Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  "You ain't gonna fuck me up the ass, Gallagher, so save the grease job."

  "Okay, okay. But you do want to split the bet, right?"

  Hoping, praying. God, let him do it. I'll never break any of the major Commandments again.

  "Yeah," LaBarca said. "I'm gonna cut you a break, Gallagher, 'cause I always liked you and you got a good kid there, even with his smart mouth. I got six hundred thousand on Dallas minus seven. Now, I'm taking six hundred thousand on Green Bay plus nine. It's a good deal for you. If the bets cancel each other out, you make sixty thousand in vig. I win if either game falls right on one of the numbers. If Dallas wins by either seven or nine, one bet is a push, and I win the other bet for six hundred thousand. Are we on?"

  Bobby's mind raced. It wasn't as good as canceling the bets. He still ran the risk of losing six hundred thousand he didn't have. But now, the odds were with him. He should win sixty grand unless he was monumentally unlucky. "Of course we're on."

  "Don't do it, Dad!" Scott said, raising his voice.

  "Now what?" LaBarca looked annoyed.

  "You could really get hammered, Dad."

  "Look, Gallagher, I'm not gonna take all day with you. Do we have a bet or not?"

  "Yes! Scott, keep quiet."

  "But, Dad…"

  "You heard me!" Bobby's voice carried a threat.

  "Kid, listen to your old man," LaBarca said.

  "I'm sorry, Vinnie," Bobby apologized, grabbing Scott and pushing him toward the balcony door. "We're outta here. Thanks."

  "Don't mention it," LaBarca said, turning back to his telescope.

  Bobby hurried through the apartment and into the elevator, hoping to get out of there before LaBarca changed his mind. Once the elevator door closed, Bobby turned to Scott and said, "I don't know what got into you in there."

  Scott didn't answer, just stood there sulking.

  As they exited into the lobby, Bobby laughed and said, "My boy, I think my luck has changed. The momentum has shifted. Steady breezes and sunny skies ahead."

  They were inside the old Lincoln limo before Bobby realized that his son hadn't said a word since being hushed inside the apartment. "Okay, what is it?"

  Scott shrugged and said, "Chances are you'll win the sixty thousand. And like Mr. LaBarca said, there's a small possibility that the game will fall right on one of the numbers and you'll lose the six hundred thousand. But there's another chance that something even more skanky could happen. If the Mustangs win by eight, you've been middled. Mr. LaBarca wins his bet on the Mustangs because they'll have covered the seven, and he'll win his bet on Green Bay because he gets nine points on that one. You'll lose both bets, one-point-two million dollars."

  Bobby was shaking his head. The math was right, but he wouldn't accept it. Couldn't accept it. He had a way out, and he wouldn't let the stone cold logic of the Kingsley genes defeat him. "Nobody's luck is that bad," Bobby said, praying it was true.

  "It's not good for business if you care for a second whether blood is bubbling from a guy's mouth."

  — Joey Browner, former Minnesota Vikings safety

  " Hurt is all in your mind."

  — Vince Lombardi

  17

  Lady Luck

  Sunday, January 29-Green Bay, Wisconsin

  Bobby Gallagher looked out of the window and thought he was flying over Siberia. The frozen tundra of the American Midwest was below him, and he shivered just thinking about those poor cheeseheads who'd be sitting all afternoon in the deep freeze called Lambeau Field, situated on picturesque Lombardi Avenue in quaint, old Green Bay. At least he'd be cocooned in the warmth of the visiting owner's suite, the sole remaining perk of having fathered Martin Kingsley's only grandchild. It was the deal he had struck with his ex-father-in-law. In return for bringing Scott to the games, Bobby got a seat in the back row of the suite, adjacent to the table filled with steaming trays of scrambled eggs and French toast.

  There was an awkwardness to these mini-reunions each weekend during the football season. Bobby put up with Kingsley's animosity because Scott loved his Mustangs, and because Christine would be there. Yesterday, Bobby got his hair trimmed and spent an extra five minutes choosing his clothing, settling on a double-breasted blue blazer that Christine bought him three birthdays ago.

  Bobby and Scott had left Miami just after dawn, and now, on the connecting flight from Chicago, Bobby closed his eyes and let the somnolent drone of the engines lull him into a state of half-sleep. Visions of Christine filled his mind. Along with the blue blazer he now wore, she had given him a birthday card with the photo of two polar bears, one sleeping with its head on the other. "You're my favorite pillow," the caption read.

