, the former Mrs. Christine Gallagher. He had to find them and pull a switch. He had to hook up Craig with the voluptuous and willing Shari, get them into bed, videotape the whole shebang, plus find evidence of Stringer's continued drug use.

Is that all? Why not invent cold fusion in my spare time?

Scott's idea, which had once seemed brilliant, now seemed ludicrous. What if Craig were no longer attracted to Shari? What if he was truly in love with Christine?

Why not? I am!

Bobby forced himself not to become overwhelmed with the task. When he was a practicing lawyer and the sheer scope of trial preparations seemed daunting, he would focus on one small task at a time. Outline the points you must prove and organize the evidence to establish each point. Now, the small task was simply to find the lovebirds.

Despite the surroundings and the overall mood of gaiety and laughter fueled by free booze and food, Bobby was hardly in a festive mood. After the disastrous court hearing, he had driven to his cottage in Coconut Grove while he waited for Shari's phone call to come pick her up. It was a four-beer wait. He sat in his postage stamp backyard, slumped into a lawn chair with broken straps, listening to a mockingbird, missing Scott already, even though he was still here, hanging out tonight with friends from school.

He would never give up Scott. Nothing was that important, not even his own life.

But that was a battle for another day. He still needed to win a five-million dollar bet just to stay healthy enough to fight for Scott. Murray Kravetz had done the research, and Bobby was convinced he would be killed — or at least maimed — if he failed to pay off Vinnie LaBarca. LaBarca's rap sheet was peppered with arrests for mail fraud, loan sharking, racketeering, and extortion in recent years. In his youth were numerous assault and batteries and one attempted murder. Eighteen arrests but only one conviction, a plea to a reduced charge, so the mobster had spent only eighteen months in prison.

"But that ain't the worst stuff," Kravetz told Bobby. "He's been a suspect in half a dozen disappearances, but no bodies were ever found. Guys who owed him money, business partners in the vending business, that sort of thing. It seems like some guys who go fishing on LaBarca's Hatteras never make it back to shore."

Thinking of LaBarca chilled Bobby to the core, but not because of the pain or the eternal darkness that he feared awaited him. His only thought was of Scott. What would become of his son without him?

Bobby was late arriving at the party, having gone to pick up Shari at her hotel, then waiting another hour as she applied her blush, shadow, eye liner, lip gloss, and various other potions and lotions, and then tried on and discarded seven different outfits, all of which displayed her cleavage to a degree that could get her arrested in certain small Southern towns.

"Does this one do anything for you, sugar?" Shari had asked, tying a gold lame halter top under her breasts.

"You know damn well what it does for me," he told her. "Me and every other man you ever met."

"If that's the way you feel, Bobby, why don't we just party right here?

"Because there's work to do."

She pouted and let him get a glimpse of a breast in profile, nipple erect, as she tied and re-tied her top. Some women, he decided, practiced their megawatt sexuality so often and so hard that they were unable to turn off the electricity.

"I'm disappointed, Bobby. I was figuring you might end up with my headband tonight."

"And all this time, I thought the headband story was just part of the legend."

"It is and it ain't. Half the men in Dallas got pink headbands hanging from the rear-view mirrors, but they're just dreaming. What the public sees is pretty much an act. It's really a look-but-don't-touch show, and I'm gonna keep it up 'til I find what I'm looking for."

"Which is what?"

"A man who loves me with all his heart and all his soul. A man who'll carry the torch through a monsoon and fight off lions and tigers in the jungle for the woman he loves." She cocked her head and looked at him with eyes crackling with mischief. "A man like you, Bobby Gallagher."

Bobby and Shari were making their way through the throng of people at the outdoor party. Everyone was eating and drinking twice as much as they would if they were paying. Bobby said hello to Murray Kravetz, who wore a Channel 9 windbreaker, and couldn't say hello back because his mouth was stuffed with Brazilian rodizio sirloin, cooked rare, freshly sliced from a skewer bulging with a bloody chunk of beef the size of cow's hip. Bobby scanned the crowd for his accomplices. There was Goldy, dancing his own version of the rhumba with Gloria Vazquez, a retired clerk at Hialeah's hundred-dollar window. Goldy motioned with his arm, imitating a quarterback throwing the ball, then nodded in the direction of Bayside, a collection of waterfront shops and restaurants. Bobby steered Shari that way in hopes of finding Craig and Christine.

They worked their way down the path, which was lighted with flaming torches and crowded with partygoers. At a kiosk, Bobby spotted Jose Portilla roasting whole pigs on a rotating spit. Jose wiped his forehead with a towel and gestured down the same path. Another sighting. They headed that way, passing Nightlife Jackson, who moved at the center of a chirping, cooing flock of South Beach models in mini-skirts and hot pants, some of the young women taller than the defensive back, at least in their platform shoes. The park was abuzz with music and laughter and the joy of people being just where they want to be, secure in the knowledge that they are the chosen ones, permitted to guzzle free booze and rub shoulders with those society has deemed celebrities.

"Gallagher!" the voice boomed behind him.

Bobby turned to find Martin Kingsley, surrounded by his entourage, two bodyguards in blue blazers, his PR flack, a couple of front office flunkies, and three Dallas newspaper reporters. "What the hell are you doing here!" Kingsley demanded.

Bobby pointed to the laminated press credentials which hung from a chain around his neck. "I'm a member of the Fourth Estate, which makes me a guest of the league."

"We'll see about that." Maybe it was the glow of the torches, but Kingsley seemed to be turning red as he turned and scowled at Shari. "Young lady, if you value your employment, you will not consort with this man."

"Ah wouldn't dream of consorting with him," she said meekly. "After all, ah barely know him."

