Paydirt

9

This was the day, Bobby Gallagher vowed, he would reclaim his soul. He would confront his father-in-law and climb out of the shallow grave of corruption and despair he had dug for himself.

Okay, let's put a lid on the melodrama. I made a deal with Martin Kingsley. I do whatever the hell he wants, and he overpays me for it.

Most lawyers for pro football teams are paper pushers, laboring over player contracts and sponsor deals.

Not bagmen, dishing out cash to witnesses.

"Keep my players off the docket," Kingsley had ordered, more than once. The idea was to deep-six cases before they ever reached the courthouse door.

The lawyer as Fixer. But today I'm putting a stop all the sleazy tricks.

Ordinarily, Kingsley was the first to arrive at the Mustangs' Valley Ranch headquarters but on this morning-the day after the victory over Washington-Bobby was waiting in the anteroom at 5:35 a. m drinking black coffee from a mug he had carried in the car. Bobby had been unable to sleep and had nowhere else to go. Christine was knocked out, purring contentedly under a haze of pain killers. Kingsley seemed both surprised and pleased to see his son-in-law in the quiet of the early morning. He greeted Bobby him with the satisfied smile of a man who owns a large chunk of God's green earth.

"Helluva game, wasn't it Robert? Now, bring on the Bears. Say, did I congratulate you and Christine on your anniversary?"

"We received your gift, Martin. Thank you. It was very generous."

Damn. How do you confront with the man who just gave you first class tickets to Maui and a fully paid hotel suite? It had seemed so easy rehearsing the speech in the car, but now…

"No need to thank me," Kingsley said. "Hell, it's a selfish gift. I love Hawaii, and I'll have a suite just down the hall from you. Nothing more I'd love to do than celebrate with my family."

He winked at Bobby. The trip was one week after the Super Bowl, so Bobby had no doubt what celebration his father-in-law had in mind.

They walked together down the corridor, Bobby matching strides with the long-legged Texan. Kingsley wore his trademark black suit with silver shoulder piping, a matching gray tie, and black ostrich-skin cowboy boots. He was vital and strong with a crushing handshake and a charming personality when he chose to use them. He also could be ornery as an old mule.

Bobby took a deep breath and tried to relax. He had never confronted Kingsley before. In every major disagreement, Bobby had always backed down. Today, he vowed, it would be different.

Don't worry, Chrissy. You'll be proud of me when this day is out.

Listening to Kingsley re-live the glory of the victory over Washington, Bobby let his mind wander. How had he even gotten here? For years, he thought that the passive act of holding a ball for someone else to kick was the only thing in the world he was perfectly competent to do. He was rejected by every law school in Florida but finally secured a spot at a small college in Dallas whose accreditation was pending. He got a job pouring tar on roofs during the day and studied law at night. Even now, he could remember the choking fumes of the tar on a hot Texas day, his skin darkened by the sun and singed by drops of the boiling black liquid.

Bobby graduated from law school with what he liked to call "low honors." He got a job in the public defenders' office in Dallas and discovered he had a knack for trying cases. In his second year, he handled a case that would change his life.

"The bastard spit beer on my girlfriend," his client had told him.

"Whereupon the defendant did strike the victim on or about the head with a deadly weapon, to wit: a pool cue."

Or so said the indictment against his client.

Bobby thought it hurt his case that his client had assaulted a Dallas Mustangs defensive lineman with the pool cue. The players were still in their demi-god phase. But Bobby was masterful in closing argument, railing about the "mountain of reasonable doubt." When the jury came back with a big fat Not Guilty, Bobby was interviewed on local TV as a rising star in the local courthouse, and the next day, the new owner of the team called. "They tell me you know how to talk to a jury without polishing your words so shiny you could skate on 'em," Martin Kingsley said. "C'mon out to Valley Ranch. I'll buy you lunch and pick your brain."

Bobby didn't need to be asked twice. Kingsley gave him a tour of the training facilities, then began asking questions about a player who had been set up for a cocaine purchase by an informant.

As he listened, Bobby realized that he was auditioning for a job. Associate counsel, maybe work his way up to vice president for legal affairs and general counsel. Prestige, money, a fun job. Better than the hard tile floors and green metal desks in the P.D.'s office.

Bobby ran through the usual advice of attacking the credibility of the snitch, who almost certainly had a criminal record, of getting the jury upset that the cops are using scumbags to make their cases, of pleading entrapment.

"But none of that will work," Bobby said.

"So what the hell would you do?" Kingsley demanded, impatiently.

"I'd want to know who the judge is," Bobby said. "Is he a football fan? Judges are just like everybody else once they take off their robes and step down from the bench. They want to rub shoulders with celebrities and get close to the action. You'd be surprised how much mileage you could get out of a few hor d'oeuvres and some skybox seats."