  Like the bears, they had slept entwined in each other's arms, and he remembered the warmth of her in the bed next to him, the depth of her care and affection. He pictured her now, the curve of her hips, the heft of her breasts, the scent and sheen, the steam and heat, the taste and feel of her. All he wanted was to have her back, to be a family again.

  As the plane began final approach into Green Bay, Bobby stirred from his reverie, thinking he wanted something else, too.

  A little luck.

  He didn't care who won today's game, just so Dallas didn't win by seven, eight, or nine points. Seven and nine would be disasters; eight would be an apocalypse-one-point-two million dollars! Any other result, including an outright Green Bay victory, and Bobby would pocket the vigorish of sixty thousand dollars. It would be his ticket out of bookmaking, his first step back to respectability. Maybe he would get reinstated to the not-so-holy profession of the Bar and keep Scott in private school in Miami, and-if the gods were truly smiling-someday win Christine back.

  As the plane descended, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun, reflected off a blanket of fresh snow. The landscape was pure Americana, boxy barns and towering silos, sturdy white houses with smoke curling from chimneys, birch and evergreen trees laden with snow. Solid towns with stout-hearted names: Sheboygan, Sturgeon Bay, Beaver Dam.

  And, of course, Green Bay.

  Martin Kingsley stood in front of the terminal wearing a black cashmere great coat that stopped just short of his ankles. He'd arrived non-stop from Dallas one day on his Gulfstream 5 along with Christine and the front-office personnel. Bobby could see the older man's frozen breath hanging in the hair as he smacked his gloved hands together like a boxer preparing for a bout.

  From the first time he saw Kingsley, Bobby was impressed by the sheer presence of the man-tall and handsome with a mane of flowing white hair. His tanned, leathery skin made his smile all the more startling. Kingsley's visage was well known. It beamed from the game day program-"The Owner Speaks"-from society page photos at charity balls, from slick brochures celebrating the expanded Kingsley Center for abused women, and from glowing Metro page accounts of tennis courts built for inner-city kids by the generous team owner.

  Ten yards away was Kingsley's silver and blue stretch limo with a miniature Mustangs helmet for a hood ornament. Vanity upon vanity, Bobby thought. His limo, like his ego, was Texas sized, and he relished the attention it garnered at fancy restaurants and plush hotels all over the league. His driver often left Dallas two days early to pick up Kingsley at the airport when the Mustangs traveled. The league had become a haven for multimillionaires who loved the spotlight more than the game. It's only a matter of time, Bobby thought, before Donald Trump buys a team and plasters a "T" or even his hair-plugged photo on the helmets.

  "Scott!" Kingsley called out, as his grandson raced toward him. "How's my boy?"

  "Great, Pop!"

  Bobby grudgingly admitted that the boy loved his grandfather and that the feeling was mutual.

  Kingsley wrapped his arms around the boy, gave him a hearty squeeze then lifted him off his feet. "Whoa! I'll pop a disk. Pretty soon, you'll be the size of a tight end."

  "A quarterback, Pop. I want to be a quarterback. And a holder, like my Dad."

  "You'll do better than
that." The old man cleared his throat and shot a look past Scott's shoulder, showing Bobby a smile that was colder than Green Bay's wind chill. "Hello Robert."

  "Martin," Bobby said, nodding.

  "Speaking of quarterbacks…" Kingsley turned toward the limo and the drivers' window zipped down. Langston, his uniformed chauffeur, handed a Mustangs jersey through the window. Kingsley grabbed it and gave it to Scott.

  "Wow, number seven. Craig Stringer."

  The jersey had grass stains on the tail and a smear of dried blood on one shoulder.

  "Stringer wore it when he threw two TD passes in the fourth quarter to beat the 49'ers," Kingsley said. "He wanted you to have it."

  "Cool! Thanks Pop." Scott put the jersey on, pulling it down over his ski jacket. It hung to his knees and, for a moment, made him look like a small child.

  Clever, Bobby thought. Stringer, nearing the end of his career, was dating Christine and being groomed by the old man for a front office job. Just as Bobby had been.

  You want me to stare at that showboat's name plastered on my son's back, you wily bastard.

