Paydirt

by Paul Levine

  Bobby tried to defend himself, but he was in a daze. The voices in the room overlapped, his own words echoing like distant thunder. He seemed paralyzed. He tried to concentrate on what was being said, Jailbreak's voice rising and falling with the cadence of a country preacher, slathering on accusations like butter on biscuits.

  Bobby glanced at Christine, whose forehead was knotted, her eyes filled with pain.

  And pity! The same look she'd give a dog run struck down crossing the highway. Is that what I am…roadkill?

  When it was over, when they were through hacking away at his limbs like loggers at a tree, the fog began to clear. The judge sat silently a moment, spun around in his chair and stared at the ceiling. In the moment of quiet, Bobby listened to the cough and rattle of the air conditioning and looked outside the window where the black turkey buzzards, ugly as death, floated effortlessly in the updrafts between the downtown skyscrapers.

  "I don't take this action lightly," Judge Gerstein said, whirling around to face the litigants and their attorneys. He spoke directly to the stenographer whose fingers banged away at her machine, recording the words for posterity and the appellate court. "I'm going to grant your petition for rehearing, Mr. Gallagher and vacate the prior order, but I'm afraid this is a Pyrrhic victory for you. Based on the evidence submitted, it is the judgment of this court that you are not a fit and proper parent for custody, joint custody, or even liberal visitation. Your actions have had a deleterious impact on the minor child, and if continued-"

  "No, they haven't!" Scott called out. "Dad's fun. He teaches me a lot of neat stuff and he needs me. I mean, I need him, too. He's my Dad."

  "Young man," the judge said sharply. "Be quiet when an elder speaks. Please look to your mother and grandfather as role models, and not your father."

  "Bullshit!" Bobby shouted for the second time that morning.

  "You're in contempt, Mr. Gallagher!" the judge fired back. "That will cost you five hundred dollars, and if you repeat it, you'd better have packed your toothbrush in that attache case because you're looking at thirty days in the stockade."

  Bobby fought the urge to leap up and pull down the floor-to-ceiling shelves of law books, burying all of them in useless words. Despair howled in his ears like a winter wind. He had lost Scott.

  "It is the further judgment of this court," the judge continued, "that Robert Gallagher be stripped of all parental rights, and that full custody and all decisions regarding the minor child shall be forthwith vested with the mother, Christine Kingsley Gallagher. Mr. Gallagher shall be entitled to limited visitation upon a strict schedule to be promulgated by the domestic relations child welfare unit, said visitation to take place only in public facilities such as the courthouse or court liaison offices, and only in the presence of licensed counselors from H.R.S. or the comparable agency in Texas. No overnight visitation will be permitted until such time as Mr. Gallagher demonstrates a change in attitude, lifestyle, and fitness as a parent. We'll set a report date for further proceedings in six months."

  With a bang of his gavel, the judge dismissed them and said good day.

  Jailbreak Jones cleared up his files. Christine motioned to Scott to come with her.

  The boy looked at his father who nodded, gave him a squeeze on the arm, and let him go.

  "I'll be outside," Scott said, hurrying out of chambers.

  The judge and stenographer walked out, too, leaving Bobby and Christine alone with the whir of the air conditioning and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

  "I'm sorry, Bobby," Christine said. "This isn't what I wanted."

  "You could have stopped it. You could have said 'no' to your father."

  "This never would have happened if you'd just let Scott go off to boarding school."

  "So it's my fault!"

  "Yes, it's your damn pigheadedness. It's what led to our breaking up and all of this. You've lost everything, but you blame everybody but yourself."

  "And you've won everything. Your father must be very proud. You've turned out to be just like him."

  Bobby grabbed his briefcase and fled.

  "When we won the AFL Championship, a lot of people thanked their wives. I'd like to thank all the single girls in New York. They deserve just as much credit."

  — Joe Namath before Super Bowl III

  38

  Temptation

  Am I interrupting anything?" Christine asked, when Craig Stringer opened the door to his hotel suite.

