Paydirt

10

Bobby stormed out, making one stop on his way to the parking lot, liberating a bottle of Jack Daniel's from the antique sideboard in his own office. He got into the Lexus, drove to a donut shop, and then to the stadium, empty except for three workers repairing the artificial turf. Bobby carried his bottle of bourbon and bag of cream-filled donuts into the stands and climbed to the upper deck, shaded by the partial roof.

He sat there for hours, working it over in his mind. He had taken a stand on principle. But was that enough? Would that salve his soul? As the amber liquid warmed his insides, the more grandiose his plans became. He would write a book disclosing the evils of corporate greed, the sham of the justice system, the hypocrisy of the league. He would lecture at great universities, offering himself as a witness to society's failings. He remained sober long enough to realize that his fantasies were self-indulgent meanderings.

He was out of a job. Or was he? Christine would try to salvage the situation, have the men shake hands and make up.

What should I do? How can I do what's right for me when it might not be right for Chrissy and Scott?

All he knew was that he couldn't go back to the status quo.

His secretary called him three times on the cellular, telling him that Larry Walters, the prosecutor, was trying to reach him. Probably wanted to know when he would surrender Jackson. It didn't feel as if he'd quit his job. Nobody knew about it except Kingsley and him. Just after noon, as the sun peeked through the hole in the stadium's roof, the phone rang again.

"Bad news," the Assistant District Attorney said when Bobby answered.

"Is there any other kind?" Bobby said.

"Janet Petty got her hands on a bottle of sedatives and attempted suicide last night."

"Oh no. Oh God no." The news jolted him out of his boozy haze. He felt like a tree that had been struck by lightning, his limbs splintered, his trunk blazing with pain. His mouth, at first tasting sour from the bourbon, now seemed filled with ashes.

"She's gonna make it, though she'll have a five-alarm headache when she comes to. And brain damage can't be ruled out. This pretty much complicates the bond hearing, and I didn't want to sandbag you when you brought him in."

"I won't be bringing him in," Bobby said. "I come to buy Nightlife, not to represent him."

Christine hobbled into the kitchen and was unpacking the takeout Thai cartons when she heard Scott call from the den.

"Daddy's on TV!" he cried out, excitedly.

It had been a long day, and she hadn't seen Bobby since he left the house early that morning. She had still been on the fringes of sleep, but she remembered him leaning down and kissing her. What had he said?

"I love you, Chrissy. No matter what happens, I love you and pray that you'll always love me."

Or had she dreamed that? Just before noon, she had buzzed his office to see if he wanted to grab lunch, but his secretary said she hadn't seen him. Chrissy tried her father's office, but he had been tied up in meetings with Nightlife Jackson's agent and a crisis team of P.R. experts.

Now she walked into the den, licking her fingers, tasting the garlicky sauce of the chopped pork Nam Sod. Suddenly, everything was wrong. Scott had tears in his eyes. Bobby's face filled the entire screen, a microphone under his chin. He was sweating, an unruly tousle of brown hair falling into his eyes, which leapt from side-to-side.

"The Dallas Mustangs aren't American's Team, they're America's Most Wanted," Bobby thundered. "They're coke-sniffing, bar-busting bullies, bums, and rapists."

"All of them?" a reporter asked.

"Of course not. But enough for loyal fans to question why they put up with criminality, immorality, violence against women, and a general disregard of the rules the rest of us must live by."

Omigod, no! Bobby, don't do this!

From out of camera range, a flurry of questions were shouted. "What about Nightlife Jackson?"

"He's a dangerous, brutal, multiple rapist who should be put away," Bobby said. "He'd be in jail now if I hadn't suborned perjury in his first case."

A gasp went through the throng of reporters who then buzzed with more questions, but in the babble, the words were indecipherable. Bobby reached into a briefcase and pulled out a stack of documents that he began handing out to the reporters who fought for their copies.

"I've prepared a list of cases in which my actions were unethical and numerous incidents involving the players that were covered up," he said.

Christine's breath caught in her throat. She felt as if hot knives had pierced her heart. For a moment, her anguish was so intense, it was if the man she was watching-the man she loved-had died in front of her eyes.

Oh, Bobby. You think you're baptizing yourself in purifying waters, but you're drowning, and there's nothing I can do to save you.

"Why's Daddy talking that way?" Scott asked. She rushed to his side on the sofa and wrapped her arms around him, trying to shield him from harm.

More shouts, each reporter clambering to grab the sword Bobby would dive onto next. He ignored the pack of jackals and continued on his own. "I've bribed witnesses, used political influence, and violated every one of the Canons of Ethics and a few more that were never written down."

"What about Martin Kingsley?" someone asked. "Did he know?"

Christine held her breath.

No Bobby! Please!

"I was the piano player in the whorehouse," Bobby said, "but he called the tune. I never did anything without his express approval."

Christine fumbled for the remote in a crevice of the sofa, found it, and clicked off the TV. She sank to the floor, her legs crossed beneath her. She felt numb, anaesthetized.

How could you do it? How could you do this to Scott and to me?

In that moment, she knew that their lives would never be the same, and the numbness gave way to the lacerating white heat of anger.