Play Dirty

CHAPTER 5

GRIFF TOSSED THE HONDA’S KEYS TO THE VALET PARKING attendant and walked briskly into the sleek lobby of the upscale building. A swank hotel occupied the lower twelve floors, condos the top twelve.

The lobby bar was relatively quiet on this midweek evening. A pianist was playing Sinatra-type standards on a white baby grand. Most of the tables were occupied by businessmen, nursing cocktails while they played one-upmanship.

The bar accessed a lighted patio where seating was available, but Griff chose to stay indoors, where he could enjoy the air-conditioning while keeping an eye on the entrance. He claimed a free table, signaled the waitress, and ordered a bourbon.

“House or label?”

“House is fine.”

“Water?”

“Rocks.”

“Want to start a tab?”

“Please.”

“Will anyone be joining you?”

“No.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Although the occasion-getting out of prison-and the day he’d had-his bizarre meeting with the Speakmans-seemed to call for a highball or two, Griff didn’t really like to drink. Since he’d had to mop up regurgitated booze so often as a kid, he’d never really developed a taste for it.

But the drink the waitress delivered to him looked and smelled good. The first sip went down smoothly, although he could tell by the instant fire it ignited in his belly that it had been over five years since he’d had spirits of any kind. He cautioned himself to go slowly. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have to wait.

A million dollars.

“You’ll be paid in cash,” Speakman had told him. “It will be placed in the safe-deposit box, and only you, I, and Laura will be signatories. There will be no records kept, no paperwork of any kind. Once Laura conceives, absolutely no connection can ever be made between you and us. If our paths happen to cross, which will be unlikely, you won’t recognize us. We’ll be meeting for the first time. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Conversation was suspended when Manuelo came in to deliver a phone message to Mrs. Speakman. She read it, then excused herself, saying she would be back shortly. She left, Manuelo trailing her.

Speakman noticed Griff watching the manservant as he silently closed the double doors behind himself. “Don’t worry about Manuelo,” he said. “He speaks only a few words of English. I told him that you were an old school chum who was passing through. He wouldn’t have recognized you from your football days. By the time he reached the U.S., you were in Big Spring.”

Laura Speakman returned almost immediately. Her husband asked, “Anything important?”

“Joe McDonald with a quick question that he didn’t think could wait till morning.”

Foster laughed. “That’s Joe. Always in a hurry.”

While they were chatting about the impatient Joe, Griff thought of another problem. “Cash will be hard to spend,” he said abruptly.

After a slight hesitation, Foster said, “Yes, I’m afraid that will present some difficulties. I imagine that you’ll be under close scrutiny by the IRS and the FBI, since there was some speculation about your empty bank accounts at the time of your arrest.”

“It was assumed you had money tucked away somewhere.”

Beneath Laura Speakman’s cool statement, he heard an implied question mark. “Just like it was assumed I knocked off Bandy,” he said tightly. “I didn’t, and I didn’t.”

She held his stare for several moments, then said, “All right.”

But she said it like she was only half convinced, and that pissed him off. Even though he was going to bed her, he didn’t think he would ever like her. She was good to look at, but he’d never been attracted to the ball-breaker type. And why was she busting his when they were vital to what she needed him for? He considered bringing this irony to her attention, then decided not to. He doubted she would see the humor in it.

He said, “I need the money, Mrs. Speakman. The money is the only reason I would even consider doing this. At least I’ve been honest about it.”

His implication was clear-that they were being less than honest about their reasons. She was about to take issue when her husband intervened. “You haven’t asked me for financial advice, Griff, but I’ll offer some. Get a job that earns you a paycheck. Have a checking account, credit cards. Normal things. If you do get audited, how you’ll explain your millionaire’s lifestyle will be up to you. Probably for the rest of your life, they’ll be looking for a source of your income.”

He raised an eyebrow, adding, “Perhaps some of your former business associates can assist you with the matter. I’m sure that on occasion they use banking facilities abroad that don’t question the source of great sums of cash.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Griff said. “But even if they do, I won’t be associating with them anymore.” He looked over at Laura and added, “Ever.” He emphasized it with a curt bob of his head.

Speakman asked Griff if he had any more questions. They cleared up some minor points. And then Griff raised one that turned out to be major. It concerned a potential problem with the long-term payout. Ten, fifteen, twenty years down the road, he didn’t want to encounter a dilemma for which a solution hadn’t been worked out ahead of time.

A heated discussion ensued. No solution was reached, but Speakman promised to think hard on it and get back to Griff with a resolution as soon as possible. Could Griff live with that? he asked. Grudgingly, Griff said he could. That settled, Speakman suggested they seal their deal with a handshake, which they did.

