Play Dirty

CHAPTER 18

FOSTER WAS ON THE TELEPHONE WHEN LAURA CAME INTO HIS office. She hesitated on the threshold, but he waved her in. Her arrival gave him a welcome excuse to conclude his conversation with one of the board members. It had begun to bore him.

Running the airline wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. Key personnel were so good at their jobs, they could do them without his supervision. From a management standpoint, it was gratifying to know he’d made wise choices in hiring them. But their reliability made him superfluous.

These days he often felt like the token handicapped employee.

He wrapped up his phone conversation with a promise to continue it soon. Laura was standing with her back to him, staring out the window. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked. “You’re usually too busy to pay me a call during business hours. Or is this business? Are you here as department head or wife?”

“Wife. Do you have time for me now?”

“Always.”

She’d taken his rejection of SunSouth Select hard, harder than he would have guessed. Since joining the executive ranks of the airline, she had been overruled and outvoted on numerous issues, but she took those small defeats in stride and ultimately gave wholehearted support to the majority rule.

Not this time, and with reason. Although she’d given others credit for creative and informative input, Select had been her vision, and he had essentially squelched it. Judging from her mood over the past couple of weeks, she had regarded it as a personal rejection.

The subject had come up only once in the meantime. Last week during an executive meeting, Joe McDonald had mentioned Select in passing. Laura had shot him a warning look that said: Don’t talk about that. It hadn’t been spoken of again, at least not in Foster’s presence, and he didn’t think it was being whispered about behind his back. Nowhere in the building had he seen any of the materials Laura had used for her presentation. He got a sense that, since he hadn’t taken up the baton, everyone considered it a dead issue.

He had snuffed SunSouth Select while, actually, the prospect of offering alternative carrier service was exciting. Unbeknownst to Laura, he had been thinking about it himself and doing his own research into that growing market, assessing how he might claim a large segment of it.

He’d studied the new superlight jets and considered ordering a fleet of them with which to begin a top-notch charter service. He’d even given thought to doing as Laura suggested and starting an off-shoot of SunSouth.

But whatever form the innovation took, it would be his conception and his design. Not hers or anyone else’s. He would be the leader, not the crippled has-been.

He’d given her space and time to nurse her wounded pride, basically by pretending not to notice her dejection. Was this unscheduled visit to his office a sign that she was finally climbing out of her funk? One could hope.

He said, “You didn’t bring wine this time.”

She turned around and looked at him quizzically.

“Has it been so long ago that you’ve forgotten? You surprised me with lunch here in this office. To celebrate our three-month anniversary.”

“Four-month. And it was champagne.”

“Was it? What we drank isn’t the part I remember. However, I vividly recall dessert.”

She smiled and modestly ducked her head. “Fun times.”

“I miss them.”

After several beats, she raised her head and looked at him, all seriousness now. “We could still have fun times, Foster.”

“Not like that.”

“Not exactly like that. Different. But just as good.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Not from my standpoint.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then declared, “I’m not going back.”

“Back?”

“To the house. To Griff Burkett. I’m not doing it again.”

So. This was how she was going to pay him back for hurting her feelings. Keeping his expression impassive, he folded his hands in his lap, clasping them loosely. “Oh?”

“No.”

“Why this sudden-”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve thought about little else since…since the last time. I’m not going back.”

“You said that. I think I deserve to know why.”

“Because it’s wrong.”

“Wrong by what standard? How can it be wrong if I sanction it?”

“I don’t. It’s wrong by my standard.”

“I see. When did you decide it was wrong?”

She looked away, saying in an undertone, “When you first proposed it.” Then, more staunchly, she said, “I was against it from the beginning. I consented to it only because I love you and wanted to give you anything you asked of me. But I can’t do this. I won’t.”

“I thought you wanted a child as much as I do.”

“That hasn’t changed,” she exclaimed. “I do want a baby. I want that for us. Very much. But we have options. I can be artificially inseminated using an anonymous sperm donor.”

