Play Dirty

CHAPTER 6

RODARTE’S GRIN TURNED HIS FACE INTO A HALLOWEEN MASK. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

Griff’s indrawn breath whistled through his teeth, which were clenched in pain. He dabbed at his cheekbone, and his fingers came away red. “Son of a bitch!”

Rodarte lit a cigarette, laughing as he fanned out the match. “That’s what I heard, too.”

Griff glowered at him.

“I heard your mother would screw a dog if nothing else was around. Poor little Griff. You had it rough, didn’t you? Till Coach Miller and his wife took you in.”

When Griff had been indicted, overnight going from poster boy to pariah, a lot of his ugly past had been exposed. Neither Coach nor Ellie had been a source of information. Griff would have bet his life on that. But a hotshot reporter from the Morning News had dug until he’d excavated just enough facts to hold together his speculations. They made for a sensational exposé. In conclusion, the writer had implied that Griff Burkett’s fall had been predestined from birth, that he’d been bred to transgress, and that the crime he’d committed should have been foreseeable.

Rodarte leered at him. “Tell me, how did it feel to throw the big game? Honestly, now. Just between us. Did you have any twinge of conscience? Or not?”

Wyatt Turner’s warnings rang in Griff’s ears. Do not cross him. Turn the other cheek. Which seemed an ironic admonition at this particular moment, when his cheekbone was throbbing and the entire side of his head was hurting so bad he thought he might throw up.

Griff wanted to grab Rodarte by his greasy hair and smash his face against the concrete wall of the parking garage, again and again until his ugly features had been pulverized to mush.

But Griff couldn’t do a goddamn thing without bringing trouble down on himself, and Rodarte knew that. Nothing would have given the bastard more pleasure than seeing Griff locked up again on the very day he’d been released.

Muttering an invective, Griff turned away, but Rodarte grabbed him by the shoulder, brought him back around, and shoved him up hard against the wall. “Don’t turn your back on me, you cocky fucker.”

More than the name-calling, being manhandled like that cleared Griff’s head of sharp pains and made his anger as brittle and cold as glass. He could kill this bastard. Easy. Being tackled in a game was one thing. Being touched by Rodarte was quite another. “Take your hands off me.”

Either his steely tone, or maybe his eyes, telegraphed the murderous fury he felt, because Rodarte let go and shuffled back several steps. “You were owed that,” he said, hitching his chin up toward Griff’s bleeding cheekbone. “For flipping me off today. I drove all the way out to jackrabbit country to commemorate your release, and that’s the thanks I got for my thoughtfulness.”

“Thanks. Now we’re square.” Griff brushed past him.

“I had an interesting conversation with some former associates of yours yesterday.”

Griff stopped and turned.

Rodarte took a deep pull off his cigarette, then dropped it on the garage floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe while he blew smoke upward. “I don’t need to name names, do I? You know who I’m talking about. Your former business partners.”

“They went slumming?” Griff asked.

Rodarte merely grinned.

The three bosses of the organized crime group-the Vista boys, as Griff thought of them. That was who Rodarte was talking about. The men in the five-thousand-dollar suits. The trio Bill Bandy had introduced Griff to when he needed a quick fix to a big gambling debt.

The Vista triumvirate had been obliging, and then some. They’d opened wide the doors of their luxury offices in the high-rise building they owned in Las Colinas overlooking the golf course. And that was just the beginning. There were lavish dinners in the private dining rooms of five-star restaurants. Private jet trips to Vegas, the Bahamas, New York, San Francisco. Limousines. Girls.

Seduction in its purest form.

The only thing he’d turned down was the drugs, although at any given time, he’d had access to any and all he wanted.

“Those guys know you’re out,” Rodarte was saying. His smile was dangerous and insinuating, a jackal’s grin. “They’re not all that glad about it. They thought for sure you’d get nailed for doing Bill Bandy.”

“I had nothing to do with Bandy.”

“Riiiight.”

Griff would be damned before he stood here pleading his innocence to this asshole. “You see the Vista boys again, tell them I said they can go fuck themselves.”

Rodarte winced. “Oooh, they’re not gonna like that. First you kill their key bookmaker-”

“I didn’t kill Bandy.”

“See? I don’t think they buy that, Griff. You were so pissed at him for ratting you out to the FBI, of course you killed him. You had a right to. Almost an obligation. Look, I understand. And so do they. A rat’s a rat. If you hadn’t snuffed him, Bandy might have given them up next.”

