She wanted to get as far away from her father as possible, and she figured that Bobby would come home sooner or later.
If he was okay. But what happened to you, Bobby? What have they done to you?
Scott was sleeping soundly in his room, while Christine listened to the palm fronds slapping the tin roof of the cottage. She watched the digital time display flick from 3:11 to 3:12 on the clock radio. She had dozed earlier, but her sleep was like a cocked pistol, and she kept awakening at every sound.
A ceiling fan whirled endlessly above her head, and she tried to let the whompeta-whompeta of the motor lull her back to sleep. No luck. She buried her head in the pillow, which smelled faintly of Bobby, and she remembered their lovemaking. Was it only the day before?
Oh, Bobby. Where are you? I need you.
At first she didn't hear the tapping at the window, and then, she thought it was a light rain falling. Then she heard Bobby's muffled voice.
"Chrissy, it's me."
She opened the window, and Bobby hoisted himself into the room.
"Thank God you're all right. Bobby, I was so afraid."
He hugged her, and she noticed that his clothes were dripping water. "What happened to you? You looked like you swam here."
"No. I swam to the Rickenbacker Causeway. I hitchhiked here. Or rather, I walked here. You'd be surprised how many people won't pick up a barefoot guy who's soaking wet at one o'clock in the morning."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and gripped him fiercely, and he lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around him, their bodies joined, his nooks into her crannies. They fit perfectly together, like the pieces of a rock carefully split by a sculptor, then slipped together into a singular, smooth piece. With her eyes squeezed shut, she felt a tear tracking down her cheeks. This is what she wanted. Her son and the man she loved…together again.
Bobby told her about Dino Fornecchio, and how he got away. Christine told him that LaBarca was working for her father, and how he'd been set up. Then she told him about Lateesha kick boxing Nightlife's testicles from Miami Beach to Opa-Locka, and they both smiled.
"Who says there's no justice in the world?" Bobby said. "How badly is he hurt?"
"Doc Joyner says he has a broken clavicle and separated shoulder, to say nothing of very blue balls. He won't even suit up."
"Excellent," Bobby said.
"What? What is it?" She saw the shadow of a thought crossing his face. It was a look she knew as well as a sailor knows the sky.
"I've got to make a call," Bobby said.
Vinnie LaBarca awoke in slow, ponderous motion, like a diver emerging from the depths. When he opened his eyes, his head was a bucket of sand that shifted with every movement.
Goddamn sinuses. Goddamn allergies.
He also realized that the humming electrostatic ozone machine that was guaranteed to knock all the dust motes, mildew, and airborne crud out of his apartment was a twelve-hundred dollar ripoff. It was supposed to cleanse the air but couldn't re-circulate a fart. He made a mental note to take the machine back to the Bal Harbour shop where he bought it, and stick the salesman's hand into the fan.
Finally, he realized that the phone was ringing. Now what? He'd already been awakened once, that dickwad Fornecchio calling from the hospital.
He picked up he phone and said, "This better be fucking good."
"How many points is Nightlife Jackson worth?" a man's voice asked.
"Who the fuck is this?"
"C'mon Vinnie, Dallas is favored by four. What should the line be if Nightlife doesn't play?"
"Gallagher? Is that you? When I find you, I'm gonna tear off your arms and beat you to death! I'm gonna chop off your head and piss down your neck! Do you hear me Gallagher?"
"Nightlife's scratched. Physically unable to perform. It'll be announced at a press conference at ten a.m. The game will either go off the board or the line will move to what, dead even, pick 'em?"
LaBarca saw where Gallagher was going, but how could he trust him? "Are you shitting me, Gallagher?"
"Nope. I've got the Mustangs' marketing director here with me right now if you want to check."
"If you're talking about your ex-wife, she ain't the best character witness."
"Then just assume I'm right. How much is Nightlife worth?"
"In my book, a touchdown. Christ, he plays both ways, and he's the best player on both sides of the ball. He's a combination of Deion Sanders and Jerry Rice, and his backups are both journeymen."
"So why don't you put everything you've got on Denver?"
"You know damn well why, and I don't say anything on any phones unless I know who's listening in."
"You won't do it," Bobby said, "because you know Skarcynski's gonna be throwing the ball to the cheerleaders."
"No fucking comment."
"But you control that. Whatever you bet on Dallas is at risk now. Maybe Denver will cover even with Skar tanking it. Now, if you tell Skar to take the gloves off, they should easily cover the spread and may even win outright. Let Skar play and put everything you got on his team."
"Go fuck yourself, Gallagher, and if I see you anywhere near the stadium, I'm gonna…"
The beep of call waiting broke his concentration. Now what? Damn modern technology. You can't even threaten to poleax some bum without being interrupted. At three-thirty in the morning for Christ's sake.
"Yeah," LaBarca said, clicking onto the new line.
"Your half wit associate let Gallagher get away," Martin Kingsley said, angrily.
"No shit," LaBarca said.
"Well, do something about it, goddamit!"
"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
"You don't scare me! Do you know what I have riding on this game?" Kingsley said. "I got into it because of you. It's a lock, you said. Now Gallagher is shooting off his mouth and jeopardizing everything. You were supposed to take him out of commission but what happened? Jesus H. Christ, it's the morning of the game, and all hell's broken loose."
The old man sounded strung out. What a fucked up family. "Mr. Kingsley, I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't talk business on the phone, if you get my drift."
"Goddammit, find that bastard. If he sets foot in the stadium, shoot him in the kneecaps!"
"You've been watching too many movies, Mr. Kingsley. I'm trying to be polite here, and I'm taking into account that you're under a lot of strain…"
"You're goddamn right I am."
"By the way, is Nightlife Jackson out of the game?"
There was nothing but the buzz of the telephone line until Kingsley said, "How did you know that?"
LaBarca clicked back to the other line. He had underestimated the lawyer. Somehow he managed to knock the star player out of the Super Bowl the night before the game. "Okay Gallagher, you're on to something. But It ain't solid. Besides Nightlife, you got any more tricks up your sleeve for today?"
"I've got two or three aces I haven't played yet."
"Good, 'cause I think Skarcynski's gonna have the game of his life."
At four a.m., Kingsley reached for the ringing phone in his hotel suite. The noise did not disturb him. He'd been drinking bourbon ever since he got the news about Nightlife, and a warm buzz filled his head. He wasn't sleeping and halfway expected a call. Maybe LaBarca intending to apologize, to say, "sure Mr. Kingsley, I'll take care of it." Maybe it was Christine, calling in tears to say he was still the most important man in her life and that she now appreciated everything he'd done for her.
Putting down the glass of Jack Daniels, he picked up the phone and said, "Kingsley here."
"'Morning pardner," rasped Houston Tyler. "I figured you'd be awake. Heard you had a little trouble at the party last night. Also heard you lost one of your thoroughbreds for the game."
"How the hell did you know that?"