“You know how I feel about that.”

She hesitated, then said, “All right. I’ll make that concession. Since Griff Burkett is already in our confidence, we can use his semen. He suggested that at our first meeting with him, remember? That way he wouldn’t lose out on his money. We’d take his specimens to the doctor’s office and claim they were yours. No one would know the difference.”

“I’d rather not resort to that method.”

“I don’t see it as resorting.”

“I do. And, anyway, isn’t it too soon to go to plan B? It’s only been three cycles.”

“I know how many it’s been,” she said curtly. “But even if it was only one, I’m not doing it again.”

“Is it Burkett you find objectionable? Does he treat you badly?”

“No.”

“Rudely, roughly?”

“No.”

“Because if he does-”

“He doesn’t.”

“Okay.” He let that lie without further comment, giving her time to collect herself.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My decision has nothing to do with him. This is about me. And the whole idea of it.”

“We discussed the idea for months, Laura. We went over every aspect of it, time and again.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And you agreed.”

“Yes. But talking about it in the abstract and actually…” Suddenly she drew herself up to her full height. “I shouldn’t have to justify the way I feel. Or try to explain it. I don’t want to do it,” she said with emphasis. “That should be the end of it.”

He let several moments elapse, then said, “This surprises me. It’s not like you to leave a job unfinished.”

“True.”

“You’ve never walked away from a commitment.”

“No, and I didn’t plan to break this one. I thought I could approach it like any other challenge. But I can’t.”

“I didn’t think it would cause you this much emotional distress.”

“Well, it does.”

“Perhaps you’re taking it too personally.”

She looked at him aghast. “I’m your wife. I’m having sexual intercourse with another man. How in God’s name can it not be personal?”

“You’re becoming hysterical, Laura.” He cast a cautious glance toward his office door.

She hugged her elbows and turned her back on him. He rolled forward and back three times, then wheeled his chair away from his desk and moved up behind her. He reached out and placed his hands on either side of her waist. She flinched and tried to move away, but he held her firmly. “I miscalculated. I didn’t think it would offend your sense of right and wrong.”

“I hate disappointing you, Foster. I know how much this means to you. But there’s a moral ambiguity that I cannot get past.”

“I honor your feelings, of course. As well as your decision.”

She expelled a soft breath. “Thank you.”

He applied enough pressure to turn her around to face him. “You’ve been morose for weeks. I haven’t remarked on it, but I’ve noticed.”

“I admit I haven’t been myself. This has been weighing heavily on my mind. It was distracting me from work. Worse, it was creating a barrier between us. Knowing it would be a disappointment, I put off telling you, but had to before it was time to meet Burkett again. The dread of telling you has been nerve-racking. I’m glad to have this conversation behind us.” She gave him a tremulous smile, then leaned down and kissed his lips.

When she pulled away, he said, “It’s been fifteen days since you were last with Burkett, correct?”

She nodded.

“Then this discussion may have been for nothing,” he said with a bright smile. “You may be pregnant already.”

What if she’s pregnant?

It was the big what-if in Griff’s life now. Each morning he woke up wondering if this would be the day he’d get the congratulatory call.

Of course, that was their goal, wasn’t it? A fertilized egg would be the answer to all their troubles. It would make the childless couple happy, and make him a millionaire for the rest of his life.

But if Laura had conceived, he would never see her again.

Which was no cause for celebration.

“Griff?”

He was startled to find Bolly standing elbow to elbow with him on the practice field sideline. The sportswriter was looking at him strangely.

“Sorry. I was-”

“A million miles away. I had to say your name three times. Were you asleep?”

Griff removed his sunglasses and blinked against the blistering sun. “In this heat? Hardly. I was concentrating on Jason. He’s showing some good hustle out there today.”

“Thanks to you.”

“No, he’s applying himself. Credit belongs to him.”

“The boy is obsessed with football. Worries his mom.”

“How come?”

