She nodded. “Thanks for asking.”
“Miles still treating you well?”
“Yes. He’s been wonderful.”
“Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you were going to tell me he beats you and works you like a slave. I was hoping you would tell me you wanted to quit your job and come to work for me. Have you forgotten that I offered to double your salary? I was serious you know.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Kerri replied, the corners of her mouth suggesting a smile.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you interested?”
Kerri decided to call Visconti’s bluff. “Did Miles tell you he’s paying me two hundred and fifty thousand a year?”
Visconti accepted the call. “Is that all? Then I’ll triple it.”
Kerri smiled, then laughed. “You really are serious.”
“Very serious about cheering you up… I did a pretty good job, didn’t I?”
Kerri was compelled to concede. Visconti had made her laugh when it was the last thing she wanted to do. “Yes, you did. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Any time you need to laugh or just talk, you know where to find me.” Visconti kissed Kerri’s forehead. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, then turned and walked away.
Visconti’s kiss and sudden departure both startled and fascinated Kerri. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” she said, her expression tinged with a strange combination of curiosity and melancholy.
Visconti, pausing without turning, raised his hand in acknowledgment, then continued his march back to the bar. He placed his right hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “Two predictions for nineteen-ninety, Miles,” he declared. “I’m going to win big in crude oil, and Kerri Pyper will be mine.” To punctuate his statement, he finished his scotch in one gulp, then left before Dennis could respond.
CHAPTER 34
New York. January 12, 1990.
Brian’s right knee had healed to the point where he could begin physical therapy. While the pain of the injury and the subsequent operations continued to prevent him from running or subjecting his knee to sustained pressure, he was finally able to walk a short distance.
In addition to the pain and suffering the injury had caused him, it had taken a severe toll on his relationship with Kerri. Their infrequent conversations usually erupted into arguments. Affectionate touching, once a large component of their marriage, had all but disappeared. Their sexual relationship had also changed. The tender, sharing lovemaking of their past had been replaced by sporadic and selfish intercourse, initiated solely by Brian whenever he felt the need for release. He no longer had the patience to ensure that Kerri was satisfied. Whenever she expressed or demonstrated the need to be loved, he rejected her, or demeaned her, usually fomenting another argument.
Brian’s drinking also increased. His renewed mobility enabled him to do it away from the apartment and to use therapy as an excuse. At first Kerri believed his only destination was the team’s training center. Only when he began to return with the unmistakable smell of alcohol on his breath did she suspect that he had been detouring. Rather than confront him with her suspicion, she chose instead to welcome him and ask him about the progress of his knee. Her heart told her that once the knee was completely healed, he would discontinue his excessive drinking and become the caring sensitive man she had once loved so dearly. Her mind told her the problem was much more serious, and that the marriage was in deep trouble.
Believing he could help, she decided to confide in Miles Dennis. She waited until he was alone in his office and not on the telephone, then entered and closed the door behind her. She took a seat and faced him.
“Problems?” Dennis asked, smiling but continuing to read.
“Yes, but not what you think… Are you any good at marriage counseling?”
Dennis pushed aside his file, leaned backward and relaxed. “Not bad. Why?”
“It’s Brian,” Kerri said, her voice cracking, tears flooding her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.
Dennis bolted upright, sensing Kerri was deeply troubled. “Tell me the whole story,” he demanded. “Don’t leave anything out. Get it all out of your system.”
Kerri lowered her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “I don’t know him any more, Miles,” she whimpered, desperation obvious. “Ever since he came home from the hospital in Buffalo, he’s changed. He’s drinking, heavily. I can’t even have a civilized conversation with him.”
“Has he ever hit you?”
“No. I don’t think he’s a violent person. I’m more worried about what he might do to himself.”
“What do you think he might do to himself?”
“Aside from ruining his health and career, I don’t know.”
“Has he threatened to leave you?”
“No.”
“Is there another woman?”
Tears reappeared. “I don’t think so.”
“Then the problem seems relatively simple… Before the game in Buffalo, the two of you were happy. Everything was wonderful. Right?”
Kerri nodded.
“Then everything went to hell, in a hurry.”
“That’s all true but…”
“Then it’s simple. What’s the most important thing that’s missing from his life?”
“Football?”
Dennis shook his head. “Something more important than that.”
Suddenly Kerri realized what she had overlooked for so long. “Recognition.”
