Kingsley walked toward Scott who was standing at the thirty-five yard line. Nearby, Craig Stringer was on one knee, taking long snaps and holding the ball for Boom Boom Guacavera, who was loosening up his leg with a series of dead-solid perfect field goals.
"Hey Craig!" Scott shouted. "Once you spin the laces to the front, you gotta tuck your right hand in your crotch so it doesn't distract Boom Boom."
"Yeah?" Stringer asked, grinning. "Who says?"
"My Dad."
"How many years did your Dad play pro ball little fellow?"
"None."
"That's what I thought. You tell your Dad to keep his hand in his crotch, and I'll keep my hand in your momma's."
Scott appeared startled, then walked away, looking at the tops of his sneakers.
Son-of-a-bitch! Insolent prick, talking to Scott that way.
Kingsley had to restrain himself from taking on his star quarterback right there. If that cocky bastard wasn't facing the biggest game of his life in 24 hours, Kingsley would rattle him upside the helmet right here and now.
What the hell was going on? Everything should be perfect, but it's falling apart.
Kingsley watched Stringer turn his attention toward the center, who was looking at the world upside down between his legs. Stringer barked the signals, and the center fired a tight spiral. Stringer easily caught the ball with both hands, thumbs together. He brought the ball to the ground with the index finger of his left hand on top, spun the laces away from Boom Boom, and sure enough, he left his right hand dangling there, fingers wagging. It was a small point, but Scott was right. And so was the boy's father, goddamn it.
Kingsley wanted to say some encouraging words to Scott, to console the boy, but there was something he had to do first. As for Stringer, who wasn't quite the gift to womanhood he thought, that would have to wait until after the game.
I'll squeeze your balls 'til you sing soprano. And that's if you win!
Kingsley walked off the field and into the entrance to a tunnel behind the end zone. He wanted some privacy. His thoughts turned back to Robert Gallagher. His hatred of the man seemed to scald his throat with bile.
Pulling a cellular phone from his pocket, he punched out a number, and when a man answered, he said, "Vinnie, it's time to do that electrical work we talked about."
"How's that?" the mobster asked.
"I need you to turn out somebody's lights."
42
What they would do tonight would forever change America, Bobby thought. The Super Bowl being synonymous with America or at least Americana. All the glitz and glam, all the hype and show biz aside, it's still what we're all about. Striving to be number one. Winning fair and square, and all the other cliches. They're cliches, Bobby thought, only because they're true.
But Vinnie LaBarca and Martin Kingsley were sharks feasting on the carcass of the American dream.
Bobby was sorry he'd even attempted to fix the game himself.
I sank to Kingsley's level, and I drew Scott into it.
He vowed to be a better father and a better husband, if only he got a second chance.
These thoughts came to him as he was sucking on a stone crab claw, and Christine was urging him to hurry up.
"We have work to do," she said, over the noise of the Jamaican steel band.
"Uh-huh," he said, loading his plate with cold shrimp the size of grappling hooks.
Bobby thought the scene resembled the last days of Pompeii. They were just a few miles from downtown Miami on the grounds of the Vizcaya mansion, which was supposed to look like an Italian Renaissance castle, but tonight, resembled the setting of a Roman bacchanalia.
A mountain of stone crabs sat atop a glacier of chipped ice. Nearby was a sushi table, Japanese chefs with hands as deft as a wide receiver's, molding the little treats. Tubs of chilled gaspacho and spicy cerviche rounded out the tables of cold foods, along with the requisite guacamole and salsa. Alongside were the hot tables with snapper in mango chili sauce and a dozen roasted meats. At the end of the line, past dripping ice statuary shaped like goal posts, were the cornucopia of tropical fruits-papayas, mangoes and carambolas-and the requisite caramel flan and Key lime pies.
Slinky models in floral wrap skirts and halter tops handed out drinks while bands played from three stages on the lawn and gardens amidst marble sculptures, vine-covered gazebos, and fountains with frogs spouting water into the velvet night air. Not that the Super Bowl folks could leave well enough alone. Bobby and Christine had entered the party through pink marble gateways that belonged to the original mansion, then crossed a stone bridge that ran through a pseudo-plain of Everglades sawgrass that had been installed by the league. They passed a man-made marshy hammock and walked around an alligator pit complete with Miccosukee gator wrestlers. Several Ford executives, or maybe they were with American Express-who can tell with white guys in suits? — were huddled around a stage where an old Cuban man hand-rolled cigars, and a dark-haired woman with a red hibiscus in her hair handed them out.
Christine guided Bobby away from the food and the music, but not before her ex snared a margarita from a tray. "Let's blend into the crowd."
"You're too beautiful to blend in anywhere," he said, meaning it. He had always thought her to be magnificent in black, and tonight, in a sleeveless black crepe chemise with a white satin collar, she managed to look both sexy and regal.
"C'mon, pay attention to business. We've got to get into the VIP room."
"That shouldn't be hard for you. Your father's on the list."
"So are you. If the guards see your face, they're supposed to throw you into Biscayne Bay."
They moved from the gardens to the stone patio just outside an enclosed loggia. A red velvet rope closed off the door to the loggia though they could clearly see into the room through a wall of ten-foot high stained glass. Inside, the Commissioner, team owners, network bigwigs, and corporate CEO's were sitting down to dinner. No buffet tables there, but rather fine china and silver and white-gloved waiters.
"I'm going to need another drink," Bobby said, reaching for a glass from a passing tray.
"Enjoy your margarita, sir," said the young woman holding the tray.
"Lateesha!" He hadn't recognized her at first, hadn't really looked at the tall black woman with beaded corn rows and developed shoulder muscles
"Hello, Mr. G. Enjoying the party?" She flashed a big smile.
"Absolutely. Christine, say hello to Lateesha. Before the Bar pulled my ticket, I helped Lateesha out of a little problem."
"An ex-boyfriend who couldn't take no for an answer," Lateesha said. "You know the type?"
"Do I ever," Christine said, playfully.
"Meanor!" boomed a voice behind him. Bobby turned to see Nightlife Jackson in a purple suit that buttoned up nearly to his throat. He turned on a smile that was long on teeth and short on sincerity. "I've missed you, man!"
"Hello Nightlife," Bobby said, evenly.
"Ms. Gallagher." Nightlife nodded respectfully toward Christine, who didn't acknowledge him.
"And who's this foxy fox," he said, turning to Lateesha.
"Lateesha, this is the mouth of the South, Nightlife Jackson," Bobby said, trying to ignore Christine's stiletto heel that was digging into his instep. "Be careful. He's a hound who likes to tree the foxes."
"I recognize his pretty face," Lateesha said. Balancing her tray of drinks in one hand, she shook his hand with the other.
"Oh momma, you've got a grip!" Nightlife howled, feigning pain.
"Lateesha's a personal trainer," Bobby said.