So that evening when his mother followed Ray to the front door and turned back to tell him good-bye, Griff feigned indifference and kept his eyes trained on the TV. It was secondhand, and the picture was snowy, but it was better than nothing.
“See you later, baby.”
He hated it when she called him baby. If she’d ever babied him, it was so far back he couldn’t recall it.
“Griff, did you hear me?”
“I’m not deaf.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Why are you being so pissy tonight? I’ll be right back.”
He turned his head, and they looked at each other, and she knew that he knew.
“You coming, or what?” Ray bellowed from the front yard.
The look Griff exchanged with his mother lasted a few seconds longer. Maybe she appeared a little sorry for what she was about to do. He wanted to think she was. But probably she wasn’t. Then she turned quickly and left. The door slammed shut behind her.
Griff didn’t leave the house for three days. On the fourth day, he heard a car pull into the driveway. He hated himself for feeling a surge of hope that he’d been wrong and she’d come back after all. Maybe she’d seen through Ray and his bullshit. Maybe Ray had seen her for the whore she was and was bringing her back.
But the footsteps on the porch were too heavy to be hers.
“Griff?”
Shit!
Coach.
Griff hoped he couldn’t be seen where he was slouched on the ratty sofa watching TV. But no such luck. The door squeaked when it was pushed open, and he cursed himself for not having locked it. In his peripheral vision, Coach appeared at the end of the sofa. Hands on hips, he stood looking down at Griff with disapproval.
“I missed you at practice. School office tells me you’ve been absent from classes the last three days. Where’ve you been?”
“Here,” Griff said, continuing to stare at the TV.
“You sick?”
“No.”
A pause. “Where’s your mom?”
“Fuck I know?” he grumbled.
“I’m gonna ask you again. Where’s your mom?”
Griff looked up at him then and with exaggerated innocence said, “I think she’s at the PTA meeting. Either that or the church ladies’ sewing group.”
Coach walked over to the TV. He didn’t turn it off; he yanked the plug from the wall outlet. “Get your stuff.”
“Huh?”
“Get your stuff.”
Griff didn’t move. Coach walked toward him, his footfalls rattling the empty cereal bowls and soda cans littering the TV tray Griff had placed in front of the sofa. “Gather up your stuff. Right now.”
“What for? Where am I going?”
“To my house.”
“Like hell.”
“Or cop an attitude with me, and I’ll call CPS.” Coach placed his meaty fists on his hips again and glared down at him. “You’ve got one second to choose.”
Laughter from a nearby table jerked Griff back into the present. At some point during his reverie, the waitress had brought his Perrier. He drank it like a man dying of thirst. He was covering a soft belch when the woman he’d been waiting for came through the revolving entrance door. He stood up and waved at the waitress to bring his check, and by doing so attracted the woman’s attention.
Upon seeing him, she stopped suddenly, obviously surprised.
He signaled for her to wait while he took care of his tab. He did that with dispatch, then walked toward the woman where she still stood halfway between the entrance and the elevators.
“Hey, Marcia.”
“Griff. I heard you were getting out.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“No, it’s wonderful to see you.” She smiled and looked him over. “You look good.”
He drank in the sight of her, from the top of her tousled auburn hair to her high-heeled sandals. The curvy terrain in between made him light-headed with lust. Laughing softly, he said, “Not as good as you.”
“Thank you.”
He held her gaze for several moments, then asked, “Are you available?”
Her smile faltered. She glanced around the lobby, her unease showing.
He took a step closer and said in a low voice, “It’s been a long five years, Marcia.”
She considered a moment longer, then, reaching a decision, said, “I have someone at midnight.”
“It won’t take me near that long.”
He took her elbow, and they walked to the elevators, saying nothing until they were inside one of the mirrored cubicles. She inserted a small key into a discreet slot in the mechanical panel. Responding to his quizzical look, she said, “I’ve moved up a couple of floors, into the penthouse.”
“Business must be good.”
“I have three girls working for me now.”
He whistled. “Business is
really
good.”
“The market for my product never goes soft.” Laughing, she added, “So to speak.”
Griff was even more impressed by her success when they stepped out of the elevator into a lobby with a marble floor and a clear skylight for a ceiling that provided a view of a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars bright enough to defy the skyline lights.
Three doors opened into the private lobby. “Are you friendly with your neighbors?”
“One is a Japanese businessman. He’s rarely here, but when he is, he finds the proximity very convenient.”
Griff chuckled. “He comes over to borrow sugar?”
“At least once while he’s in town,” she said demurely. “The other is a friend, a gay decorator who envies me my clientele.”
