James Patterson - Private

“I’ve made a right fool of meself,” she said.

“Talk to me. Please.”

She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. I put my hand across her belly.

“It’s hard, Jack. This-leaves me so sad sometimes. I see you at midnight some random nights. I work with you at the office. And in between?”

“I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t say that things would change. We were smack up against the wall, and I had to tell the truth.

“This is all I’ve got, Colleen. I can’t move in. I can’t marry you. This has to stop.”

“You don’t love me, do you, Jack?”

I sighed. Colleen hugged me as I stroked her hair. “I do. But not the way you need.”

I felt as heartsick as she felt, and then I had to disengage from her embrace.

“Stay, Jack. I’m okay now. It’s Sunday morning. A bright new day.”

“I’ve got to go home and get some sleep. I’m working today… This NFL thing is about to blow. My uncle is depending on me. I gave him my promise.”

“I see.”

I gathered my clothes from the floor and dressed in the dark. Colleen was staring at the ceiling when I kissed her good-bye.

“You’re not a bad person, Jack. You’ve always been honest with me. You’re always straight. Have a good day for yourself, now.”

Colleen was still on my mind when Del Rio and I met Fred in the stadium parking lot at noon.

Horns blared without mercy. Motorcycles sputtered and roared as they came through the gates. Cars and trucks streamed across asphalt. Fans of all ages wearing Raiders T-shirts-some with their faces painted silver and black, a select few in Darth Raider costumes-were having tailgate parties, cooking burgers and steaks and getting bombed.

The home team was going to play, and the fans always dared to hope that by some miracle their glory days would return, that the Raiders would triumph-and if they didn’t, it was still a good day for a party.

I looked across to the owners’ lot, saw Fred lock his car and start toward the entrance. He was wearing his favorite warm-up jacket, Dockers, and orthopedic shoes. His thinning hair was neatly combed. I thought that he looked older than he had a week ago, like he’d suffered a great loss, which I guess he had.

I called Fred’s name, and he looked up, changed course.

He shook hands with Del Rio, clapped my shoulder, and led us through the crowd toward a side door beyond the lines.

“Thanks for coming, Jack, Rick. I appreciate it.”

He flashed his ID at one of the security guards, said, “They’re with me,” and a door opened into a tunnel fit for a remake of the Mean Joe Greene commercial.

For one bright green instant, I saw the field, the stands filling on all sides, and then we took a sharp left and headed down beneath the stadium.

Doors opened and closed along the underground hallway. Stadium personnel called out to Fred, and he acknowledged them with a wave and a smile-but my stomach clenched thinking about what was going to happen in the next few minutes.

“Let’s get it over with,” Fred said. “This is going to be tough, really bad, Jack.”

He put his key into a lock and stood back to let me and Del Rio pass in front of him into his office.

I was surprised to see Evan Newman and David Dix sitting around Fred’s desk. Two men I didn’t recognize sat on a sofa at the rear of the room. They were wearing black-and-white stripes. Their expressions were grim.

Fred introduced the men as Skip Stefero and Marty Matlaga, then said, “Jack, you got the pictures? You and Rick, come with me. Everyone else, we’ll be back in a couple of minutes. If we’re not, bust in.”

Rick and I followed Fred a short distance to a door marked “Officials.”

Fred knocked twice, and without waiting for a response, turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The echo of conversation and the rattle of lockers opening and closing stopped dead as the three of us stepped inside.

The refs were in various states of undress and they were all looking at us. Fred calmly said, “Kenny, Lance, I need to see you both for a moment.”

Kenny Owen was buttoning his black-and-white-striped shirt. He put his foot on a bench and tied a shoelace.

“Outside,” Fred said. “I mean now.”

Lance Richter’s sunburned complexion paled, but he and Kenny Owen went through the door, and Fred closed it behind them.

We five formed a huddle a dozen yards away from the refs’ locker room. Fred said, “There’s no easy way. We can do this hard or we can do it harder.”

“What are you talking about, Fred?” Owen asked, playing dumb and doing it rather well.

“We’ve got the whole revolting fix on tape, you pathetic assholes. Jack, show them the pictures you took at the Beverly Hills.”

I had printed stills from the video of Owen and Richter’s meeting with Anthony Marzullo, had them in an envelope inside my breast pocket.

I took out the pictures, sorted through them, and put the money shot right on top.

Richter saw the photo of him and Owen holding stacks of money, sitting across a coffee table from the boss of the Chicago Mob.

I smelled urine, saw the front of Richter’s pants get wet. He blurted, “I had to go along with it. It was go along with Kenny or lose my job.”

Owen snarled. “You pussy.”

Fred went on, “Don’t waste time giving me bull, Richter. I don’t care why anyway.”

“This was the first time,” Owen said. “Have a heart, Fred. You can’t make money working this job.”

“Ken. Did you hear me say I had it on tape? Marzullo says, ‘Here’s twenty percent down. As per usual.’ Listen to me. Newman and Dix are in my office. Dix would like to take you out to the desert and shoot you both. He’d do it too. Newman wants to run for Congress. He’d like to have you arrested right now, which would partially protect the NFL’s reputation-and destroy the game.

“I see it differently, and my partners trust my instincts. If you’ve got any brains at all, these are your options. Now listen.”

The two refs stared unblinkingly as Fred continued.

“Plan A. You go back into the locker room, say that you were seen having dinner with a couple of players, you can’t say who. That’s a league violation, with a termination penalty.

“Here’s Plan B. I take our video of you accepting a payoff from Marzullo to the commissioner. The integrity of the game goes under the microscope. All the games you officiated in your depraved little lives will be examined.

“You’ll be arrested and charged with criminal conspiracy, and the story will be news across the country overnight and for years to come.

“The Marzullos will be charged with racketeering, and your lives won’t be worth a hangnail either in jail or out.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t bet a buck on your lives right now. You’ve got three hours at the most to disappear. When the Marzullos don’t see you on the field, the word’s gonna go out. When the game doesn’t go the way the Marzullos expect, you’re marked men. I don’t think your bodies will ever be found.”

Kenny Owen’s eyes were huge and wet. He paraphrased what Fred had fed him. “We had dinner with some players, but I can’t say who because it wasn’t their fault. It was stupid. We went for the free steak and broke the rules. Please accept our resignation.”

Fred said, “Empty your lockers and get the hell out of here. Run.”

Ten minutes later, Fred, Newman, and Dix marched the new refs into the officials’ locker room. As predicted, the Titans hammered the Raiders, 52 to 21, beating the spread by 14.

I took the video back to Private and locked it in the vault where a lot of other secrets were kept. If Fred ever needed it, I’d have it for him.