Play Dirty

CHAPTER 19

IF YOU WANT TO PUT SPIN ON IT, YOU GOTTA GET YOUR THUMB under it.” Griff demonstrated the rotating hand motion to Jason Rich. “See? You gotta whip your thumb under just as you release the ball. Now try again.”

He handed over the football. Jason’s face was tense with concentration as he gripped the ball the way Griff had demonstrated and threw a pass. “Much better.”

“One more time, Griff? I think I let go a little too late.”

“Okay, but only one. Practice is about to start.”

Griff saw improvement in the second pass. “Good work, Jason. You’re getting the hang of it. Throw a few thousand more and you’ll have it down pat. You’ll be breaking records.”

Behind his mask, Jason’s sweaty face broke into a grin. “Yesterday was fun. Except for…you know.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I told my dad. He said you handled it the only way you could. If you had fought them, it would’ve made it worse.”

“I’ll say. Did you see the size of those guys?”

Jason laughed, then said tentatively, “Maybe we could go for milk shakes again sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“Me, too. See you tomorrow.”

Griff knocked on the top of the boy’s helmet, two taps. “I’ll be here.”

Jason trotted off to join his teammates, who were assembling on the sideline of the practice field. Bolly was among the other dads. Griff raised his hand in greeting, and Bolly waved back.

Griff jogged across the field to retrieve the footballs Jason had thrown and stuffed them into the cloth bag he kept in the trunk of his car. He pulled the drawstring to close the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

That was when he saw Rodarte, standing outside the chain-link fence, watching him.

Griff was already hot from being in the sun for the hour with Jason. When he saw Rodarte, it seemed his blood reached the boiling point in seconds. He had to force himself not to charge the fence.

Unhurried, he went through the gate and joined Rodarte on the other side. The son of a bitch didn’t even deign to look at him. Instead, he stared across the field to the far sideline, where the middle school head coach was cautioning his young team not to let themselves become overheated or dehydrated during practice.

“You’re pathetic, Rodarte,” Griff said. “Collecting old newspapers like a bag lady.”

Rodarte chuckled but still didn’t turn to face him. “Fun reading. I hated keeping it to myself.”

Griff started to grab him by the shoulder and force him around, but he didn’t dare lay a hand on the man. Rodarte would fight back. And if it got ugly, which it inevitably would, there were too many witnesses. In particular Bolly. Griff had promised him there wouldn’t be any trouble. Yesterday the sportswriter had entrusted his son to him. Griff would have hated like hell to betray that trust now.

He could tell Rodarte to go to hell and simply walk away. Let him stand there and dissolve from the heat till he was nothing but a puddle of sweat being absorbed by the hard, baked ground.

But ignoring him wouldn’t be smart. Rodarte’s being there wasn’t coincidence, any more than this morning’s incident with the newspaper was a harmless prank. After staying invisible for weeks, Rodarte had resurfaced. Until Griff knew why, he wouldn’t turn his back on him.

Rodarte reached into his pocket and took out a pack of gum. “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

“Good luck with that. It would be just awful if you got sick and died.”

Rodarte gave him a sly grin as he unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. “You still banging that broad?”

Griff’s jaw tensed.

“I suppose since your favorite whore is still out of commission, you gotta get it somewhere.” His grin got slier. “You could do a lot worse. Not only has Mrs. Speakman got a sweet ass but she’s loaded. But I’m sure you know that. Nobody ever called you stupid, Number Ten. A lot of other ugly names, but never stupid.”

Griff didn’t rise to the bait.

“Is she footing your bills these days? Buying you all that neat new stuff?” Rodarte laughed that nasty laugh again and noisily smacked his chewing gum. “Sure she is. And glad to do it. Stuck with a husband who’s only half a man, I’ll bet she’s willing to pay any price to ride a big, strong football hero like you.”

Griff didn’t move, even though he craved to see Rodarte bleed.

Lowering his voice to a suggestive whisper, Rodarte said, “I’ll bet she’s one of those no-nonsense businesswoman types who goes absolutely wild in the sack. Am I right? She works out all her career insecurities on your dick, and she likes to be on top. Come on, Burkett, share. Is she one of those?”

“You’re maggot shit.”