She unlocked her front door. Griff followed her inside. The interior looked like a picture in a magazine, probably would be her gay neighbor’s wet dream. Griff gave it a cursory glance, said a polite “Very nice,” then reached for her and pulled her against him.
He hadn’t kissed a woman in five years, and the sex was going to have to be damn good to top the pleasure he derived from pushing his tongue into her mouth. He kissed her like a horny kid whose prom date was easy. Too eager, too greedy, too sloppy. His hands were everywhere at once.
After a minute of his mauling her, she pushed him away, laughing. “You know the rules, Griff. No kissing. And I’m the initiator.”
His sports jacket was fighting to stay on while he was frantically trying to shake it off. “Give me a break.”
“This once. But some rules must apply.”
“Right. I pay up front.”
“Hmm.”
The sleeves of his jacket were turned inside out when he finally was able to fling the thing to the floor. He dug into his pants pocket for the money clip of cash Wyatt Turner had given him. The tight-ass would have conniptions if he knew his client was spending his food and gas money on a prostitute. Speaking for himself, Griff didn’t begrudge a penny of Marcia’s fee. If he had to, he’d skip a few meals.
“How much?”
“Two thousand. For an hour. Straight sex.”
He gaped at her and swallowed the golf ball now lodged in his throat. “Two
thousand
? You’ve gone up. A lot.”
“So has the cost of living,” she replied coolly. “And business expenses.”
He expelled a gusty breath of disappointment, then bent down and retrieved his jacket from the floor. “I don’t have it. Maybe tomorrow night,” he said wryly.
“How much have you got?”
He held out the money clip. She took it and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, then gave the clip back to him. “Don’t tell anybody.”
Griff thought he might weep out of gratitude. “I’ll be eternally in your debt.”
Marcia was the most select prostitute in Dallas, and it was strict business practices that had put her there. She was a businesswoman all the way. Through the grapevine, Griff had heard that she, acting on tips from clients, had invested wisely in real estate. She’d bought up farmland north of Dallas, and when the city expanded in that direction, she had scored huge. It was also said she had a stock portfolio worth millions.
All that could have been rumor, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. It was said she’d started “escorting” to help finance dental hygiene school but had soon realized that she was better at polishing knobs than she was at polishing teeth. And she could make a hell of a lot more money at it.
Soon after he’d signed with the Cowboys, Griff had learned of her through a teammate, being told that Marcia was the best if you could afford her, because even then she’d been expensive. He preferred a professional to the team groupies who threw themselves at him and, once he’d slept with them, inevitably caused hassles he didn’t need.
Marcia was discreet. She was clean. She was scrupulous when it came to prequalifying her clients, making sure they were disease free, financially stable, and safe. She never took walk-ins. She’d made an exception for him tonight.
She had the wholesome face of a church choir soloist, paired with a voluptuous body that invited sin. Somehow, despite her occupation, she managed to remain a lady, and if a client didn’t treat her as such, he didn’t remain a client.
Five years hadn’t left any noticeable damage, Griff was pleased to discover as she undressed. She was lush, but firm where she ought to be. He couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Knowing him, remembering his preferences, she didn’t assist him but idly touched herself while she watched him peel off garments and toss them aside. When her fingers disappeared between her thighs, he made an involuntary gurgling sound but was too far gone to care how gauche he seemed.
When he was undressed, she went to him and gently pushed him back until he was seated on the edge of the bed. He pressed his face into her deep cleavage, mashed her heavy breasts against his cheeks. She handed him a condom; he rolled it on. “What do you want to do, Griff?”
“At this point…Doesn’t matter.”
She lowered herself to her knees between his thighs and bent her head toward him, whispering, “Enjoy.”
“Griff?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s after eleven. You need to go.”
He’d been sleeping on his stomach, his head buried in the soft, scented pillow, virtually comatose. He turned onto his back. Marcia had showered and was wrapped in a robe. “You went out like a light,” she said. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you sooner, but you have to go now.”
He stretched luxuriantly. “Felt good, sleeping naked, sleeping on sheets that don’t smell like industrial-strength detergent.” He arched his back and stretched again. “Do I gotta?”
“You gotta.”
She said it with a smile, but he knew she meant it. He couldn’t argue after she’d already been so charitable. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. She had his clothes waiting for him, actually hurried him along without seeming to as he pulled them on. She held his jacket for him, then placed her hand on the center of his back and propelled him toward the door.
When they reached it, he turned to her. “Thank you. You made a huge concession, and I appreciate it more than you know.”
“Coming-home present.” She kissed her finger, then pressed it against his lips. “But next time, it has to be by appointment and full fare.”
