Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  Five million dollars had a nice ring to it. A nice round sum to pay off Houston Tyler.

  But an owner of a pro team can't consort with bookies or even go to a legal sports book in Vegas or the islands. He'd taken a huge risk dealing with LaBarca on the conference championship game. Now, unlike his father, he didn't want to push his luck. Still, how could he pass it up?

  The wise guys have gotten to somebody. An official, a key player for Denver, but who? And how?

  "You're certain?" Kingsley asked again.

  "I'll be surprised if they score a single touchdown."

  Somebody on the Denver offense. Jesus, that could be anyone from an offensive lineman who'll jump offsides on fourth and goal to the star quarterback, Mike Skarcynski.

  "You're sure?" Kingsley pressed him for what seemed like the tenth time.

  "You could bet your life on it," LaBarca replied.

  No, he wouldn't do that. But it had become something other than a bet. For all the world, it looked like a business transaction without risk, a chance to pay off Houston Tyler and savor his team's victory at the same time. These next eleven days, Kingsley felt certain, were going to be the best time of his life.

  25

  Affianced

  Bobby had been walking out the door of his Coconut Grove cottage, headed for a dreaded meeting with his ex-father-in-law, when the phone rang. Scott had answered-"Hey, it's Mom!" — and quickly fabricated a story that he was home because there was no school in Miami today in celebration of Jose Marti's birthday. Playing hooky was a no-no with Christine. After speaking with her son for several minutes, she asked for Bobby, and he knew at once from her tone that something was wrong.

  "I wanted you to know first," she said, sounding both apologetic and guilty. "Craig asked me to marry him."

  "Craig Stringer? The quarterback with capped teeth the size of garage doors, the drunk I got off when he rode his Harley up the escalator of Nieman Marcus, the guy who's banged every groupie in the NFC East. That Craig Stringer?"

  "He was going through a phase."

  "I'll say. His bourbon and Vicodin phase. He's a pill popper, Christine. When he got busted for DUI with his pockets full of vikes, I had a friendly doctor write an ex-post-facto prescription in return for two box seats."

  "Craig was playing with a shoulder separation and turf toe that turned his foot the color of an eggplant. He was in constant pain."

  " I'm in pain! Lots of people are in pain, but they don't become junkies."

  "He had a problem and sought help," she said, sounding more like a defense lawyer than Bobby ever did. "It was a courageous thing to do."

  "What's so courageous about checking into a thousand-dollar a day spa?"

  "You're behaving irrationally, Bobby. You're striking out at Craig because of your feelings for me. If you'd just get on with your life…"

  I would, if I had one. You and Scott are my life.

  "Craig Stringer, I just can't believe it," he said, sorrowfully. He felt as if his chest were a barrel tethered by steel straps that tightened with every breath.

  "Craig's changed, matured. I like to think I've been a good influence on him. I've helped him overcome a lot."

  "Why not help me? I'm the one who needs it."

  "Oh Bobby," she said, with what he hoped was longing but feared was pity. "You only know Craig from your work. Off the field, at home, he's quiet and thoughtful and sensitive. Do you remember when his horse stables burned down and all those thoroughbreds were killed? He was heartbroken."

  "He cheered up quick when the insurance paid off for those nags."

  "See Bobby, there you go. You're making light of someone else's loss. You have a great capacity for angst but little compassion for others."

  "That's not fair, Chrissy. Craig Stringer was losing his shirt in the horse business. The fire was a windfall that got him out of debt. I feel bad for the barbecued ponies but not for your All-American boyfriend. He's a guy who gets all the luck and my wife, too."

  "You've changed, Bobby. You've become harder."

  "Your father will do that to a man."

  "Let's not start with that."

  She was right. There was nothing in that for him. "You said Stringer asked you to marry him, but you didn't tell me your answer."

  "At first I said to wait until after the Super Bowl. I didn't want him to have any distractions, and the press would be all over him, but he insisted on an answer, really became so agitated I was worried about his ability to focus during the next week. He gave me a ring, which I won't wear until after the game, but I did tell him yes, I'll marry him."