Speakman then invited him to stay for dinner.

Before Griff could accept or decline, Mrs. Speakman said, “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, but I didn’t notify Mrs. Dobbins that we’d have a guest and she’s already left for the day. I thought the idea was to keep Mr. Burkett’s visit here a secret. Manuelo is one thing, but…”

Looking flustered for the first time since she joined them, she searched for excuses not to sit at the table with him. Apparently she had no qualms over having carnal knowledge of him, so long as she didn’t have to eat with him. “Besides,” she added lamely, “I’ve got a massive amount of work waiting for me upstairs.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Griff said. “I’ve got plans. In fact, I’m already late.”

“Then don’t let us keep you any longer,” Speakman said.

Laura Speakman stood up. She seemed relieved that he was leaving, and possibly just a bit ashamed over her inhospitality. “You should be hearing from me in about two weeks, Mr. Burkett. How can I reach you?”

He gave her his phone number, the one Turner had connected in the shabby apartment. She wrote it down on a slip of paper. “I’ll call and tell you where to meet me.”

“In two weeks?”

“Thereabouts. It could vary a day or two either way. I’ll be using an ovulation predictor kit to test for an LH surge.”

“LH…?”

“Luteinizing hormone.”

“Ah.” As in “I see,” when actually he didn’t have a clue.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to predict the day, but it might be short notice.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Her eyes skittered away from his, and that was when Griff figured her out. She could play hardball with the big boys up to a point. She could have her menstrual cycle, and ovulation, and his sperm count talked about freely in technical and practical terms. But when it came down to the nitty-gritty, to actually climbing into bed with a stranger, she turned pure female. Which to him was reassuring.

She said good-bye and excused herself. Speakman offered to escort him to the front door. When they reached it, he said, “I’m curious, Griff.”

“About?”

“What you’ll be thinking about as you leave here. Will you be considering what to buy first?”

Actually, what he’d thought as he’d driven away from the gray stone mansion was that, even though they looked like reasonable and intelligent people, it was probably a good thing that Foster and Laura Speakman couldn’t reproduce, because both of them were fucking nuts.

Who would do this? Nobody, that’s who. Not when there were scientific methods of fertilization available. Not when you had the money to pay for those methods. Maybe in Bible days this was the way to go when you couldn’t have a kid. But not today, when there were options.

By the time he’d reached his destination, he’d almost convinced himself that he would never hear from the couple again.

Almost.

“Another?”

He glanced up. The cocktail waitress had returned. He was surprised to find the glass of bourbon empty. “No thanks. A Perrier, please.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

I’ll be right back. She had used that expression twice, not knowing that the seemingly harmless phrase was like salt on an open wound to him.

His mother had said those words to him the night she left. For good that time.

She’d often stayed away for days at a stretch, leaving without so much as a “so long,” returning without explanation or excuse for her absence. He never got too upset or worried when she wasn’t around. He knew that when she got tired of the current boyfriend or vice versa, and the guy either kicked her out or simply moved on, she would come home.

When she did, she never asked how he’d been, or what he’d been doing while she was away. Was he okay? Had he gone to school? Had he eaten? Had he been frightened by the storm? Had he been sick?

One time, he had been. Sick. He got food poisoning from eating an opened can of beef stew that had been left out too long. He puked till he passed out, then came to on the bathroom floor, lying faceup in diarrhea and vomit, a knot as big as his fist on the back of his head from the fall.

He was eight years old.

After that, he took more notice of what he ate when his mother was gone. He learned to fend pretty well for himself until she reappeared.

On the night she left for good, he knew she wasn’t coming back. All day, she’d been sneaking things from the house when she thought he wasn’t looking. Clothes. Shoes. A satin pillow a guy had won for her at the state fair. She slept on it every night because she said it preserved her hairdo. When he saw her stuff that pillow into a paper grocery sack and take it out to her present boyfriend’s car, he knew this absence would be permanent.

The last time Griff saw his father, he’d been in handcuffs, being shoved into the back of a police car. A neighbor had called the cops, reporting the domestic dispute.

Dispute. A polite name for his father beating the shit out of his mother after coming home and finding her in bed with a guy she’d met the night before.

His mother went to the hospital. His daddy went to jail. He was placed with a foster family until his mother had recovered from her injuries. When the case came to trial, the DA explained to the six-year-old Griff that maybe he would be called on to tell the judge what had happened that night because he’d witnessed the assault. He lived in dread of that. If his old man got off, he would make Griff pay for tattling on him. The retribution would include a beating with his belt. It wouldn’t be the first, but it promised to be the worst.

