Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“Okay. Give me a few days,” he told Bandy. “I’ll liquidate something. A car. My condo in Florida. Something. What’s the minimum amount that would temporarily satisfy them? Two hundred thousand? That’s more than half what I owe them. Would that buy me some grace?”

Bandy dabbed his leaking eyes with a corner of his handkerchief. “There may be another way.”

“To buy me time?”

“To cancel the debt.”

Griff gaped at him as if he’d said that he could have a week on a desert island with every Playmate of the Month for the past year, that they were all nymphomaniacs with the hots for him, and that no clothes were allowed.

Bandy asked, “Are you willing to meet with them? Discuss options?”

“Where and what time?”

The “them” Bandy had referred to were three men, who welcomed Griff into Vista’s opulent offices with hearty handshakes and unlimited hospitality. What would you like to drink? Help yourself to the tray of sandwiches there. I highly recommend the beef tenderloin with the horseradish sauce. How about a massage after the meeting? We’ve got a girl on staff who’ll give you a massage with a happy ending. Wink, wink. If you get my meaning. Which Griff did.

You’d never know by the reception they gave him that he owed them over a quarter million dollars and that they were making threats against his person if he didn’t pay this debt immediately.

The only native Texan was tall, trim, darkly tanned, with large and very white teeth. He was an avid golfer who talked loudly, lewdly, and nonstop. It was he who placed his arm across Griff’s shoulders and told him about the masseuse with the magic hands and mouth. Larry was the guy’s name.

Martin had a swarthy, Mediterranean look. He was obese. He didn’t breathe, he wheezed like an off-key bagpipe, and looked like he could go into cardiac arrest at any moment if only his heart could work up the energy.

The third, Bennett, was quiet and unobtrusive. Balding and fair skinned, he sat apart, contributing little but studying Griff with the unblinking, lashless stare of something scaly and venomous.

After the initial greetings, they got down to business. The terms of their proposal were simple: Throw the Atlanta game on Sunday, and his debt would disappear. That was not how they put it, but that was the bottom line.

Martin told him they didn’t expect him to try to lose. “Just don’t play up to your full potential.”

Larry winked again. “Give the fucking Falcons a fucking chance. That’s all.”

“And who knows,” Martin wheezed, “if the Falcons pull out a win, we could throw a little extra bonus your way, in addition to clearing your debt.” Gasp. “Right, Bennett?”

Bennett the Silent nodded his stiff comb-over.

Griff told them he’d think about it.

Fine, they said. He had till Sunday to make up his mind. And just to show their goodwill, they insisted that he avail himself of the massage with the girl, who capped off the fifty-minute rubdown with a blow job. Not that he couldn’t get head whenever he wanted it. There were always girls just dying to notch their bedposts with the Lone Star logo of the Dallas Cowboys. But this girl was exceptional.

On Sunday, while he was suiting up, during the singing of the national anthem, even as he took the field following the opening kickoff, he was still wrestling with his decision. He didn’t know what he would do until late in the fourth quarter, with a 10-10 score, when Dallas was deep in their own territory and it was third and twelve.

He took the snap. Dallas linemen went down like bowling pins under a Falcons blitz. His fastest, strongest running back got blocked by two linebackers. The third one was chugging toward Griff, smelling blood. Scrambling, looking for an open receiver, Griff realized how easy-and convincing-it would be to throw an interception.

Atlanta won 17 to 10.

The partnership was forged.

IF YOU WANT TO PUT SPIN ON IT, YOU GOTTA GET YOUR THUMB under it.” Griff demonstrated the rotating hand motion to Jason Rich. “See? You gotta whip your thumb under just as you release the ball. Now try again.”

He handed over the football. Jason’s face was tense with concentration as he gripped the ball the way Griff had demonstrated and threw a pass. “Much better.”

“One more time, Griff? I think I let go a little too late.”

“Okay, but only one. Practice is about to start.”

Griff saw improvement in the second pass. “Good work, Jason. You’re getting the hang of it. Throw a few thousand more and you’ll have it down pat. You’ll be breaking records.”

Behind his mask, Jason’s sweaty face broke into a grin. “Yesterday was fun. Except for…you know.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I told my dad. He said you handled it the only way you could. If you had fought them, it would’ve made it worse.”

“I’ll say. Did you see the size of those guys?”

Jason laughed, then said tentatively, “Maybe we could go for milk shakes again sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

“Me, too. See you tomorrow.”

Griff knocked on the top of the boy’s helmet, two taps. “I’ll be here.”

Jason trotted off to join his teammates, who were assembling on the sideline of the practice field. Bolly was among the other dads. Griff raised his hand in greeting, and Bolly waved back.

Griff jogged across the field to retrieve the footballs Jason had thrown and stuffed them into the cloth bag he kept in the trunk of his car. He pulled the drawstring to close the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

That was when he saw Rodarte, standing outside the chain-link fence, watching him.

Griff was already hot from being in the sun for the hour with Jason. When he saw Rodarte, it seemed his blood reached the boiling point in seconds. He had to force himself not to charge the fence.

Unhurried, he went through the gate and joined Rodarte on the other side. The son of a bitch didn’t even deign to look at him. Instead, he stared across the field to the far sideline, where the middle school head coach was cautioning his young team not to let themselves become overheated or dehydrated during practice.

“You’re pathetic, Rodarte,” Griff said. “Collecting old newspapers like a bag lady.”

Rodarte chuckled but still didn’t turn to face him. “Fun reading. I hated keeping it to myself.”

Griff started to grab him by the shoulder and force him around, but he didn’t dare lay a hand on the man. Rodarte would fight back. And if it got ugly, which it inevitably would, there were too many witnesses. In particular Bolly. Griff had promised him there wouldn’t be any trouble. Yesterday the sportswriter had entrusted his son to him. Griff would have hated like hell to betray that trust now.

He could tell Rodarte to go to hell and simply walk away. Let him stand there and dissolve from the heat till he was nothing but a puddle of sweat being absorbed by the hard, baked ground.

But ignoring him wouldn’t be smart. Rodarte’s being there wasn’t coincidence, any more than this morning’s incident with the newspaper was a harmless prank. After staying invisible for weeks, Rodarte had resurfaced. Until Griff knew why, he wouldn’t turn his back on him.

Rodarte reached into his pocket and took out a pack of gum. “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

“Good luck with that. It would be just awful if you got sick and died.”

Rodarte gave him a sly grin as he unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. “You still banging that broad?”

Griff’s jaw tensed.

“I suppose since your favorite whore is still out of commission, you gotta get it somewhere.” His grin got slier. “You could do a lot worse. Not only has Mrs. Speakman got a sweet ass but she’s loaded. But I’m sure you know that. Nobody ever called you stupid, Number Ten. A lot of other ugly names, but never stupid.”