“So what’s their gripe?”

“They’ll never know for sure whether or not Bandy would have betrayed them. While you,” he said, poking Griff in the chest with his index finger, “you actually named names to the FBI. Their names. You see the problem? Their thinking is that Bandy would have remained loyal to them if it hadn’t been for you. Regardless of how it all came down, they blame you for fucking up their smooth operation.”

“Gee, this is a sad story.”

Ignoring the remark, Rodarte went on. “You were bad for their business. For years after you got sent to Big Spring, they found it harder to entice a professional athlete anywhere in the southern United States. Players of every sport were nervous, afraid that if they cheated, they’d get caught like you did.”

Rodarte took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “The Vista boys, as you affectionately call them, haven’t fully recovered from the grief you caused them.”

“The grief I caused them?” Griff finally gave vent to the angry pressure that had been building inside him. “None of them served a day of time.”

“Only because the FBI was building their racketeering case around your testimony alone.” Rodarte gave a rueful shrug over the flaws in that strategy. “Your story didn’t fly with the federal grand jury. They figured you were trying to point the finger at others to take the heat off yourself.”

He poked Griff again. “That’s the only reason the Vista boys weren’t also indicted. But they came close. They haven’t forgotten how close. And all thanks to you. They’re sorta holding a grudge.”

“The feeling is mutual. Now, get out of my way.”

When Rodarte failed to back away, Griff tried to go around him. Rodarte sidestepped, blocking him. “But basically these are nice guys we’re talking about. They might welcome you back into the fold-on one condition.”

“Are you their recruiter now?”

Rodarte winked. “Let’s just say a word from me could grease the skids for you.”

“I’m not interested in getting back into the fold.”

“You haven’t heard me out.”

“I don’t need to.”

Rodarte dusted an imaginary speck off the lapel of Griff’s jacket. If the man touched him again, Griff thought he might have to break every bone in his hand.

“Take a piece of advice, Griff. Think about it.”

“I had five years to think about it.”

“So you won’t be working with them again?”

“No.”

“What about their competitors? The Vista boys are businessmen, after all. They’re nervous-just a little-over what you might do now that you’re out.”

“I’m thinking of opening a lemonade stand.”

Rodarte’s frown said that crack was unworthy of him.

“It’s none of their goddamn business, or yours, what I do,” Griff said.

“They beg to differ. Especially if you’re planning to link up with one of their competitors.”

“Relieve them on that score. They’ve got nothing to be nervous about. See ya, Rodarte.”

Again Griff moved away, but Rodarte scrambled and planted himself in his path. He moved in close and lowered his voice again, this time to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then there’s the matter of the money.”

“What money?”

“Come on, Griff,” he said in a singsongy, wheedling tone. “The money you stole from Bandy.”

“There was no money.”

“Maybe not cash. A safe-deposit box key, maybe? Foreign bank account numbers? The combination to a safe. Stamp collection.”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit!” Rodarte stabbed Griff in the chest with his finger once again, harder, angrier.

Griff saw red, but despite his wish to break bones, he couldn’t touch the man. One touch would be all the provocation Rodarte needed to engage him in a fight. If he got into a fight with Rodarte, even if he won, he’d spend the night in the Dallas County Detention Center. Bad as his new apartment was, he preferred it over a jail cell.

“Hear me, Rodarte. If Bandy had any money squirreled away, the secret died with him. I sure as hell didn’t get it.”

“Pull my other leg.” Rodarte slammed him back against the wall and moved in close, baring his teeth. “A hot hustler like you would have made sure he didn’t come away empty-handed. You’ve got expensive tastes. Cars. Clothes. Pussy. If you didn’t tuck away some of Bandy’s money, how are you going to finance all those luxuries?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Rodarte. I’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

Griff didn’t reply.

Rodarte said, “I’ll find out, you know.”

“Good luck. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

They shared a long, hostile stare. It took every ounce of willpower Griff had not to knee the guy in the balls and throw him off. But he stood his ground and his gaze didn’t flinch. Eventually Rodarte dropped his hands from Griff’s shoulders and took a step back. But he wasn’t admitting defeat.

“Okay, Number Ten,” he said softly. “You want to make this hard on yourself, fine by me. In fact, I prefer that you do.” He whispered as though making a malevolent promise.

