James Patterson - Private

Fred’s second wife, Lois, came to the door and was joined by my boisterous eleven-year-old cousin, Brian, who tackled my thighs like the All-American linebacker for Southern Cal he was sure he was going to be one day.

I rolled around and groaned in fake pain as Brian whooped and did a white-boy sack dance in the foyer. My little cousin Jackie stooped down and patted my head as if I were a golden retriever.

“Brian is a big fat brat, Jack. Are you hurt bad?”

I winked at her and told her I was okay, and she pulled my nose.

“Did you eat, Jack?” Uncle Fred asked, giving me a hand up, then throwing an arm across my shoulders.

“I wouldn’t say no to coffee,” I said.

“How about coffee and a slice of banana cream pie?”

“Sold.”

I grabbed a chair at the dining table, and the kids pelted me with questions-about the earthquake, if I’d nailed any bad guys lately, the fastest I’d ever driven my car.

As soon as I answered one question, they loaded up and fired again.

Normally, I’d have grabbed one kid under each arm, taken them into the media room, and watched a Spider-Man or a Batman movie, but tonight I was thinking of the time, how little of it was left before the Sunday schedule of games, one game in particular.

I caught my uncle’s eye and patted my breast pocket. He nodded and said to Lois, “I’m going to steal Jack for a few minutes.”

I followed Fred to his study, a beautiful mahogany-paneled room with two walls of trophy cases and a sixty-eight-inch flat-screen hung like a trophy over the fireplace.

“I’m going to drink,” Fred said.

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

Fred poured J amp;B over rocks, and I shoved the flash drive into his video setup. I gave him the desk chair so he could have the better angle. Fred Kreutzer was a complicated man. I couldn’t guess at how he would react to the unfortunate movie I had to show him.

His high-def screen was first-rate, a perfect match for our NASA-grade cameras.

We began to see images captured from outside the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow, looking in.

A red light winked on a telephone.

A man in a suit, his back to the camera, picked up the receiver, punched in some numbers, and collected a message.

Behind him, Victor Spano took a Heineken out of the fridge and turned on the television.

I took the remote control off Fred’s desk and sped the action forward, then slowed it as the man in the suit turned his face for his close-up.

It was Anthony Marzullo, the third-generation boss of the Chicago Mob bearing his family name.

On camera, he said to Spano, “Get the door.”

Spano did, and two men walked in: Kenny Owen, referee and crew chief with twenty-five years of experience on the field, and Lance Richter, a sharp young line judge who clearly saw that his financial future lay in queering the game, not playing by the rules.

My uncle Fred drew in a breath, then let out a string of curses.

Onscreen, hands were shaken, and the refs filled seats opposite a man who had taken on the heretofore impossible task of corrupting modern-day pro football.

“There can be no mistakes,” said Marzullo. He smiled without moving the top of his face. “As per usual, here’s twenty percent down. The rest you get tomorrow night. No more than seventeen points. Understand? If you have to call the game on account of the sun’s in your eyes, that’s good enough. Whatever it takes to hold the spread.”

Richter said, “We understand, and we know what’s at stake.” He reached for a fat stack of banded hundreds.

“Do you?” Marzullo said, putting his hand over Richter’s.

“Yes, sir. It’ll happen just like you want. It’s not a problem. Whatever it takes.”

Owen slapped his packet against his thigh before pocketing the cash.

I stopped the video and turned to my uncle.

The poor guy looked as though he’d taken a wrecking ball to the gut. Actually, I remembered the look from my father’s trial, a combination of terrible shame and sadness.

“It’s pretty bold,” I said. “This isn’t just a case of one ambitious mobster and a couple of crooked refs. It’s much bigger. The Marzullos are moving in on the Noccias’ territory.”

“I never thought Kenny Owen would take a nickel that didn’t belong to him,” said Fred. “I know his wife and I’ve met his kids. One plays ball at Ohio State.”

“The tape is good,” I said. “It’ll hold up in court.”

“I’ve got some calls to make,” Fred said. “I’ll get back to you in the morning, let you know what we’re going to do. You did a good job for us, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry, Uncle Fred. I couldn’t be sorrier.”

“Yeah,” Fred said. “Tomorrow’ll be worse.”

It was past midnight when I finally got to Colleen’s house.

I was wrung out, and I needed Colleen’s cool hand on my forehead. I wanted to listen to the musical sound of her brogue and fall asleep with her body curled around mine.

She came to the door in a camisole and a pair of panties the size of an afterthought. Her hair was bunched loosely on top of her head. She smelled wonderful, like pink roses with sugar on top.

“I’m sorry, but the inn is closed,” she said. “There’s a Days Inn down the road a piece.”

“Colleen, I should have called first.”

“Come in, Jack.”

She opened the door and stood on her toes to kiss me. Then she leaned in and pressed her hips against me for the couple of seconds it took to get me hard.

She ran her hand across the front of my pants, then took my hand in hers and led me to her bedroom. Filtered moonlight was coming through the curtains as Colleen stepped into a pair of high-heeled shoes.

“Want to watch the telly?” she asked. “Or is it something else you have in mind?”

“What’s on?” I said, and grinned.

So did Colleen.

I put my hands on the straps of her camisole and pulled them down onto her shoulders. No farther than that. Just a tease.

Colleen kept smiling as she unbuckled my belt and stripped off my clothes. Then she sat me down, took off my shoes and socks, and pushed me back onto her bed.

“God, I do love that body,” she said. “I do. God save me.”

This wasn’t what I had expected when I rang her doorbell, but there I was, naked on flowered sheets, watching Colleen tug the clips out of her hair. That curtain of fragrant black silk fell around her shoulders, covering, then revealing her breasts.

She bent over me, hair tickling my face, and she kissed me deeply and for a long time. It was glorious. She slid into the bed and wriggled against me, her cool skin sliding across mine, pulling away, then pressing against me.

I had my hands around her narrow hips-felt a prick of high heels at the small of my back-and then I was inside her.

My mind emptied, thoughts of sleep having burned away completely. Love poured in and filled my heart, love and gratitude and ecstasy and then, after maybe ten minutes of this, release-for both of us. I moved off Colleen’s body and sank into the bed.

The sweat began to dry on my skin, and unbelievably, Colleen began to cry.

I felt a flash of regret. I couldn’t take any more this day, not another thing, but the feeling dissolved, replaced by shame and then compassion for Colleen.

I gathered her into my arms and held her as she sobbed quietly against my chest. “Colleen, what is it?”

She shook her head no.

“Sweetie, tell me what it is. I want to hear it. I’m right here.”

Colleen struggled out of my arms. Shoes flew, banged into the corner. The bathroom door opened, and I heard water running. Minutes later, Colleen came out in a long sleep shirt and got into the bed.