  "Stringer was lucky as hell on the last pass," Bobby said. "He threw into double coverage, the ball got tipped by the corner, and Nightlife Jackson makes a fingertip grab."

  "Sometimes a man has to throw into double coverage," Kingsley said. "Lady Luck belongs to those who pursue her, to those who want her badly enough. Craig Stringer is a winner."

  As opposed to me, you mean,

  "And winning's all that matters, right Martin?" Bobby asked. "No matter the cost."

  "Careful, Robert," Kingsley warned. "You're plowing mighty close to the cotton."

  "There can be honor and dignity in defeat."

  "Only losers think so."

  "Hey, c'mon Dad. Pop. Let's get going. It's cold out here."

  With his natural instinct to resolve conflicts, Scott had become the human buffer between the two men's escalating emotions. Bobby knew he should follow his son's lead and let it go. They should all duck into the heated limo, pick up Christine at the hotel, and head to the stadium. One big, happy, fractured family like so many others. But he couldn't let it go.

  "Okay Martin. No debates today on society's distorted emphasis on being number one."

  "Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing!'" Kingsley boomed. "Vince Lombardi was right about that."

  "Does that mean it's okay to cheat to win?"

  "It ain't cheating if you don't get caught."

  "Now, that's a fine lesson. Scott, don't listen to your grandfather."

  "Dad, please…"

  "Scott, the winners make the rules," Kingsley said. "That's all you need to know."

  18

  Freezing the Kicker

  Bobby's nose went numb at the half, and he lost the feeling in his toes by the start of the fourth quarter. He hadn't brought a ski mask or a heavy coat on the assumption he'd be invited into the visiting owners' suite, as usual. But on the drive to Lambeau Field, Kingsley announced that there was no room for Bobby upstairs. He'd have to brave the cold with the cheeseheads and polar bears who lived in these arctic conditions. Scott had offered to sit outside with his father, but Bobby wouldn't hear of it. So here he was — alone — frozen out, in more ways than one.

  Bobby had skipped eating on the plane in hopes of a hot buffet in the skybox. He was saved from the stadium concession stands by the generosity of some friendly Green Bay fans who invited him to join a tailgate of green-and-gold stuffed filets: steaks filled with prosciuto and cheese, garnished with yellow bell peppers.

  Now, sitting high in end zone somewhere near Saskatchewan with beer and bratwurst locals who were dressed for ice fishing-rubber boots, parkas, ski masks-Bobby felt both ridiculous and frozen to the bone in his loafers, Miami-weight gray slacks, and navy blue blazer.

  At the half, Dallas led 7–3 on a Stringer touchdown pass. For the time being, Bobby was ahead, too. A four-point Dallas win would split the two bets, giving him sixty thousand dollars in vigorish. But, as the talking heads on the tube might say: "There's still a lot of football to be played, Brent. "

  In the third quarter, an older couple in matching green and yellow parkas took pity on Bobby and draped a spare blanket around him, then fed him steaming coffee from a thermos. His own hands were trembling too much to risk bringing the cup to his lips. His ears were ringing and he was dizzy. Maybe it was an apparition, or maybe the beefy guy three rows in front really did strip down and bare his hairy belly for the TV cameras.

  Green Bay marched down the field and appeared ready to take the lead, but a quarterback sack by the mammoth Buckwalter Washington stopped the drive. The Green Bay kicker booted a 33-yard field goal, and the Cowboy lead was sliced to 7–6. Still, it was money in the bank for Bobby who prayed that the clock would speed up, both to assure his wager and to end the game before hypothermia set in.

  He looked toward the closed windows of the visiting owner's suite, imagining the festivities therein. A hot meal, mixed drinks, cushioned chairs, the benefits of privilege and class. Scott would be in there, munching popcorn, his mother on one side, his grandfather on the other. He imagined his son's happy cheers, Christine's quiet smile.

  A groan from the crowd-the gasp of air after a punch to the gut-brought him back to the game. Number eighty-eight, Nightlife Jackson himself, had beaten the cornerback on a deep post and scored when Stringer hit him with a perfectly thrown pass. Bobby watched Jackson do a funky chicken routine in the end zone, looking like a long-legged Groucho Marx in shoulder pads. What was it Penn State Coach Joe Paterno admonished his players about end-zone celebrations? "Try to act as if you've been there before."