Griff went past him and had made it to the corner of the garage when Rodarte called him back. “Hey, answer me one question.”

“Yes, I think you’re ugly.”

Rodarte laughed. “Good one. But, seriously, when you snapped Bandy’s neck, did you come? I know that happens sometimes.”

“What do you think?”

Laura didn’t have to ask About what? She and Foster hadn’t talked about Griff Burkett yet, but he might just as well have been the centerpiece on the dining table. His presence between them seemed almost that tangible.

She set down her fork and reached for her wineglass. Cradling the bowl of it between her hands, she thoughtfully stared at the ruby-colored contents. “My first impression is that he’s angry.”

“At?”

“Life.”

The formal dining room, which accommodated thirty or more, was used only for entertaining. The first twelve months of their marriage, they’d hosted numerous dinner parties. In the past two years, there had been only one-at Christmas for SunSouth’s board of directors and their spouses.

This evening, as on most evenings, they were having their dinner in the family dining room. Much cozier, it was separated from the commercial-size kitchen by a single door. The housekeeper-cook got off at six o’clock each day. Her last duty was to leave dinner in a warming tray. Since Laura had assumed much of Foster’s workload, she usually stayed at the corporate offices until seven-thirty or eight, making their dinner hour late. Foster refused to eat before she got home.

Tonight their dinner had been delayed by the interview with Griff Burkett. Laura had lost her appetite, but Foster seemed to be enjoying the beef Wellington. He cut off a bite and chewed it exactly twelve times, four series of three, swallowed, took a sip of his wine, blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Spending five years in prison would put any man in a bad humor.”

“I think Mr. Burkett would be angry under any circumstances.”

“That anger having been ingrained into his personality?”

“Well, you read the newspaper story about how he grew up,” she said. “Granted, his early years were a nightmare. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s done as an adult. He broke the law. He deserved his punishment. Possibly more than he received.”

“Remind me never to get on your fighting side, Mrs. Speakman. You’re ruthless.”

She didn’t take offense, knowing he was teasing her. “I just have no tolerance for grown-ups who blame their shortcomings, even their lawlessness, on a disadvantaged childhood. Mr. Burkett alone is accountable for his actions.”

“For which he has atoned,” her husband reminded her gently. Lightening the mood, he added, “I promise to do my part to see that our baby doesn’t have a disadvantaged childhood.”

She smiled. “Left alone, I think you’d spoil him rotten.”

“‘Him’?”

“Or her.”

“I’d love a little girl who looks just like you.”

“And I’d be over the moon to have a boy.”

Their smiles remained in place, but the unspoken words hung there above the dining table. Neither a son nor a daughter would have Foster’s features. Similar, perhaps, but not his.

Laura took another sip of wine. “Foster…”

“No.”

“Why ‘no’? You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, I do.” He indicated her plate. “Finished?” She nodded. He laid his knife and fork at a precise diagonal across his plate and folded his napkin beside it.

She stood up as he backed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’ll ask Manuelo to clear the table while I get the coffee.”

“Let’s have it in the den.”

In the kitchen she filled a carafe with coffee, which she’d set to brew while they were having dinner. She placed it on a tray with cups and saucers, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl. She carried the tray into the den. Foster was washing his hands with bottled sanitizer. When he was done, he placed the bottle in a drawer.

She fixed his coffee and carried it to him. He thanked her, then waited until she had hers and was seated on one of the leather love seats, her feet tucked beneath her.

He continued the conversation as though there hadn’t been an interruption. “You were going to say that we could take the more conventional route. Have artificial insemination with an anonymous donor.”

That was exactly what she’d been about to say. “They keep sperm donors anonymous for a very good reason, Foster. We would never know his identity, never have a mental image of him. The child would be ours. We’d never be studying his or her features, looking for similarities to…to someone we’d met.”

“Do you object to Griff Burkett’s features?”

“You’re missing the point.”

He laughed and rolled his chair over to the love seat. “No I’m not, I’m teasing you.”

“I guess I’m not in a teasing mood tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” He reached up and ruffled her hair.

But she wouldn’t be placated so easily. “This is probably the most important decision we’ll ever have to make.”

“We’ve already made it. We’ve been over this a thousand times, studying it from every angle. We’ve discussed it for months. We talked it to death, and then talked it some more, and finally agreed it’s the right path for us.”

For you, she started to say but didn’t. “I know I agreed, but-”

“What?”

