by Ben Rehder
For a brief time, she worked as a reporter and commentator for a now-defunct cable sports channel. It was during this stage of her career, while researching a story about the recruitment of college football players, that she recognized a way to carve out a unique and extremely lucrative career for herself in the world of athletics. Too bad it was a serious violation of NCAA rules.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped her.
Kurt Milstead fit the bill for a Texas football coach. Ruggedly handsome, with blue eyes and some gray around his temples. Not overly talkative or loud, but charismatic nonetheless. Friendly. Likeable. Courteous. His players routinely said he was the kind of coach who made you feel good about yourself, so you didn’t want to let him down. You wanted to earn his approval and respect. He had a way of bringing out the best in the people around him—players and staff.
More important than Milstead’s personality was the success he’d brought to the Blanco County High School football program since he’d arrived in town four years earlier. Turned them from a mediocre team into a contender that had gone twelve and one the previous season, ending the year with a narrow loss in the state semifinals.
“Next year’s team will be even better,” Milstead had promised in the post-game interview at Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, unaware at the time that Sammy Beech—the core of the team—would no longer be around to carry the ball. “I hate to see my seniors go, but the rest of these kids have heart like you wouldn’t believe, and I guarantee we’ll be right back here next year, and this time we’ll be taking the trophy home.”
So far this season, that prediction did not look promising. The team had opened with two losses, followed by two narrow victories over teams they’d crushed last year. It was plain that the offense didn’t have anywhere near the same potency without Sammy in the backfield.
That wasn’t good news for Milstead, and Marlin was about to make his Sunday afternoon even worse. The coach was washing his white Chevrolet truck when Marlin pulled into his driveway in Rancher’s Estates. Marlin didn’t beat around the bush, but instead got right to it and told Milstead the reason for his visit.
The coach was visibly shaken. “You’re saying someone chased Sammy to his death?”
Sometimes, during an investigation, it could prove useful to keep key details secret. But Marlin and Garza had agreed in the sheriff’s office that morning that it would likely be beneficial to publicly share what they had learned from the video on Sammy’s phone.
“I’m afraid so,” Marlin said.
“Who would do something like that?”
“We don’t know.”
“And why? That’s just so crazy.”
“We’re working to find that out.”
Milstead shook his head, obviously at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “It’s just... tragic.”
Marlin said, “You mind if we go inside and talk for a few minutes?”
“You are a smart young man,” Aleksandra said to the dumb young man across from her. His name was Colton Spillar. They were seated at a small dinette table in a kitchen that had last been updated in the early 1970s, judging from the wallpaper.
She said, “You must weigh all options carefully. I understand that. But I am obligated to be honest with you. I believe the proper choice is transparent. OTU is the right place for yourself.”
An hour and a half earlier, she had landed in Austin and driven the rental car—a black Cadillac DTS—west to Blanco County, to this boy’s home in the country. She knew that his father lived in California and that his mother worked on weekends at the Wal-Mart thirty minutes away. The mother had not taken time off to attend this informal meeting, which was not at all unusual. Aleksandra was no longer amazed by parents who did not participate in the recruitment process. To them, it was just football. But this boy’s future—his career—was at stake. And here he was, navigating these treacherous waters by himself, which was fortunate for Aleksandra, because it meant she would not have to create an excuse to meet with him again later, alone.
Was this young man qualified to handle their upcoming conversation? Of course not. He was full of hormones that made it difficult for him to concentrate or even maintain a normal conversation. In many ways, he was still a boy, with braces and a face full of pimples, but he was in the process of becoming a man. He was as tall as Aleksandra, and he outweighed her by at least sixty kilograms. He was also sneaking looks at her cleavage at every opportunity.
She said, “Seven times OTU wins the national championship. These other schools you are considering—can any of them assert the same success? Perhaps best of all, OTU needs a lineman such as yourself. I have seen the game tapes. You are enormously strong like ox. You have quick feet and accomplished hands. Also, you are gifted with intelligence. You have... instinct.”
He was smiling self-consciously, enjoying the flattery and attention.
Aleksandra said, “You will almost certainly start in your freshman season. You will be seen nationwide on the television. And what about your future, after college? The OTU staff is best in country. Surely this is acknowledged. You will learn and grow. By the time of your graduation, you will be prepared for a career in the National Football League.”
Of course, she didn’t mention that his scholarship could be dropped after the first season if he didn’t perform, or even if the staff simply found another player to replace him. It was business. The school would feel no more allegiance to this boy than they did to the crew that cleaned the stadium after games.
“The thing is, I already made a verbal commitment to—”
“We all know that carries small meaning.”
“I, uh, well, even so, I’ve really been thinking about Texas. They’ve been rebuilding the last couple of years.”
She said immediately, “Have you not been aware that the Texas assistant coaches are receiving offers that cannot be resisted?”
She knew no such thing to be true.
“Which coaches?”
“Offensive coordinator,” she said. “Offensive line coach.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they remain, or perhaps not. Timing is key. Do you want to participate in a program that is...” She struggled to find an appropriate phrase in English. “... descending from a peak like a rollercoaster?”