Kingsley motioned to one of the bodyguards, a beefy, crew-cut steroid freak whose neck threatened to burst the buttons on his shirt. "This man was fired from the Mustangs organization and is persona non grata at league functions," Kingsley said, raising his voice for the benefit of his worshipful entourage. "He's a disbarred lawyer and a known gambler. Get league security to put him under surveillance."

"While you're at it, Crew Cut," Bobby told the bodyguard, "tell them your boss is a known asshole. Have them send a proctologist right over."

Kingsley stood as still as if encased in a block of ice. "What did you say?"

Bobby closed the distance between them and jabbed an index finger under the older man's nose. Crew Cut moved closer and stood with his arms bent at the elbow, knees flexed, bouncing on his toes, glaring at Bobby with eyes hard as little black buttons.

"Martin, you're not in Dallas," Bobby said, "and I've got news for you. You'll never get your hands on him. I won't let you twist him into a clone of your sick self."

Kingsley's laugh was as cruel as a land mine. "You lost the case just like you've lost everything else! You don't know how to play hardball. You were born a loser and you'll die a loser. You should have taken my offer. You should have given me Scott and gotten your life back."

"He is my life, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch!"

"Then you're a dead man," Kingsley said, spitting out the words like poisonous seeds, "because I'm taking him away from you."

Bobby felt the rage in the pit of his stomach, hot and deep as a stab wound. His next movement was not volitional and he was scarcely aware of doing it. It was just a reflex, a drawing back of the arm, the balling of the fist, the pivot of the hip, the snap as his fist shot forward. The punch had too much loop to it, and Crew Cut, graceful as a tiger, took a step between them, deflected Bobby's fist with his forearm, then buried a short right hook into Bobby's gut.

A burst of air exploded from Bobby's mouth before he felt the pain. He dropped to one knee, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, feeling his stomach heave, threatening to hurl hor d'oeuvres all over his loafers. He heard Shari scream, a first rate, girly-girl horror flick scream. Through a cloud of pain, he was aware of the big man looming above him. Bobby's lips felt fat as sausages as tried to say something, but he had no air behind it. Then, he made a gurgling sound and out came, "Fuck you, Tarzan."

Suddenly, the man leaned down and ferociously boxed his ears with two open palms. The thunderclap rang into the depths of Bobby's brain, his skull pealing like a bell struck by a sledgehammer. He sprawled to the ground, fireworks lighting up his closed eyelids, pain surging down his spine. He felt as if he were drowning in turbulent waves, unable to move his limbs.

"Should I punch his lights out, Mr. Kingsley?" the man said, the words echoing faintly in some distant metal drum.

"No! Don't touch him!"

A woman's voice.

But not Shari. The voice was filled with anxiety and concern. How long had it been since he'd heard that in any woman's voice?

"Daddy! Tell him to stop! Now."

Christine!

"All right," Kingsley said. "That's enough, Kyle." He turned toward his daughter. "He attacked me, Christine. I could have him prosecuted for assault."

Suddenly, Bobby was aware of the scent of jasmine. Christine was crouched on the ground next to him, appearing from the dark night like an angel of mercy. She held one of his hands, then brushed the hair off his forehead and placed a palm to his cheek. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she asked if he was all right. He could barely hear her through the chapel bells ringing in his ears, which seemed to grow louder by the second.

"I'm fine. First rate. Tip top." From her facial reaction, he realized he was shouting. He also realized he was lying as his head throbbed with every heartbeat. She said something to him, but he couldn't catch it. She seemed to repeat it, but again, he couldn't hear.

A moment later, Bobby was aware of being helped to his feet by a pair of strong hands. He turned to see Craig Stringer wearing a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin. Stringer said something, too. It could have been, "You okay, pardner?" or "Your ocelot pooped" for all Bobby knew. He heard a mush of voices as if a tape recording were playing too slowly. Several feet away, Christine was wagging her finger at her father. Off to one side, Craig was talking to Shari. She said something that made the quarterback smile. He said something that made her laugh. Bobby wished he could hear them.

Now, Kingsley had his hands on Christine's shoulders, a real father-to-daughter Norman Rockwell pose, but she was shaking her head, not buying whatever he was selling.

That's my Chrissy. You're too smart not to wise up to that phony.

He could still feel the warmth of her hand against his cheek. Maybe if Crew Cut would stomp his head, he'd get a kiss from his ex-wife. He began to pick up snatches of words and phrases as the pealing bells began to subside. Christine had convinced her father to leave before the TV cameras showed up. She'd get Bobby out of there and smooth things over. He gave his daughter a forced smile and left, taking his entourage with him.

Christine returned to his side. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm sorry for what happened in court today and I'm sorry for this. Do you need a doctor?"

Great. He could hear again. "Nah, he just knocked the wind out of me with a sucker punch, then hit me when I was down. In a fair fight, I could've-"

"Gotten killed," she said. "Look, we should talk. Do you want to come back to my hotel?"

Only as much as I want to breathe.

Bobby's eyes flicked toward Stringer who was regaling Shari with one of his tales of last-minute heroics.

"Craig's got curfew tonight," Christine said. "He's got to get back."

Perfect. He couldn't have planned it any better, though if he had, he would have omitted the five-Tylenol headache.

"Great," he said, then turned to the pride of Galveston, Texas. "Shari, can you fend for yourself tonight?"

"Sure, sugar," she cooed. "Ah been off and on since I was fifteen."

"Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."

— Joe Theismann, TV commentator and former NFL quarterback

"It isn't like I came down from Mount Sinai with the tabloids."

— Ron Meyer, former Indianapolis Colts head coach