Paul Levine: Paydirt

He could not imagine life without her.

Christine ran the Mustangs' marketing department with smooth efficiency, helped their son Scott with his Latin homework, routinely beat Bobby at tennis, and also found time to run the Kingsley Center, a shelter for abused women. Bobby never knew anyone who juggled so many flaming batons each day and then looked high-society gorgeous in a slithery cocktail dress at night.

"You're having a mid-life crisis." Her voice soothing, her eyes compassionate. "I didn't expect it for a few years, but we'll just deal with it now."

No crisis too challenging great for the great problem solver.

He took a hit on the drink, hoping the liquor would melt his pent-up frustrations. "Chrissy, I don't know how to deal with it, because I'm trapped. If I quit and go into private practice, I'd be starting from scratch."

Below them, down a set of flagstone steps from the patio, Martin Kingsley, minus his chef's hat, was barking orders at workers who were finishing the yard lines on the perfectly groomed football grass. Irrigated and fertilized, the field was a re-creation of Mustangs Stadium except the logo in the end zone here said, "Kingsley's Mustangs." Children clung to footballs and chirped happily, running and turning somersaults on the soft grass. Bobby caught sight of their eleven-year-old son Scott tossing a ball with the children of the assistant coaches. Adjacent to the field, team executives in shorts and running shoes mingled with players near the portable bars, working up their courage for the game.

"It's so hard for me to relate because I love my job," Christine said.

Another difference, Bobby thought. You love your father, too.

"But if that's what you want to do, Bobby — start over — I'll understand."

"I knew you would."

"Hey, Ro-ber-to!" Bobby looked up to see Craig Stringer, the veteran Dallas quarterback with the TV anchorman smile. "You gonna warm up your throwing arm?"

"That's what I'm doing," Bobby replied, hoisting his glass.

"Better be on your game, because the MVP gets to kiss the boss' beautiful daughter."

Stringer gave Christine his best crinkly eyed, pearly grin, and Bobby indulged in the pleasurable vision of an opposing linebacker crushing the QB's throat with a forearm shot. Stringer thought he was so irresistible he could get away with anything, including sleeping with half the Mustangs' Cheerleader squad, and telling every Shari, Sandi, and Sunny that she was the only one. Or, in Stringer's Georgia drawl, "the onliest one, ah swear."

"Craig, you're an outrageous flirt," Christine said.

"I'm the quarterback," Stringer tipped his ball cap to the lady and ambled off.

"I don't like the way he's always sniffing around after you," Bobby said.

Christine laughed, and a smile rippled across her face like a breeze across a lake. "Oh, Bobby, I think you're jealous!"

They both watched as Stinger ran the cocktail party version of a slant route, cutting sharply across the field directly toward cheerleader captain Shari Blossom, who was standing at the bar.

A trio of Mexican guitarists strolled by in full mariachi costume. They were playing "Besame Mucho," in which a lover begs to be kissed.

"Do you want to talk more about it, Bobby? Your job."

He itched to tell her the truth about Buckwalter Washington and all the other players he'd gotten out of trouble by breaking the rules. He wanted to confess he'd used the law, money, and her father's influence to become everything he hated about sleazy lawyers.

But what would she think of me? She has a blind spot to the old bastard's failings, but would she be as forgiving of mine?

"It's hard to explain," he said.

"Do you want me to talk to Daddy?"

"No!"

He said it too harshly, and Christine eyed him warily. In a dozen years, they almost never raised their voices to each other. "I'm sorry, Chrissy, but I have to fight my own battles. I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell him we've got to clean up the franchise, do things the right way."

"Okay, but be diplomatic. Don't butt heads with him."

"I won't," Bobby said. "His head is a lot harder than mine."

Poor Bobby, Christine thought. He didn't understand business. He didn't understand what it took for a man like her father to build from the ground up. Sometimes, she felt she had to mother Bobby even more than their son Lovable as a floppy-eared puppy, her husband was a grown man who still needed protection from the world.

And from Daddy.

Daddy mistook Bobby's decency for weakness, and Bobby considered Daddy's ambition to be rapacious greed. Both men were far more complicated, she knew, and both had extraordinary qualities.

How can I make peace between them?

Lately she'd been charting Bobby's moods like a meteorologist watching tropical storms. Something was bothering him, and he wasn't talking.

She headed down the flagstone steps to the field where the guests dipped corn chips into smoked tomato salsa and nibbled pickled jalapenos while sloshing icy rivers of margaritas. Her co-workers greeted her with a dozen "Howdys," and "Hidys," as she glided by, avoiding the cocktail party chatter about the big win over the Eagles yesterday. Several players and their wives stopped her momentarily to wish Happy Thanksgiving. White-uniformed waiters skated by with platters of hor d'oeuvres. Inside a huge tent of Dallas silver and blue, other servers were preparing tables for the coming feast. Christine approached the tent, heard a commotion inside, and stopped in the open entranceway.

What she saw froze her. Nightlife Jackson, the team's All-Pro wide receiver, was angrily shouting at a young woman, wagging a finger under her nose. Her face twisted in terror, the woman lurched backward — one step, two steps, three shaky steps — but he pressed forward, staying in her grill. Staying in her face, screaming. "Fuck you want, woman! Fuck you want!"

Nightlife's dark round, cherubic face usually was composed in a playful smile, but now, unaware of Christine's presence, he was snarling, the veins on his neck thick as cables and throbbing with every heartbeat.

"I don't want you! I'm goin' home."

Christine recognized the woman as Nightlife's girlfriend, a flight attendant named Shaina.

"You ain't going nowhere, bitch!" Nightlife yelled.

"I'm goin' home and don't bother callin'!"

She turned and Nightlife grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, his biceps straining against the sleeve of his silver Mustangs t-shirt. "Give me those car keys, 'ho!"

"Lemme go!"

Changing tactics, he lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. "C'mon now, sweet meat. Do what Daddy says."

He tried to pry open her hand, but she resisted, screaming as Nightlife bent a finger backward.

"Wilbur!" Christine shouted, using Nightlife's given name and moving toward him. "Let her go!"

Nightlife spun around, startled. "This don't concern you, Ms. Gallagher. Me and Shaina's just jaw jacking. It ain't nothing."

"Help me! He's breaking my bones!" Shaina yelled, her voice keening into a high-pitched wail, her beaded corn rows flailing as she tossed her head. Her eye make-up was streaked over her cheeks tinging her cinnamon skin a sooty charcoal.

"Shut up, Miss Thang!" Nightlife yelled.

"Let her go!" Christine ordered.

"Bitch shamed me in front of the team, and she's-"

"His whore's here!" Shaina bawled. "He had Tyrone Wheatley bring her, but I know Nightlife's doing her when I'm off flying."

"Don't be stupid!" Nightlife hollered.

"You're stupid!" she screamed back. "You're so stupid you leave your fly open just to count to eleven."

She tried to twist away but Nightlife grabbed her arm and yanked it behind her back, then wrenched hard, pressing the back of her hand against her shoulder blade.