“My financial situation should improve substantially by tomorrow.” But remembering how uneasy she’d been to be seen with him in the lobby, he added, “If you still want me for a client, that is. I could be bad for your business.”
“Every business requires a little finessing now and then.” She was making light of it, but he knew the thought had crossed her mind. “You might want to try one of the new girls. They’re young and gorgeous, and I trained them personally.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed?”
“Always. Want me to set something up for you?”
A mental image of Laura Speakman flashed through his mind. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be. Let me call you. But I tried the old number. Got a recording that it had been disconnected.”
She passed him a business card. “I have to change it periodically. To keep the vice cops honest,” she added, smiling.
He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her again, and they exchanged a good-bye. She closed the door, quietly but firmly. Getting into the elevator, Griff met the gay decorator getting out. The man looked him up and down, then closed his eyes and gave a soft, swooning moan. “Too, too cute,” he murmured as he glided past.
The lobby bar was doing less business now than earlier. The girl who had waited on him was chatting with one of the idle bellmen. The pianist had been replaced with canned music.
The doorman was greeting an arriving guest when Griff pushed through the revolving doors. Outside, the air had softened, but it was still hot enough to steal his breath until he acclimated. He stood there, sweating, for a full sixty seconds, waiting for the parking attendant to show. When he didn’t, Griff went looking for him. He walked the length of the porte cochere and rounded the corner into the parking garage.
Where he ran into a fist.
It connected with his cheekbone like a jackhammer. One jab. Two. Then another.
He staggered back, swearing loudly, swinging wildly in uncoordinated self-defense, trying to bring his assailant into focus.
Rodarte.
R
ODARTE’S GRIN TURNED HIS FACE INTO A HALLOWEEN MASK.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
Griff’s indrawn breath whistled through his teeth, which were clenched in pain. He dabbed at his cheekbone, and his fingers came away red.
“Son of a bitch!”
Rodarte lit a cigarette, laughing as he fanned out the match. “That’s what I heard, too.”
Griff glowered at him.
“I heard your mother would screw a dog if nothing else was around. Poor little Griff. You had it rough, didn’t you? Till Coach Miller and his wife took you in.”
When Griff had been indicted, overnight going from poster boy to pariah, a lot of his ugly past had been exposed. Neither Coach nor Ellie had been a source of information. Griff would have bet his life on that. But a hotshot reporter from the
Morning News
had dug until he’d excavated just enough facts to hold together his speculations. They made for a sensational exposé. In conclusion, the writer had implied that Griff Burkett’s fall had been predestined from birth, that he’d been bred to transgress, and that the crime he’d committed should have been foreseeable.
Rodarte leered at him. “Tell me, how did it feel to throw the big game? Honestly, now. Just between us. Did you have any twinge of conscience? Or not?”
Wyatt Turner’s warnings rang in Griff’s ears.
Do not cross him. Turn the other cheek.
Which seemed an ironic admonition at this particular moment, when his cheekbone was throbbing and the entire side of his head was hurting so bad he thought he might throw up.
Griff wanted to grab Rodarte by his greasy hair and smash his face against the concrete wall of the parking garage, again and again until his ugly features had been pulverized to mush.
But Griff couldn’t do a goddamn thing without bringing trouble down on himself, and Rodarte knew that. Nothing would have given the bastard more pleasure than seeing Griff locked up again on the very day he’d been released.
Muttering an invective, Griff turned away, but Rodarte grabbed him by the shoulder, brought him back around, and shoved him up hard against the wall. “Don’t turn your back on me, you cocky fucker.”
More than the name-calling, being manhandled like that cleared Griff’s head of sharp pains and made his anger as brittle and cold as glass. He could kill this bastard. Easy. Being tackled in a game was one thing. Being touched by Rodarte was quite another. “Take your hands off me.”
Either his steely tone, or maybe his eyes, telegraphed the murderous fury he felt, because Rodarte let go and shuffled back several steps. “You were owed that,” he said, hitching his chin up toward Griff’s bleeding cheekbone. “For flipping me off today. I drove all the way out to jackrabbit country to commemorate your release, and that’s the thanks I got for my thoughtfulness.”
“Thanks. Now we’re square.” Griff brushed past him.
“I had an interesting conversation with some former associates of yours yesterday.”
Griff stopped and turned.
Rodarte took a deep pull off his cigarette, then dropped it on the garage floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe while he blew smoke upward. “I don’t need to name names, do I? You know who I’m talking about. Your former business partners.”
“They went slumming?” Griff asked.
Rodarte merely grinned.
