Play Dirty

CHAPTER 14

RODARTE WAS PARKED HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK. THE WINDSHIELD of his car reflected the leafy trees above it, so Griff couldn’t see him. But he stuck his hand out the driver’s window and gave a friendly little wave.

Griff forgot about his apology to Laura Speakman. He jogged to the Honda, scrambled in, and cranked the motor. The tires left rubber in the driveway as he backed out. He sped the short distance and came to a squealing stop a half inch from the grille of Rodarte’s sedan. He was out of the Honda before inertia settled in.

Rodarte was waiting for him. His car engine was idling, but the driver’s window was down. It took all Griff’s self-control not to grab him by the neck and haul him out through that window. “You’re a goddamn coward, Rodarte.”

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

“You hire goons to do your dirty work on men. Women you beat up yourself.”

“Speaking of, how is your favorite whore?” Rodarte laughed at Griff’s expression of rage. “Okay, so I got a little carried away. Why didn’t you report me to the police?”

“That was Marcia’s decision.”

“But I bet you didn’t argue against it, did you? The very thought of police involvement puckers your sphincter, doesn’t it? As for the working over you took, I heard you got jumped by a couple of former fans.”

“They were pros.”

“You know this?”

“You were behind it.”

Rodarte wagged his finger at him. “But you didn’t file a police report. I’ll bet you didn’t tell your lawyer, either. Or your probation officer. Jerry Arnold, right?”

“You know who my probation officer is?” Griff regretted the question as soon as he asked it. It revealed how surprised and alarmed he was to learn that Rodarte was so well acquainted with his life.

Rodarte grinned. “I know lots about you, Number Ten.”

He must. He must have been tailing him or he wouldn’t have known that Griff would be in that particular sports bar the night he sicced the brutes on him. He also wouldn’t have known to find him here, on this street, today. Right now.

Jesus.

And before Griff could even fully process the worrisome implications of that, Rodarte said, “One thing I don’t know is the name of your new gash there.”

Griff turned his head quickly to see Laura Speakman backing her car out of the driveway. Fortunately, she drove away in the opposite direction.

“Real estate agent,” Griff said. “She was showing me the house.”

Rodarte snickered. “You’re looking for a house just after getting settled into your duplex?”

“Turns out I’m not crazy about the neighborhood.”

“Where did you get the money to buy all those fancy toys? Sound system. Big-screen TV. All that.”

Griff’s mind was spinning. He wanted to cram his fist into Rodarte’s mouth because every word from it increased his alarm. Rodarte knew where he lived. He knew how he spent his money. And now he knew about this house. Most alarming was that he might learn about Griff’s arrangement with the Speakmans.

“See,” Rodarte said conversationally, “what I think is, is that before you used your big, strong quarterback’s hands to snap Bill Bandy’s neck, you dipped those hands into his private till.”

“That’s crap and you know it. How could I have taken any money? I was arrested at the scene.”

“A technicality,” Rodarte said with a dismissive gesture. “Before the real heat came down on you, you managed to stash the ill-gotten funds where nobody could find them. They’ve been sitting somewhere, earning interest, waiting on you to get out. Now they’re coming in handy. Just as you planned.”

He paused, frowned, and said sadly, “Only thing is, Griff, the way those Vista boys see it, it’s their money, not yours. They would be real grateful to anybody who could recover it and bring it home to them.”

“In other words, you.”

“I’m just trying to make things easier for you, is all. I’m doing everybody a favor. These guys get their money back, and they just might forget about what you did to poor ol’ Bandy. You see where this is going? How nice it would be for everybody?” His ingratiating smile collapsed. “Where’s the money?”

“You’re delusional. About Bandy. About ill-gotten funds. About every frigging thing. You think if I had money, I’d be driving this piece of shit?” He raised his arm toward the Honda. “A secondhand car I bought from my lawyer?”

Rodarte regarded him for a moment, then said smoothly, “You cut quite a figure in that new Armani jacket.”