Kingsley's smile stretched across his face. "Do you like cigars?" he asked, opening a wooden humidor on his desk.

At first, Bobby genuinely admired the man who was to become his boss and later his father-in-law. The charismatic Texan could be warm, generous and giving. What Bobby only realized much later was that every gift-paying off the house mortgage, the Mercedes at Christmas-came with a price.

An All Pro quid pro quo.

Martin Kingsley required unwavering, unquestioning loyalty. A willingness to follow orders without so much as a "why," "but," or "maybe."

When Bobby was hired, Kingsley was still in his honeymoon phase with the news media and the fans. He gave great interviews, allowing himself to be quoted on every subject from the length of the cheerleaders' short-shorts-"Bubba ain't paying to see no Vestal Virgins"-to his players' taunting, flaunting, swaggering style-"It ain't braggin' if you kin do it." He was country with a wink and a nod.

Slick as owl shit as they say west of the Pecos.

But the charm soon gave way to something never seen at press conferences and cocktail parties, the cold-blooded pursuit of victories and profits at any cost.

Finally, Kingsley asked why Bobby had come around so early. They were settled into the plush office, decorated in silver and blue and large enough for a decent down-and-out pass. Bobby glanced at the Super Bowl memorabilia lining the walls and wondered if he'd ever see them again.

"Nightlife Jackson," he said, evenly.

"Ah yes." Kingsley propped his cowboy boots on his desk. "Is that taken care of?"

"I wanted to talk to you first."

"Make sure bond is arranged before going downtown. I don't want him to sit in jail and miss practice."

"That's not what I wanted to talk about. It's more complex than that."

"Set a meeting with that P.R. woman we used when Buckwalter busted up that tavern. Get your investigator to find out if the woman's ever cried 'rape' before.'. Let me know when a judge is assigned to the case. If it's Wilford Adams, I'll call the old bastard myself. If it's one of those young Turks, you'll have to orchestrate some dog and pony show."

"That's not what I had in mind," Bobby said. He gripped the chair and tried not to fidget. He felt a rivulet of sweat streaking down his temple.

"No? What's your strategy?"

"Martin, this is a great opportunity to do something right, to take a stand on principle."

"I don't follow you."

"We can win without him."

"What are you talking about?"

Bobby felt jumpy, as if his chest were filled with fluttering birds. "Let's use the morals clause in his contract to cut Nightlife from the team. Make a public statement. You won't tolerate immoral behavior. From now own, the players must adhere to principles and values. Zero tolerance for violence against women, drug abuse, or criminal conduct of any kind. You'll clean out all the thugs and lawbreakers."

A moment of dead silence sucked all the air from the room. Kingsley looked at Bobby as if he were speaking some strange, foreign language.

"Cut Nightlife Jackson? Is that what you're saying?"

"We'll be setting an example for the league and for all the kids who look up to athletes. We'll let the whole country know you've got to be a good citizen to play for the Mustangs."

Kingsley swung his boots to the floor and leaned across his desk toward Bobby, fixing him with a look as vicious as a pit bull guarding a bone. "Nightlife would be signed by another team in an instant. We'd face him in the playoffs, for Christ's sake!"

"No one will sign him because he'll be in jail. I plan on pleading him guilty."

"The hell you will! What's gotten into you?"

Bobby wasn't sure what to say. His seduction and corruption had occurred slowly, the drip from a faucet that eventually overflows the sink. After a moment, he said, "I took an oath, Martin, but I never heard the words."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Last summer, we took Scott to Washington," Bobby said. "We did the Smithsonian, the White House, all the tourist things. I went to the Supreme Court. Hell, I'll never argue a case there, but I wanted to see it. On the front steps are these two marble statues, one representing justice the other law. I started to believe the words carved in the marble."

"What words!"

"'Equal Justice Under Law.' The blindfolded lady with the scales, the whole nine yards."

Kingsley ground his teeth and his craggy face knotted up like burled oak. When he spoke again, his voice cut the air with the hiss of a swinging scythe. "Lady Justice is a whore who can be bought and sold. A good lawyer bends Lady Justice over his desk and fucks her up the ass."

"That's pretty much what Nightlife Jackson did to Janet Petty."

"Just get down off your high horse and fix this thing. Christ, by now, you should know your job."

"Nightlife's a menace. He raped that perfume clerk two years ago, and now he's done it again. It's our fault, Martin. Yours and mine. We're as guilty as he is."

Kingsley stared a long, hard moment at his son-in-law, his eyes dead and cold as stones in a mountain creek. "My fault?" Disbelief in his voice.

"We could have put a stop to it. We could have helped put him away."

"This woman the other night, this barmaid, went back to the hotel room with him, didn't she?" Kingsley asked in a cross examination tone.

