Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  Kingsley shot the French cuffs on his custom-made shirt and glanced at his watch. No Rolex or Piaget. This was a solid gold number shaped like a Mustangs helmet and encrusted with diamonds. Two smaller versions of the helmet were fashioned into cufflinks.

  Nearly noon. The plane was scheduled to leave for Green Bay in an hour. But it could wait. It was, after all, his own Gulfstream 5, the silver and blue "Point After."

  "Let's cut back expenses," Christine had told him in their breakfast meeting that morning. Filled with pride for his little girl, he watched her expertly dissect the financials.

  "You're a one-man oil shortage, Daddy. Why in the world do you need a jet with a five-thousand mile range?"

  "Who knows, darlin', we might play an away game in Buenos Aires."

  "I'm serious. If the bankers knew how cash poor you are, they could call your loans and wreak havoc."

  "I'll let you and the accountants worry about it," he said. "I'm more concerned with beating Green Bay."

  "Please don't brush me off like that. You get the monthly statements. You know what I'm talking about."

  Yeah, he was leveraged to the brim of his handmade Stetson. While he could throw lavish parties with flowing champagne and mounds of imported caviar, he also gave express instructions to hand out pay checks after the banks had closed on Fridays.

  "Once we re-finance, we'll be fine," he told her. He knew he was still paying the price for buying the team years before for a wildly inflated sum. Then, he'd poured millions more of borrowed money into improved facilities, salaries, and promotion.

  Christine patiently went over the spread sheets, explaining that going to the Super Bowl would cost him money, the travel and entertainment expenses exceeding the payoff. "Especially the way you entertain, Daddy."

  But what the hell? Winning is what it's all about. He'd let her figure out where the money would come from.

  Over coffee and cinnamon buns, he listened as Christine kept leading him through the columns of numbers, endless digits revealing growing liabilities that piled up quicker than manure in a corral.

  "Living large," he told her, "is important to my image. It's expected. It's what I'm all about."

  "Maybe you could live a little more economy sized," she suggested gently.

  Kingsley watched her, thinking of the resemblance to Dolores, his wife, who had died in a car accident at thirty-nine. Christine had the same fair skin, and with her blond hair pulled back, the same high forehead and widow's peak. Her green eyes were tinged with gold and seldom revealed what she was thinking. He'd raised a fine daughter and he'd raise a fine grandson, too, especially once he got that crackpot ex-son-in-law out of the picture.

  "Did you see the P.I.'s report on your ex?" Kingsley asked.

  She frowned, wrinkling her nose just as she had done when she was five years old. "I'm hoping we won't have to use it."

  "Not use it? It's a godsend. Gallagher wants primary custody, and he's become a bookmaker! A disbarred lawyer turned bookie! Hell, the judge will laugh him out of court."

  "Bobby's willing ton continue joint custody. He just doesn't want me to send Scott away to boarding school, that's all. Bobby's afraid they'll lose the bond they've formed."

  "Good!" Kingsley banged a fist on his desk. "Scott doesn't need to bond with a common crook."

  "Daddy, Bobby loves Scott very much and Scott adores him."

  Ah, his sweet daughter was smart and beautiful but with little street smarts. He had shielded her from so much. Christine didn't know what it took to climb so high. Corners must be cut, deals made, hands dirtied. To win, you can't play by any rules except your own.

  "Maybe there's a way we can work this out with Bobby so we don't have to go to court," she said. "I've even had second thoughts about the boarding school myself."

  "Nonsense! Scott's a genius. All the tests show it, but his genius is untapped. If he hangs out at race tracks and bookie parlors, he'll be stifled, frustrated. He could end up a weirdo, living alone, collecting bottle caps and railroad schedules."

  "You're being overly dramatic." She glanced toward a framed photo of the three of them-son, mother, and grandfather-standing under the goal posts at the old Texas Stadium. The photo was five years old, and Bobby had been cropped out of the shot, just as he'd been deleted from her life. A hole in the photo, a hole in her heart. "I just don't want to hurt Bobby any more than I already have."