  "Am I hearing you right? You told this gridiron Lothario you'd marry him because you were afraid he'd overthrow a receiver if you turned him down?"

  "Our relationship has been progressing. We've grown very close. We have similar interests. Craig would make an excellent executive in the franchise."

  "Love!" he shouted into the phone.

  "What about it?"

  "Are you talking about a corporate merger? Where's the word, 'love?' I haven't heard you say you love him so much your heart aches for him."

  The words were no accident. That was the inscription on her first anniversary card to him. "Bobby, I love you so much my heart aches for you. My body trembles at your touch."

  "There are many different kinds of love," she said, echoing her father's words. "Besides, you know I want another child."

  "Volunteers can form a line behind me."

  "Bobby, please."

  He felt as if a knife were being twisted in his gut. Why had she called him?

  Am I supposed to rescue her from this catastrophe, show up at the church like Dustin Hoffman in "The Graduate" and whisk her away?

  "Don't do it, Chrissy. You don't love him."

  "I'm going to marry him," she said, then slammed down the phone. In his mind's eye, Bobby pictured her sobbing, but he quickly realized that the only tears he could be sure about were his own.

  26

  The New Bet

  An hour after hanging up with Christine, Bobby stood in front of the Delano where the valet parkers looked at his scarred and dented limo as if it were a four thousand pound cockroach. Parking at the hotel was sixteen bucks, and it usually took twenty minutes for these young Adonises in white shorts and shirts with epaulets-cruise ship cabin boys-to get your pride and joy back to you. Bobby was a heavy tipper of bone-weary waitresses who got the order straight and bartenders who drew his beer with no head, but he made a mental note not to reward these callow youths.

  He almost didn't show up at all. Bobby hated groveling in front of his ex-father-in-law and would never have done it except Angelica Suarez insisted she'd quit if he refused to take the meeting. Now he wondered…

  Just how do you borrow a fortune from someone who hates you?

  Once inside, he saw Martin Kingsley in the high-ceilinged lobby where tourists and celebrity wannabees made an effort not to gape at the mismatched, funky furniture. A man in plaid Bermuda shorts half reclined, half sat on a metal bed draped in faux fur, then gave up and rolled off. Nearby, a tiny woman nearly disappeared into an oversize sofa with a towering winged back. The place was way beyond funk. It was in a league of its own, post-modern trendy, hey-look-at-me-Alice-in-Wonderland-on-crystal meth design.

  Kingsley stood in the dead center of the lobby surrounded by a gaggle of reporters who scribbled notes or fooled with mikes. His ex-father-in-law was the image of a successful businessman in his jet-black Armani suit, white-on-white shirt and gold cuff-links. Only the flowing mane of white hair and the lizard cowboy boots gave any hint of Texas.

  "I'm not Joe Namath, so I won't guarantee a win," Kingsley said with his politician's smile. "But I'll tell you this. It'll be a hard-fought game on both sides, and nobody will turn off their sets early. We're gonna sell a lot of beer, and you can quote me on that."

  C'mon, the reporters prodded, hoping for a prediction, some enticing headline.

  "Well, I'll te
ll y'all this," Kingsley relented, slathering on the accent as thick barbecue sauce. "Them Pats better be ready 'cause we're planning to open a can of whup ass."

  The reporters scratched at their pads, the cameras rolled, and Kingsley parried a few more questions, praising his all-world receiver Nightlife Jackson, reminding the scribes that only the genius of the G.M.-Kingsley himself-allowed the Mustangs to steal him from the Forty-Niners for a tight end with bad knees and two low-round draft choices.

  "The Mustangs are America's dream, America's team," Kingsley sang out. He was on a roll, loving the sound of his own voice.

  Bobby marveled at the man, the heavyweight champion of hype. God, how he loved to be the center of attention.

  After all questions were patiently answered, Kingsley patted a few backs as the reporters drifted away, then glanced toward Bobby, adjusting his smile as if it were a party mask. "Robert, my boy, so pleased you could come."

  "Hello Martin. Thanks for seeing me."

  "Anytime." Kingsley wrapped his arm around Bobby and guided him through the patio restaurant and past the pool to his bungalow.

