by Paul Levine
He could still feel the warmth of her hand against his cheek. Maybe if Crew Cut would stomp his head, he'd get a kiss from his ex-wife. He began to pick up snatches of words and phrases as the pealing bells began to subside. Christine had convinced her father to leave before the TV cameras showed up. She'd get Bobby out of there and smooth things over. He gave his daughter a forced smile and left, taking his entourage with him.
Christine returned to his side. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm sorry for what happened in court today and I'm sorry for this. Do you need a doctor?"
Great. He could hear again. "Nah, he just knocked the wind out of me with a sucker punch, then hit me when I was down. In a fair fight, I could've-"
"Gotten killed," she said. "Look, we should talk. Do you want to come back to my hotel?"
Only as much as I want to breathe.
Bobby's eyes flicked toward Stringer who was regaling Shari with one of his tales of last-minute heroics.
"Craig's got curfew tonight," Christine said. "He's got to get back."
Perfect. He couldn't have planned it any better, though if he had, he would have omitted the five-Tylenol headache.
"Great," he said, then turned to the pride of Galveston, Texas. "Shari, can you fend for yourself tonight?"
"Sure, sugar," she cooed. "Ah been off and on since I was fifteen."
"Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."
— Joe Theismann, TV commentator and former NFL quarterback
"It isn't like I came down from Mount Sinai with the tabloids."
— Ron Meyer, former Indianapolis Colts head coach
32
Happily in Pain
Christine's room at the Fontainebleau had an ocean view, and on this cloudless night, the moon was as full as Bobby's heart. Moonbeams streaked across the black water, paving a shiny path from the hard-packed sand along the beach, through the gentle shore break to the endless horizon. The wind plucked at the curtains covering the sliding screen to the balcony. Bobby looked out at the shimmering water, tasted the scent of the sea breeze, and smiled at his good fortune.
Hit me again, Crew Cut. Hell, punch out my lights every day at high noon if it'll get me between Chrissy's sheets.
Bobby was propped up on two pillows in the king-size bed watching Christine fluttering at the vanity. She was rummaging through a pink cosmetics case, looking for aspirin, making feminine sounds, asking what she could do to ease his pain.
You could crawl into bed with me.
"I think I should just rest here a while," he said.
"You don't have double vision, do you? You could have a detached retina. Do you want an ice pack? And what about your neck and spine?"
She spoke rapidly, as if she were an ER nurse running through her triage checklist.
"It's just a headache," he said, trying to sound brave, as if it hurt like hell, which it did, but that he was man enough to bear it, which was problematic.
"What kind of headache? Is it a sharp pain or a dull, thudding pain?"
Christine was always more of a detail person than he was.
"It's like the cast of 'Stomp' is rehearsing in my cerebellum."
"Are you sure you don't want a doctor?"
"I'm fine," he said, wincing in a cheap ploy for sympathy. "Thanks Chrissy. It means a lot to me that you care."
"Of course I care! I never stopped caring. I just stopped being able to live with you."
She found the aspirin, then knelt in front of the mini-bar, opening it with a key. Her blond hair was swept straight back off her forehead and held with a barrette. She was wearing a black silk wrap dress tied at the waist and trimmed in white. The dress stopped several inches above the knee. Bobby watched her movements, the flex of the muscles in her calves, the slope of her neck, as she craned her head to see inside the bar, the delicate motion of her hands. He could watch all night.
"Apple juice or orange juice?" she asked.
"How about some Jack Daniels juice?"
She brought him a handful of aspirin, a glass filled with ice, and a miniature bottle filled with the luminous amber sour mash whiskey. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she poured the liquor over the ice, then motioned for Bobby to open his mouth. Daintily, she placed three aspirin on his tongue and handed him the glass.
He wanted to kiss her hand, to suck her fingertips, to gobble her up, but restraining himself, he sipped at the Jack Daniels, tossed his head back, and swallowed the pills. He could scarcely believe this was happening. How long had it been since he'd been alone with her?