“I don’t know. In theory…” She let the sentence trail. What worked in theory didn’t necessarily translate well into flesh-and-blood reality. Particularly since it was her flesh and blood that would be affected.

“I’m only asking for one child,” he said, stroking her cheek. “If I could, I’d give you the three or four children we planned on. Before.”

Before. There it was, that giant qualifier. That six-letter word was weighty with its significance to them. It was the line of demarcation in their lives. Before.

His eyes moved over her face lovingly. “I still dream about making love to you.”

“You do make love to me.”

He smiled wanly. “Of a sort. Not the real thing.”

“It’s real to me.”

“But it’s not the same.”

She leaned forward and kissed him intimately on the mouth, then nuzzled her face into his neck. He held her close, smoothing his hands over her back. During her busy workdays, hours would go by when she would forget his condition and the drastic effect it had had on their lives, their marriage.

Mean reminders of it would strike her unaware, coming from nowhere like blow darts, giving her no warning, making them impossible to dodge. During a meeting, or while she was on the telephone, or when she was conducting a brainstorming session, one would hit, numbing her for a millisecond before the pain set in.

But these quiet evenings at home were the worst. When they were alone, like this, each remembered how it used to be, how they used to make love when the mood struck them, laughing at their passionate haste, collapsing in happy satiation afterward.

Now she occasionally went to the room where he slept in a hospital bed, rigged with every modern contrivance to maximize his comfort. She would undress and lie with him, her body pressed against his. They kissed. He caressed her, and sometimes just the intimacy of that was enough. Other nights, she would reach orgasm, which wasn’t really satisfying because she always felt selfish afterward. When she expressed this, he comforted her by saying that his completion was derived from knowing that he could still give her physical pleasure.

But if she left his bed feeling like an exhibitionist, she knew he must feel like a voyeur. Because it wasn’t mutually fulfilling, it was…well, as he’d said, it wasn’t the same.

They rarely talked about their life together before the night it was turned upside down. Memories of that first year of their marriage were indulged privately, neither wanting to cause the other heartbreak by reminiscing aloud. The memories were agonizing for her. They must have been even more terrible for Foster. She was still whole and healthy. He wasn’t. He didn’t seem to harbor any resentment or bitterness toward fate, or God. Or her.

But how could he not?

Taking her shoulders between his hands now, he eased her away from him. “Do you have any misgivings, Laura? About using Burkett or anyone else. Any hesitation at all? If so, we’ll call it off.”

Did she have any misgivings? She had thousands. But this was the way Foster insisted it be done, so this was the way it must be done. “I want to see the results of a complete medical checkup.”

“He promised to act on that quickly and mail us the report. As soon as we’ve looked it over, we’ll burn it.”

“I don’t think there will be a problem. He appears to be as physically ideal as we believed.”

“What about his character?”

She scoffed at that. “Less than ideal. He proved that five years ago.”

“His crime doesn’t concern me. What I meant was, do you think we can count on his discretion?”

“I think the money will be incentive for him to keep our confidence.”

“I made the conditions as simple for him as I could.”

He had explained to Griff Burkett that he was never to make any claims toward the child, never to contact them, never to acknowledge their existence. If Griff kept to those conditions, he would receive one million dollars a year.

Burkett had asked, “For how long?”

“For the rest of your life.”

He’d divided an incredulous look between them. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Regarding them as though they had both lost their minds, he said, “Having a kid, and keeping its conception a secret, is that important to you?”

The question sounded like a prelude to extortion. Laura wouldn’t have been surprised if at that point he’d demanded twice the amount they were offering. But when Foster said, “Yes, it’s that important to us,” Burkett chuckled and shook his head, as though finding such an ideal incomprehensible. Obviously he had never felt that strongly about anything or held anything that dear. Not even his career.

“Well, it’s not like I want a kid,” he said. “In fact, since puberty I’ve been damn careful to guarantee that I didn’t father one. So you can relieve yourself of the worry that I’ll show up someday to claim him. Or her,” he said, addressing that to Laura.

“What about the confidentiality issue?” Foster asked.

“There is no issue. I get it. I keep my mouth shut. We run into each other by accident, I look right through you with no recognition whatsoever. For a million dollars a year, I can lose my memory. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “One thing, though.”

“What?”

“What happens if you…if I outlive you?”

“Laura would uphold our obligation to you.”