  "Hell, you've been too kind to him." He didn't like the wistful look in her eyes. "Has he been trying to contact you?"

  "The usual. Flowers, cards, candy, even a crate of Florida stone crabs."

  Kingsley harrumphed his displeasure, but he'd already known it. At the end of each day, he reviewed the security desk logs, scanning the names of every visitor to the Valley Ranch complex and reviewing the receipts of all deliveries. When it came to running a tight ship, Captain Queeg could take lessons.

  "Daddy, don't worry. I won't make the same mistake twice."

  "I know you won't, honey."

  He was pleased that Christine was dating Craig Stringer. Hell, he'd set it up. This time, he vowed, Christine wouldn't let her heart rule her head. He'd help her lasso Stringer and bring him into the barn.

  Stringer was a fine choice as a husband and future V.P. of operations of the team. He was a war horse of a quarterback, playing his last season, just ambitious enough to want to please his boss without wanting to kick him off the throne. The amiable fiction would be that Kingsley had turned over operations to his new son-in-law, the handsome, well-liked former All Pro quarterback. But Kingsley would still call the shots, and Stringer would be a well-paid martinet who would enjoy better relations with the Commissioner's office than his boss ever had.

  How can I get Daddy out of debt and out of my personal life?

  Both questions plagued Christine. Despite his bluster and bombast, despite trying to convince the world that he owned half of all creation, her father's finances were a disaster. Here she was sitting in his office, trying to get him to tighten his belt, and there he was spouting off about "living large."

  Then there was her personal life. She just wanted peace. No private investigators, lawyers, or judges. She yearned for an end to the hostilities with Bobby and an end to their fight over custody and schooling of Scott. She knew her father was up to something in the lawsuit, but she didn't know what. He kept so many things from her. Still, she never doubted his love for Scott or for her.

  If Mom had lived, maybe it would be different, but without her-without anyone- it's so hard to get Daddy to butt out.

  She knew Bobby was broke. She knew he was humiliated over his disbarment, and her heart ached for him. But maybe Daddy was right. Maybe it was better to have Scott away in boarding school, rather than spending half his time in Miami with Bobby, subjected to God-knows-what influences. Though he meant well, Bobby sometimes showed poor judgment.

  Either way, with Scott in Miami for six months or boarding school for nine, it would still be hard on her. She was guilt stricken and lonely when Scott was away. Sure, she'd fly to Miami every other weekend, or Bobby would bring Scott to wherever Dallas was playing, but still…she felt hollow and anguished in the stillness of her home without her only child.

  I had a husband and a son. Now, no husband, and sometimes it feels as if I have no son, either.

  Often, arriving at her empty, dark house after late meetings in the office, she carried her take-out Chinese cartons straight up to bed and cried herself to sleep. Her last thoughts were of Scott and Bobby and how she missed them.

  Yes, Bobby, I miss you, too.

  Ever since the nightmare of Bobby's televised press conference, Christine had felt torn between the two men, the conflict cleaving at her heart.

  Maybe she should change her life, get away from her father. She considered leaving the team and starting a company on her own. Hey, she had an MBA from Wharton and a dozen years of business experience, but as the boss' daughter, she was treated with too much respect
on one hand and not given enough credit on the other. She needed to make her mark. Her father kept talking about grooming Craig Stringer to be the general manager of the team, but would he, really? She doubted that Daddy would give up control until they carried him out of the office, boots first. And even if he did turn over operations to Craig, what would change for her? She'd go from daughter of the old boss to girlfriend — or wife — of the new one. In her heart, she knew she could do a better job than either of the two men.

  "How are you and Craig doing?" her father asked when they finished going over the finances.

  "I don't know, Daddy." Evasion was simpler.

  "It's a perfect match," he said. "You have the same interests. You can talk football with him, and he can talk business with you. You both love horses, and you're both great riders. You want another child, and the Stringer gene pool looks damn good from my skybox."

  "Daddy, please don't treat me like your prize heifer."

  He steadied his gaze, his blue eyes cool as coins. "Can you give me one reason why you shouldn't marry Craig Stringer?"