“Couldn’t that happen at OTU?”
“We have endless history of success. Why would any coach leave program of that caliber? Our head coach understands the value of planning for the long term. That is why he is attentive about you.”
She said “we” and “our head coach” to give Colton the impression that she was an employee of some sort within the Oklahoma Tech University athletics department. She was not. She was a freelancer. A specialist. What some people might call a hired gun. But no actual universities were on her list of clients. As far as she knew, nobody at OTU even knew she existed, and they would almost certainly condemn the tactics she used.
She herself did not know who her client was in this case, because that was the way she had set up her business. The client could remain anonymous. It could be an OTU booster skirting the NCAA rules. It could be an independent recruiting scout who had recommended this young man to the OTU coaches. There were many different types of people who had a vested interest in college football recruiting. They didn’t know what tactics Aleksandra Babikova used. They only knew she got results. Nothing else mattered. They also knew she could not control what happened in the weeks and months that followed one of her visits. The young man might change his mind once again. That was out of Aleksandra’s control. But it was a risk her clients were willing to take.
Unfortunately, this particular young man did not yet appear convinced. He was not making eye contact. She waited. And then he said, “I need to think about this some more. Talk to my mom.”
It was not acceptable to allow him to think. She would not earn her fee if she allowed the boy to think.
So she nodded, then gave him a large smile—the one that said, It is obvious that you are
a wise young man. She said, “It is obvious that you are a wise young man. You understand how these things happen in the real world, no? I believe you do.”
She briefly glanced around the kitchen—at the ancient avocado-green refrigerator that was making strange noises, and at the peeling vinyl flooring—subtly reminding him of his living conditions. Reminding him that his mother made minimum wage and they lived in a rat hole.
She lowered her voice, to give it an air of intimacy and confidentiality, and she gave him her most engaging smile. “We make special deal, okay? You make the verbal commitment today to OTU—I give you five thousand dollars. In cash, of course.”
She had to hope nobody else had beaten her to it. Five thousand might seem small in comparison to other offers he might have received.
The boy said, “Whoa.” He was attempting to hold back a grin, but he could not. She now knew she was the first to make this sort of offer. He obviously found it enticing, but still he shook his head. “Five thousand bucks. Man, I don’t know...”
She waited again.
He said, “I appreciate it, but I don’t know if I should do that. Isn’t that against the rules?”
“Who will know except you and I? I will tell no one. It will be a secret we share, yes? This is the way it works with other players. You would be foolish to decline.”
He took a deep breath—almost there, but he needed something more. She stood. Now she towered over him. She said, “For you, I will add something extra to the offer.”
Very slowly, and with great nonchalance, she began to unbutton her blouse.
His eyes sprung open wide.
She finished with the lowest button, removed her blouse, and laid it gently on the tabletop.
His mouth fell open.
She stood there in her bra—red lace with black trim—letting him enjoy the view for a long moment. Then she said, “My final offer. You use the Twitter—make the verbal commitment to OTU—and I will remove the bra for five minutes.” That was as far as she ever took it—no touching of any kind—and it had never failed. Not once.
He gulped. His eyes were riveted. “Plus the money?” he asked.
“Yes, plus the money.”
He began to nod. Slowly at first, then rapidly.
CHAPTER 8
Like many homeowners, Dexter Crabtree always kept a supply of latex gloves on hand. Not because he might decide to undertake some messy chore, such as cleaning the barbecue grill or changing the oil in his lawnmower, but because the idea of sticking Adderall tablets into his anus with his bare fingers was, quite frankly, disgusting. So he kept gloves handy in various locations throughout the house, and also in his Mercedes Benz.
Crabtree had just entered the bathroom of his eight-thousand-square-foot Highland Park home and had snapped on a glove—it was almost Pavlovian how the feel of the latex gave him a giddy rush of anticipation—when his phone alerted. An incoming text.
Crabtree followed various high-profile recruits on Twitter, and he received their tweets as texts. Most of it was useless crap, of course—to be expected from teenage boys who thought the world needed to hear their every waking thought.
This particular tweet was from a UMT recruit in Blanco. The kid named Colton Spillar, who’d prompted Crabtree’s discussion with Adrian Lacy. Spillar would really make a difference on the offensive line next year. Could be the difference.
Crabtree opened the text.
He read it. Then he read it again, to make sure he hadn’t misread it the first time.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.
He felt the heat rising in his face.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.
He had to resist the temptation to smash his phone on the Italian marble floor.
The flower guy drove a light-green Toyota Prius, which didn’t surprise Red at all. The car was parked on the street, under some shade, looking about as homosexual as a vehicle could look, when Red arrived at Betty Jean’s at ten till four.
“There’s Armando,” Billy Don said.
“I sorta pieced that together,” Red said as he parked in the driveway and killed the engine. They both climbed out of the truck and walked a few paces toward the street.