“What if she’s not around?”

That was one question they hadn’t anticipated. They’d never considered the possibility that he would survive both of them. She and Foster looked at each other, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. If Griff Burkett outlived them, they were leaving their child and heir vulnerable to extortion, financial as well as emotional. They had agreed that their child would never know how he came to be. They would let him assume, as everyone else would, that Foster had fathered him.

“That’s a scenario that hadn’t occurred to us,” Foster admitted.

“Well, now that it’s occurred to me, it needs to be addressed.”

Laura said, “By that point in time, you would be extremely well off.”

“You’re well off now,” Griff retorted. “You wouldn’t enter into a contract with a contingency as important as this left unsettled. Would you?”

He was right, but she was reluctant to concede the point. “I’m sure that over time we can work something out.”

“Un-huh. Not over time. Now.”

“He’s right, Laura. The timeliness is critical. I’m proof that our lives can change in a heartbeat. It’s better that we resolve this issue now, rather than leave it dangling.” Foster thought on it for a moment, then said, “Unfortunately, every solution that comes immediately to mind would involve paperwork, and it’s essential that we avoid that.” He spread his arms, palms up. “Griff, either you’ll have to trust me to come up with a workable solution, or-”

“When?”

“I’ll give it top priority.”

Burkett frowned as though that weren’t good enough. “What’s the or?”

“Or, what I’m reading from you is that it’s a deal breaker.”

Laura noted that he didn’t have to think about it for long. “Okay, I’ll trust you to work something out. After all, you’re putting your trust in me, and I’m the convicted felon.”

“I’m glad you’re the one who cited that, Mr. Burkett.”

Laura had spoken before thinking, but she didn’t regret saying it. He’d needed to be reminded that the risk they were taking far outweighed his. He moved nothing except his eyes, but she felt their angry impact when they connected with hers.

“You mean so you wouldn’t have to,” he said. “So you wouldn’t have to point out that if anybody in this room is untrustworthy, it’s me.”

“Laura meant no offense, Griff,” Foster said.

Continuing to hold her stare, he said, “No. Of course not. None taken.”

But she knew he didn’t mean it, just like he knew that she had meant what she’d said.

“Risk on both sides is inherent to any business partnership.” Foster spoke from experience. He was also an excellent mediator, who always tried to defuse a disagreement before it got out of hand. “I think shared risk is a positive thing. It leaves everybody vulnerable to some extent and keeps everyone honest.” He turned to Laura. “Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“Excellent,” he said, slapping his hands on the arms of his chair three times. “Let’s shake on it.”

Now Foster was saying, “You told him you’d be in touch within two weeks.”

“I’ll be monitoring my cycle, taking my temperature each morning, so that hopefully I’ll know the day I ovulate.”

“And how long after that before you’d know if you conceived?”

“Two weeks.”

“I get giddy thinking about it.”

“Get giddy when I pee on a stick and it turns pink. Or blue. Or whatever it’s supposed to turn.”

Laughing, he kissed her soundly, then by tacit agreement, they headed for the elevator tucked discreetly under the stairs. “Race you to the top,” he said as he rolled his chair into the metal cage.

She jogged up the curving staircase and was there to meet him when he arrived. “You always win,” he grumbled.

“Those sprints up the stairs keep me in good shape.”

“I’ll say.” He reached around and smacked her on the butt.

Hearing their approach, Manuelo opened the door from inside Foster’s bedroom. “Can we skip the therapy tonight?” Foster asked. The aide smiled and shrugged, indicating he didn’t understand the question. “He’s faking that. I know he is. He knows damn well I’m talking about the therapy he puts me through and how I feel about it.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Spare me, Laura. Please.”

“Hey, I’ve got it just as tough tonight. I’ve got to review that union contract again. But I’ll come and tuck you in.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and continued down the wide hallway to her office.

But an hour later, when she went into Foster’s bedroom, Manuelo had done everything that needed doing. The drapes were drawn. The thermostat was set to his preferred temperature. There was a carafe of ice water and a drinking glass on his nightstand. The call button was within reach. He was sleeping, a book resting on his lap.

She turned off the bedside lamp and for the longest time sat there in the darkness, in the chair beside his bed, listening to his breathing. He didn’t stir, and she was grateful that he was able to sleep so well.

Eventually, she left him and went alone to the bed they used to share, wishing that her sleep could be that sound.