Martin Kingsley knew from early childhood that his father adored him. He remembered one Christmas when his father had the Union Pacific build a miniature railroad in the huge backyard of the mansion. There was a working steam engine, two cars and a caboose that huffed and puffed through a tunnel, across a bridge, and around a man-made mountain. It could hold young Martin and half a dozen friends. Only there weren't any friends. Martin rode the train himself, and when the neighbors complained about the noise of the steam whistle, he tooted louder and longer, especially when close to the property line. Closing his eyes now, he could still hear the whistle. Hell, now he wanted to toot it louder than ever. He wanted to get even with everyone who ever insulted his old man.
Hey, look at me. I'm Earl Kingsley's son. Look at what I've built, you bastards!
Martin also knew very young that his father was a man of excesses. Earl Kingsley drank too much, gambled too much, spent too much. When his luck ran out, one disaster after another drained him. The wells went dry; his commodities trading went belly up; and the dice kept staring back with snake eyes.
The country clubbers-safe with their inherited T-Bills and trust funds-sneered that Earl was "all hat, no cattle." One night, a drunk and depressed Earl Kingsley stuck a twelve-gauge shotgun in his mouth and left it all behind.
Martin wished his father could see what he had become. Rich, sure, but accepted too. Martin had made his first grubstake in land development and parlayed that into oil and gas, and then a go-go savings and loan which folded, but not before he'd pocketed millions. He'd invested in fledgling pharmaceuticals and computer software companies, and everything paid off. But he was always highly leveraged, asset rich and cash poor. He could never have bought the team without picking up Houston Tyler's stock dirt cheap, then pledging everything to the banks in return for the loan.
Unlike his father, Martin had the schooling and polish and a key to the members' locker room at Ashbrook. Like his father, he gambled, too, but for different reasons. With connections to wise guys in Las Vegas, he was tipped to point-shaving in college basketball, horse dopings, and fighters who planned to visit the canvas in the first round. The sheer act of winning, not the rush of adrenalin that comes with risk, juiced Martin Kingsley. He feared losing everything as his father had done and liked nothing so much as a sure thing. He dreaded only that which he could not control. The flip of a coin, a field goal attempt into a cross-wind…the explosion of a pump at the Texas City refinery.
Seven men dead and one ghost back from the grave.
Houston Tyler had been right.
He went to jail for my crimes.
For all his years tromping through the mud and muck of the oil fields, Tyler was still naive, an innocent. In a way, he was like Robert Gallagher, Kingsley thought, seeing only black and white, hopelessly blind to shades of gray. The prosecutor had offered Tyler a plea to reckless endangerment-a hundred thousand dollar fine and ninety days in jail-but he wouldn't take it, despite Kingsley's urging.
"I'm innocent, Martin, and you damn well know it," Tyler had said.
But the jury didn't know it, and at trial, Tyler had refused to point the finger at his partner.
What do you do with such a man? Kingsley wondered.
For one thing, you take him at his word.
"I'll do to you what was done to me. I'll burn you, Martin."
That son-of-a-bitch, emerging from his past like a serpent from the mist, threatening everything he had built. There is nothing so dangerous as a self-righteous man who has been wronged, Kingsley thought. What was he going to do about the lousy five million dollars Tyler demanded be paid the day after the Super Bowl? Kingsley didn't have the cash and his line of credit was overdrawn. He could sell assets, of course, but what did he have that wasn't pledged to the banks?
Yesterday, just before Kingsley had boarded the Gulfstream — liened from nose to tail — Tyler had called him at Valley Ranch. "You got room for me in that hotel suite in sunny Mia-muh?" his ex-partner asked.
"What?" Caught off guard, his heart pounding like a drowning swimmer's, Kingsley didn't know what to say.
"I suppose not, Martin. You're probably gonna have lots of fancy parties with caviar and drinks on silver trays. You always threw a good party, the costs be damned."
"What is it you want, Ty?"
"I'll be there, Martin, looking over your shoulder. Like those banks did to us when we were up to our ass in debt, I'll be keeping a close eye on the collateral. My good eye!"
He cackled with laughter, and the line clicked dead. The bastard wanted to frighten him, and he did a good job, Kingsley admitted to himself. The scratchy voice coming from that scarred throat rattled him, made him feel as if crows were pecking away at his spinal column.
Kingsley had been edgy on the flight to Miami, and once here, he struggled to relax. It would not be easy. He had to come up with the money, and as of yet, he didn't have a plan. But there was something else to be accomplished in the next dozen days, too. He had to destroy Robert Gallagher, and that plan was in full gear.
The woman lawyer had been the first visitor to Kingsley's pool side bungalow that fine morning. The ocean breeze fluttered through the diaphanous white curtains as they'd shared a pitcher of grapefruit juice, eggs Benedict for Kingsley, a fruit cup for her. Cuban, he figured, dark and sultry like the Mexican women he had known since his wife's death, but taller and leaner with impenetrable eyes.
When Angelica Suarez had filed her appearance with the court in the custody/visitation case, Kingsley's investigators started digging. Now, Kingsley was confident he knew more about the woman than Gallagher did. He knew what videos she rented and what magazines she read. He knew what she ate for dinner and how many bottles of wine-Chardonnay and Chianti-were tossed into the recycling basket each Tuesday. He knew where she shopped, how much she spent, and-thanks to her charge account at a Little Havana farmacia — what day of the month her period began.
Even more important, Kingsley knew she had bought her own building in Little Havana and was behind on the mortgage payments. She had a 10-year-old niece with dyslexia, whose mother — Suarez's sister — was in drug rehab. The lawyer's credit cards were maxed out, and she was stressed out from too little sleep and too many clients who didn't pay their bills. Including one Robert Gallagher who traded limo service for legal work. And maybe slipped her some sausage on the side, judging from a Saturday surveillance that turned into an all-nighter.
Now Angelica Suarez sat on the chair across from him and smoothed the fabric on her black dress, which contrasted starkly with the white surroundings. A string of white pearls at her neck had an antique look, maybe smuggled out of Havana by her abuela. She had prominent cheekbones and an aristocratic bearing and could probably trace her heritage to Spain, Kingsley thought.
"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it was in Bobby's best interest," she said as Kingsley poured her coffee from a white pot. "He needs to get on with his life."
"Fine with me. I don't care why you're doing it."
"We would lose the case anyway. If we could win it, I never…" She let her voice trail off like a dying breeze.
He smiled to himself.
We all rationalize, don't we? Do it every day. Hell, I can rationalize not replacing the pumps at the Texas City refinery.