He had dreamed of moments like this. Okay, not exactly like this, the dreams not including his getting mugged as a prerequisite to landing in her bed.
They sat silently a moment, then Christine ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "I sometimes forget what a devilishly handsome man you are, Bobby Gallagher."
"I never forget how beautiful you are," he said.
Her hand lingered, and she gently caressed his cheek. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm sorry all this happened, but I don't know what I could have done differently."
She swung her legs up onto the bed, then lowered her head onto Bobby's chest. A feeling of warmth spread over him. The pain in his head had become bearable. The ache in his heart had not.
As she nuzzled against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, he stroked her hair. He could feel her warm breath against his neck. She drew her knees up, tucking into the shape of question mark and curling her body into his. They had often fallen asleep this way, her head on his chest, their bodies intertwined. He felt lightheaded, intoxicated. It was the first act of intimacy between them in more than two years. Was it really happening? Maybe he'd been knocked unconscious. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was dead.
"Breathe," she said.
"What?"
"You're holding your breath."
He let out a gasp of air, inhaled deeply, then laughed. "I guess I thought if I breathed, I'd wake up and find this was just a dream."
She raised up on an elbow and looked down at him. They were within kissing distance, but neither would make the move.
"I wish we could start over," she said, "but nobody gets that chance."
"I regret having hurt you. I behaved childishly and didn't accomplish anything. Nightlife still got off, and your father hasn't changed a bit."
Outside, the wind was picking up and tore at the flimsy curtains that billowed across the sliding door to the balcony.
"Don't start in on that, please Bobby."
"I won't. But you know it's true. If it hadn't been for your father-"
"Don't blame him!" she said with a harshness that stunned Bobby. Christine hoisted herself up and sat on the edge of the bed, peering at him from the perch of a nurse, not a lover. He knew from the look on her face that he had broken the mood. "Bobby, please. You know where that will lead."
She was right. She was always right. But just the thought of Martin Kingsley invading this private space he shared with Christine, infuriated Bobby.
"I don't know what makes me angrier," Bobby said, clenching his jaw tight, trying to will himself from saying more, from stepping into the quicksand, "that your father drove us apart or that he's trying to take Scott from me."
"I know you love Scott," she said. "I know you wouldn't do anything purposely to hurt him, and I hate to do anything that will limit his time with you, but we have to look out for his best interests."
" We? Do you mean you and me or you and your father?"
He didn't like the sound of his own voice, petulant and accusing.
"Daddy only wants what's best for Scott, too."
Bobby tried to control himself. He tried to preserve the moment that was slipping away, but he lost the battle with his own fiery instincts, his knack for self-immolation prevailing over reason.
"Is it best for me to be out of the picture?" He fought against the shrillness in his own voice. "Is it best for me to lose all parental rights?"
"What are you talking about?" Her forehead was wrinkled, her look both puzzled and angry at the same time.
"Your old man tried to buy me off. He offered to pay off a gambling debt of mine if I'd get out of Scott's life."
"I don't believe it, Bobby. Daddy knows I would never want that."
"He doesn't care what you want! He doesn't care what Scott wants! He's a megalomaniac who wants to control everyone around him. He's immoral and corrupt! He's even betting on the Super Bowl."
"How would you know that?"
"Because the bet is with me! It's for five million dollars."
"Oh right! I think your brains got rattled tonight. Where would you get five million dollars? Why would Daddy bet with anybody, much less you?"
"It's a long story," he said.
She bounded off the bed and backed away, putting distance between them. Her look was one of complete puzzlement, as if she didn't even recognize him. "You're lying to me, Bobby. You never did that before, ever."
"I'm not lying, dammit!"
"Daddy might cut some corners, but he wouldn't bet on the games. It's a major violation of league rules that could cost him the franchise."
"When will you learn that your father doesn't follow any rules except his own!" He shouted the words, and the noise jump-started the headache, which had all but faded away.
"You're obsessed with him, Bobby. Your hatred of Daddy has poisoned your mind, made you paranoid."
