Sandra Brown: Play Dirty

Griff looked at him for a moment, then said softly, “Did. Just like I did.”

Turner backed down and, looking slightly embarrassed by his momentary testiness, turned away and laid another set of keys on the stick-furniture coffee table. “Our extra car. It’s parked outside. Can’t miss it. Faded red, two-door Honda. Not worth anything as a trade-in, so when Susan got her Range Rover, we kept it for emergencies. It runs okay. I had the oil changed and the tires checked. Use it for as long as you need it.”

“Will the daily rental fee be added to my bill?”

Again, Turner took umbrage. “Why are you being such a prick about everything? I’m trying to help.”

“I needed your help five years ago to keep me out of fucking prison.”

“I did everything I could for you,” Turner fired back. “They had you. You do the crime, you do the time.”

“Gee, I need to write that down.” Griff patted his pockets as though looking for a pen.

“I’m outta here.”

Turner moved toward the door, but Griff headed him off. “Okay, okay, you’re a prince among lawyers and I’m an unappreciative prick. What else?” He allowed Turner a few moments to fume in righteous indignation, then repeated in a more conciliatory tone, “What else have you done for me?”

“I put some of your clothes in the closet in the bedroom.” He gestured toward an open doorway across the room. “Jeans and polos haven’t gone out of style. I picked up some sheets and towels at Target. You got toiletries?”

“In my duffel.”

“Bottled water, milk, eggs are in the fridge. Bread’s in there, too. I thought there might be roaches in the pantry.”

“Safe guess.”

“Look, Griff, I know it’s no palace, but-”

“Palace?” he repeated, laughing. “I don’t think anyone would mistake this dump for a palace.” Then, to keep from appearing ungrateful, he added, “But as you said, it’s only a stopgap. Do I have a phone?”

“In the bedroom. I put down the deposit for you. It’s in my name. We can have it disconnected when you get your own.”

“Thanks. What’s the number?”

Turner told him. “Don’t you need to write it down?”

“I used to carry a couple hundred plays inside my head. I can remember ten digits.”

“Hmm. Right. Don’t forget to check in with your probation officer. He’ll need to know how to contact you.”

“First item on my list. Call Jerry Arnold.” Griff drew a check mark in the air.

Turner handed him a bank envelope. “Here’s some walking-around money until you can get a credit card. And your driver’s license is in there, too. Address is wrong, of course, but it doesn’t expire until your next birthday, and by then you’ll have a new place.”

“Thanks.” Griff tossed the bank envelope onto the table beside the keys to the borrowed car. Taking handouts from his lawyer was almost as humiliating as the first day of prison, when he’d been told the rules as well as the punishments for breaking them.

“Well, then, I guess you’re good to go.” The lawyer clapped him on the shoulder, which seemed an unnatural and awkward gesture for him. He turned away quickly, but at the door he paused and looked back. “Griff…uh…folks are still pissed at you. To a lot of people, you committed a cardinal sin. If someone gives you flak, don’t let it bother you too much. Turn the other cheek, okay?”

Griff remained silent. He wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep.

Turner hesitated, looking worried. “Getting out…It’s a tough transition.”

“Beats staying in.”

“Those classes they have for inmates about to be released…”

“The Release Preparation Program.”

“Right. Were the sessions helpful?”

“Oh, yeah. I learned how to fill out a job application. Was urged not to scratch my ass or pick my nose during an interview.”

Looking chagrined, Turner asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”

“Get a job.”

“For sure. What I mean is, do you have any prospects lined up?”

“Do you know an NFL team looking for a starting quarterback?” Turner’s face went so flaccid, Griff laughed. “That was a joke.”

The estate was enclosed by an ivy-covered, twelve-foot-high brick wall.

“Holy shit.” Griff pulled the red Honda up to the call box at the gate. He’d known by the address that this was an affluent part of Dallas, but he hadn’t expected it to be this affluent.

Instructions on how to contact the house were printed on the box. He punched in a sequence of numbers on the keypad, which he supposed rang a telephone inside. In a moment, a voice came through the speaker.

“Yes?”

“Griff Burkett to see Mr. Speakman.”

Nothing else was said. But the iron picket gate opened and he drove through. The brick lane was bordered by cultivated beds of low shrubbery and flowers. Beyond them the tree-shaded lawn looked like a carpet of green velvet.

The mansion itself was as impressive as the landscaping. Older than Griff by several decades, it was constructed of gray stone. Some of its walls were ivy covered like the estate wall. He followed the curving driveway and parked directly in front of the entrance, then got out of the borrowed Honda and approached the front door. It was flanked by urns containing evergreen trees. Idly Griff wondered how in hell they got a tree to grow in the shape of a corkscrew.

No cobwebs clinging to the eaves. Nary a stray leaf anywhere. Not a smear on any of the windows. The house, the grounds, the whole place was freaking perfect.

When he’d told Wyatt Turner he didn’t have any prospects, he’d lied. Not that job offers were pouring in. Right now, Griff Burkett was arguably the most detested man in Dallas, if not the entire Lone Star State. No, that was still limiting: He was despised in the whole football-loving country. People sneered his name, or spat after saying it as though to ward off an evil spirit. Nobody in their right mind would want him on their payroll.

But he did have this one prospect, however slim.

A few days before his release, he had received an invitation to be in this spot, on this date, at this time. The stiff card had been engraved: Foster Speakman. The name was vaguely familiar, although Griff couldn’t remember why it would be.

As he depressed the doorbell, he couldn’t imagine what a guy who lived in a place like this could possibly want with him. He had assumed the appointment portended a job offer. Now, seeing this spread, he thought maybe not. Maybe this Speakman had been a diehard Cowboys fan who only wanted his own pound of Griff Burkett’s flesh.

The door was opened almost immediately. He was greeted by a waft of refrigerated air, the faint scent of oranges, and a guy who looked like he should be wearing a breechcloth and carrying a spear.

Griff had expected a maid or butler-someone in a white apron, with a soft speaking voice and polite but aloof mannerisms. This guy didn’t come close. He was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and black slacks. He had the wide, flat features of Mayan royalty. His skin was smooth and beardless. Straight hair black as ink.

“Uh, Mr. Speakman?”

He shook his head and smiled. Rather, he revealed his teeth. You couldn’t really call it a smile because no other feature of his face changed, even moderately. He stood aside and motioned Griff in.

A vaulted ceiling loomed three stories above. Oriental rugs formed islands of subtle color on the marble floor. Griff’s image was caught in the enormous mirror that hung above the long console table. The curving staircase was an architectural marvel, especially considering when the house had been built. The space was vast, and as hushed as a cathedral.