“She’s afraid he’ll go whole hog and get hurt.”

“Moms are like that.” He supposed.

“She’d rather he play badminton.”

Griff winced and Bolly laughed. “My sentiments exactly. Say, listen, I just got a call. I’ve been granted an interview with that new goalie the Stars signed yesterday, but it’s a narrow window of opportunity before he flies home to Detroit. If I rush, I can catch him at DFW before his flight. I hate to pull Jason out of practice. Would you mind driving him home?”

“Of course not.”

“I wouldn’t ask, but my mother-in-law had to go to the podiatrist, and my wife volunteered to drive her, so-”

“Bolly, go. Should I stay with Jason till you get home?”

“No, just see him into the house, make sure he locks the door. He knows the rules of staying by himself.”

“Okay. No problem.”

Bolly looked toward the field and picked out his son, who barely had time to hand the ball off to a halfback before being slammed to the ground by a tackle. But he wasn’t down for long. He was back on his feet in time to see the halfback make a first down. He jumped straight up into the air, raised his fist, and whooped with joy.

Bolly, still watching, smiled, but then a worry line formed between his brows. “Griff, on second thought, maybe-”

“You can trust him with me, Bolly.”

Bolly turned back to him and held his gaze for several seconds while silently debating the advisability of asking for this favor. Then he nodded. “I appreciate it, Griff. Thanks.”

When practice was over, Jason jogged off the field toward Griff, who gave him a high five. “Great practice, QB. Especially that last offensive series.”

“Thanks.” The boy was red in the face, and sweat had plastered his hair to his head beneath his helmet, but he was basking in the praise.

Griff told him about Bolly’s unexpected errand. “Which leaves me your ride home today.”

“You mean it?”

“Don’t get excited. My car’s crap.”

On the way, Griff pulled into a Braum’s. “I could use a milk shake. How ’bout you?”

As long as they were there, they decided they might just as well have burgers and fries to go with their shakes. They were seated in a booth, talking amiably about Jason’s team and the strengths and weaknesses of various players, when Griff became aware of a trio of construction workers. He’d noticed them when they came in but had given them only a passing glance before returning his attention to Jason.

Now he realized that he’d been spotted and recognized. The workmen kept their voices low, but the looks they directed at him sizzled with hostility. Others began to notice. Griff could feel a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him.

Jason, who’d been chatting nonstop, barely pausing long enough to fill his mouth with food, became aware of the charged atmosphere. His chatter slowed down and then stopped altogether. He looked toward the three men, then across at Griff, his eyes clouded with concern.

“It’s okay, Jason.”

But it wasn’t. Because when the men got their carryout orders and were on their way to the exit, they had to pass the booth in which Griff and Jason sat. As the last one filed past, he said, “You suck, Burkett.” Then he hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it at Griff. It missed, smacking into the vinyl upholstery inches from Griff’s shoulder.

Their departure left a vacuum. No one moved. Griff figured everyone was waiting to see what he would do. What he wanted to do was follow the guy out and kick his ass up into his hard hat. Had he been alone, he would have.

But with Jason there, he couldn’t. He didn’t mind the embarrassing scene for himself nearly as much as he minded it for the boy, who was sitting with his head down, his hands in his lap beneath the table.

Soon the clerks and other customers resumed their business. Everyone but Jason. “You finished?” Griff asked.

The boy raised his head. “It’s not fair!”

Griff was surprised to see that he wasn’t embarrassed but angry. “What’s not fair?”

“What that man did just now. What people say about you.”

Griff pushed aside his plate and propped his forearms on the edge of the table. “Listen to me, Jason. Spitting like that was disgusting. It only made him look like an asshole, but what I did five years ago was much, much worse.” He looked through the window at the three, who were climbing back into their utility truck. “How much do you think that guy earns in a year?”

Jason raised his shoulder in a disinterested shrug.

