Paul Levine: Paydirt

God damn it to hell!

Suddenly, the point spread wasn't all that mattered. Denver could move into field goal range and win the game! But then, football can be a baffling game, and the oblong spheroid doesn't always bounce straight. After an incompletion and a quarterback sack that had the Mustangs' fans going wild, Skarcynski tossed a bullet to across the middle to his tight end, who reacted a fraction of a second too slowly. Late in bringing up his hands, the ball ricocheted off his shoulder pads and straight into the hands of a Dallas linebacker. Interception at the thirty-eight with fifty-three seconds left.

We have the ball back! We can score again and cover!

Pandemonium in the stadium. The Dallas faithful were on their feet, confident in victory. Denver fans moaned and shook their heads. Kingsley, however, was on edge.

What if Morrow didn't deliver the message? Or what if Krause doesn't follow orders? What if just runs out the clock? We win the game, and I lose the bet.

With the clock stopped for the change of possession, Kingsley bolted from his seat and headed toward the door that led to the concourse. He was consumed with one thought.

My Mustangs must score!

Either a field goal or a touchdown and they'd cover the spread. He'd win five million dollars and get Houston Tyler off his back and out of his life. He was already at the elevator when it occurred to him. There were two empty seats when he passed the last row of the suite. Where were Christine and Scott?

The horses whinnied and high-stepped nervously from side-to-side in that peculiar equine show of discomfort. Nostrils flared, eyes darted, ears perked at every thunderous sound from above, the noise increasing as the game reached a crescendo of its own.

"Where is she?" Scott asked.

"Right in the middle of the Petaluma show horses," Christine said.

They were in the cavernous staging area beneath the north stands. There, amidst the groundskeeping tractors and the half-time floats were the sixteen horses from the famed Petaluma troupe and one Appaloosa mare with distinctive leopard spotting.

When she came up with the idea this morning, Christine doubted she'd have time to carry it out, but she found an Appaloosa stable in Davie, west of Fort Lauderdale. Once there, she found Temptation. Or at least an Appaloosa mare with similarly striped hooves, the white sclera around the eyes and a black-on-white leopard spotting. She didn't have Temptation's two-tone mane, but a quick Clairol rinse took care of that, and a fast application of black spray paint added the distinctive map of Texas on her haunch.

"Will Craig really think this is Temptation?" Scott asked.

"That or her ghost."

But would he really? Christine didn't know. She hoped that, at first glance, he'd be fooled. "He'll be focused on the game," she said, "and what he'll see will be so out of place that his brain won't have time to think it through. Maybe he'll think he's hallucinating, but that should be enough to break his concentration."

"C'mon Mom, we don't have much time. You better change now."

"Okay, lead her up to the tunnel. I'll meet you there in a minute."

At first Bobby thought the rapping sound was just part of the raucous cacophony from the stadium. Ahead 23–21, the Mustangs had intercepted the ball at their own thirty-eight yard line. They would run out the clock, he was sure, and win the game, but not cover the spread. He and Christine would own the team…if only he was still breathing.

Suddenly he recognized the sound as a fist knocking on the metal door to the electrical room.

"Godammit, open the door!"

The West Texas accent sounded just like Kingsley. But now? Here? With the game on the line, Bobby thought.

Crew Cut tore himself from the window and must have been thinking the same thing. "Jesus, Mr. K., it's the play of the game. What are you doing up here?"

He threw open the door, and a man dressed all in black burst into the room. He was bald and had a chalky pallor, made even paler by the purple scar that covered one side of his face. Emaciated and old, he would have seemed feeble except that at that moment, he was swinging a tire iron at Crew Cut's head.

The startled big man stumbled backwards and raised an arm. The tire iron crushed his wrist with the sound of a machete decapitating a coconut. Crew Cut wailed and brought his arms down, tucking the wounded wrist into an armpit. The tire iron swung again, this time connecting with the man's right knee. Crew Cut toppled to the floor, screaming. The man in black was on him then, pressing the iron to his throat, then looking up at Bobby.

"I do a pretty good imitation of the bastard's voice, don't I?" the man asked. "Hell, I've heard him give orders so long I even hear him in my sleep."

"Who are you!" Bobby demanded.

"Where are the keys to your cuffs?"

"Right pants pocket," Bobby said, motioning with his head toward the fallen Crew Cut.

The man dug out the keys, unlocked Bobby, then cuffed the moaning Crew Cut to an exposed pipe.

"Why are you doing this?" Bobby asked.

"I'm the only man in the world who hates Martin Kingsley more than you do," the man said.

"You're Houston Tyler! But you're wrong. I don't hate him. I feel sorry for him." Bobby rubbed his wrists and worked the blood back into his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome. I didn't want Martin to get the better of you."

"Where is he now?"

"I followed him out of his suite, figuring he was coming here, but he took the elevator down to the field. I suppose he wants to get his face on the TV."

"No," Bobby said. "He wants to call the plays."

Martin Kingsley couldn't see a damn thing until he bulled his way past the security guards and sideline photographers. By the time he got to Chet Krause, the team had run one play, a two-yard plunge by the fullback. Denver called time out to stop the clock with forty-six seconds left, and Craig Stringer trotted over to the sidelines to consult with the head coach. "Just take a knee," Krause said. "They're down to their last time out. Make 'em use it now."

"No fucking way!" Kingsley boomed, breaking in. "Chet, didn't you get my orders?"

"I got 'em Martin," replied the lantern-jawed coach, "but I figured you'd had too many margaritas."

"Godammit, listen! We gotta score again. Craig, throw the down and out so the receiver can get out of bounds and stop the clock."

Stringer's eyes flashed back and forth from the owner to the coach.

"Craig, you'll do no such thing. This game is already won and I won't risk a turnover. I don't know what the point spread is, Martin, and I don't give a shit. We play to win, not to satisfy your drinking buddies who've bet on the game."

"It's not them, you horse's ass! It's me! Now, do as I say."

"Hey guys," Stringer said. "We're gonna get a delay of game penalty if you're not on the same page pretty damn quick."

"If you don't get at least three points, Craig, I'm putting you on waivers, but only after I have both your kneecaps broken," Kingsley said. "If we score, you get a five hundred thousand dollar retirement bonus and you become general manager of the team. Stock options, six million dollar salary, expense account, you name it."

"You got it," Stringer said, buckling his helmet and running onto the field.

Chet Krause turned away in disgust, and Kingsley moved down the sideline to stand at the Mustangs 40, the line of scrimmage. "Don't do it, Martin," said a voice behind him.

He turned to find Bobby walking toward him, brandishing a sideline pass to a security guard. "What the hell are you doing here?" Kingsley demanded.

"Watching you become a spectacle. Jesus, Martin, your face was just on the Jumbotron and on every TV set in the world. Everybody saw you arguing with Krause. What do you think the commentators are saying? If Stringer throws the ball now, everyone will know you've got money riding on the game. You can't do it."