Rodarte barked a laugh. “You’re fucking a paraplegic’s wife and I’m maggot shit?”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing,” Rodarte said innocently. “Just thought I’d drop by, say hi. Didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you. I wanted to reassure you that when you self-destruct-and you will, you know-I’m gonna be there to see it, and hopefully to help bring it about. I’m so far up your ass, Burkett. You have no idea.”

Griff feared if he stayed any longer he was going to take the first step toward the predicted self-destruction. Which was precisely what Rodarte wanted. Despite his resolve not to turn his back on the man, he did so and began walking away.

“Jason’s showing progress.”

Griff whipped back around. Rodarte, laughing softly, spat his wad of gum into the dirt. “The boy hasn’t got much natural talent, but he works hard. Plain to see he worships the ground you walk on. Probably wants to follow in your footsteps. Well, not the cheating and murdering path you took, but your football glory days.”

Squinting at Griff across the space separating them, Rodarte let his evil grin spread across his acne-cratered face. “Be a shame if something were to happen to the boy. A crippling accident or something that would prevent him from following his dream. He might even die.”

Griff took the steps necessary to close the distance between them. “You lay one hand on that kid and-”

“Calm down,” Rodarte said in a cajoling voice. “I was just speculating on the fickle finger of fate. Jesus, you’re a hothead. I try to have a friendly little chat here at the middle school athletic field and you-”

“What do you want, Rodarte?”

He dropped his saccharine pretense, and his eyes turned flinty. “You know what I want.”

“I don’t have any of Vista’s money.”

“They’re not convinced. I’m sure as hell not. And I’m not going to stop with you till I break you and you give it up. I’m as permanent as a birthmark.”

Griff aimed his index finger at him and began backing away. “You stay away from me. You stay away from everyone around me.”

Rodarte laughed. “Or what, Number Ten? Or what?”

Griff violated a condition of his probation, the primo one that Jerry Arnold continually reminded him of: Don’t go near your former associates.

The way Griff saw it, he had no choice. Rodarte had threatened Jason. And the way he’d talked about Laura…The implied threat, which went beyond the nasty stuff, had raised the hair on the back of Griff’s neck. Rodarte wouldn’t have a qualm against harming either of them. Even Laura’s money couldn’t protect her. He would hurt her and Jason without a blink, and would enjoy the hell out of doing it.

To prevent that, Griff must confront this issue head-on, now. He wasn’t willing to live with the constant threat of Rodarte. He certainly didn’t want to inflict it on two people who were entirely innocent. He couldn’t bear the guilt of someone else falling victim to Rodarte’s brutality the way Marcia had.

Griff drove straight home from the practice field, rushed through a shower, and dressed. He left behind his new Armani jacket in favor of one he’d had before his incarceration, not wanting to look too well heeled.

It was nervy to arrive at Vista’s offices unannounced, but he was betting that the triumvirate would agree to see him, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He was right. After waiting in a reception area for almost half an hour, he was summoned into the inner sanctum where he’d met with them the first time.

Same paneled walls, indirect lighting, and sound-absorbing rugs, but the hospitality was noticeably lacking. No sandwich tray, no open bar. Larry’s tan was just as bronze, but it appeared that more time may have been spent in the club bar than on the links. He’d gone a little soft around the middle.

Griff was surprised to see that Martin could still breathe without some form of respiratory apparatus. But he was now relying heavily on a cane to help support his immense body.

Bennett had given up on the comb-over and shaved his head. It was perfectly white and round, and from the back looked like an overgrown billiard ball sitting on his shoulders. With even fewer lashes now, his eyes were more reptilian than before.

Larry had one hip propped on the corner of a desk. Bennett was in an armchair, legs crossed. As Griff walked in, Martin collapsed onto a short leather sofa that was barely wide enough to accommodate him. Both his lungs and the seat cushions emitted a whoosh of air as he settled.

Griff wasn’t invited to sit.

Martin began. “What do you want?”

Griff responded just as bluntly. “Call off Rodarte.”

No one said anything for a full thirty seconds. Finally Larry broke the taut silence. “Would that be Stanley Rodarte you’re talking about?”

Griff didn’t buy the dumb act. “You’ll be glad to know your watchdog is persistent. He was in Big Spring the day I got out, and he’s been making a nuisance of himself ever since. He assaulted a friend of mine. A woman. Sodomized her and ruined her face. When that failed to win me over, he set two guys on me. For a week after, I could barely walk and my pee ran red.”

