Paydirt

40

The house was simply too quiet.

It had only been hours, but how he missed his son. What would it be like next week, next month, next year?

If there is a next week.

Bobby lay in a hammock strung between a red poinciana tree and a scraggly palm in the backyard of his cottage just off Tigertail in Coconut Grove. It was an old Cracker house made of Dade County pine with a sloping tin roof and a ragged coral rock wall surrounding the property. The mesh hammock was torn in several spots, and Bobby threatened to tumble to the ground like a fish slipping out of a net. He reclined in the darkness, listening to the night birds, sipping his third Samuel Adams, thinking it was time to take action. But what?

The Super Bowl is fixed, but the wrong way. Denver's quarterback is throwing the game!

Even worse, he'd lost his son, who at this very moment, was with his grandfather at a Fox network party. Bobby didn't have a prayer of getting back his law license or Christine. Come Monday, when he couldn't pay Vinnie LaBarca, he was a dead man.

And so he found his plan. A simple one-word plan. Run.

Run Bobby, run.

Pago Pago, Bora Bora, Abu Dhabi. Poetic names of exotic places blew into his head on steady trade winds. Why not go? He'd get word to his son, somehow, once he was safe.

He hoisted himself out of the hammock, tossed the empty beer bottles at an open trash can, hitting one out of three. With the sound of broken glass and his own shattered thoughts still ringing in his ears, he entered the cottage, which would have fit neatly into the garage of his old house in Dallas. Christine's house now.

Christine. Will I ever see you again?

Bobby headed west on Tamiami Trail, the old two-lane road that cuts through the Everglades. He'd drive to Tampa and get a flight from there. Maybe he was being paranoid, but then again, why risk flying out of Miami and being spotted? With LaBarca's connections, who knows what he might come up with if he started checking the international flights?

But what if LaBarca had him under surveillance? When he pulled the limo out of the gravel driveway just after ten p.m., wasn't there a car at the end of the block that took off after him? And now, staring back into those headlights, isn't it the same car?

He thought about Dino Fornecchio. Wouldn't he love some payback? Bobby knew he'd been lucky in Skarcynski's hotel room. He'd caught Fornecchio off guard. But now, the punk would be ready and armed.

Bobby hit the accelerator, and the old limo whinnied like a spavined nag, backed off, then sped up. The car behind him fell back, picked up speed, closed to within two car lengths, then flicked its high beams.

Oh shit.

Bobby floored it, and the big Lincoln engine seemed to remember its childhood, because it roared to life and in a moment, the speedometer was flicking between eight-five and ninety. Behind him, the other car kept pace. On both sides of the road, canals ran parallel to the pavement, the water black and still in the night. Somewhere beyond the canals, sawgrass towered eight feet high, but on this moonless night, Bobby couldn't see past the reach of his headlights.

The car behind him tooted its horn twice and gave a right turn signal. They wanted him to pull over. No way! He flew past a strand of Brazilian pepper trees, standing sentinel, casting shadows in the glare of his high beams.

Ahead, a lone pair of headlights, appeared, headed eastbound. In a moment, a huge tractor trailer blew by them, the limo shimmying in its wake. Again, it was just the two cars, screaming westward on the old road. Bobby hoped he didn't hit a stray alligator and flip over into the canal.

He squinted against the glare of the high beams in his rear view mirror. Then, suddenly, they were gone. It took a second to realize that the car had pulled into the left lane and was crawling up on him. Were they going to ram him? Were they going to push him into the black water and watch him drown?

He thought of Scott and of Christine. How did he muck up everything?

He shot a look to the left as the car pulled alongside. He expected to see a window come down, a gun barrel come up.

He inadvertently pulled to the right and his wheels slipped onto the berm. He hit the brakes, too hard, and fishtailed, the rear of the limo sideswiping the other car. He spun the steering wheel to the left, over-correcting, fishtailed right, then spun out of control, the limo's tires shrieking on the pavement as it turned one hundred eighty degrees, sliding across the road, crashing sideways into a strand of red mangrove trees. He came to a sudden, hard stop, the limo pointed back toward Miami, as if intent on returning him home. The tangled mangrove roots and limbs, intricate as a spider's web, had broken the slide, though not without caving in the passenger side of the limo.