  "I don't feel enough when we kiss."

  "Romance doesn't last," he said, shaking his head. "Security, common goals, commitment, and loyalty, that's what marriage is all about. Craig's a great catch and you know it. He's a good man."

  "He's vain and a born womanizer."

  "He's over that phase, darlin'. When he started seeing you, I made it damn clear he couldn't run around with any more cheerleaders or models, or I'd hang his balls from an old hickory tree."

  "Daddy, I'm a grown woman, divorced with a child. It's not necessary to stand at the door with a shotgun."

  He barked a laugh and said, "You get much older without marrying, I'll have to wound a man just to get you a husband."

  14

  The Ghost of Mustangs Past

  After Christine left his office, Kingsley packed his attache case for the flight to Green Bay. He felt the electric buzz of anticipation that always started the day before a game.

  He was juiced. Hell, this is what he lived for.

  My daughter, my grandson, my team. My cup runneth over.

  His mind was focused on the shiny image of the Commissioner's trophy, the prize for the Super Bowl champion, when he heard a disturbance coming from his outer office. The door flew open, and Molly, his secretary of twenty-five years, tried to block the way of a tall older man who pushed by her.

  "But you don't have an appointment!" she protested.

  "I don't need an appointment," grumbled the man. He wore a baggy, wrinkled brown plaid suit, pointy snakeskin cowboy boots, and a white shirt with a string tie and turquoise clasp. His head was shaved bald, and he held a brown Stetson at his side. He was taller than Kingsley but sparrow thin, his neck layered with loose skin, as if he'd lost considerable weight. His left eye was milky white and unfocused. His most striking feature, however, was the line of purple scar tissue that covered the left side of his face from his cheekbone to his forehead, stopping just below his shaved scalp.

  "What the hell…" Kingsley rose half way out of his chair. "Who are you?"

  "You haven't forgotten your ole pardner, have you Martin?" the man said, his voice rattling like gravel down a metal chute.

  "Ty?" Kingsley's voice quaked with uncertainty and fear. "Is that you?"

  "Hell, no, it's the ghost of Mustangs past."

  Kingsley offered Houston Tyler a bourbon, and his old partner didn't say no. Seated in a plush leather chair, he tossed down the amber liquid, swallowing with painful gasps.

  "They cut up my throat," he said.

  "I heard," Kingsley said, nodding solicitously.

  "Took out a tumor the size of a golf ball. Guess I should be glad it wasn't a football." His laugh was dry and hoarse, like a dog coughing up bone splinters. "I don't blame you for not recognizing me. I look like shit."

  "What's it been, Ty ten years?"

  "Thirteen years, two months, and three days."

  Kingsley winced and cursed himself. He'd been cavalier about it. To a man in prison, time is measured as precisely as gold on a jeweler's scale.

  "Got the parole last week. Guess they needed the bed for someone more dangerous."

  Kingsley nodded. What do you say? What can you say to a man who went to prison instead of you?

  "I want to thank you for helping Corrine," Tyler said. "She told me you had your personal doctors taking care of her, and they were mighty nice."

  "It was the least I could do," Kingsley said.

  "Yeah Martin. It was."

  "I was sorry when I heard you'd lost her."

  A heavy silence settled over them. Kingsley thought Tyler resembled an old mutt that had been kicked too often. Just when you think he had all the fight knocked out of him, he would lunge for your throat. There had always been a menace to Houston Tyler, a threat of violence just beneath the surface, but now, scarred and defeated, he appeared even more dangerous. As if prison had stolen his heart but not his claws.

  He'd once seen Tyler pick up a man by the shirt collar and thrust him into the blades of a ceiling fan in the midst of a barroom brawl. He'd fought with his fists, with knives, and once, with a pick axe in the oil fields. But Tyler had been twenty years younger and forty pounds heavier then. With some partners, you worried about lawsuits and double dealing. With Tyler, you worried he would shatter a long-neck on the edge of the bar and gut you. There was a dual nature to his personality. He was so honest you could shoot dice with him on the phone, and so violent you'd be afraid to cheat him.