And he honestly couldn’t say he blamed his dad. Griff knew words like whore, slut, and cunt meant ugly things about his mom, and he figured she deserved to be called those bad names.

As it turned out, there was no trial. His father entered a guilty plea to a lesser charge and was sentenced. Griff never knew when he got out of jail. Whenever it was, he didn’t contact them. Griff never saw him again.

From then on, it was just his mother and him.

And the men she brought home. Some moved in for extended periods of time, a week, maybe two. Others were guests who hit the door as soon as they got their pants back on.

Griff remembered, not long after his dad had been put in jail, crying because his mom had locked the door to his bedroom and he couldn’t get out, couldn’t get away from the spider that had crawled onto his bed. The guy she was with that night had finally come into his room, killed the spider, patted him on his towhead, and told him it was all right, he could go back to sleep now.

When he was old enough to be sent outside to play, some of his mother’s men friends had looked at him with apology, even guilt. Especially if the weather was bad. Others didn’t like having him around at all. That was when his mother told him to get lost and stay lost for a few hours. Sometimes he was given money so he could go to a movie. Most often when banished from the house, he would wander the neighborhood alone, looking for something to occupy him, later looking for mischief.

Some of his mother’s friends had given him no more notice than they would a seam in the faded wallpaper. Not many, but a few, were actually nice to him. Like the guy who’d killed the spider. But, unfortunately, he’d never come back. One guy, Neal something, had stayed a month or so. Griff got along with him okay. He could do a couple of magic tricks with cards and showed Griff how they were done. He came into the house one day with a shopping bag and handed it to Griff saying, “Here, kid. This is for you.”

Inside the bag was a football.

Years later, Griff wondered if Neal had recognized him when he got to be a pro player. Did he remember giving him his first football? Probably not. He probably didn’t remember Griff or his mother at all.

Men came and went. Years passed. His mother would leave. But she would always return.

And then that day came when she was covertly packing the car that belonged to a guy who’d shown up with her a few weeks before and had stayed. His name was Ray, and he’d taken an instant dislike to Griff, who would snort skeptically whenever Ray launched into a story about his phenomenal record as a rodeo cowboy before a bronco stepped on his back and ruined him for the arena. Apparently the bronco ruined him for everything else, too, because as far as Griff could tell, Ray had no visible means of support.

Ray didn’t like Griff, and he made no bones about it. But Griff wasn’t very likable, either. By the time Ray appeared on the scene, Griff was fifteen, full of himself, full of anger and rebellion. He’d been busted for shoplifting and for vandalizing a car, but mercifully got probation both times. He’d been suspended from school twice for fighting. He carried a chip on his shoulder that begged to be knocked off. Over the years, his hair had darkened, and so had his outlook on life.

So that evening when his mother followed Ray to the front door and turned back to tell him good-bye, Griff feigned indifference and kept his eyes trained on the TV. It was secondhand, and the picture was snowy, but it was better than nothing.

“See you later, baby.”

He hated it when she called him baby. If she’d ever babied him, it was so far back he couldn’t recall it.

“Griff, did you hear me?”

“I’m not deaf.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Why are you being so pissy tonight? I’ll be right back.”

He turned his head, and they looked at each other, and she knew that he knew.

“You coming, or what?” Ray bellowed from the front yard.

The look Griff exchanged with his mother lasted a few seconds longer. Maybe she appeared a little sorry for what she was about to do. He wanted to think she was. But probably she wasn’t. Then she turned quickly and left. The door slammed shut behind her.

Griff didn’t leave the house for three days. On the fourth day, he heard a car pull into the driveway. He hated himself for feeling a surge of hope that he’d been wrong and she’d come back after all. Maybe she’d seen through Ray and his bullshit. Maybe Ray had seen her for the whore she was and was bringing her back.

But the footsteps on the porch were too heavy to be hers.

“Griff?”

Shit! Coach.

Griff hoped he couldn’t be seen where he was slouched on the ratty sofa watching TV. But no such luck. The door squeaked when it was pushed open, and he cursed himself for not having locked it. In his peripheral vision, Coach appeared at the end of the sofa. Hands on hips, he stood looking down at Griff with disapproval.

“I missed you at practice. School office tells me you’ve been absent from classes the last three days. Where’ve you been?”

“Here,” Griff said, continuing to stare at the TV.

“You sick?”

“No.”

A pause. “Where’s your mom?”

“Fuck I know?” he grumbled.