  "Nah. Just watching Sports Center." He was wearing grey shorts, a Mustangs t-shirt, unlaced Nikes, and somehow managed to look like a teenage boy instead of a pro football player nearing the end of his career.

  She entered the living room of the suite, unusually neat and orderly for a man, much less a football player. The large-screen TV was on, and there was Craig, his smile filling the screen, elaborating on reaching the pinnacle, grabbing his dream, and a few other cliches that filled the endless hours of Super Bowl mega-coverage.

  "Do you think my hair's too long?" he asked, studying his image on the tube. They both sat on the sofa in front of the TV. Outside the penthouse windows, the blue Atlantic stretched to the horizon.

  "Your hair looks fine, Craig."

  "Yeah, but maybe I should fly Pepe in from Dallas, get it styled before the game. Afterwards, there'll be a lot of interviews."

  "It won't matter if your teammates give you a champagne shower first."

  "Good point. Didn't think of that."

  "Or if you lose."

  "Hey Chris! Don't even joke about that." He turned his attention back to the screen. "After the game, I'll have public appearances all over hell and half of Georgia. You think the Today show has a stylist for the guests?"

  It occurred to her then that he hadn't kissed her when she came into the room, and that she hadn't kissed him. She had come straight to the team hotel from the courthouse. He was wrapped up in the televised image of himself, and guilt-stricken, she was swimming through a lake of her own misery.

  "Forget about your hair," she said. "I need to talk to you."

  "Sure Chris. Fire away." He used the remote to mute the sound but kept his eyes on the screen where he seemed to wink at the camera.

  "The judge stripped Bobby of all his rights to Scott," she said. "He can't even visit our son unless it's in a courthouse."

  "Great!"

  "It's not great! It's terrible."

  "Hey, knock, knock. Anybody home? You won! That's what it's all about."

  "No it's not. For all his faults, Bobby loves Scott, and Scott needs him."

  "What are you all tore up about? Where's that old killer instinct? You can't ease up in the fourth quarter. That's when you roll up the score."

  "This isn't a game. All that matters is what's best for Scott."

  "You're too soft, Christine. I'm glad the judge cracked down. Now you've got control."

  "You sound just like my father."

  "Hey, nothing wrong with that. Your Pop's the King."

  It hit her then. The man she was engaged to marry was a cheap copy of her father. The realization chilled her heart, parched her soul. Craig Stringer wore his arrogance and insensitivity as proudly as his number seven jersey. Everything in life was a competition, and opponents were to be crushed. Wasn't that Daddy's philosophy? Well, they'd succeeded. They'd crushed Bobby.

  With my assistance. What have I done to Bobby and to my son?

  "Anyway, I gotta go," Craig said. "Practice in half an hour." He tied the laces on his Nikes, waved and smiled his ESPN smile. "See ya later, Chris. There's some beer in the fridge and jars of cashews in the cupboard."

  Christine sat there, unaware of the passage of time. The TV played silently, an auto race on now. A breeze from the ocean whipped through the open balcony door and rustled the drapes. On this bright sunny day, she felt gray and heavy, thick and sullen. She believed herself to be the perpetrator of a great wrong. She'd inflicted pain on a man she had loved-maybe still loved-and she'd hurt her son in
the process.

  Though hardly a religious woman, she wondered if she did not deserve some divine retribution. But then, maybe God didn't have time to trifle with misdemeanors.

  More time passed, and she discovered that she'd been crying without even realizing it. Finally, she stood and walked to the bathroom. Her makeup was ruined. She splashed cold water on her face, then scrubbed at her skin with hotel soap. She rinsed again, then reached for a towel, her eyes still closed.

  What she grabbed felt like a towel, but it was too small. Before she opened her eyes, she knew what it was, and her heart ached with the knowledge. It was as if someone plunged a knife deep inside her, then yanked it up and around like a child's jump rope.