Griff tried to keep his expression neutral. “Thanks. It would look like shit on you.”

Rodarte chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re right. I haven’t got the figure.”

“You haven’t got the balls, either. If you did, you’d get out of that butt-ugly car, stop making veiled threats, and fight me like a man.”

Rodarte pulled a face as though considering it. “You sure you want me to do that, Griff? Think hard now.”

Griff was seething, but he knew he could not give vent to his rage. If he laid into Rodarte, he’d be giving the woman-beating son of a bitch exactly what he wanted. “Marcia didn’t have anything to tell you,” he said. “You ruined her face for nothing.”

Rodarte shrugged. “I guess. She didn’t tell me anything useful, and from what I understand she won’t be telling anybody anything for a long time. Wonder if she’s able to give blow jobs, what with her jaw wired shut and all. And something else…” Griff didn’t bite, but Rodarte told him anyway. “You’d think a whore wouldn’t make such fuss over getting it in the ass.”

A tide of red-hot fury washed through Griff.

Rodarte sensed it and grinned. “You ever had her that way?”

Griff had wondered if Rodarte’s assault included rape. He hadn’t asked Marcia because he hadn’t wanted to cause her further distress. And, possibly, he just didn’t want to know exactly how badly she’d suffered on his account. Now that he did, he wanted even more badly to kill the man grinning up at him.

Rodarte nodded toward the house midway down the block. “And what about her? Even from this distance, I could tell your new lady friend has a sassy little butt. Just as well tell me her name. I’ll find out anyway.”

Griff’s outrage went from fiercely hot to icy cold in seconds. The degree of his rage frightened him, and it should have frightened Rodarte. “One of these days,” he said softly, with conviction, with promise, “I’m gonna have to kill you.”

Rodarte dropped the gearshift into reverse and smiled as he backed the car away. “I have wet dreams about the day you try.”

Reluctantly, the concierge rang Marcia’s penthouse. With his back turned to Griff, he spoke in whispers into the telephone until Griff reached across the counter and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Give me the phone. Please,” he added but with impatience. Reluctantly, the man passed Griff the receiver. “Marcia?”

“Actually, it’s Dwight.”

“Hey, Dwight. Griff Burkett. I want to come up.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t.”

“Who says?”

“She doesn’t want company.”

“I need to see her.”

“She’s resting.”

“I’ll wait.”

There was a dramatic sigh, followed by “She’ll probably kill me, but okay.”

Dwight answered the door to the penthouse and stood aside to admit Griff. “This isn’t one of her good days.”

“Mine, either,” Griff returned grimly as he followed Marcia’s neighbor into the spacious living room, where Marcia was reclined on her sofa. She appeared to be sleeping, although it was hard to tell because her head was swathed in bandages.

“She had surgery?”

“The first of many. Three days ago. Her nose had to be rebroken. She’s still got a lot of pain, but they said she was well enough to come home.”

“Generally, how’s she doing?”

“Not very well. She-”

“I can hear you, you know.” Her voice was muffled by the bandages and her jaw still had limited range of motion, but she was her droll self, and Griff took heart in that.

Injecting some levity into his voice, he said, “Hark! The mummy speaks!”

“I’ve got lobster bisque simmering on the stove,” Dwight said. “She’s cranky as a mama bear, but be sweet to her.” He patted Griff on the arm as he passed on his way into the kitchen.

Griff pulled an armchair closer to the sofa and placed it where Marcia could see him without having to turn her head. She said, “If you think I look bad now, just wait till the bandages come off. I’ll be a real freak show.”

She was wrapped neck to ankles in a bathrobe, but he could tell that her lush curves had been diminished. He wondered how much weight she’d lost just since he’d last seen her. He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss onto the back of it. “You couldn’t be a freak show no matter how hard you tried.”

“I’d hate for my own mother to see me like this. Not that she will, since she disowned me years ago.”