"Then forget about me! Go run to your pretty-boy quarterback, if you can find him, if he's not shacked up with half the cheerleading squad and sailing the high seas on a Vicodin buzz."
Like so many times in the past, he immediately regretted what he had said. He wanted to cut out his tongue with rusty garden shears.
"You're so spiteful, Bobby! First Daddy and now Craig. Have you fallen so low that you have to attack everyone who's accomplished more than you have?"
"There aren't enough hours in the day or arrows in my quiver to do that," he said, sorrowfully.
"So why attack Craig? You're the one hanging around with Miss Headband. I saw you at Media Day. I don't know what you're up to, but whatever it is, if I know you, you'll get into more trouble."
"I may have been with Shari, but Craig's the one who's chased her from Plano to Tijuana and back."
"Why are you so hateful?"
"Because I hate having lost you. I understand your loyalty to your father, I really do. I've always known that you're blind to his dark side. But Craig Stringer? Why are you with him? Because he needed you to cure his addiction? Because he was upset when his stables burned down?"
"Don't mock his pain, Bobby. He even lost Temptation. God, how he loved her."
"Yeah, yeah, I remember. The only filly he never cheated on."
"You should have seen how he cried when she died."
"He cried because the insurance company wouldn't pay off until his lawyer sued. The tears stopped when Craig pocketed four million in insurance payments."
"Damn you, Bobby! Get out of here!"
"Don't make me leave. My head hurts. I'm dizzy."
"Is that a cheap plot for sympathy?"
"No, it's true." He felt faint and sick to his stomach. He didn't know if it was from being boxed on the ears an hour earlier or falling on his sword just now.
"I don't care! Leave!" She scooped up a glass from a tray on a chest of drawers and hurled it at him. Her aim was high and to the left, and the glass crashed into a framed print of white herons legging it through an Everglades slough. If Craig Stringer threw the football as inaccurately on Sunday, Bobby had a chance to win the bet.
"I'm leaving," Bobby said, hopping out of bed, his temples throbbing. "But someday, you'll see I'm right. I've been right about everything."
"Sure I've got one. It's a perfect 20–20."
— Duane Thomas, former Dallas Cowboys running back, when asked about his IQ
33
All Life is Timing
Friday, February 3
Craig Stringer backpedaled while scanning the field in front of him. His right hand cocked behind his ear, he whipped the arm forward. The ball rocketed toward the sidelines, an apparently errant pass. Suddenly, Nightlife Jackson who had been streaking upfield from his wide receiver position, planted a foot in the turf and cut hard toward the sidelines without losing any of his sprinter's speed. He turned his body back toward the quarterback and raised his arms and the ball was there in a tight spiral, settling into his hands. He had run to the spot where the ball was supposed to be, had cut and turned at the correct millisecond in time, and there it was. Craig Stringer had thrown the perfect pass at the precise moment to the exact spot.
"Timing!" boomed Martin Kingsley. "All life is timing."
"And practice," Coach Chet Krause added. "We've run that play about a thousand times since two-a-days in August."
Several reporters stood around the sidelines, searching for news angles, as the Mustangs went about their drills. Kingsley had declared the first thirty minutes of practice open to the press. Then, the pesky reporters would be shooed away, and the team would work on new plays and formations. At the moment, Kingsley was a happy man. He was on the verge of his greatest triumph. He could feel the Commissioner's Trophy in his hands, could imagine himself being doused with champagne in the locker room, being interviewed live, his face appearing in hundreds of millions of homes around the world, the President calling to congratulate him. The victory would clean up several other loose ends. He'd win the bet, pay off that maniac Tyler, and go home a hero, taking Scott along. Christine would marry Craig Stringer and would forget all about her ex-husband. By the end of the game on Sunday, Gallagher would be a broken man. No career, no wife, no child.
Busted, disgusted, and can't be trusted.