The three bosses of the organized crime group—the Vista boys, as Griff thought of them. That was who Rodarte was talking about. The men in the five-thousand-dollar suits. The trio Bill Bandy had introduced Griff to when he needed a quick fix to a big gambling debt.
The Vista triumvirate had been obliging, and then some. They’d opened wide the doors of their luxury offices in the high-rise building they owned in Las Colinas overlooking the golf course. And that was just the beginning. There were lavish dinners in the private dining rooms of five-star restaurants. Private jet trips to Vegas, the Bahamas, New York, San Francisco. Limousines. Girls.
Seduction in its purest form.
The only thing he’d turned down was the drugs, although at any given time, he’d had access to any and all he wanted.
“Those guys know you’re out,” Rodarte was saying. His smile was dangerous and insinuating, a jackal’s grin. “They’re not all that glad about it. They thought for sure you’d get nailed for doing Bill Bandy.”
“I had nothing to do with Bandy.”
“Riiiight.”
Griff would be damned before he stood here pleading his innocence to this asshole. “You see the Vista boys again, tell them I said they can go fuck themselves.”
Rodarte winced. “Oooh, they’re not gonna like that. First you kill their key bookmaker—”
“I didn’t kill Bandy.”
“See? I don’t think they buy that, Griff. You were so pissed at him for ratting you out to the FBI, of course you killed him. You had a right to. Almost an
obligation.
Look, I understand. And so do they. A rat’s a rat. If you hadn’t snuffed him, Bandy might have given them up next.”
“So what’s their gripe?”
“They’ll never know for sure whether or not Bandy would have betrayed them. While you,” he said, poking Griff in the chest with his index finger, “you actually named names to the FBI.
Their
names. You see the problem? Their thinking is that Bandy would have remained loyal to them if it hadn’t been for you. Regardless of how it all came down, they blame you for fucking up their smooth operation.”
“Gee, this is a sad story.”
Ignoring the remark, Rodarte went on. “You were bad for their business. For years after you got sent to Big Spring, they found it harder to entice a professional athlete anywhere in the southern United States. Players of every sport were nervous, afraid that if they cheated, they’d get caught like you did.”
Rodarte took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “The Vista boys, as you affectionately call them, haven’t fully recovered from the grief you caused them.”
“The grief
I
caused
them
?” Griff finally gave vent to the angry pressure that had been building inside him. “None of them served a day of time.”
“Only because the FBI was building their racketeering case around your testimony alone.” Rodarte gave a rueful shrug over the flaws in that strategy. “Your story didn’t fly with the federal grand jury. They figured you were trying to point the finger at others to take the heat off yourself.”
He poked Griff again. “That’s the only reason the Vista boys weren’t also indicted. But they came close. They haven’t forgotten how close. And all thanks to you. They’re sorta holding a grudge.”
“The feeling is mutual. Now, get out of my way.”
When Rodarte failed to back away, Griff tried to go around him. Rodarte sidestepped, blocking him. “But basically these are nice guys we’re talking about. They might welcome you back into the fold—on one condition.”
“Are you their recruiter now?”
Rodarte winked. “Let’s just say a word from me could grease the skids for you.”
“I’m not interested in getting back into the fold.”
“You haven’t heard me out.”
“I don’t need to.”
Rodarte dusted an imaginary speck off the lapel of Griff’s jacket. If the man touched him again, Griff thought he might have to break every bone in his hand.
“Take a piece of advice, Griff. Think about it.”
“I had five years to think about it.”
“So you won’t be working with them again?”
“No.”
“What about their competitors? The Vista boys are businessmen, after all. They’re nervous—just a little—over what you might do now that you’re out.”
“I’m thinking of opening a lemonade stand.”
Rodarte’s frown said that crack was unworthy of him.
“It’s none of their goddamn business, or yours, what I do,” Griff said.
“They beg to differ. Especially if you’re planning to link up with one of their competitors.”
“Relieve them on that score. They’ve got nothing to be nervous about. See ya, Rodarte.”
Again Griff moved away, but Rodarte scrambled and planted himself in his path. He moved in close and lowered his voice again, this time to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then there’s the matter of the money.”
“What money?”
“Come on, Griff,” he said in a singsongy, wheedling tone. “The money you stole from Bandy.”
“There was no money.”
“Maybe not cash. A safe-deposit box key, maybe? Foreign bank account numbers? The combination to a safe. Stamp collection.”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!” Rodarte stabbed Griff in the chest with his finger once again, harder, angrier.
Griff saw red, but despite his wish to break bones, he couldn’t touch the man. One touch would be all the provocation Rodarte needed to engage him in a fight. If he got into a fight with Rodarte, even if he won, he’d spend the night in the Dallas County Detention Center. Bad as his new apartment was, he preferred it over a jail cell.