"Yes, but she didn't consent to having sex. He beat her up."

"Maybe she liked it rough," Kingsley suggested. "Women these days…"

"He raped her!" Bobby shouted. It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice to his father-in-law, and he felt his hands tremble. "He told me so! He laughed about it. You want to hear about the drugs, the young girls he gets to his hotel room half blitzed, how he humiliates them, dirties them."

Kingsley's ice-blue eyes narrowed and he thrust his chin upward at a pugnacious angle. "For Christ's sake, Robert, get your priorities straight. Your job is to protect the good name of this franchise."

"Not any more." Bobby shook his head. "It's time to do what's right, Martin. He's got to own up to what he's done, and so do we."

"We?"

"Both of us, Martin."

"Why, you piss ant!" You want to start looking for a real job in this economy?"

"No matter what happens to me, I'll make sure the truth gets out."

"Let me give you some Texas advice, young man." Kingsley's voice was low, his features as hard as granite. "When you're standing chin-deep in manure, you're best to keep your mouth shut."

Kingsley's rage sizzled from every pore, like cold butter dropped on a hot skillet. "I have a dossier on you, fellow. I could get you disbarred, tarred, feathered, and strung up like a nine-point buck on the first day of hunting season. And don't think just because you're married to my daughter I won't do it. She's my blood, not you. You're the hired help."

A delicious feeling coursed through Bobby's veins. He no longer felt fear. Now, he was indestructible. With each insult, he grew stronger, with each threat, braver. "Do what you want to me, Martin, but you mess with the justice system, I'll bring you down."

Kingsley stared hard at him, the fury burning like coal in his eyes. "You ungrateful piece of shit. I made you what you are today."

A derisive laugh exploded out of Bobby. "Right, Martin. You made me a cheap carbon copy of yourself. But I'm a lousy you. I can't lie, cheat, and steal and still smile all the way to the bank. I can't be the biggest phony in town and still sleep at night."

Kingsley moved quickly for a man his age. He was out of his chair and around the desk before Bobby could stand. He grabbed Bobby by the shirt collar and yanked him to his feet. Their faces were jammed together, and Bobby could smell the coffee on his breath. "You've got ten seconds to apologize and get the hell back to your office or I'll thrash your hide before firing you."

Bobby felt lightheaded and giddy. He laughed, which seemed to infuriate Kingsley even more. "What's so damn funny, you jackass!"

"You are, Martin. You're a bully and a blowhard, and you don't scare me."

"You self-righteous son-of-a-bitch!" Kingsley shoved Bobby into a shelving unit. Trophies tumbled to the floor, and a football-shaped crystal ornament shattered on its first bounce.

Bobby rebounded from the shelves, his knees buckling. When he regained his balance, his vision was filled with the sight of Kingsley's fist coming toward his chin. He slipped his head to the right, and the punch grazed his temple. Instinctively, Bobby threw a punch of his own, but it was a looping right hand with too little power behind it.

"You swing like a girl!" Kingsley taunted him, assuming a boxer's pose with a left hand lead, standing straight up like some bare knuckled-champion from the Nineteenth Century. "C'mon girlie. Let's see what you've got."

All the pent-up frustrations ignited a fire inside Bobby. He wanted to hit Kingsley, wanted to scar him, wanted him to feel the pain of Janet Petty. He snapped out a left jab that caught Kingsley on the cheekbone and rocked him backwards. Kingsley responded with a left hand of his own, but Bobby blocked it. They bobbed and weaved a moment in imitation of countless prizefighters, and then Bobby flicked a straight left that glanced off Kingsley's forehead.

Before he could follow up, Kingsley dug a short right hook into Bobby's gut. Bobby gagged and stepped back, bending at the waist, sucking for air.

"You're soft!" Kingsley ranted. "You've got the belly of a sow."

Bobby hunched his shoulders, lowered his head and barreled into the older man. He knocked Kingsley backwards, and they toppled onto the desk, then slid to the floor amidst overturned files and fluttering papers. Bobby bear-hugged Kingsley who flailed away at him, unable to get any power into the short punches, but finally loosening Bobby's grip by gouging both thumbs into his eyes.

Pain shot through Bobby's skull as he scrambled to get to his feet. Blinking furiously, he turned toward Kingsley, afraid he was about to be sucker punched. Instead, Kingsley was reaching into a desk drawer. A second later, he pointed an ancient long-barreled Colt. 45 at Bobby. The gun looked like a cannon and was shaking visibly in Kingsley's hand. If Kingsley's trigger finger twitched, Bobby feared he'd have a hole the size of a fist in his chest.

"You're not going to shoot me, Martin."

"Not today, maybe. Today, I'm just gonna-"

"You can't," Bobby said. "I quit."