  "Have you ever seen such a bunch of weirdos in your life?" Kingsley whispered, gesturing toward the pool deck. "Jesus, in the bar last night, you couldn't tell the men from the women. I'll just be glad when we can play some football."

  "Four days," Bobby said, aware of the ticking clock. Each day he owed Vinnie LaBarca another twenty-four thousand dollars in interest.

  "Right. Four days until the Big Dance. By God, I love it! I thought I loved seeing an oil well shoot its wad like a giant cock, but this…this, I gotta tell you, sets the heart a-thumping."

  Bobby was surprised that the old man seemed so friendly. When they were inside the bungalow, Kingsley motioned Bobby into a white cushioned chair, then drew up a chair next to him. A basket of mangoes, papaya, and star fruit sat on the table between them.

  "Now Robert, what can I do for you?"

  Kingsley made all the appropriate sounds, cluck-clucking, at Bobby's bad fortune, frowning with concern at every misadventure. He strained not to overdo it. His ex-son-in-law was not stupid, after all.

  "How much do you owe this LoBorco?" he asked, purposely mangling the name.

  "A million four."

  Kingsley exhaled a long whistle. "That's a helluva herd of cattle."

  "Yeah."

  "I think I can help you out of this jam," Kingsley said.

  "You can?" Bobby said, a bit too eagerly.

  Kingsley studied him, the wolf measuring the soft belly of the lamb. Robert Gallagher, the man he had once groomed to fill his ostrich-skin boots, was offering himself up to the slaughter.

  "Robert, would you agree it's time for us to settle our differences, begin behaving like a family again?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course. I never wanted us to be enemies. I just couldn't go on violating my principles and-"

  Kingsley silenced him with a wave of the hand. His ex-son-in-law was adrift in heavy seas and would grab the first line thrown to him. "No use replaying that old game film. Let's look to the future. Would you agree that I love my grandson very much?"

  "I've never doubted it, Martin. And Scott is nuts about you."

  Kingsley smiled. The drowning man beckoned, begging for the rope. "And you'd agree I always have had his best interests at heart?'

  "In your own mind, I'm sure you do."

  Unfurling the line now, swinging it overhead.

  "And believe it or not, Robert, I have no animus for you, either. I want to help you."

  "Yeah?"

  He wants to believe. Let the lifeline fly, dangle it just within his reach.

  "I'll take care of your debt to Mr. LoBorco."

  "You'll loan me the money?"

  Sounding hopeful and wary at the same time. Time to allay his fears.

  "Hell, no! It's a gift. Consider the debt paid in full."

  Not a very generous one, though, because I don't have to pay him a dime.

  "And I'll help you get your law license back."

  "You'll pay the money and support my petition for reinstatement?"

  Wanting to believe it, praying that it's true.

  "I've got quite a bit of pull where that's concerned. Consider it a done deal. It's time you got back to doing what you're good at, because Lord knows, you're a lousy bookie."

  "Martin, I don't know what to say. I…"

  "There's just one thing," Kingsley said, drawing a file out of a brown leather briefcase. The papers were neatly typed and stapled to a blue-backing emblazoned with the name of a Dallas law firm. "We really ought to resolve all the issues between you and Christine. Now, you and I both know that Scott will never reach his full potential going to a second rate school in Miami."

  Bobby's head snapped back as if he'd taken a sharp jab to the chin. "Meaning what? I won't have him shipped off to some boarding school."

  "Not some boarding school. Berkshire Prep, the best. Scott's All-Pro material when it comes to brains. He's a math genius, Robert. Now, Christine is busy as hell in her work, and you'll be busy putting a practice back together. What I'm proposing is that you concentrate on your lawyering, Christine on the team, and I'll look out for Scott."

  He slid the papers toward Bobby who glanced quickly through them, then turned to Kingsley with eyes as cold as a glacial lake.

  "Give up my parental rights! Limit my visitation to holidays like some out-of-town uncle? Are you out of your mind? I won't agree to any of it. Not for a million-eight or eighteen million. I'll take my chances with Vinnie LaBarca before I'd sell you my son at any price."