“A fraction of what I made when I was playing football. A tiny fraction. That guy works hard and doesn’t earn as much as I spent on having my tailored shirts laundered. He doesn’t hate me for making more money than him. What he hates is that I was living the life every guy dreams of, and I threw it away. I took money for cheating. I was stupid and selfish, and I broke the law. There’s no getting around that.”

“But you’re not bad now.”

He was screwing a paraplegic’s wife for money. That was pretty damn bad. The only thing worse would be to want to screw her whether he was being paid to or not.

He’d tried not to think at all about what had happened. When he did, he tried passing it off as physiological cause and effect, sexual mechanics that, with all the gears oiled and working, had produced a predictable result.

Or as caprice. A fluke. Stars had collided, but it wouldn’t happen again for another million years.

But in whatever terms he tried to explain it, it stayed on his mind. Constantly. Every time he thought about her teeth sinking into the bottom of his thumb, he got hard, his gut tightened with longing, and all he wanted was to be inside her again.

“I’m nobody’s hero, Jason. Don’t make me into one. You want a hero, look at your dad.”

“My dad?” Jason scoffed. “What’s he do that’s heroic?”

“He loves your mom. He loves you. He takes care of you, worries about you.”

Jason, still sullen, said, “That’s nothing.”

“That’s huge.” Then, to keep from sounding too preachy, he added, “But he can’t throw a football for shit. And don’t tell him I said shit in front of you.”

“He says it all the time.”

Griff laughed. “Then he’s my hero.”

Jason started smiling again.

The following day started out like every other. Griff got out of bed and went into the bathroom. As soon as he’d peed, he consulted the calendar he’d tacked to the wall. This was his routine now. He was marking off the days, for crissake.

He’d bought a computer and taught himself to use it. After extensive Internet research, he thought he had a fairly comprehensive overview of the female reproductive system and how it worked, more than he had learned from basic biology in school.

Some of the message boards he’d logged on to gave him more information than he wanted-did he really need to know about mucus plugs and yolk sacs?-but he’d learned a lot about timing and what happened within that twenty-eight-day cycle. He’d learned what an LH surge was.

If he’d been with Laura on the day she ovulated, he approximated when she would have menstruated-if she was going to. Those five days had come and gone. If she’d had a period, and if his calculations were correct, he should have heard from her three days ago, when she should have been ovulating again.

But she hadn’t summoned him back to the house on Windsor Street. So did that mean she hadn’t had a period and therefore had conceived? Maybe she was holding off breaking the glad news until she’d had her pregnancy confirmed by a doctor. Or maybe, because of what had happened the last time, she didn’t intend to call him, ever again. But wouldn’t he have been notified that the deal was off?

Not knowing was making him crazy, but all he could do was wait.

As he did every morning, he made a notation on the calendar, then showered. When he stepped out of the tub, he heard his newspaper being thunked against his front door. Disinclined to dress yet, he wrapped a towel around his waist. He retrieved the paper from his small porch, went into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee.

While waiting for it to brew, he perused the front page and drank orange juice from the carton. He flipped the paper over, read the headlines beneath the fold, and finding them relating to the same world crises that they’d related to yesterday, he pulled out the sports section.

The headline caused his heart to stutter. Blood rushed to his head and made him momentarily dizzy. “The fuck is this?”

BURKETT QUESTIONED IN DEATH OF BOOKMAKER, the headline read.

FURTHER WOES FOR FORMER COWBOY?

VETERAN COACH DENOUNCES FALLEN STAR.

Recognizing the stories, he looked at the dateline. Not this morning’s issue. It was five years old, and though it was well preserved, he saw now that the paper on which the sports section was printed didn’t match the rest of the newspaper. It had yellowed some with age.

Rodarte.

He knocked over a kitchen chair in his rush. In seconds, he was out of the kitchen, through the living area, and flinging open his front door. He charged out onto his narrow patch of yard and scanned the street. He didn’t really expect to see the green sedan, and he didn’t. Rodarte had given himself time to get away.

