"Plum wore out, Bobby. After seven years of bouncing and jiggling, I got a bum knee, a herniated disk, and pre-menstrual stress three weeks out of four."
Bobby worked out of her clinch. "Jeez, I'm sorry."
"Even cheerleaders get the blues, hon."
"You fixin' to quit?" he asked, finding her accent downright contagious.
"Not 'til a rich, handsome gentleman pops the question."
Bobby steered her toward the sideline. "Can we go somewhere and have a drink?"
"Why sure, honey! Are you ready to take me up on an old offer?"
Bobby leaned close and spoke into her ear, long blond strands of hair tickling his nose. "I need to talk to you about Craig Stringer."
"Now why would you want to talk about a feller who thinks he's the only rooster in the barnyard?
"I know the two of you used to be close…"
"That's one way of putting it. If he'd be tense on the night before a game, I'd relax him. He'd pretend it was somethin' more than that, and I was just a rookie, fresh out of Galveston High, so I was a little starry-eyed and believed everything he said. It took a while and a bucket full of tears, but I finally figured out Craig would always be AWOL, After Women Or Liquor."
They approached the tunnel under the west end zone. In just three days, Craig Stringer and his teammates would come roaring over the same patch of grass where they now walked. Eight days that meant life or death. "Is Craig still popping pills?" he asked, suddenly. Sometimes the best approach with a witness is the element of a surprise.
Shari didn't blink. "Is Dr. Pepper sweet? 'Course he is. He just hides it from Coach Krause and Mr. K."
"You're sure."
"Tammi told me his bathroom looks like the Rexall store."
His look shot her the question. "Tammi?"
"She's a rook from Denton who's pulling Saturday night duty in Craig's hotel room. As he gets older, Craig likes his girls younger. Gets more applause that way."
Now came the difficult part. Bobby was as tense and jittery as a horse at the starting gate. He didn't know if he could trust Shari, who looked at him with her photogenic smile, waiting. What if she turned him down and ran to Stringer, exposing the plan? What if she reported him to league security? His nerves felt like exposed power lines, snapping like whips, crackling with hot sparks. "Do you think you could sub for her?" he asked. "There's ten thousand dollars in it for you if it works."
She turned off her smile as if hitting a light switch. "Don't insult me, Bobby! Ah turned down fifty thousand dollars and a diamond necklace from an A-rab prince who wanted me to do splits for him in his castle in Abu Dhabi. Ah've given a lot away, but ah've never sold it."
She pouted at him. The approach had been all wrong. He felt his face redden and suddenly felt feverish.
"I'm sorry, Shari. I didn't mean-"
"Ah don't go to bed with anyone unless ah've got the itch."
"I'm know, I know, but he's an old lover of yours. It's not like I'm…"
"Pimping?"
"Yeah."
"What makes you so damn interested in improving Craig's sex life?"
He'd been expecting the question and had worked on the answer, which unlike many statements he'd made as a lawyer, was at least a half truth. "He's been seeing Chrissy."
"Ah git it!" Shari cried, showing a smile of perfect teeth the color of fresh cream. "This is about your ex. She's still got her brand on your hide, don't she sugar?"
"I guess so," he said, sheepishly. "They're semi-engaged, and I want to break them up."
"And ah thought Craig would chew off his own leg before he'd get caught in the matrimonial trap, but he's always lookin' to improve himself, and Christine Kingsley's just another step on the ladder. Now what can Shari and her pink headbands to do help?"
Bobby took a deep breath and sang it out. "Christine doesn't know what she's getting into. I need proof that Stringer's popping pills, drinking and womanizing again…and I'll need it all videotaped."
"Video!" Her eyes flashed with what he thought was anger.
Now I've gone too far. Damn, I'll lose her.
"So ah could be on 'Hollywood Tonight!"
He realized he'd mistaken her enthusiasm for anger.
"Hell yes. You could get your own TV series."
"You think I could get a book deal like Paula Barbieri?"
"Maybe. Did you ever sleep with O.J.?"
"Who didn't, honey?"
"So what do you think?"
"Ah think you're a smooth talker who could sell fur coats in hell."
"Will you do it? And will Craig go for it?"
"Hell yes, sugar! Any old night. Craig still comes sniffing around, but ah've given him the stiff arm the past two seasons. Been there, done that, and to tell you the truth, he ain't that hot. We won't be needing any extended play videotape. With Craig, it's always the two minute warning, then he's running the hurry-up offense."
Bobby laughed and let some of the tension go.
"What's so funny, honey?"
"I'm just glad to learn there's one thing I can do better than Craig Stringer."
Christine watched Bobby and Shari disappear into the shadows of the tunnel. She fought the urge to follow them, a dozen thoughts buzzing in her mind.
What was Bobby even doing here? She had checked with the media relations director. Bobby was listed as an assistant to Murray Kravetz at a local Miami TV station and would have press credentials for the game. What was he up to? And why had he sought out Shari Blossom? Christine tolerated the cheerleaders because they made money for the team, but their image as pretty playthings offended her feminist sensibilities. The girls were always polite to her face, but she knew they called her "the Axe" behind her back because she was always trying to cut team expenses.
There was something about Shari Blossom that bothered her. No, everything about Shari bothered her, she now thought. Shari was a throwback, a woman who wiggled her ass to get what she wanted. She also held the all-time cheerleader record for the most times per season that her top came untied during the Rockettes-like high-kick maneuver. Each time, her boobs would come bouncing out to the delight of the hooting Billy Bobs. And, each time, after receiving dozens of letters from the Southern Baptist churches, Christine would summon Shari into the office.
"I'm awfully sorry," Shari would say, reaching for sincerity like a soap opera understudy. "Next time, ah'll tie the top on tighter."
"Funny, Shari, " Christine would reply. "I always figured you learned a slip knot from some sailor passing through Galveston."
Christine had heard rumors that Craig was involved with Shari before they started going out, but he denied everything. "Chrissy baby, I never touched one of those girls. I believe in their illusion of innocence."
"Craig, if you could throw the football as well as you sling the bullshit," she said, "you'd already be in the Hall of Fame."
"You can get anybody you want to coach the team. The only guy I want you to get for me is that guy with the whistle."
— Gangster Frank Costello, in reply to a promise that the Washington Redskins would hire a famous college coach if Costello would invest in the team
29
Martin Kingsley drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. He was sitting at a cafe on Lincoln Road, waiting for the lights to be adjusted so they could get on with taping a Super Bowl spot for Fox Sports, and as usual, it was hurry up and wait. Television, Kingsley fumed, was one big waste of time. If he didn't enjoy the spotlight so much, he would say to hell with all those morons waving microphones at him.
From the corner of his eye, Kingsley saw a figure in black move through the throng of tourists in shorts and pastel shirts at the sidewalk cafe. The figure disappeared, but a moment later, Kingsley felt a tapping on his shoulder.