  Forgetting just how close to drowning he is.

  Kingsley managed a smug smile, as if he expected the reaction and was not ruffled by it. Inside, his anger smoldered. The man was such a fool. "I'd make Scott my heir, give him every opportunity money can buy. He shouldn't be hitched to a dead mule like you, Robert. Frankly, you're not the best role model in the world."

  "And you are? You don't even know there are some things money can't buy."

  That claptrap again! Kingsley felt his rage building like water behind a dam. His ex-son-in-law was such a horse's ass. "Like your principles, I suppose. The principled lawyer who became a principled bookmaker."

  "You're right. I was a whore, a liar, and a cheat. I was trying to be just like you."

  The chump wasn't going for it! I'm offering salvation, and he's turning it down!

  "Damn you, Robert Gallagher!" Kingsley was shocked the weasel still had any fight left in him and was bitter that his plan was not working. "Who are you to talk to me like that? What have you ever done? You didn't even play the game! You crouched on one knee and held the ball for the kicker. You've always been an anonymous, faceless nobody who got his picture in the papers only when he ratted on his own clients. You're washed up as a lawyer and can't make a living as a bookie, and your self-righteousness disgusts me. I'll take Scott from you one way or the other and some day thank me for it."

  Kingsley felt his face turning a blustery red as if steam had just blown out of him. It was a relief to tell Gallagher what he really thought instead of pretending to care about the prick. Thinking now he'd turn LaBarca loose on Gallagher. If he's floating in the Bay, who'll raise Scott then?

  "You can't intimidate me, Martin. You could once, but no more. And another thing, your team was lucky as hell to cover the spread in Green Bay, and I was unlucky as hell to get middled. I think your Mustangs are gonna get the shit kicked out of them in the Super Bowl, and I hope they do."

  A smile sailed across Kingsley's face like the brim of a ten-gallon hat. "Talk's cheap, Robert. If you had any money, I'd ask you to put it where your big, stupid mouth is."

  He said it without thinking, surely without a plan, but it came to him then, a way to turn mud into oil, bullshit into gold. It had nothing to do with the litigation. Hell, his lawyers would win in court eventually. Gallagher was finished, washed up, and Scott would have to look to his loving grandfather for sta
bility and support. This had just been a way to speed up the inevitable. But now, another thought was forming, another problem to be solved.

  Maybe Gallagher's stubborn rectitude had just become a blessing, Kingsley thought. Maybe he could parlay Gallagher's ruination into a way to solve his own financial problems. The germ of the idea was multiplying rapidly, and like most of his ideas, it had a dollar sign attached to it. The dollar sign stood directly in front of the five million dollars that Houston Tyler wanted paid the day after the Super Bowl. So neat and clean. He'd win the bet, pay off Tyler, then tell LaBarca to toss Bobby off the highest building in Miami.

  "How would you like to take a bet on the Super Bowl, Bobby?" Kingsley asked.

  At first, he didn't think Kingsley was serious. Bobby was too angry to pay much attention anyway, his heart banging away like a hammer pounding rocks. Who did the old man think he was? Trying to buy his son as if he were a mineral rights lease. Now Bobby was on his feet, preparing to leave, barely listening as the crazy bastard was yammering about a bet on the Super Bowl.

  "If you're so sure my Mustangs will lose, or at least won't cover the spread, take some action on it."

  "Are you nuts? I'm not gonna do business with you."

  "Well, you're a bookmaker, aren't you? I'm giving you a chance to get even. I'll take Dallas minus four for five million dollars."

  Bobby wasn't sure he heard correctly, so he stood dead still and asked Kingsley to repeat it. After he did, Bobby said, "Martin, if I had five million dollars, I wouldn't be here. I'd have paid off Vinnie LaBarca and would be winterizing my yacht."

  "I know that, Robert. I'd expect you to lay it off, go partners with some of your bookie friends. Let's say I lose, I'd owe you what? Five point five million with the vig, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "And if you bring that in to a syndicate of bookies and Dallas fails to cover, what would be your share?"

  "Probably twenty per cent."