Paydirt

44

February 5

Super Bowl Sunday

Christine lay in Bobby's bed restlessly tossing from side-to-side. She had called the police to report Bobby missing, but the dispatcher said to wait 24 hours to see if he showed up. They were awfully busy with all the people in town.

Christine had picked Scott up from her father's hotel suite where the boy was watching "Cheerleader Gang Bang" on pay-TV. He argued it was a football flick, but she made him turn it off anyway, and they headed across the causeway to the mainland.

She wanted to get as far away from her father as possible, and she figured that Bobby would come home sooner or later.

If he was okay. But what happened to you, Bobby? What have they done to you?

Scott was sleeping soundly in his room, while Christine listened to the palm fronds slapping the tin roof of the cottage. She watched the digital time display flick from 3:11 to 3:12 on the clock radio. She had dozed earlier, but her sleep was like a cocked pistol, and she kept awakening at every sound.

A ceiling fan whirled endlessly above her head, and she tried to let the whompeta-whompeta of the motor lull her back to sleep. No luck. She buried her head in the pillow, which smelled faintly of Bobby, and she remembered their lovemaking. Was it only the day before?

Oh, Bobby. Where are you? I need you.

At first she didn't hear the tapping at the window, and then, she thought it was a light rain falling. Then she heard Bobby's muffled voice.

"Chrissy, it's me."

She opened the window, and Bobby hoisted himself into the room.

"Thank God you're all right. Bobby, I was so afraid."

He hugged her, and she noticed that his clothes were dripping water. "What happened to you? You looked like you swam here."

"No. I swam to the Rickenbacker Causeway. I hitchhiked here. Or rather, I walked here. You'd be surprised how many people won't pick up a barefoot guy who's soaking wet at one o'clock in the morning."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gripped him fiercely, and he lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around him, their bodies joined, his nooks into her crannies. They fit perfectly together, like the pieces of a rock carefully split by a sculptor, then slipped together into a singular, smooth piece. With her eyes squeezed shut, she felt a tear tracking down her cheeks. This is what she wanted. Her son and the man she loved…together again.

Bobby told her about Dino Fornecchio, and how he got away. Christine told him that LaBarca was working for her father, and how he'd been set up. Then she told him about Lateesha kick boxing Nightlife's testicles from Miami Beach to Opa-Locka, and they both smiled.

"Who says there's no justice in the world?" Bobby said. "How badly is he hurt?"

"Doc Joyner says he has a broken clavicle and separated shoulder, to say nothing of very blue balls. He won't even suit up."

"Excellent," Bobby said.

"What? What is it?" She saw the shadow of a thought crossing his face. It was a look she knew as well as a sailor knows the sky.

"I've got to make a call," Bobby said.

Vinnie LaBarca awoke in slow, ponderous motion, like a diver emerging from the depths. When he opened his eyes, his head was a bucket of sand that shifted with every movement.

Goddamn sinuses. Goddamn allergies.

He also realized that the humming electrostatic ozone machine that was guaranteed to knock all the dust motes, mildew, and airborne crud out of his apartment was a twelve-hundred dollar ripoff. It was supposed to cleanse the air but couldn't re-circulate a fart. He made a mental note to take the machine back to the Bal Harbour shop where he bought it, and stick the salesman's hand into the fan.

Finally, he realized that the phone was ringing. Now what? He'd already been awakened once, that dickwad Fornecchio calling from the hospital.

He picked up he phone and said, "This better be fucking good."

"How many points is Nightlife Jackson worth?" a man's voice asked.

"Who the fuck is this?"

"C'mon Vinnie, Dallas is favored by four. What should the line be if Nightlife doesn't play?"

"Gallagher? Is that you? When I find you, I'm gonna tear off your arms and beat you to death! I'm gonna chop off your head and piss down your neck! Do you hear me Gallagher?"

"Nightlife's scratched. Physically unable to perform. It'll be announced at a press conference at ten a.m. The game will either go off the board or the line will move to what, dead even, pick 'em?"

LaBarca saw where Gallagher was going, but how could he trust him? "Are you shitting me, Gallagher?"

"Nope. I've got the Mustangs' marketing director here with me right now if you want to check."

"If you're talking about your ex-wife, she ain't the best character witness."

"Then just assume I'm right. How much is Nightlife worth?"

"In my book, a touchdown. Christ, he plays both ways, and he's the best player on both sides of the ball. He's a combination of Deion Sanders and Jerry Rice, and his backups are both journeymen."