“Son of a bitch!” Griff grabbed the towel, which was slipping off his waist, and stormed back inside, slamming the door behind him. Rodarte hadn’t reappeared in almost two months. Now, just when Griff had begun to think-hope-the bastard had given up and gone away, this.

Clever of him, planting this old sports section in today’s newspaper where Griff was certain to find it. Rodarte was rubbing his nose in the shit he’d made of his life five years ago.

When he felt composed enough to confront the fine print, he righted the chair and poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the kitchen table and began to read. Every word was like a blow, hurtful because it was true.

Not since Pete Rose’s gambling and Jose Canseco’s admission to using steroids had a professional athlete scandalized himself as much as the record-breaking, all-star quarterback Griff Burkett had. Media coverage had been extensive and pervasive. The story had made headlines internationally. ESPN had dedicated hours of programming to it.

But Rodarte had done well to choose this particular issue of The Dallas Morning News, because these stories were summarizing chronicles of his long, inexorable fall.

The gambling had started small, but it grew like a creeping vine he couldn’t kill or control, until it dominated, becoming more exciting for him than the Sunday games. Winning big on a wager was more thrilling than winning big on the gridiron.

It had evolved into an addiction. Before it had got out of hand, he should have been smart enough to recognize the danger signs. Maybe he had. Maybe he had just ignored them.

He got caught up in a dangerous but exhilarating spiral. If he won, he raised the stakes of the next bet in order to win more. If he lost, he raised the stakes to recover the loss. The spiral became a maelstrom that eventually sucked him under.

Bill Bandy looked more like a tax accountant than one’s idea of a bookie. He was a slightly built man who probably had weighed no more on the day he died than on the day he graduated high school. He had thinning brown hair, a small face with a pointed chin, and a sharp nose. His pinched nostrils and pale blue eyes waged a constant war with airborne allergens. His hands were as soft and white as a woman’s, and one got the sense they would feel moist if touched.

No one would have pegged him for a mobster. Yet that was exactly what he was. It was rumored that, back in St. Louis, before he’d been relocated to Dallas, he had poisoned an uncle who had double-crossed him. Griff never knew if that was fact or fiction.

Bandy worked for Vista, the syndicate’s dummy corporation that ostensibly ran a tin-mining operation somewhere in South America. The actual location and other details were vague. Vista’s real enterprises were high-stakes gambling, money laundering, and, Griff suspected, drug trafficking.

Vista’s miners in the Las Colinas high-rise wore designer suits and diamond-studded Rolexes. They packed heat even when they went to the men’s room. They had bodyguards with automatic pistols and cars with bulletproof windows.

You did not fuck with them.

That was what Bill Bandy had told Griff over a plate of chicken enchiladas one night at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Griff was midway into his fourth season with the Cowboys. Bandy had invited him to dinner to discuss business, specifically the repayment of his gambling debt, which was now three hundred thousand and change.

“You don’t fuck with these guys, Griff. If it was me, I’d extend you some more credit. Hell, you make millions. I know you’ll be good for the money in a few months. But these guys?” He blotted his dripping nose with a damp white handkerchief. “There’s no charity in their hearts. Believe me.”

Griff dunked a tortilla chip into the salsa and munched it noisily. He took a sip of frozen margarita and winked at the starstruck teenage girls staring at him from the next table. “What are they going to do? Send some guy with hairy knuckles to break both my legs?”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re about to panic when panic isn’t called for. They compound the interest every week, making me a profit center for them. So what’s their problem?”

“They want their money.”

Finally Bandy’s funereal tone captured Griff’s attention. No longer nervous or fidgety, Bandy’s pale gaze was rock steady. Even his nose had dried up temporarily. Griff thought maybe the fable of his poisoning an elderly uncle was true.

Maintaining that cold expression, he continued. “Be glad they sent me as the messenger, or you might not be starting on Sunday, or any Sunday for the remainder of the season. Make no mistake, they can inflict serious injury on you, Griff. They will.”