“Gee, Griff, we’re sorry to hear that,” Larry said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “And this would be our problem…why?”

Griff resented their playing innocent. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, so he’d rather they just own up to it and tell him that he and Marcia had it coming.

“Look, it sucks for you if Bill Bandy hid money where you can’t find it. But get off my back about it. I didn’t take anything from him. And you know damn well I didn’t kill him.”

“You had motive.”

“So did you.”

The FBI had arrested Bandy on charges of illegal gambling. Facing several years in federal prison, Bandy had played his bargaining chip-Griff Burkett. He told the feds about Griff’s association with Vista, specifically about the upcoming play-off game against Washington. No one in Dallas was happy about the loss that day, except the federal agents who were building a strong racketeering case against the Cowboys’ QB.

The deal Bandy had struck worked out great for him. Griff got caught; all charges against Bandy were dropped. But this exchange had made the Vista men nervous. What if the FBI wanted more from Bill Bandy than a cheating football player? The bookie might have been tempted to use them as another free pass at some point in the future.

The Vista trio had removed the temptation from Bandy by killing him.

At least that was what Griff had surmised and now had essentially accused them of. Unfazed, their stares remained unblinking.

“Maybe there was some secret stash,” he continued, “but I haven’t spent the last five years on a treasure hunt. I don’t want back in your operation, and I’m not working for a competing outfit. You can threaten me till doomsday, and you’ll still come up empty. So whatever you’re paying Rodarte to put pressure on me is money wasted. Call him off.”

Several moments passed. They sat like statues. Eventually Martin looked over at Larry, Larry looked over at Bennett, and Bennett continued to stare at Griff.

If Griff had still been a wagering man, he’d have put his money on Bennett as the enforcer of the group. Larry was the windbag, the people person, the public relations guy. Martin was the brains and the puppet master. Bennett, silent and stationary Bennett, who seemed to have ice water in his veins, was responsible for damage control.

It was Martin who finally spoke. “What makes you think…” Wheeze. “…that we’d have dealings…” Gasp. “…with a scumbag like Rodarte?”

“He told me himself. He said he’d talked to you. He passed along your message that there might be a way for me to make amends. That you might be willing to forgive and forget.”

“Forgive and forget?”

This was the first and only time Griff had actually seen Martin smile, and it made his balls contract.

“Is Rodarte delusional, or are you?” Larry asked. “After you gave the grand jury the juice on us, you think we’d ever welcome you back?” He snorted his opinion on the chances of that. “First of all, asshole, we’re not forgiving or forgetful. Number two, you’re the last person we want in our operation. We’re not slow learners. Once you screw us over, you’re screwed. Third, if one of our competitors-not that we have any that matter-takes you in, that’s good news to us. It only shows that they’re fucking ignoramuses.

“Lastly, you’re actually right about one thing. Rodarte did come sniffing around just before your release. He’s always had the mistaken idea that he’s a hotshot and that we’re impressed by him. We’re not. He’s a lowlife thug, is all.

“But, hey, we don’t want to appear unfriendly, especially to someone so inferior. So we dazzled him with bullshit and a couple shots of eighteen-year-old scotch, then sent him on his way. If he’s squeezing you, he’s doing it on his own time and for his own reasons.”

“And more power to him,” Martin wheezed.

“Amen to that,” Larry said. “More power to him. We won’t be brokenhearted the day you die, Burkett. The only reason you’re still breathing is because you deserve no better than Rodarte. We’d rather somebody of his caliber handle an asswipe like you, save us having to get our hands dirty. Now get the fuck out of here before we remember just how pissed off we really are.”

On his drive back from Las Colinas, Griff got stuck in a traffic jam behind a freeway accident that had two lanes closed. Staring into the brake lights of the car ahead of him, he ruminated over what Larry had told him. It felt like the truth. They wouldn’t mourn his passing, but if they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

The Vista boys were scary, but Rodarte, acting on his own behalf, was even scarier. Griff wasn’t comforted by the knowledge that Rodarte was working independently.

That thought was interrupted by his cell phone’s chirp. He flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Are you free?”