“I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s your mom?”

Griff looked up at him then and with exaggerated innocence said, “I think she’s at the PTA meeting. Either that or the church ladies’ sewing group.”

Coach walked over to the TV. He didn’t turn it off; he yanked the plug from the wall outlet. “Get your stuff.”

“Huh?”

“Get your stuff.”

Griff didn’t move. Coach walked toward him, his footfalls rattling the empty cereal bowls and soda cans littering the TV tray Griff had placed in front of the sofa. “Gather up your stuff. Right now.”

“What for? Where am I going?”

“To my house.”

“Like hell.”

“Or cop an attitude with me, and I’ll call CPS.” Coach placed his meaty fists on his hips again and glared down at him. “You’ve got one second to choose.”

Laughter from a nearby table jerked Griff back into the present. At some point during his reverie, the waitress had brought his Perrier. He drank it like a man dying of thirst. He was covering a soft belch when the woman he’d been waiting for came through the revolving entrance door. He stood up and waved at the waitress to bring his check, and by doing so attracted the woman’s attention.

Upon seeing him, she stopped suddenly, obviously surprised.

He signaled for her to wait while he took care of his tab. He did that with dispatch, then walked toward the woman where she still stood halfway between the entrance and the elevators.

“Hey, Marcia.”

“Griff. I heard you were getting out.”

“Bad news travels fast.”

“No, it’s wonderful to see you.” She smiled and looked him over. “You look good.”

He drank in the sight of her, from the top of her tousled auburn hair to her high-heeled sandals. The curvy terrain in between made him light-headed with lust. Laughing softly, he said, “Not as good as you.”

“Thank you.”

He held her gaze for several moments, then asked, “Are you available?”

Her smile faltered. She glanced around the lobby, her unease showing.

He took a step closer and said in a low voice, “It’s been a long five years, Marcia.”

She considered a moment longer, then, reaching a decision, said, “I have someone at midnight.”

“It won’t take me near that long.”

He took her elbow, and they walked to the elevators, saying nothing until they were inside one of the mirrored cubicles. She inserted a small key into a discreet slot in the mechanical panel. Responding to his quizzical look, she said, “I’ve moved up a couple of floors, into the penthouse.”

“Business must be good.”

“I have three girls working for me now.”

He whistled. “Business is really good.”

“The market for my product never goes soft.” Laughing, she added, “So to speak.”

Griff was even more impressed by her success when they stepped out of the elevator into a lobby with a marble floor and a clear skylight for a ceiling that provided a view of a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars bright enough to defy the skyline lights.

Three doors opened into the private lobby. “Are you friendly with your neighbors?”

“One is a Japanese businessman. He’s rarely here, but when he is, he finds the proximity very convenient.”

Griff chuckled. “He comes over to borrow sugar?”

“At least once while he’s in town,” she said demurely. “The other is a friend, a gay decorator who envies me my clientele.”

She unlocked her front door. Griff followed her inside. The interior looked like a picture in a magazine, probably would be her gay neighbor’s wet dream. Griff gave it a cursory glance, said a polite “Very nice,” then reached for her and pulled her against him.

He hadn’t kissed a woman in five years, and the sex was going to have to be damn good to top the pleasure he derived from pushing his tongue into her mouth. He kissed her like a horny kid whose prom date was easy. Too eager, too greedy, too sloppy. His hands were everywhere at once.

After a minute of his mauling her, she pushed him away, laughing. “You know the rules, Griff. No kissing. And I’m the initiator.”

His sports jacket was fighting to stay on while he was frantically trying to shake it off. “Give me a break.”

“This once. But some rules must apply.”

“Right. I pay up front.”

“Hmm.”

The sleeves of his jacket were turned inside out when he finally was able to fling the thing to the floor. He dug into his pants pocket for the money clip of cash Wyatt Turner had given him. The tight-ass would have conniptions if he knew his client was spending his food and gas money on a prostitute. Speaking for himself, Griff didn’t begrudge a penny of Marcia’s fee. If he had to, he’d skip a few meals.

“How much?”

“Two thousand. For an hour. Straight sex.”

He gaped at her and swallowed the golf ball now lodged in his throat. “Two thousand? You’ve gone up. A lot.”

“So has the cost of living,” she replied coolly. “And business expenses.”

He expelled a gusty breath of disappointment, then bent down and retrieved his jacket from the floor. “I don’t have it. Maybe tomorrow night,” he said wryly.

“How much have you got?”

He held out the money clip. She took it and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, then gave the clip back to him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Griff thought he might weep out of gratitude. “I’ll be eternally in your debt.”