  In Texas, she knew, there were many icons. An oil derrick set against a barren landscape, the legendary Alamo, longhorn cattle. There were the pecan trees, the mockingbirds, and the bluebonnets. To the men of Texas there was one more, and she held it now, gripping it fiercely in both hands, trying to tear it in half, but the pink, terrycloth headband — symbol of cheerleader Shari Blossom — held fast.

  Bobby never would have done this, she thought. For all his faults-his stubbornness, his self-righteousness-he never would have been unfaithful.

  Damn you, Craig Stringer!

  He had denied ever being involved with Shari Blossom, even in the past. She should have trusted her instincts. Craig was a born womanizer. Everybody knew it. She had known it but she would change him. What monumental ego! A flood of emotions washed over her, equal doses of anger and humiliation. Did everybody in the organization know about it? Did those boob-heavy cheerleading twits laugh about her behind her back?

  Oh Bobby, you were right. Why didn't I listen to you?

  She dropped the headband, and trembling with rage, paced through the suite like a tiger in a cage, from the bathroom to the living room to the balcony overlooking the ocean. Feeling feverish, she stood there a moment, letting the breeze cool her. Along the beach, sea birds dipped and whirled, crying like angry children. Christine felt a tear track down her cheek to the corner of her mouth where she tasted its saltiness. After a moment, she came back inside, mustering the courage to walk into the bedroom. Once there, she stared at the king-size bed, crisply made up by housekeeping, a cover of red and pink hibiscus flowers. What acts of betrayal occurred beneath that floral cloak? What lies were told between those sheets?

  On the night stand was a framed photo of Craig astride Temptation, his leopard Appaloosa. She'd been a magnificent horse with striped hooves, a beautiful spotted coat, and a pleasant disposition. Christine had loved that horse nearly as much as Craig did. She had cried when Temptation died in the barn fire and cried now, in mourning for the death of something else. Then, incongruously, she laughed. It was Temptation's photograph, not hers, that decorated Craig's bedside. There was something darkly amusing about the revelation that he loved his horse more than he loved her.

  Oh, how she had been fooled. Craig had shown such deep sensitivity and vulnerability when Temptation died that Christine was drawn to him in a nurturing mode.. He was an emotional wreck, needy and open to her love.

  That's why I fell for you, you big creep.

  She studied the photo now. Rider and horse, both mugging for the camera, Craig's smile even more horsey than Temptation's. Maybe she didn't notice it before, but weren't Craig's teeth ridiculously big?

  She knew that she was employing a defense mechanism, finding flaws in the man who had just violated her trust, and in so doing, ended their relationship. She didn't need to do that. There was only one flaw in Craig that mattered: he cared only about himself. He satisfied his own pleasures and took whatever he needed from whomever would give it. She felt used and abused. And stupid!

  In that moment, she decided she was through with love. Look where it had gotten her so far. A husband who self-destructed before her eyes and a semi-fiance who wanted to set scoring records on and off the field. Suddenly, she needed to talk about it. She wished she could turn to Bobby, but how could she, after what happened in court today? Alone, adrift, she needed to talk to a man, but no, not Bobby.

  Daddy was at practice with Scott, but she would wait for him in the quiet of his hotel suite, five floors above Craig's. Daddy had taught her strength and self-reliance, but there was only so much she could do alone. He would understand.

  Her father had given her an extra key to his suite, and as she let herself in, another thought came to her. With the game two days away, Daddy would insist that she put off any explosive scenes with Craig. She imagined what he would say.

  "Darling, you can't be upsetting Craig's fragile ego right before The Big Dance."

  She had no illusions about her father's reaction to her plight. He would put the game ahead of her feelings because they were, after all, only feelings. They weren't real, like a glistening trophy you can park on the mantle.

  But how could she ignore what had happened? How could she smile and pretend that she loved that fake, that womanizer Craig Stringer, just so he won't be upset and throw into double coverage?

  As she closed the door behind her, a sound came from the suite's second bedroom, which had been turned into a study. "Daddy?" she called out.

  No answer.