"So why don't you put everything you've got on Denver?"

"You know damn well why, and I don't say anything on any phones unless I know who's listening in."

"You won't do it," Bobby said, "because you know Skarcynski's gonna be throwing the ball to the cheerleaders."

"No fucking comment."

"But you control that. Whatever you bet on Dallas is at risk now. Maybe Denver will cover even with Skar tanking it. Now, if you tell Skar to take the gloves off, they should easily cover the spread and may even win outright. Let Skar play and put everything you got on his team."

"Go fuck yourself, Gallagher, and if I see you anywhere near the stadium, I'm gonna…"

The beep of call waiting broke his concentration. Now what? Damn modern technology. You can't even threaten to poleax some bum without being interrupted. At three-thirty in the morning for Christ's sake.

"Yeah," LaBarca said, clicking onto the new line.

"Your half wit associate let Gallagher get away," Martin Kingsley said, angrily.

"No shit," LaBarca said.

"Well, do something about it, goddamit!"

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

"You don't scare me! Do you know what I have riding on this game?" Kingsley said. "I got into it because of you. It's a lock, you said. Now Gallagher is shooting off his mouth and jeopardizing everything. You were supposed to take him out of commission but what happened? Jesus H. Christ, it's the morning of the game, and all hell's broken loose."

The old man sounded strung out. What a fucked up family. "Mr. Kingsley, I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't talk business on the phone, if you get my drift."

"Goddammit, find that bastard. If he sets foot in the stadium, shoot him in the kneecaps!"

"You've been watching too many movies, Mr. Kingsley. I'm trying to be polite here, and I'm taking into account that you're under a lot of strain…"

"You're goddamn right I am."

"By the way, is Nightlife Jackson out of the game?"

There was nothing but the buzz of the telephone line until Kingsley said, "How did you know that?"

LaBarca clicked back to the other line. He had underestimated the lawyer. Somehow he managed to knock the star player out of the Super Bowl the night before the game. "Okay Gallagher, you're on to something. But It ain't solid. Besides Nightlife, you got any more tricks up your sleeve for today?"

"I've got two or three aces I haven't played yet."

"Good, 'cause I think Skarcynski's gonna have the game of his life."

At four a.m., Kingsley reached for the ringing phone in his hotel suite. The noise did not disturb him. He'd been drinking bourbon ever since he got the news about Nightlife, and a warm buzz filled his head. He wasn't sleeping and halfway expected a call. Maybe LaBarca intending to apologize, to say, "sure Mr. Kingsley, I'll take care of it." Maybe it was Christine, calling in tears to say he was still the most important man in her life and that she now appreciated everything he'd done for her.

Putting down the glass of Jack Daniels, he picked up the phone and said, "Kingsley here."

"'Morning pardner," rasped Houston Tyler. "I figured you'd be awake. Heard you had a little trouble at the party last night. Also heard you lost one of your thoroughbreds for the game."

"How the hell did you know that?"

Christ, bad news travels like a tornado down here.

"You want to know what's going on in a hotel, hang around with the housekeepers, Martin."

"I'll remember that."

"I hope this little setback doesn't jeopardize anything," Tyler said.

"Don't worry, Ty. It's money in the bank."

"Good," he said, then clicked off.

Kingsley finished his bourbon, then summoned his security chief from the next room. The burly, crew-cut George Brauninger was an ex-cop who was thrown off the force for excessive brutality in making arrests. There were even stories about a missing witness in an Internal Affairs investigation, a witness who turned up too dead to testify.

Just days ago, in Kingsley's presence, Brauninger had flattened Gallagher, and the memory of it gave him some pleasure now. But earlier tonight-yesterday really-Brauninger had let Gallagher get away. His security cheif was a man who took pride in his work, and Kingsley knew he was humiliated.

"You let me down," Kingsley said, when Brauninger came to his suite.

"I'm sorry, Mr. K. It won't happen again."

"I know that, George. And you can make it all up today. Gallagher will be at the game. He's got a press box pass and a sideline pass."

"You want me to detain him, Mr. K."

"Permanently, George."

"I want to make sure I understand you, sir."

"Oh, I think you do."

"Yes sir, Mr. K, I do."

Scott pretended there was nothing special about it, nothing special at all, his Mom and Dad having breakfast together on Super Bowl Sunday, Dad making the coffee, Mom slicing grapefruit. So here they were, all gooey, just looking at each other, but only a total dipstick would make a big deal out of it.

"You want some more French toast, Scott?" his Mom asked.

