Sandra Brown: Play Dirty

The speechless man motioned with his head for Griff to follow. Again it occurred to Griff that Foster Speakman might be lying in wait. Did he keep thumbscrews and whips in the dungeon?

When they reached a set of double doors, the butler-for lack of a better word-pushed both open, then stood aside. Griff stepped into the room, obviously a library, the walls on three sides consisting of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The fourth wall was almost entirely windows, affording a view of the sweeping lawn and flower gardens.

“I wondered.”

Griff turned at the unexpected voice and got his second surprise. The man smiling up at him was in a wheelchair.

“Wondered what?”

“How physically imposing you would be in person.” He sized Griff up. “You’re as tall as I expected, but not as…bulky. Of course, I’ve only seen you from the distance of a stadium box, and on TV.”

“TV adds ten pounds.”

The man laughed. “To say nothing of shoulder pads.” He extended his right hand. “Foster Speakman. Thank you for coming.” They shook hands. Not surprisingly, his hand was smaller than Griff’s by far, but his palm was dry and his handshake firm. He pushed a button on his fancy wheelchair and backed away. “Come in and have a seat.”

He motioned Griff toward a grouping of comfortably arranged pieces with appropriate tables and lamps. Griff chose one of the chairs. As he sank into it, he experienced a pang of homesickness for the furnishings of similar quality he used to own. Now he had to keep his bread in a fridge with an irritating hum.

Taking another glance around the room and the acreage beyond the windows, he questioned again just what the hell he was doing here, in an ivy-covered mansion, with a crippled man.

Foster Speakman probably had five years on him, which put him around forty. He was nice looking. Hard to tell how tall he would be standing, but Griff guessed just shy of six feet. He was wearing preppy clothes-navy blue golf shirt and khaki slacks, brown leather belt, matching loafers, tan socks.

The legs of his trousers looked like deflated balloons, not much flesh to fill them out.

“Something to drink?” Speakman asked pleasantly.

Caught staring and speculating, Griff shifted his attention back to his host’s face. “A Coke?”

Speakman looked over at the man who’d answered the door. “Manuelo, two Cokes, por favor.”

Manuelo was as square and solid as a sack of cement but moved soundlessly. Speakman noticed Griff watching the servant as he went to the bar and began pouring their drinks. “He’s from El Salvador.”

“Huh.”

“He literally walked to the United States.”

“Huh.”

“He tends to me.”

Griff could think of nothing to say to that, although he wanted to ask if Manuelo, despite his smile, kept a collection of shrunken heads under his bed.

“Did you drive from Big Spring today?” Speakman asked.

“My lawyer picked me up this morning.”

“Long drive.”

“I didn’t mind it.”

Speakman grinned. “I guess not. After being cooped up for so long.” He waited until Griff had taken his drink from the small tray Manuelo extended to him, then took his own cut-crystal glass and raised it. “To your release.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Manuelo left through the double doors, pulling them closed behind him. Griff took another sip of Coke, becoming uncomfortable under Speakman’s blatantly curious stare.

What was this? Invite a con for drinks week?

The whole scene was beginning to make him uneasy. Deciding to cut to the chase, he set his drink on the end table at his elbow. “Did you ask me here to get an up close and personal look at a has-been football player? Or a convicted felon?”

Speakman seemed unfazed by his rudeness. “I thought you might be in the market for a job.”

Not wanting to look desperate or needy, Griff gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Any offers yet?” Speakman asked.

“None that have interested me.”

“The Cowboys aren’t-”

“No. Nor is any other team. I’ve been banned from the league. I doubt I could buy a ticket to an NFL game.”

Speakman nodded as though he had already determined that was the way things were with Griff Burkett. “If you can’t do something related to football, what did you plan to do?”

“I planned to serve my sentence and get out.”

“Nothing beyond that?”

Griff sat back, again shrugged as though he didn’t give a shit, reached for his Coke, and took another sip. “I’ve toyed with some ideas but haven’t settled on anything yet.”

“I own an airline. SunSouth.”

Griff kept his features schooled, trying not to show that he was either surprised or impressed, when actually he was both. “I fly it. Or rather, I used to fly SunSouth often.”

Speakman flashed an unself-conscious smile. “So do a lot of people, I’m pleased to say.”

Griff looked around the beautiful room, his gaze stopping on some of its treasures, then came back to Speakman. “I bet you are.”

Despite his drollness, Speakman’s smile remained in place. “I invited you here to offer you a job.”

Griff’s heart did a little jig of gladness. A man like Foster Speakman could do him a lot of good. Now he remembered why the name had sounded familiar. Speakman was an influential force in Dallas, owning and operating one of the region’s most successful enterprises. An endorsement from him, even a minor nod of pardon, would go a long way toward winning back some of the favor Griff had lost five years ago.

But he tamped down his bubbling optimism. For all he knew, the guy wanted him to strain the shit out of the sewage tanks on his airplanes. “I’m listening.”

“The job I’m offering would give you immediate financial relief. I understand that your assets were liquidated to pay the fine the court imposed on you.”

Hedging the truth, Griff said, “Most of them, yeah.”

“Those proceeds were also used to cover substantial debts. Is that correct?”

“Look, Speakman, since you seem to know anyway, stop fishing. I lost everything and then some. Is that what you wanted to hear? I don’t have a pot to piss in.”

“Then I suppose a hundred thousand would come in handy.”

Taken aback by the amount, Griff felt his irritation turn to suspicion. He’d learned the hard way to be wary of anything that seemed too easily come by. If it seemed too good to be true, it probably was. “A hundred thousand a year?”

“No, Mr. Burkett,” Speakman said, smiling, enjoying himself. “A hundred thousand to seal our deal. Using a term you’re familiar with, it would be like a signing bonus.”

Griff stared at him for a count of ten. “A hundred grand. U.S. dollars.”

“Legal tender. It’s yours if you say yes to what I propose.”

Griff carefully removed his ankle from his opposite knee and set both feet on the floor, buying time while his mind spun around the amount of money and how badly he needed it. “Are you thinking about using me to advertise your airline? Billboards, commercials, ads? That kind of thing? I wouldn’t cotton to posing naked, but it could be negotiated.”

Speakman smiled and shook his head. “I realize that endorsements were a significant part of your income when you were the starting quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys. That Number Ten jersey sold a lot of whatever it was advertising. But now I’m afraid an endorsement from you would repel customers, not attract them.”

Even knowing that was true, Griff was pissed off to hear it. “Then what did you have in mind? Who do I have to kill?”

Speakman actually laughed out loud. “It’s nothing that drastic.”

“I don’t know anything about airplanes.”