  Houston Tyler's good eye swept over the office, taking in the photos of Kingsley with various celebrities, the trophies, the signed footballs with the white-painted scores of various triumphs. A chunk of a goal post sat in one corner, mounted on a brass pedestal like some post-modern sculpture. His gaze stopped on a Stairmaster in the corner, and he looked as puzzled as a caveman staring at a locomotive.

  "You bought the team just after I went away, didn't you?" he asked.

  "A few months later."'

  "Right after you'd bought out my interest in Ty-King Oil. Bought it damn cheap, as I recall."

  Kingsley saw where Houston Tyler was headed and didn't intend to go along for the ride. "There was no market for your stock. After the accident-"

  "What accident? The jury said it was a criminal act, and that I was the criminal."

  "That was a horrible wrong, Ty. Tragedy compounding tragedy, but you know how it was then, the news media, the politicians, all crying for blood. If I could have done anything, I would have."

  "Oh you did plenty. You stayed out of harm's way."

  "I had a company to run, our interests to protect."

  Tyler cleared his throat, the sound of sandpaper on wood. "I did a lot of reading in prison, Martin. History, classics, that sort of thing. Did you know you can't find Hitler's name on one document sending the Jews off to the death camps? He had plausible deniability on all his crimes against humanity."

  "Surely you're not comparing me to-"

  "Your name wasn't on one piece of paper that tied you to maintenance at the Texas City refinery, but you were behind every move. The Board of Directors laid off six hundred full-time employees and ordered the hiring of unskilled part-timers, but it was your doing. The plant manager reduced safety training, but that was at your direction. You put me in charge of day-to-day operations, but you vetoed new pumps because of the costs. You got fat off the profits, fat enough to buy yourself a football team, and what did I get?"

  "Ty, if there's anything I can do, just tell me."

  His milky white eye stared off into space. "When the pump blew and the line ruptured, the men ran. Who could blame them? For eleven dollars an hour, you shouldn't be turned into a cinder. I went into the thick of it, closed the valves with my bare hands and have the tattoos to prove it."

  He held up his hands. His palms were covered with scar tissue and the imprint of a wheel. "I was standing in three feet of burning crude. My rubber boo
ts melted onto my feet."

  "I know, Ty. You're a hero, not a criminal. You saved lives. If it hadn't been for you, a hundred men would have been killed instead of seven."

  "I like to think you would have done the same thing."

  Kingsley kept quiet.

  Tyler's smile was a jagged blade. "I know you, pardner, like I know the price of crude."

  "Ty, we haven't been partners since you went away. The Board demanded that you divest yourself of your shares."

  "Damn convenient for you," Tyler said, "that Board members you picked would vote that way."

  "I thought I was helping you out," Kingsley said, knowing Tyler wasn't buying it. Hell, why would he? Kingsley had been a vulture, picking at his partner's bones. "There was no market for a minority share of the company. If I hadn't bought it…"

  "My stock gave you control," Tyler said. "You paid me two million dollars for thirty per cent of the company and sold the whole shooting match for ninety-eight million in cash, your down payment on a shiny new toy. The Mustangs. You leveraged yourself into the high cotton by sucking my blood dry."

  "I don't think that's a fair characterization, Ty. Not fair at all."

  "So here you are, rich enough to air condition hell, and I'm broke," Tyler said, bitterly.

  "What about the two million? What about your savings?"

  "Gone! Gone to lawyers and fines and Corrine's medical bills. That's why I've come to see my ol' pardner. Oil's in my blood, Martin. My granddaddy was in Beaumont in 1901 when Spindletop blew sky high. Your Dad and mine were partners for twenty-five years and you and me for eighteen more. Now, you don't just take that away from a man, do you pardner?"

  "What are you saying, Ty? What do you want?"

  "My share! Not even all of it, not even a fraction of what would make up for what I've been through, but enough to get me by 'til my bones turn to dust. Five million dollars, Martin. For Christ's sake, you can take that out of petty cash."

  "Everything I have is tied up in this team," Kingsley said. "I mortgaged my pecker and liened my balls to buy the team."