"Sure. Dad always burns it."

"So that's the thanks I get," Bobby said.

"Maybe we'll re-assign the household chores," Christine said. "I'll do breakfast, your Dad will cut the lawn, and you'll wash the dishes."

"So I guess we're staying here?" Scott said, suppressing his emotions, keeping the joy under wraps.

"This seems like a good place to live," Christine said. She glanced around the old kitchen with its dropped ceiling, flourescent lights, and avocado green appliances. "It could use an update, though. And why are the front windows covered with sheet metal? Is the neighborhood that dangerous?"

"Hurricane shutters, Mom. Dad forgot to take them down last Fall."

"I didn't forget," Bobby said without much conviction. "With El Nino, you never know."

Christine wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and took a sip before speaking. "Another rule in the house will have to change. No TV while we eat."

"Aw, Mom, it's Sports Center." Scott shot a look at the 13-inch Sony on the counter. A Super Bowl preview was on with the sound muted. "It's the best show on television."

Scott saw his father looking at the screen, his jaw muscles tightening. They were showing highlights of the Mustangs eight-point win over Green Bay. It was the game in which Dad was middled, pounded flat by skanky luck. The memory was already as rusty as a bike left in the rain.

Jeez, it seems like I was just a kid then. So much has happened.

"What other aces?" Christine asked, pouring orange juice for Scott.

"What?" Bobby said.

"On the phone, you told that gambler you had two or three aces you hadn't played yet."

"Oh."

Scott could see his father's mood change. The happiness that he must have felt-that all three of them felt at being together-was melting away.

"I don't have any aces," Bobby said. "Just a couple of jokers. I needed LaBarca to turn Skarcynski around, and it looks like he'll do it. But even that may not be enough."

"Well, think about it, Bobby. The game is hours away. What else can we do?"

"Nothing. With Skarcynski trying his best and Nightlife out, the odds are definitely improving. There's no guarantee, but with a little luck, Goldy and I will win 5.5 million dollars. Which your old man won't pay."

"So you'll end up with two per cent of the team's stock," she said.

"For which there's no market.".

"Sure there is."

"Meaning you?"

"Meaning us." Christine laughed, the sound of chimes tinkling in the breeze. It was just about he best sound in the world. "Oh, Bobby, think about it. Do you know what Thursday is?"

"Of course, I do. I've never forgotten your birthday, even when we were apart."

"My thirty-eighth birthday! The stock that's held in trust comes to me outright, forty-nine per cent of the team! Bobby, if the Mustangs don't cover the spread, you and I will own fifty-one per cent. We'll control the team!"

"Wow," Bobby said. "I'm in love with a woman of substance. CEO of the Dallas Mustangs."

"And you'll be G.M.," Christine said.

"Hey, Scott, how'd you like to coach the special teams?" Bobby asked.

"Groovalicius," Scott said, keeping his eyes on the TV where ESPN was profiling the two Super Bowl quarterbacks.

"It's what we talked about years ago," Christine said. "We could clean it up, do everything you wanted Daddy to do."

"Are you going to fire Pop?" Scott asked.

"Let's just say it'll be time for Daddy's retirement," Christine said.

"Two per cent," Bobby said, almost to himself. "Your father never thought he was putting up control of the team."

"He thought he'd win the bet," Christine said.

"Sure, but even if he lost, he never thought you and I would join up."

"We make a great team, pardner," Christine said, laughing again.

"Only if the Mustangs don't cover the four point spread," Scott said, tossing cold water on their bonfire.

"Yeah," Bobby said. "It's not a lock. Look, no matter what I told LaBarca, the Mustangs are damn good, even without Nightlife. I hate to admit it, but Stringer is the better quarterback, even when Skarcynski's trying his best."

Christine rested her chin on one hand, deep in thought. Scott had seen the look so many times, usually when there was a problem that needed solving.

"So what can we do, Bobby?" she asked. "Do you have any more of those voodoo curses you were telling me about?"

"No, and I wouldn't do it, anyway."

"Why not, Dad?" Scott said.

"Trying to foul up the game was a mistake. Let them buckle up their chinstraps, look across the line at each other, paw the turf, and go at it, man to man. See who's tougher, smarter, and better. It's chess with muscles. It's the American way."

"You just sound a little cornball," Christine said.

"And very old school," Scott added. "Like civics class."

"It's just a game, Bobby. The fate of civilization doesn't depend on who wins."

"Not on who wins but on how it's played," Bobby said. "It's all about the drive for excellence, teamwork, and relentless effort against overwhelming odds."