He took inventory of his body parts. All seemed to be in the right place. Not even a whiplash, but his left shoulder ached where it had banged into the driver's side door. He was just getting out of the limo when the other car pulled to a stop on the other side of the road, angled to throw its high beams in his face. He heard the door slam and then his name called out.

That voice! Out here?

He squinted into the lights and shielded his eyes with a hand. "Is that you?" he asked, hoping.

"It's me," Christine said.

An hour later, he could still feel the warmth of her cheek against his. She had thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely, her fingers digging deeply into his shoulder blades. He hugged her right back, the tension and fear draining from him.

Now, back in his cottage, suddenly filled with sound and light, they sat on the old sofa of Haitian cotton, remembering, talking, pouring out a flood of feelings.

"I'm sorry for everything," she said. "It's my fault for letting my father run my life and run you out of it."

"No. I mishandled it, Chrissy. I made ultimatums. I didn't give you a choice."

"Is it too late to…"

"No! We can do it."

"You were right, Bobby. You were right about Craig and about my father. You were right that Scott would be better off with you than under Daddy's control. And you right about something else, too."

"What's that?" He looked deep into her green-gold eyes, praying she would say it. His heart was choking. He had loved her when she returned his love, and he had loved her when she didn't. He had loved her through the nights of wine and honey, and he had loved her when pricked by angry thorns. He never stopped loving her and never would.

"What you said to me in Green Bay," she said.

"Something about how cold it was," he replied, pretending he didn't remember, wanting to hear her say it.

"No. You said, 'I still love you, Chrissy, and you still love me.'"

"I know the first half is true," Bobby said.

"It's all true. I repressed what I felt. I let my anger overcome me, but nothing could extinguish what I felt. What I still feel."

Bobby was a jumble of emotions, laughing and crying at the same time, the rain falling and the sun shining, a rainbow of feelings. In this instant, he knew, his life had changed. With Chrissy's love, there was new hope.

He didn't know if she moved toward him, or if he moved toward her, but in a second they were in each other's arms. He felt feverish as if he'd been hit with heatstroke. He kissed her with a hunger and desire that he could scarcely remember he possessed. She kissed him back, greedily, biting at his lower lip. Their hands tore at each other's clothing. He felt a surge of heat moving through him. He wanted to devour her.

Their lovemaking was urgent and laced with torrents of emotion. Chrissy sobbed, her tears dripping on him, as she straddled him from above. As their coupling grew frantic, their bodies joined, an animalistic roar came from deep inside him.

Moments later, as she lay on his chest, listening to the beats of his heart, Bobby said, "You want to try this again, but a little slower this time?"

"Maybe in the morning," she said. "We've got work to do now."

"Work?"

"We've got to figure out how to beat the Mustangs in the Super Bowl," Christine said.

It was after one a.m. and Christine was sleeping when Bobby, wearing gym shorts and nothing else, walked onto his front porch, carrying a cold Samuel Adams. It was a cool night, and he shivered as he sank into an old chaise lounge with broken straps.

He wanted to think things over. He had told Christine everything, the first six hundred thousand dollar bet with Vinnie LaBarca, how he got middled in Green Bay and lost 1.2 million — now 1.4 million with interest — and then fronting the five-million dollar bet with her father to try and pay off the first bet.

Christine said she wanted to sleep on it, that in the morning she'd have a plan. Just like that. Bobby wasn't skeptical, even for a moment. If anybody could think through a problem-awake or in dream land-it was Chrissy. He sipped at his beer, listened to the cries of a neighborhood mockingbird, a male, calling for its mate. He was at peace.

He saw it then, a car parked down the street two houses away. It had been Chrissy in that spot earlier tonight, but who was this? The vanity light was on, then clicked off. Okay, so someone was in the car. Probably nothing, no reason to be paranoid. He squinted into the darkness but couldn't make out the model.

He stepped down from the porch and started padding barefoot that way. The car's engine turned over and it pulled away from the curb with its lights off, screeched through a U-Turn, and headed toward U.S. 1. It was too dark to make out the driver or read the license plate, but Bobby was close enough to I.D. the car. It was a white Infiniti, just like the one Angelica Suarez owned.