Kingsley still hadn't decided whether to let LaBarca use him as chum on a deep-sea fishing trip. Maybe just a thorough thrashing to whip the piss and vinegar out of him would do. Revenge is a sweet meat, indeed.
He'd spotted Gallagher earlier, hanging out with Murray Kravetz, the local sportscaster with the bad toupee. At first, it aggravated Kingsley that his ex-son-in-law was here, but on second thought, to hell with it. Let the prick see the Mustangs juggernaut up close. Let him get trampled in the hooves of the stampede.
On the field, the offense continued to work on its passing game. Craig Stringer hit the tight end over the middle after pumping once as if he were throwing long. On the next play, he went deep, hitting Jackson in mid-stride for a thirty-yard gain.
"Stringer looks sharp," one of the reporters said.
"Sharp?" Kingsley replied. "Hell, he's a saber honed to a fine edge. He's a polished diamond, a laser beam. I'd bet you he gets three hundred yards passing, at least, but the Commissioner won't let me bet."
The reporters chuckled. Kingsley had seen Stringer in the locker room, and his future-son-law hadn't looked so good up close. Red-rimmed eyes and a leaden look as if he'd been up all night. Kingsley just hoped he wasn't popping pills again. But the QB was practicing great all week, and today, he was drilling the passes through defenders' arms outstretched arms right into the receivers' hands.
"How about a prediction?" someone else asked.
"I'd tell you what I think, but then Denver would be putting the clippings up on the locker room wall. I learned a long time ago to save my breath for breathing and not to put my jaw in a sling because I was apt to step on it."
"What about reports that Skarcynski has a sore arm?"
"I don't know anything about it," Kingsley said, shrugging. What else could he say?
He doesn't have a sore arm. He's so scared shitless, his asshole puckers up when he throws the ball.
"We want to beat their best with our best," Kingsley said, trying to sound sincere. "I'm sure when that whistle blows, Skarcynski will forget all about what ails him. Do you remember the time Jack Youngblood played with a broken leg? Just taped a couple of aspirin to it and played a whale of a game."
He
was on a roll, basking in the light of a tropical winter day. Everything he had worked so hard to accomplish was about to come to fruition.
You got them? You got them on video?" Bobby couldn't believe it was true. His night had been such a disaster. Did Shari Blossom rescue him? "What'd you do, Murray, hide in the closet?"
"Not exactly," Murray Kravetz said. "I was on the balcony most of the night. A triple feature fuckfest with two intermissions."
Bobby's heart was hammering like a hummingbird's. This could be what he needed. Even sleepless, Craig Stringer was a helluva quarterback. But how would he be after Christine lowered the boom? Bobby couldn't wait to show her the tape and prove he'd been right.
Just look at your sensitive, horse-loving Casanova now.
There's no way she'd tolerate the bum's infidelity. She'd toss the ring back at him, and he'd see his meal ticket float away. A two-bagger, a way to foul up the Mustangs and get Christine back, too.
"How did you get it? Did they leave the lights on?" Bobby asked.
"Nah. Stringer made her turn out the lights."
"Do you have a low light camera?" Suddenly, he was worried. Murray was not adept at getting his facts straight or doing his homework. If he had been, he wouldn't be stuck on the weekend slot at a local station for twenty years.
"Hey, this ain't the CIA," Kravetz said, self-consciously adjusting his toupee. He wore a Madras sport jacket that went out of fashion long before several of the Mustangs were born and he kept an unlit cigar in his mouth. "I was lucky to have one of the station's camera's overnight. The tape's a little dark. To tell the truth, it's very dark, but you can tell there's some serious screwing going on, I mean, you can hear Stringer shouting "Hallelujah" and Shari says his name, but the video looks like a couple of black cats at the bottom of a coal mine."
"I've got to see it," Bobby said.
Okay, so maybe Kravetz wouldn't get the Oscar for best cinematography. But with the audio-Shari and Stringer had distinctive accents-Christine would get the drift.
Practice was over, and the players were giving impromptu interviews, so the press room was empty when Bobby tried to hustle Christine inside.