"And corporate greed, hype, and gluttonous excess," Christine said.

"That too. That's why it's so damn American. But when the whistle blows, the distractions don't matter. For three hours on one day a year, we're all brought together. Kids believe in the Super Bowl long after they know there's no Santa Claus. It's become part of the fabric of our society and it shouldn't be meddled with any more than the Rocky Mountains should be leveled or the Great Lakes filled with sand. Let them play. We're not going to monkey with it. It would be wrong. It would be…

He couldn't seem to find the word.

"Un-American?" Christine helped out.

"Bogus?" Scott suggested.

"Sacriligious," Bobby said.

Christine laughed. "Football as religion. Perfect."

"The game is our secular religion," Bobby said. "Super Bowl Sunday is Christmas. The stadium is the church, the coaches the priests, the players-"

"Altar boys?" Christine teased.

"All right. I'm getting carried away, but I'm still not going to mess with it."

"Even if it meant saving your own skin and getting the team away from my father?"

"It wouldn't be right," Bobby concluded.

"There's Craig!" Scott pointed at the television screen.

Sure enough, there was number seven in cowboy garb, riding a spotted horse.

"Must be an old video," Christine said. "That's Temptation, his favorite Appaloosa. That coloring is called the leopard pattern."

On the screen, a grinning Craig Stringer sat astride a white horse with dark spots.

"See that big spot on her haunch," Christine continued. "Craig always said it looked like the map of Texas. You can't see her hooves, but they're striped, like she's wearing old-fashioned socks." Christine grew silent a moment. "God, Craig was heartbroken when she died in the fire with the rest of the horses."

Bobby stood and started clearing the breakfast plates. "Luckiest thing that ever happened to him."

"What!" Christine nearly dropped her coffee cup.

"Stringer was overextended. The race horses were eating up his capital along with their oats. Did you know he had to sue the insurance company to get paid?"

"He told me the company was just playing hardball."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, they tend to do that when somebody burns down their own barn."

"Arson? Are you saying Craig killed his own horses?"

"It's not me saying it. It's the insurance investigator. They just couldn't prove it. Stringer won by claiming the fire started in the barn by spontaneous combustion."

"What's that, Dad?" Scott asked.

"Spontaneous combustion happens when you rub a million dollars in horseflesh up against a four million dollar insurance policy."

Scott laughed, but Christine scowled at Bobby. "I'll never believe that," she said. "Craig might be vain, arrogant, and selfish, but he'd never do that, not to Temptation."

On the screen, Stringer and his late Appaloosa were replaced by a commercial for a beer that will apparently attract bikini-clad young women to play volleyball on the beach.

"That was his defense," Bobby said, "and it worked. But knowing Stringer, I think that's the proof that he did it. If he'd taken Temptation out of the barn that night and just killed the other horses, it might arouse suspicion. So he sacrificed the horse he supposedly loved to prove that he didn't do it. It's just like Craig, superficially clever but thoroughly cold and calculating."

Christine looked at the television, studying Craig Stringer's face, as if she could divine the truth behind the plastic smile. "That's so Macchiavellian. I can't believe it. He hasn't ridden a horse since the fire. He says he can't bear to have any reminders of Temptation."

"He probably feels guilty," Bobby said. "Maybe he even dreams about her. Nightmares of getting stomped to death."

"Omigod, you're right!"

"What?"

"Craig told me he dreamed about Temptation. Not getting stomped, but riding her across a stream. It's too deep and she drowns while Craig swims away."

"Fire into water. Wouldn't Freud have a ball with old number seven?" Bobby said.

"Maybe we can use it somehow," Christine said. "Maybe between now and kickoff, you can get to him and-"

"No," Bobby said. "Weren't you listening?"

"There's a lot we could do, Dad.. Maybe we tell Denver's D-Line to yell 'Temptation' when Craig is calling signals. Maybe we do something with the horses in the halftime show. Maybe we start a fire under the bench, I don't know."

"For the last time, no!"

"Your father's right," Christine said.

"But you just said-"

"We're not going to tamper with the game," she said, firmly.

"Okay, okay. Whatever you guys say."

"Good," Christine said. Then, as Bobby turned toward the dishes in the sink, she winked at her son. "We'll never do anything your father forbids, okay Scott?"

"You got it, Mom," he said, winking right back.

"It would be easier to bribe the President of the United States and the entire Senate and Congress than to fix a Super Bowl."

— Sonny Reizner, Las Vegas bookmaker