Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“The matter of Bandy’s homicide as well as the federal crimes for which you were convicted remain black marks against your name, Griff,” Speakman said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“So how realistic is it that someone around here will hire you? How realistic is it that someone will hire you for any amount, much less for what Laura and I are offering?”

The answer was obvious. When Griff declined to waste his breath on it, Speakman continued. “Your prospects are bleak. You can’t play football. You can’t coach football. You can’t write about or talk about football, because none of the media outlets will hire you to do so. You admitted having to liquidate all your assets to pay your debts, indicating to me that you didn’t save for a rainy day.”

Speakman seemed to enjoy highlighting his shortcomings. Maybe, Griff thought, he should challenge him to a footrace. See who was better at that. “I made three million a year from the Cowboys, plus endorsements,” he said tightly. “Everybody got a chunk of it, starting with my agent and the IRS, but what I got to keep, I spent, and had a whale of a great time doing it. What’s your point?”

“My point is that you seem to have no head for business or you would have appropriated your income differently. It also appears you had no talent for larceny, or you wouldn’t have got caught.”

“A trap was laid for me. I walked into it.”

“Nevertheless.” After a beat, Speakman said, “I’m not trying to insult you, Griff.”

“Really?”

Again Speakman ignored his caustic tone. “You asked why you were chosen.”

“I’d almost forgotten the question.”

“It required a long explanation. And I wanted to be brutally honest about our reasons for extending you this offer. Primarily, you have the genetic makeup to create the child we desire. Second, for reasons just discussed, you’re in urgent need of the money we’re offering to pay. Last, you’re totally independent.

“You have no family, no real friends, no attachments, no one to whom you must account, and that is a tremendous benefit to us. We’ve emphasized the confidentiality this arrangement demands. We’re the only three people who will ever know that I didn’t sire the child Laura will conceive.”

Griff was somewhat placated. Besides, he couldn’t afford to get huffy. Especially over the bald truth. He moved to the desk, picked up a crystal paperweight, weighed it in his palm. “You’re putting a lot of trust in me to keep my mouth shut.”

Speakman chuckled. “Actually, we’re not. We’re putting a lot of trust in greed.”

“Six hundred thousand?” Griff set down the paperweight and grinned at Speakman. “Not all that much when you think about it. Not what I’d call greedy.”

Laura looked at her husband. “You haven’t told him the rest?”

“We hadn’t got that far,” Speakman replied.

Griff said, “The rest?”

Speakman rolled his chair over to the desk and picked up the paperweight. Taking a handkerchief from his pants pocket, he used it to polish the crystal as he smiled up at Griff. “It’s not that we question your integrity.”

“Bullshit. You’d be fools not to question it.”

“Right,” Speakman said, laughing softly. “We would.” With the handkerchief still wrapped around the paperweight, he replaced it on the desk, moved it an eighth of an inch to the left, then slowly withdrew the handkerchief, which he refolded into a perfect square before returning it to his pocket.

“So, for my and Laura’s peace of mind, and to ensure your silence, you’ll be paid one million dollars upon the birth of our child. Additionally, you’ll receive one million dollars each year on his birthday. And all you have to do in return is forget you ever knew us.”

GRIFF TOSSED THE HONDA’S KEYS TO THE VALET PARKING attendant and walked briskly into the sleek lobby of the upscale building. A swank hotel occupied the lower twelve floors, condos the top twelve.

The lobby bar was relatively quiet on this midweek evening. A pianist was playing Sinatra-type standards on a white baby grand. Most of the tables were occupied by businessmen, nursing cocktails while they played one-upmanship.

The bar accessed a lighted patio where seating was available, but Griff chose to stay indoors, where he could enjoy the air-conditioning while keeping an eye on the entrance. He claimed a free table, signaled the waitress, and ordered a bourbon.

“House or label?”

“House is fine.”

“Water?”

“Rocks.”

“Want to start a tab?”

“Please.”

“Will anyone be joining you?”

“No.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Although the occasion-getting out of prison-and the day he’d had-his bizarre meeting with the Speakmans-seemed to call for a highball or two, Griff didn’t really like to drink. Since he’d had to mop up regurgitated booze so often as a kid, he’d never really developed a taste for it.

But the drink the waitress delivered to him looked and smelled good. The first sip went down smoothly, although he could tell by the instant fire it ignited in his belly that it had been over five years since he’d had spirits of any kind. He cautioned himself to go slowly. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have to wait.

A million dollars.

“You’ll be paid in cash,” Speakman had told him. “It will be placed in the safe-deposit box, and only you, I, and Laura will be signatories. There will be no records kept, no paperwork of any kind. Once Laura conceives, absolutely no connection can ever be made between you and us. If our paths happen to cross, which will be unlikely, you won’t recognize us. We’ll be meeting for the first time. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Conversation was suspended when Manuelo came in to deliver a phone message to Mrs. Speakman. She read it, then excused herself, saying she would be back shortly. She left, Manuelo trailing her.

Speakman noticed Griff watching the manservant as he silently closed the double doors behind himself. “Don’t worry about Manuelo,” he said. “He speaks only a few words of English. I told him that you were an old school chum who was passing through. He wouldn’t have recognized you from your football days. By the time he reached the U.S., you were in Big Spring.”

Laura Speakman returned almost immediately. Her husband asked, “Anything important?”

“Joe McDonald with a quick question that he didn’t think could wait till morning.”

Foster laughed. “That’s Joe. Always in a hurry.”

While they were chatting about the impatient Joe, Griff thought of another problem. “Cash will be hard to spend,” he said abruptly.

After a slight hesitation, Foster said, “Yes, I’m afraid that will present some difficulties. I imagine that you’ll be under close scrutiny by the IRS and the FBI, since there was some speculation about your empty bank accounts at the time of your arrest.”

“It was assumed you had money tucked away somewhere.”

Beneath Laura Speakman’s cool statement, he heard an implied question mark. “Just like it was assumed I knocked off Bandy,” he said tightly. “I didn’t, and I didn’t.”

She held his stare for several moments, then said, “All right.”

But she said it like she was only half convinced, and that pissed him off. Even though he was going to bed her, he didn’t think he would ever like her. She was good to look at, but he’d never been attracted to the ball-breaker type. And why was she busting his when they were vital to what she needed him for? He considered bringing this irony to her attention, then decided not to. He doubted she would see the humor in it.

He said, “I need the money, Mrs. Speakman. The money is the only reason I would even consider doing this. At least I’ve been honest about it.”