Red could see a young Mexican guy inside the car, having an animated conversation on his cell phone, gesturing with his free hand. Red didn’t want to be here, but Billy Don had said that Red needed to meet Armando. He wouldn’t say why.
They waited some more. Armando made the gesture again, a short backward flip of his wrist, like he was waving away a bug.
“Think there’s a mosquito in there with him?” Red asked.
Billy Don didn’t say anything. They waited some more. At one point, Armando made eye contact through the windshield and held up one finger, meaning “give me just one more minute.” Several minutes passed. Red was getting fidgety.
Then, finally, Armando put his cell phone away and stepped out of the Prius. “Oh. My. God! That woman! Don’t even get me started!” Apparently, he was one of those people who launched right into a conversation instead of saying hello. He walked up the driveway toward them, saying, “That client—remember the one I told you about, Billy Donald?—now she’s saying she ordered daffodils, but I have my original notes and it was clearly orchids from the beginning. Not that we can’t change the order, because we can, but hello? Can’t she just be honest and admit that she screwed up instead of blaming me?”
Red was thinking: “Billy Donald”? Did this guy just refer to Billy Don as “Billy Donald”?
As Armando approached, it was fortunate that Red had a few seconds to adjust to what he was seeing. The florist was wearing very tight slacks featuring a snakeskin print, and his shirt wasn’t really a shirt, but appeared to be more of a blouse. A woman’s blouse. A bright-red silk blouse. That kind of get-up would never fly in Johnson City, but Armando was from Marble Falls—population six thousand—and Red knew that big cities were more accepting of Armando’s type.
“Orchids?” Billy Don said.
“Yes!”
“Those are so last year.”
Now Red was thinking: Did Billy Don just refer to orchids as “so last year”? This all had to be a practical joke, right? Or maybe Red had inhaled too many gas fumes when he’d filled up the truck on the way over here.
Armando said, “Oh, I know! But at this point, I just have to give her what she wants, right? It’s that or have an aneurysm.” Suddenly Armando turned and focused his attention on Red. “You must be Red. I have to say, I think you and Billy Donald will make a wonderful couple, and I support your relationship one hundred percent.”
Red’s face instantly became warm, but before he could reply, Armando let out a sharp little bark of a laugh.
“I’m just playing with you, honey,” he said. “Don’t get so freaked out.”
“Yeah, Red,” Billy Don said. “Don’t get so freaked out.”
“The look on your face was priceless!” Armando said. “You’d think I suggested a threesome.”
“Red can’t even count that high,” Billy Don said.
Red didn’t like the way this was going. Not even a little bit. Billy Don wasn’t usually a smart-aleck like this. Armando was clearly a bad influence. And it wasn’t over yet.
Armando said, “Well, anyway, Billy Donald has told me a lot about you... and I’m surprised you’re not in prison.”
Red said, “I will be if you both keep teasing me.”
“Oh, he speaks!” Armando said, sounding positively gleeful. “And quite the charmer, too!” Red had had enough. He was balling one hand into a fist when Armando added, “No wonder Billy Donald wants you to be his best man!”
Red stopped. Relaxed his hand. Took a deep breath. Best man? Okay. About damn time.
“Oops!” Armando said, looking back and forth between Red and Billy Don. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?”
“Naw, that’s okay,” Billy Don said. “That’s why we’re here. Red, Armando has volunteered to
give us some advice on picking out tuxedoes. He said he needed to get a feel for your body type.”
“And don’t worry,” Armando said. “‘Get a feel’ is just a figure of speech. I promise not to touch. Somehow I’ll restrain myself.”
“So what do you say?” Billy Don said. Now he was getting down on one knee, hamming it up, pretending like it was a proposal. “Will you be my best man?”
Billy Don and Armando burst out laughing.
Red’s face was flushing again. He didn’t like being made fun of, especially by a total flamer and a halfway illiterate cedar chopper. “Y’all are hilarious,” he said. “A real comedy team.”
That only made them laugh harder. When they recovered, Billy Don stood up again and Armando said, “So... I understand you’ve been out hunting pigs. Did you catch anything?”
Red gave a derisive snort, trying to make it obvious that he thought Armando was an idiot. “You don’t catch pigs, you shoot ’em.”
“Unless you’re hunting with Red,” Billy Don said. “Then you wonder if there’s a living animal within fifty miles.”
Red glared at Billy Don, but the big man didn’t notice.
“Au contraire, I caught a pig once,” Armando said. “Caught him with my boyfriend! They were both pigs, to be honest.”
Red was not at all comfortable with this line of conversation.
And then, without any warning at all, Armando switched gears and said, “In all seriousness, Red, I know that Billy Donald thinks very highly of you, and that’s why he wants you to play a special role in the most important day of his life. I’m certain you understand what an honor that is.”
Now they were both looking at him. Waiting for him to say something, but Red was at a loss. He wasn’t good at this stuff.
Armando ended the awkward moment by saying, “Well, I have no doubt you will do a fantastic job. If you have any questions, just ask me. Now about the tuxes. I’d say you’re about a 40 regular, am I right?”