  It could be housekeeping, someone tidying up while listening to an iPad to drown out the drudgery of the task.

  She headed through the living area, a 1960's sunken room with white leather sofas, an aquarium with tropical fish, and a gas-lit fireplace, useful in case of snow in Miami Beach. A plaque on the wall boasted that Frank Sinatra, Jacqueline Kennedy, and Muhammad Ali had all stayed in the suite, though presumably not at the same time. From this height at the top of the hotel, the ocean, viewed through floor-to-ceiling windows, was a calm sheet of aquamarine.

  As she neared the study, she saw a shaft of light under the closed door. "Hello," she called out. "Anyone there?"

  She stopped and listened a moment, but there was only the white noise of the air conditioning. Telling herself it was foolish to be alarmed, she turned the knob and opened the door. A man sat at the desk, reading a sheaf of papers, his scarred face hideously lit by a desktop lamp. Calmly, he looked up and nodded, as a priest would to parishioner. "Howdy, Christine," Houston Tyler said. "Why don't you come in and sit for a spell?"

  39

  A Member of the Family

  Christine did not sit down. Instead, she walked closer to the desk, hardly believing this was the man she had known nearly all her life. When she was a small child, she thought he was a member of the family. The Tylers were constant guests in the Kingsley home. Her mother played golf with Corrine, and the two men were partners for nearly 20 years until the Texas City refinery fire tore them apart and sent Houston Tyler off to prison.

  Her memories of her father's partner were strange and conflicting. There was the broad-shouldered man who laughed uproariously and gave her piggy-back rides in the swimming pool. There was the profane, hard-drinking man who cursed her father in language she'd never before heard. And there was the weeping man who comforted her after her mother died.

  But the man sitting in front of her was none of those. His head was shaved and loose folds of skin hung from his goose-slim neck. His skin was the color of warm milk, and when he smiled, a purple scar that ran from cheekbone to scalp slid into the folds of his face. His left eye was chalky white and seemed to look in an entirely different direction than the right. She felt herself staring at his scar.

  "Guess I don't look too pretty," he said.

  "It isn't that. I just never expected to see you in my father's room. What are you doing here, Mr. Tyler?"

  "Hell, Christine, you can call me Ty. You used to call me Uncle Ty, remember?"

  "Does my father know you're here?"

  "Hell no, and he wouldn't like it one bit. Your old man would like to see me dead."

  "I'm sure that's not true. He was very sorry about what happened to you."

  Tyler growled his disagreement, the sound of w
ater gurgling down a pipe. "I'll say this for your Daddy, though. He was always a good record keeper. Me, hell I never wrote a memo in my life. Hated meetings and business lunches. I'd just tromp around in the fields and find the oil so your Daddy could dicker over mineral rights and sew up the deals that would make us rich. Or at least make one of us rich."

  "Mr. Tyler, what's going on?"

  "Here, look at this," he said, holding up a file folder. "Your Daddy carries around some interesting reading material in his briefcase. Player contracts under negotiation, loan extensions, licensing agreements, and then there's-"

  "You have no right to be going through his things." She closed the distance between them and snatched the file away. On top was a legal document with "Escrow Agreement" written in fancy script. She hadn't seen it before and had no intention of reading it, but the "party of the second part" caught her attention.

  Robert C. Gallagher.

  The "party of the first part" was her father.

  The escrow agent was her father's bank.

  The subject of the escrow was two per cent of the stock in the Dallas Mustangs.

  What in the world!

  "You still wrinkle your forehead when you're thinking just like you did when you were a little girl," Tyler said. "Well, what do you think about all that legalese? I ain't no Philadelphia lawyer or even a Corpus Christi lawyer, but it seems to me your father's bet the farm on a football game."

  Her first thought was that it was a forgery, an elaborate fake. Maybe Houston Tyler brought the document here. Maybe he was setting Daddy up. But she recognized both signatures. What had Bobby told the night he was beaten up at the party?

  "Your father 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."

  She had laughed at him and asked how Bobby would know.