Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

Griff didn’t rise to the bait.

“Is she footing your bills these days? Buying you all that neat new stuff?” Rodarte laughed that nasty laugh again and noisily smacked his chewing gum. “Sure she is. And glad to do it. Stuck with a husband who’s only half a man, I’ll bet she’s willing to pay any price to ride a big, strong football hero like you.”

Griff didn’t move, even though he craved to see Rodarte bleed.

Lowering his voice to a suggestive whisper, Rodarte said, “I’ll bet she’s one of those no-nonsense businesswoman types who goes absolutely wild in the sack. Am I right? She works out all her career insecurities on your dick, and she likes to be on top. Come on, Burkett, share. Is she one of those?”

“You’re maggot shit.”

Rodarte barked a laugh. “You’re fucking a paraplegic’s wife and I’m maggot shit?”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing,” Rodarte said innocently. “Just thought I’d drop by, say hi. Didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you. I wanted to reassure you that when you self-destruct-and you will, you know-I’m gonna be there to see it, and hopefully to help bring it about. I’m so far up your ass, Burkett. You have no idea.”

Griff feared if he stayed any longer he was going to take the first step toward the predicted self-destruction. Which was precisely what Rodarte wanted. Despite his resolve not to turn his back on the man, he did so and began walking away.

“Jason’s showing progress.”

Griff whipped back around. Rodarte, laughing softly, spat his wad of gum into the dirt. “The boy hasn’t got much natural talent, but he works hard. Plain to see he worships the ground you walk on. Probably wants to follow in your footsteps. Well, not the cheating and murdering path you took, but your football glory days.”

Squinting at Griff across the space separating them, Rodarte let his evil grin spread across his acne-cratered face. “Be a shame if something were to happen to the boy. A crippling accident or something that would prevent him from following his dream. He might even die.”

Griff took the steps necessary to close the distance between them. “You lay one hand on that kid and-”

“Calm down,” Rodarte said in a cajoling voice. “I was just speculating on the fickle finger of fate. Jesus, you’re a hothead. I try to have a friendly little chat here at the middle school athletic field and you-”

“What do you want, Rodarte?”

He dropped his saccharine pretense, and his eyes turned flinty. “You know what I want.”

“I don’t have any of Vista’s money.”

“They’re not convinced. I’m sure as hell not. And I’m not going to stop with you till I break you and you give it up. I’m as permanent as a birthmark.”

Griff aimed his index finger at him and began backing away. “You stay away from me. You stay away from everyone around me.”

Rodarte laughed. “Or what, Number Ten? Or what?”

Griff violated a condition of his probation, the primo one that Jerry Arnold continually reminded him of: Don’t go near your former associates.

The way Griff saw it, he had no choice. Rodarte had threatened Jason. And the way he’d talked about Laura…The implied threat, which went beyond the nasty stuff, had raised the hair on the back of Griff’s neck. Rodarte wouldn’t have a qualm against harming either of them. Even Laura’s money couldn’t protect her. He would hurt her and Jason without a blink, and would enjoy the hell out of doing it.

To prevent that, Griff must confront this issue head-on, now. He wasn’t willing to live with the constant threat of Rodarte. He certainly didn’t want to inflict it on two people who were entirely innocent. He couldn’t bear the guilt of someone else falling victim to Rodarte’s brutality the way Marcia had.

Griff drove straight home from the practice field, rushed through a shower, and dressed. He left behind his new Armani jacket in favor of one he’d had before his incarceration, not wanting to look too well heeled.

It was nervy to arrive at Vista’s offices unannounced, but he was betting that the triumvirate would agree to see him, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He was right. After waiting in a reception area for almost half an hour, he was summoned into the inner sanctum where he’d met with them the first time.

Same paneled walls, indirect lighting, and sound-absorbing rugs, but the hospitality was noticeably lacking. No sandwich tray, no open bar. Larry’s tan was just as bronze, but it appeared that more time may have been spent in the club bar than on the links. He’d gone a little soft around the middle.

Griff was surprised to see that Martin could still breathe without some form of respiratory apparatus. But he was now relying heavily on a cane to help support his immense body.

Bennett had given up on the comb-over and shaved his head. It was perfectly white and round, and from the back looked like an overgrown billiard ball sitting on his shoulders. With even fewer lashes now, his eyes were more reptilian than before.

Larry had one hip propped on the corner of a desk. Bennett was in an armchair, legs crossed. As Griff walked in, Martin collapsed onto a short leather sofa that was barely wide enough to accommodate him. Both his lungs and the seat cushions emitted a whoosh of air as he settled.

Griff wasn’t invited to sit.

Martin began. “What do you want?”

Griff responded just as bluntly. “Call off Rodarte.”

No one said anything for a full thirty seconds. Finally Larry broke the taut silence. “Would that be Stanley Rodarte you’re talking about?”

Griff didn’t buy the dumb act. “You’ll be glad to know your watchdog is persistent. He was in Big Spring the day I got out, and he’s been making a nuisance of himself ever since. He assaulted a friend of mine. A woman. Sodomized her and ruined her face. When that failed to win me over, he set two guys on me. For a week after, I could barely walk and my pee ran red.”

“Gee, Griff, we’re sorry to hear that,” Larry said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “And this would be our problem…why?”

Griff resented their playing innocent. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, so he’d rather they just own up to it and tell him that he and Marcia had it coming.

“Look, it sucks for you if Bill Bandy hid money where you can’t find it. But get off my back about it. I didn’t take anything from him. And you know damn well I didn’t kill him.”

“You had motive.”

“So did you.”

The FBI had arrested Bandy on charges of illegal gambling. Facing several years in federal prison, Bandy had played his bargaining chip-Griff Burkett. He told the feds about Griff’s association with Vista, specifically about the upcoming play-off game against Washington. No one in Dallas was happy about the loss that day, except the federal agents who were building a strong racketeering case against the Cowboys’ QB.

The deal Bandy had struck worked out great for him. Griff got caught; all charges against Bandy were dropped. But this exchange had made the Vista men nervous. What if the FBI wanted more from Bill Bandy than a cheating football player? The bookie might have been tempted to use them as another free pass at some point in the future.

The Vista trio had removed the temptation from Bandy by killing him.

At least that was what Griff had surmised and now had essentially accused them of. Unfazed, their stares remained unblinking.

“Maybe there was some secret stash,” he continued, “but I haven’t spent the last five years on a treasure hunt. I don’t want back in your operation, and I’m not working for a competing outfit. You can threaten me till doomsday, and you’ll still come up empty. So whatever you’re paying Rodarte to put pressure on me is money wasted. Call him off.”