She sneaked out of the horde of quote-hungry journalists just as Stringer was thanking God for his good fortune-"I gotta give a big hand clap to the head coach upstairs"-then followed Bobby from a distance. He seemed to be scanning the crowd, looking for someone. Christine edged her way behind a heavyset TV cameraman and watched Bobby without being seen by him.
Behind her, Nightlife Jackson was regaling the press with easygoing humor. How different his public persona was from his private one, Christine thought. A daytime charmer, a nighttime slasher.
"Any predictions, Nightlife?" someone from the back of the crowd asked.
"We're gonna smash, trash, bash, and crash 'em. Denver will be screwed, tattooed, and barbecued and ah'm gonna get me a championship ring."
"He oughta get a home-confinement bracelet," a reporter deadpanned. Christine recognized him as a wiseguy from ESPN.
"Hey Nightlife," the ESPN guy called out. "Is it true you majored in basket weaving in college?"
"Nah," the player replied. "That was way too tough. I studied broadcasting."
There were a few laughs, and Christine watched Bobby move away from the rat pack, heading toward the crowd around Buckwalter Washington who was describing his eating habits which included a dozen big Macs after practice. Bobby seemed to listen a moment and moved on, still not seeing Christine behind him.
She watched him approach the corral of reporters circling Chet Krause. The coach was dispensing his usual platitudes in a Texas drawl, worrying that his players were "tarred" from full contact practices and didn't seem to have the usual spring in their legs.
Cameras whirred and clicked, and utterly bored reporters duly recorded their banal notes. Christine watched Bobby move away again.
Who's he looking for? And why do I even care?
Don't y'all go calling us cowgirls," Shari Blossom was saying to a semi-circle of reporters, all male, all staring at the cleavage rising from her push-up bra underneath the blue shirt tied at her midriff. Her white shorts were cut into a V so far below the navel as to require regular waxing sessions. Completing the outfit were white boots and a white bolero vest festooned with silver stars. She chewed a pink wad of bubble gum as she spoke, occasionally cracking it between her molars. "We're the Dallas Mustangs Cheerleaders, and don't be fergittin' it, honey."
She winked at a paunchy, sweating, balding reporter, who furiously scribbled notes as if Shari Blossom, co-captain of America's Sweethearts, were disclosing the precise location of the Holy Grail.
"We're not cowgirls. We're not bimbos, hoochies, or Hooters girls. We're the pick of the litter and as American as apple pie. Or apple tart." She winked again and wiggled her hips.
The reporters nodded at the imparted wisdom and jotted more chicken scrawl in their little notebooks. Bobby studied this ripe peach of a woman, this symbol of healthy, innocent sexuality and, for a moment doubted his plan. Would Shari help him? Could she carry it off? Was he crazy putting so much trust in her? His life would be riding on those long, sun-tanned legs.
He'd known enough of the cheerleaders to realize that they were more than prancing, boob-jigglers with wide-eyed smiles. Although they might not have Ph. D.'s in astrophysics, they were savvy and sophisticated about men. They'd partied with Saudi sheiks and Texas oilmen, made commercials and personal appearances, and traveled the world. Shari was brighter than she'd let on, and if anyone could get close to Craig Stringer, she was the one. Besides, at this point, Bobby didn't have any other options.
It had been Scott's idea, though the kid tried to make his father think it was his own.
"Who's the most important player on the Mustangs?" Scott had asked him that morning.
"Easy, Craig Stringer."
"Absolutely. He's the bomb, but what does he do off the field?"
"Chase your mother, apparently."
"No, I mean, what are his weaknesses?"
"He's vain and arrogant, but those are probably considered assets in his line of work."
"C'mon Dad, get stoked. You were the team lawyer. What shaddy stuff has he been into?"
"Booze, women, drugs, the unholy trinity."
"Right! So…"
"So," Bobby said, picking up the pace, "he can probably handle one. Maybe he can handle two. But can he handle all three during the most pressure-packed week of his life?"
"What do you think, Dad?"
"I don't know, but there's a sweet Texas belle who might be able to find out," Bobby said.
"Hiya Boy Scout!" Shari called out, spotting Bobby in the crowd. "Long time, no see."
True, Bobby thought. He hadn't seen Shari since he'd walked her out of a Dallas courtroom, acquitted of a shoplifting charge. He couldn't claim much credit as it was Shari's testimony, or maybe her leopard print mini-dress that did it, the judge buying her story that the pearls from the Nieman Marcus jewelry counter must have been swept into her purse by "an act of God." On the way back to Valley Ranch that day, Shari allowed as how Bobby was her hero, a knight in a shining Benz, and she'd be oh-so-thrilled to show her gratitude if he wanted to stop by her apartment that night.
He politely declined, citing legal as well as marital ethics.
"You've never cheated on your wife?" Shari had asked, incredulous.
"Never have, never will."
She had looked at him suspiciously. "Most married men I know got two-toned ring fingers and fergit their wives names after a couple bourbons."
"Not me."
"Then you'll just have to be Shari's little Boy Scout," she said, leaning over in the front seat of the Mercedes to give him a peck on the cheek.
Now, Bobby gave her a wave and a Texas, "How-dee!"
"Be with you in a jiff, sugar," she said, turning back to her admirers and blowing a pink bubble with her gum.
Bobby watched her now, doing her blonde Barbie Doll shtick, the essence of Texas womanhood. She stood five feet nine, had ice blue eyes, a year-round parlor tan, and blonde hair parted in the middle and fluffed up at her shoulders. She wore her trademark pink terrycloth headband as if ready for three hard sets of tennis. According to cheerleader mythology, Shari would reward a man with a souvenir headband if he scored in her four-poster bed, rather than in Mustangs Stadium.
Her bare midriff showed a taut set of abs from daily workouts in the gym and her breasts were perfect globes, thanks to a the handiwork of a multi-millionaire plastic surgeon favored by Dallas socialites as well as cheerleaders. Her lips were slick with gloss and red as dewy raspberries, her eyes wide with seemingly innocent sensuality. A practiced sensuality, Bobby thought. This was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, whose entire being was devoted to the way she looked and the pursuit of pleasures given and received.
He'd long ago come to the conclusion that some seductive women are catnip, others are cats in heat. Shari was both. She could be cute and cuddly, the girl next door, or an outrageous vamp, frank about her desires and abilities. Either way, she was cherry pie ala mode, a rich confection for dessert.
"Mah head's just spinning from all your questions," Shari cooed at the journalistic posse, "so If you gentlemen are through, I'm gonna go talk to an old friend."
The reporters looked as if they could stay all day, but taking the hint, they moved off toward the team's weight-training coach to gather some profound quotes about squats and bench presses.
"Jim-mee!" Shari squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "How are you?" she asked, giving it that peculiar Texas twang, "Hah har yo-uu?"
He hugged her and picked up the scent of hair spray and pink bubble gum. "Just great, Shari. What about you?"