  Ah, but Joe's a throwback. Nowadays, every tackle for a one-yard loss is greeted by self-congratulatory histrionics. As for Jackson, he was as gifted an athlete as he was devoid of morality. Nightlife's court appearances dated back to high school, long before the attacks on the perfume clerk and cocktail waitress. He'd grown up as a spoiled athlete, to whom few, if any, had ever said, "No."

  With the extra point, it was 14-6 Dallas, and Bobby sat there stunned.

  Eight points!

  If the score remained the same, he would be middled. LaBarca would win both the bet on Dallas in which he'd given seven points and the bet on Green Bay in which he'd gotten nine. Bobby would owe the staggering sum of 1.2 million dollars. But there were still nearly five minutes left in the game, and…

  "Five minutes is an eternity in pro football, Brent."

  It only took twelve seconds. Boom-Boom Guacavera, the Mustangs' rookie kicker and a native of Colombia, had never played a cold-weather game in four years at Tulane. Today, he'd been tentative as he seemed unsure of the footing on the frozen field. Now, his kickoff was short and low, and Elroy Harris took it on the run at the fifteen, headed straight upfield behind three blockers, then cut smoothly to the left. A reserve linebacker who seemed to have the angle on him closed the distance, planted, and…slipped on the icy field. The last Cowboy who had a chance to stop him was Boom Boom, who tried the only thing he knew-to kick or at least trip Harris-as he flew by. Sneaky little bastards, those kickers. But Harris leapt over the sprawling Boom Boom and scored. With the PAT, it was 14–13 Dallas, and Bobby's fortunes had turned from minus $1.2 million to plus $60,000 in a dozen heartbeats.

  He roared with the crowd at this glorious turn of events, then waited through an endless time out for the television commercial. Green Bay kicked off, deep into the end zone. Touchback, and Dallas started at its own twenty yard line. Bobby watched Nightlife Jackson trot onto the field, splitting to the right side. Wide receivers are the soloists in the sport's orchestra. Complex men, narcissists with profound egos and equally momentous insecurities.

  Bobby began to feel that he was surrounded by his tormentors. Below him on the field, the prancing Nightlife Jackson. High above in the sky box, the belligerent Martin Kingsley. Calling signals was Craig Stringer, whose name was plastered on Scott's jersey and whose head had r
ested on Christine's pillow for the past year. Just how much can a man take?

  As his face stung with the numbing cold, Bobby's mind drifted. Maybe he could have done things differently two years ago. Maybe he could have buried his self-respect in the red clay of Texas. Why didn't he balance his morals against his checkbook and keep playing Kingsley's game?

  He'd had his fifteen minutes of fame-actually three minutes twelve seconds on the local news-and even received a mention on ABC's Nightline. Kingsley publicly fired him the next morning, conveniently forgetting that Bobby had already quit, then filed disbarment proceedings that were so airtight he didn't even have to bribe a judge.

  The past twenty-six months of Bobby's life leapt at him like a mugger pouncing from a dark alley.

  Disbarred.

  Divorced.

  Bankrupt.

  The disgrace he could handle. His entry into the nouveau pauvre meant little. Losing Christine was crushing. The day he committed professional suicide, he had returned from the news conference harboring the delusion that his wife would be proud of him. Like many a reformed sinner, Bobby's heart burned with self righteousness and zealotry. To hell with being a corporate lawyer. He would now work for victims' rights and demanded that she quit her job, renounce her father, and join him in a storefront office assisting battered women, evicted tenants, and homeless veterans.

  "Have you lost your mind?" she asked, stunned.

  A cheer from the crowd stirred Bobby. After nibbling away for two first downs, the Mustangs were stopped cold-damn freezing cold-on third and seven. They would have to punt, and Green Bay would get the ball back with just over two minutes remaining, trailing by one point.

  "Let's see what Green Bay can do in the two minute drill, Brent."

  Bobby tried but could not let his heart feel even the faintest joy. Regardless whether Dallas held on to win by a point or whether Green Bay marched down to win with a dramatic field goal or touchdown, the two bets would be split, and he would pocket the sixty thousand in vigorish. With Green Bay in possession of the ball and the clock winding down, there seemed to be no way Dallas would win by the dreaded seven, eight, or nine. Even if Green Bay turned the ball over, Dallas would simply run out the clock and win the game, 14–13.