“So much for how you look, how do you feel?”

“Stoned.”

He laughed. “Good drugs?”

“I could make a fortune selling this stuff. If only it weren’t against the law. But then so is prostitution.”

“Speaking of breaking the law…” He looked directly into her eyes, which peered at him through a slit in the bandage. “I’m going to the police about Rodarte.”

Her reaction was immediate. “No!”

“Listen to me, Marcia. I know what he did to you. He bragged to me about it not an hour ago.”

She stared up at him for a long moment, then closed her eyes as though to shut out him, her memory, everything. Griff felt the shudder that went through her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He hurt you.”

“Yes.”

“Bad.”

She opened her eyes then. “I’m a whore. I’ve done everything. But always when I was in control. Having it forced on you is different.” She closed her eyes again. “Believe me.” When she reopened her eyes, she said, “Try explaining that to a cop.”

“I will. You were raped.”

“And he’ll say it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!” He shot up from his chair, sending it over backward. Dwight came running, wearing an apron, a dripping spoon in his hand. “Get back to your bisque,” Griff ordered. Dwight hesitated, then cupped the spoon with his free hand and, walking backward, retreated into the kitchen. The decorator’s almost comical rush to her rescue had defused Griff’s temper. He righted the chair and sat down, taking Marcia’s hand again.

“Rodarte’s not going to give up. The son of a bitch has been stalking me. He knows everything going on in my life. But all that’s nothing compared to sodomy. I’d like to kill him for that. But I can’t, and he knows it. I can’t do anything without violating my probation. He’s going to stay after me, Marcia. Pushing. He’ll continue hurting people close to me. The only option left is to take it to the police.”

“I’m begging you, Griff, don’t.”

“But-”

“Look at me!” Tears filled her eyes. “If you do this, I’ll have a huge spotlight focused on me and my business. Every Bible-thumping Holy Roller-some of whom are clients, by the way-will come out of the woodwork, condemning me and my occupation. It wouldn’t matter to my self-righteous critics that I went to the emergency room, torn and bleeding. They’d say it was punishment befitting my sins.

“If Rodarte is made to answer for himself at all, which is doubtful, he’ll deny the beating and blame it on a customer or boyfriend who was there after him. Probably you. There’s no DNA. He used a condom.” Sourly, she added, “I’m glad of that at least.”

“Christ,” Griff swore, knowing that what she said was probably right. “So you expect me to do nothing?”

“I’m asking you to do nothing. I avoided public scrutiny when I was my gorgeous, voluptuous self. Do you think I could endure it looking like this? I couldn’t, Griff. I’d jump off the roof first.” She said it in such a way that he believed she would. “The threat of exposure would frighten my clientele away for good. I’d lose everything. If you have any regard or feeling for me at all, let it go. Let it go.” She withdrew her hand from his and closed her eyes.

“I think you should leave now. She needs to sleep.” Dwight had slipped back into the room. His tone wasn’t unkind, but unquestionably he was Marcia’s self-appointed advocate and protector.

Griff nodded and came to his feet. Before turning away, he bent down and kissed Marcia’s closed eyes.

Dwight saw him to the door. “I suggest you call before you come here again.” Griff gave his silent consent with a nod.

In the foyer, he punched the button for the elevator but was so lost in thought, he stood looking into the empty cubicle for several moments before it registered with him that it had arrived.

On the descent, he realized that further argument wasn’t going to change Marcia’s mind. Pressuring her would only add to her mental anguish. He had already inflicted enough suffering on her, and when all was said and done, she was right. Taking this matter to the police would fix a spotlight not only on Marcia but on him. He didn’t want that any more than she did.

No, he would have to solve his Rodarte problem alone, one-on-one with the son of a bitch.

He stopped at the florist’s in the lobby and ordered an orchid plant to be delivered to Marcia’s penthouse. On the enclosure card, he wrote, “Okay. It stays our secret. But he will pay.”

He didn’t sign it.