Marcia was the most select prostitute in Dallas, and it was strict business practices that had put her there. She was a businesswoman all the way. Through the grapevine, Griff had heard that she, acting on tips from clients, had invested wisely in real estate. She’d bought up farmland north of Dallas, and when the city expanded in that direction, she had scored huge. It was also said she had a stock portfolio worth millions.

All that could have been rumor, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. It was said she’d started “escorting” to help finance dental hygiene school but had soon realized that she was better at polishing knobs than she was at polishing teeth. And she could make a hell of a lot more money at it.

Soon after he’d signed with the Cowboys, Griff had learned of her through a teammate, being told that Marcia was the best if you could afford her, because even then she’d been expensive. He preferred a professional to the team groupies who threw themselves at him and, once he’d slept with them, inevitably caused hassles he didn’t need.

Marcia was discreet. She was clean. She was scrupulous when it came to prequalifying her clients, making sure they were disease free, financially stable, and safe. She never took walk-ins. She’d made an exception for him tonight.

She had the wholesome face of a church choir soloist, paired with a voluptuous body that invited sin. Somehow, despite her occupation, she managed to remain a lady, and if a client didn’t treat her as such, he didn’t remain a client.

Five years hadn’t left any noticeable damage, Griff was pleased to discover as she undressed. She was lush, but firm where she ought to be. He couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Knowing him, remembering his preferences, she didn’t assist him but idly touched herself while she watched him peel off garments and toss them aside. When her fingers disappeared between her thighs, he made an involuntary gurgling sound but was too far gone to care how gauche he seemed.

When he was undressed, she went to him and gently pushed him back until he was seated on the edge of the bed. He pressed his face into her deep cleavage, mashed her heavy breasts against his cheeks. She handed him a condom; he rolled it on. “What do you want to do, Griff?”

“At this point…Doesn’t matter.”

She lowered herself to her knees between his thighs and bent her head toward him, whispering, “Enjoy.”

“Griff?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s after eleven. You need to go.”

He’d been sleeping on his stomach, his head buried in the soft, scented pillow, virtually comatose. He turned onto his back. Marcia had showered and was wrapped in a robe. “You went out like a light,” she said. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you sooner, but you have to go now.”

He stretched luxuriantly. “Felt good, sleeping naked, sleeping on sheets that don’t smell like industrial-strength detergent.” He arched his back and stretched again. “Do I gotta?”

“You gotta.”

She said it with a smile, but he knew she meant it. He couldn’t argue after she’d already been so charitable. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. She had his clothes waiting for him, actually hurried him along without seeming to as he pulled them on. She held his jacket for him, then placed her hand on the center of his back and propelled him toward the door.

When they reached it, he turned to her. “Thank you. You made a huge concession, and I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Coming-home present.” She kissed her finger, then pressed it against his lips. “But next time, it has to be by appointment and full fare.”

“My financial situation should improve substantially by tomorrow.” But remembering how uneasy she’d been to be seen with him in the lobby, he added, “If you still want me for a client, that is. I could be bad for your business.”

“Every business requires a little finessing now and then.” She was making light of it, but he knew the thought had crossed her mind. “You might want to try one of the new girls. They’re young and gorgeous, and I trained them personally.”

“Satisfaction guaranteed?”

“Always. Want me to set something up for you?”

A mental image of Laura Speakman flashed through his mind. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be. Let me call you. But I tried the old number. Got a recording that it had been disconnected.”

She passed him a business card. “I have to change it periodically. To keep the vice cops honest,” she added, smiling.

He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her again, and they exchanged a good-bye. She closed the door, quietly but firmly. Getting into the elevator, Griff met the gay decorator getting out. The man looked him up and down, then closed his eyes and gave a soft, swooning moan. “Too, too cute,” he murmured as he glided past.

The lobby bar was doing less business now than earlier. The girl who had waited on him was chatting with one of the idle bellmen. The pianist had been replaced with canned music.

The doorman was greeting an arriving guest when Griff pushed through the revolving doors. Outside, the air had softened, but it was still hot enough to steal his breath until he acclimated. He stood there, sweating, for a full sixty seconds, waiting for the parking attendant to show. When he didn’t, Griff went looking for him. He walked the length of the porte cochere and rounded the corner into the parking garage.

Where he ran into a fist.

It connected with his cheekbone like a jackhammer. One jab. Two. Then another.

He staggered back, swearing loudly, swinging wildly in uncoordinated self-defense, trying to bring his assailant into focus.

Rodarte.