“It wouldn’t make sense for them to injure me. If I can’t play, they’ll never get their money.”

The argument didn’t make a dent in Bandy’s resolute expression. Griff pushed aside his plate and sighed with disgust that he had to deal with this now. The team was facing the Falcons on Sunday in Atlanta. The Cowboys were favored, but not by much. It wasn’t going to be a cakewalk by any stretch. He should have been psyching himself up for a tough game, studying the playbook, not pandering to gangsters.

“Okay. Give me a few days,” he told Bandy. “I’ll liquidate something. A car. My condo in Florida. Something. What’s the minimum amount that would temporarily satisfy them? Two hundred thousand? That’s more than half what I owe them. Would that buy me some grace?”

Bandy dabbed his leaking eyes with a corner of his handkerchief. “There may be another way.”

“To buy me time?”

“To cancel the debt.”

Griff gaped at him as if he’d said that he could have a week on a desert island with every Playmate of the Month for the past year, that they were all nymphomaniacs with the hots for him, and that no clothes were allowed.

Bandy asked, “Are you willing to meet with them? Discuss options?”

“Where and what time?”

The “them” Bandy had referred to were three men, who welcomed Griff into Vista’s opulent offices with hearty handshakes and unlimited hospitality. What would you like to drink? Help yourself to the tray of sandwiches there. I highly recommend the beef tenderloin with the horseradish sauce. How about a massage after the meeting? We’ve got a girl on staff who’ll give you a massage with a happy ending. Wink, wink. If you get my meaning. Which Griff did.

You’d never know by the reception they gave him that he owed them over a quarter million dollars and that they were making threats against his person if he didn’t pay this debt immediately.

The only native Texan was tall, trim, darkly tanned, with large and very white teeth. He was an avid golfer who talked loudly, lewdly, and nonstop. It was he who placed his arm across Griff’s shoulders and told him about the masseuse with the magic hands and mouth. Larry was the guy’s name.

Martin had a swarthy, Mediterranean look. He was obese. He didn’t breathe, he wheezed like an off-key bagpipe, and looked like he could go into cardiac arrest at any moment if only his heart could work up the energy.

The third, Bennett, was quiet and unobtrusive. Balding and fair skinned, he sat apart, contributing little but studying Griff with the unblinking, lashless stare of something scaly and venomous.

After the initial greetings, they got down to business. The terms of their proposal were simple: Throw the Atlanta game on Sunday, and his debt would disappear. That was not how they put it, but that was the bottom line.

Martin told him they didn’t expect him to try to lose. “Just don’t play up to your full potential.”

Larry winked again. “Give the fucking Falcons a fucking chance. That’s all.”

“And who knows,” Martin wheezed, “if the Falcons pull out a win, we could throw a little extra bonus your way, in addition to clearing your debt.” Gasp. “Right, Bennett?”

Bennett the Silent nodded his stiff comb-over.

Griff told them he’d think about it.

Fine, they said. He had till Sunday to make up his mind. And just to show their goodwill, they insisted that he avail himself of the massage with the girl, who capped off the fifty-minute rubdown with a blow job. Not that he couldn’t get head whenever he wanted it. There were always girls just dying to notch their bedposts with the Lone Star logo of the Dallas Cowboys. But this girl was exceptional.

On Sunday, while he was suiting up, during the singing of the national anthem, even as he took the field following the opening kickoff, he was still wrestling with his decision. He didn’t know what he would do until late in the fourth quarter, with a 10-10 score, when Dallas was deep in their own territory and it was third and twelve.

He took the snap. Dallas linemen went down like bowling pins under a Falcons blitz. His fastest, strongest running back got blocked by two linebackers. The third one was chugging toward Griff, smelling blood. Scrambling, looking for an open receiver, Griff realized how easy-and convincing-it would be to throw an interception.

Atlanta won 17 to 10.

The partnership was forged.