“Hear me, Rodarte. If Bandy had any money squirreled away, the secret died with him. I sure as hell didn’t get it.”
“Pull my other leg.” Rodarte slammed him back against the wall and moved in close, baring his teeth. “A hot hustler like you would have made sure he didn’t come away empty-handed. You’ve got expensive tastes. Cars. Clothes. Pussy. If you didn’t tuck away some of Bandy’s money, how are you going to finance all those luxuries?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Rodarte. I’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Doing what?”
Griff didn’t reply.
Rodarte said, “I’ll find out, you know.”
“Good luck. Now get the fuck out of my way.”
They shared a long, hostile stare. It took every ounce of willpower Griff had not to knee the guy in the balls and throw him off. But he stood his ground and his gaze didn’t flinch. Eventually Rodarte dropped his hands from Griff’s shoulders and took a step back. But he wasn’t admitting defeat.
“Okay, Number Ten,” he said softly. “You want to make this hard on yourself, fine by me. In fact, I prefer that you do.” He whispered as though making a malevolent promise.
Griff went past him and had made it to the corner of the garage when Rodarte called him back. “Hey, answer me one question.”
“Yes, I think you’re ugly.”
Rodarte laughed. “Good one. But, seriously, when you snapped Bandy’s neck, did you come? I know that happens sometimes.”
“What do you think?”
Laura didn’t have to ask
About what?
She and Foster hadn’t talked about Griff Burkett yet, but he might just as well have been the centerpiece on the dining table. His presence between them seemed almost that tangible.
She set down her fork and reached for her wineglass. Cradling the bowl of it between her hands, she thoughtfully stared at the ruby-colored contents. “My first impression is that he’s angry.”
“At?”
“Life.”
The formal dining room, which accommodated thirty or more, was used only for entertaining. The first twelve months of their marriage, they’d hosted numerous dinner parties. In the past two years, there had been only one—at Christmas for SunSouth’s board of directors and their spouses.
This evening, as on most evenings, they were having their dinner in the family dining room. Much cozier, it was separated from the commercial-size kitchen by a single door. The housekeeper-cook got off at six o’clock each day. Her last duty was to leave dinner in a warming tray. Since Laura had assumed much of Foster’s workload, she usually stayed at the corporate offices until seven-thirty or eight, making their dinner hour late. Foster refused to eat before she got home.
Tonight their dinner had been delayed by the interview with Griff Burkett. Laura had lost her appetite, but Foster seemed to be enjoying the beef Wellington. He cut off a bite and chewed it exactly twelve times, four series of three, swallowed, took a sip of his wine, blotted his mouth with his napkin. “Spending five years in prison would put any man in a bad humor.”
“I think Mr. Burkett would be angry under any circumstances.”
“That anger having been ingrained into his personality?”
“Well, you read the newspaper story about how he grew up,” she said. “Granted, his early years were a nightmare. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s done as an adult. He broke the law. He deserved his punishment. Possibly more than he received.”
“Remind me never to get on your fighting side, Mrs. Speakman. You’re ruthless.”
She didn’t take offense, knowing he was teasing her. “I just have no tolerance for grown-ups who blame their shortcomings, even their lawlessness, on a disadvantaged childhood. Mr. Burkett alone is accountable for his actions.”
“For which he has atoned,” her husband reminded her gently. Lightening the mood, he added, “I promise to do my part to see that our baby doesn’t have a disadvantaged childhood.”
She smiled. “Left alone, I think you’d spoil him rotten.”
“‘Him’?”
“Or her.”
“I’d love a little girl who looks just like you.”
“And I’d be over the moon to have a boy.”
Their smiles remained in place, but the unspoken words hung there above the dining table. Neither a son nor a daughter would have Foster’s features. Similar, perhaps, but not his.
Laura took another sip of wine. “Foster…”
“No.”
“Why ‘no’? You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes, I do.” He indicated her plate. “Finished?” She nodded. He laid his knife and fork at a precise diagonal across his plate and folded his napkin beside it.
She stood up as he backed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’ll ask Manuelo to clear the table while I get the coffee.”
“Let’s have it in the den.”
In the kitchen she filled a carafe with coffee, which she’d set to brew while they were having dinner. She placed it on a tray with cups and saucers, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl. She carried the tray into the den. Foster was washing his hands with bottled sanitizer. When he was done, he placed the bottle in a drawer.
She fixed his coffee and carried it to him. He thanked her, then waited until she had hers and was seated on one of the leather love seats, her feet tucked beneath her.