Paydirt

41

Saturday, February 4

Day Before the Super Bowl

The screeching of the neighborhood parrots jarred Christine awake. She was disoriented. She was on her side, the warm breath of a man on her neck. It took a moment for her to realize it was Bobby, and they lay there in the spoon-to-spoon position, bodies touching. Sun streaked into the bedroom from an open window. Bobby stirred next to her, his heavy breathing still so familiar even after all the time apart.

So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. But so much more remained to be done. Was there time? Could they do it? Bobby had made a mess of everything, but she blamed herself for his plight. She should have protected him from her father two years ago. She could have run interference for him, like one of the Mustangs' offensive linemen. Maybe she could still do it, but now, she'd have to run straight over her father.

Christine had fallen asleep weighing the benefits and risks of a dozen different plans. She prayed for one that could rescue Bobby without sinking Daddy. But it wasn't possible. There was a one-man life raft in a sea of sharks, and this time, Bobby would get the rescue line.

"'Morning sweetie," Bobby said, thickly, stretching and opening his eyes.

"Good morning. Do you still own a business suit?"

"Two, trial lawyer sincere blue and funeral director charcoal gray."

"Wear the gray. You'll blend in with all the Gulfstream jet crowd from Ford, Coca-Cola, and Apple.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Commissioner's party. We're going to need to get into the VIP room."

"Do you think we have time to party?" he asked, rolling onto his back and cracking his knuckles over his head.

For an intelligent man, she concluded, Bobby could be such a dolt. She watched a thought slowly cross his face like a wagon train plodding across the old West.

He made a clucking noise with his tongue. "I don't believe it. You want me to go public? "You want me to do what I did in Dallas two years ago?"

"The Commissioner and all the owners will be there," she said. "So will the corporate bigwigs, all the sponsors, the financial backbone of the league. We're talking billions of dollars eating hor d'oeuvres under the palm trees."

"You think they want to hear from me?"

"You can bring it all down. You can destroy everything they've built. If the quarterback of a Super Bowl team is throwing the game and the owner of the other team makes a multi-million dollar bet, the game is corrupt and everything they have is a sham. They'd have to move quickly to clean it up. League security has strong ties to the FBI. They could protect you from LaBarca and your testimony could send him away."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It will be once you tell the Commissioner everything."

"What if I can't get to him?"

"Then you'll go up on the stage, take the mike from Justin Timberlake and tell everything to five thousand of the Commissioner's closest friends."

"I'm serious, Chrissy. What if he doesn't believe me?"

"I've seen the escrow agreement. I'll corroborate your story."

Bobby propped himself on an elbow and looked at her with his sad, brown eyes. "You would do that for me? Do you know what that would do to your father?"

"Of course I know. He'll lose the franchise."

Saying it aloud brought it home to her. She had just made a choice, this time with her heart. Love had so many meanings. There was the burst of romantic love. There was the reservoir of love of a mother for her child which, like a deep well, will never run dry. And there is this, the love that comes with a price. To savor it, you must slice the Gordian knot of your entanglements cleanly in two for they cannot be untangled. This is the love that requires the abandonment of one love for another, and she would do it fully and recklessly.

"Not just the franchise," Bobby said. "This will destroy your father. He'll be disgraced. He could even go to jail."

"I know all of that."

"There'll be no turning back. Don't do it unless you're sure. Don't do it because you feel sorry for me. Don't do it unless you're sure about this. Don't do it unless-"

She silenced him with a long, lingering kiss. When their lips finally parted, they looked into each other's eyes.

"I'm sure," Christine said.

For a man on top of the world, Martin Kingsley was irritable and out of sorts. He'd yelled at the publicity director, threatened to fire the special events coordinator, and nearly strangled the tickets manager. And all before lunch.

The only one who hadn't aroused his ire was his grandson. Scott was playing catch with one of the assistant coaches on the finely trimmed grass of Sun Life Stadium. The boy had moped around all day yesterday after the hearing, pleading with him to undo what the judge had done. He'd told Scott that it was the judge's decision, and there was nothing an old wildcatter from Texas could do about it. He gauged Scott's reaction, figuring he didn't buy it. The boy picked over his dinner, sulked until bedtime, but then today, the sun shone again. The kid had a ball in his hands and was playing.

Kingsley marveled at the resilience of children. Once he brought Scott to practice, the boy lit up like a Neiman-Marcus window. Hell, what red-blooded American boy wouldn't want to be here on the day before the Super Bowl, tossing a ball with America's Team?

He wished he had the same powers of recuperation. The victory in the courtroom had tasted sweet yesterday, but this morning brought indigestion with his Western omelet. The Cuban lady lawyer had called him just after eight, claiming that Christine had spent the night with Gallagher. Kingsley had stormed to the elevator and down to Christine's room. The bed had been turned down by nighttime housekeeping and had not been slept in.

Damn you, Robert Gallagher! Why don't you just crawl under a rock and die?

The thought of his daughter sleeping with his mortal enemy enraged Kingsley to a degree that nearly cost several Dallas employees their jobs. How could a man enjoy the fruits of all his labors if his piss-ant, shyster ex-son-in-law kept crapping all over his shoes?

Kingsley weighed his options. He could have Vinnie anchor Robert to an offshore reef. What were the ramifications? He'd still get paid on the bet, because the money was in escrow, but if Robert disappeared, it could bring unwanted attention. Still, he could weather that storm.

Kingsley walked toward Scott who was standing at the thirty-five yard line. Nearby, Craig Stringer was on one knee, taking long snaps and holding the ball for Boom Boom Guacavera, who was loosening up his leg with a series of dead-solid perfect field goals.

"Hey Craig!" Scott shouted. "Once you spin the laces to the front, you gotta tuck your right hand in your crotch so it doesn't distract Boom Boom."

"Yeah?" Stringer asked, grinning. "Who says?"

"My Dad."

"How many years did your Dad play pro ball little fellow?"

"None."

"That's what I thought. You tell your Dad to keep his hand in his crotch, and I'll keep my hand in your momma's."

Scott appeared startled, then walked away, looking at the tops of his sneakers.

Son-of-a-bitch! Insolent prick, talking to Scott that way.

Kingsley had to restrain himself from taking on his star quarterback right there. If that cocky bastard wasn't facing the biggest game of his life in 24 hours, Kingsley would rattle him upside the helmet right here and now.

What the hell was going on? Everything should be perfect, but it's falling apart.

Kingsley watched Stringer turn his attention toward the center, who was looking at the world upside down between his legs. Stringer barked the signals, and the center fired a tight spiral. Stringer easily caught the ball with both hands, thumbs together. He brought the ball to the ground with the index finger of his left hand on top, spun the laces away from Boom Boom, and sure enough, he left his right hand dangling there, fingers wagging. It was a small point, but Scott was right. And so was the boy's father, goddamn it.

Kingsley wanted to say some encouraging words to Scott, to console the boy, but there was something he had to do first. As for Stringer, who wasn't quite the gift to womanhood he thought, that would have to wait until after the game.

I'll squeeze your balls 'til you sing soprano. And that's if you win!

Kingsley walked off the field and into the entrance to a tunnel behind the end zone. He wanted some privacy. His thoughts turned back to Robert Gallagher. His hatred of the man seemed to scald his throat with bile.

Pulling a cellular phone from his pocket, he punched out a number, and when a man answered, he said, "Vinnie, it's time to do that electrical work we talked about."

"How's that?" the mobster asked.

"I need you to turn out somebody's lights."