“Exactly. I knew you were a bright girl. Brian’s a celebrity. He’s been living on a steady diet of adoring fans and media attention. Suddenly he’s injured and goes off the diet, cold turkey. At first he feels sorry for himself. Then he supplements his diet with booze.”
“But how do I help him?”
“Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s screwing up his life and his marriage, but self-pity is still the overriding consideration, and booze is still the higher priority. You should give him all the love and attention you can. Avoid criticizing him. You should also talk to his teammates. Tell them exactly what you’ve told me. They might be able to reach Brian in ways unavailable to you. Peer pressure is a very powerful force. It might work.”
Discussing her problem openly, and without reservation was enormously therapeutic to Kerri. “You’re wonderful, Miles,” she said, feeling an injection of relief and renewed strength.
“Don’t you ever forget it. I invested in you because I think you’re a winner. However I’m aware that even winners have to be happy to perform to their potential. Don’t keep me in the dark, Kerri. I want to know everything that happens. If you have further problems, I want to know about them immediately. Is that understood?”
“Understood. Thanks again, Miles.”
CHAPTER 35
Long Island. Wednesday, February 15, 1990.
It was sunny and extremely cold. Breath turned to ice crystals.
Brian, dressed in jeans, heavy white sweatshirt and Jets’ jacket, left the Jets’ training center shortly after two P.M. and took a taxi to Runway Thirty-eight, an upscale strip joint several blocks from La Guardia. The crowd acknowledged him with a standing ovation. Waiters rushed to deliver free drinks to him. Girls danced for him, gave him special attention, while and after they removed their clothing.
He loved it. Runway Thirty-eight and its strippers had allowed him to recapture the rapture of a steady diet of attention so long missing from his life.
Twenty-two year old Tina DeSouza, a tall slender raven haired Cuban beauty, centered her entire routine directly in front of Brian. The climax of her performance was as close possible to him, with his line of sight directly between her legs. She smiled and winked as she briefly pulled aside the business end of her G-string.
“Wow!” Brian shouted, aroused and excited by her antics. He stuffed a ten dollar bill inside her G-string and asked her to sit at his table.
Tina accepted willingly. Clad only in her
red silk track suit and still panting, she took a chair beside him.
He leaned toward her and placed his right arm around her shoulders. “Hi, I’m Brian,” he said with a big lecherous smile, his dark brown eyes riveted on the tops of her perfect breasts.
Tina flashed a coy smile. “I know who you are. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Sure. Gin and tonic.”
Brian turned and waved at his waitress, a six foot and change peroxide blonde with blue lipstick and astounding measurements.
She approached the table and leaned toward him, dangling her bare breasts close to his face. “More of the same, Brian?” she asked.
“Yup, and a gin and tonic for Tina.”
Tina unzipped the top of her track suit to expose more of her breasts, then reached under the table and placed her hand on his thigh, inducing an almost immediate erection. “I enjoy dancing for you. I feel appreciated.”
The waitress returned with the drinks and placed them on the table. “They’re on the house, Brian,” she said, then left.
Brian raised his glass and took a huge gulp, then returned his gaze to Tina’s breasts. “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.
“This is my third year.”
“Does it pay well?”
“I make at least fifteen hundred a week, almost all tax free.”
“Amazing. I had no idea. You married?”
Tina shook her head. “I live alone with my kitten, but I’m going to quit this business as soon as I have saved enough money. Then I’m going to get married and have a whole bunch of kids.”
“Then you really don’t enjoy stripping?”
She winked, placed her hand between his legs, and stroked his erect penis. “I do when you’re here… I have to get ready for my next show,” she said, then leaned close to Brian’s ear. “I’m free after that. If you take me home, I’ll give you the best dance you’ve ever seen.”
Brian stayed, drank more rum and thought of his wife as he watched Tina’s last performance. He was troubled. To this point in his life he had never made love to any other woman. “You can’t do this!” he admonished himself.
By the time Tina was once again naked and lying on the stage floor with her legs straddling his line of vision, his decision was made. Her private performance offer was impossible to refuse. “Why not?” he said aloud.
Tina led Brian into her apartment, a small but neat one-bedroom flat, less than a mile from Runway Thirty-eight. She poured a large rum and coke, handed it to him then pointed to the couch. “Sit over there and relax. I’m going to ring your bell.” she promised.
She turned on her cassette player, then gave Brian a super seductive performance, no longer constrained by the stringent rule of her employer, free to make physical contact with Brian in very sensual and provocative ways.
Long before the music was completed, they had frantically assisted each other in the removal of clothing, the event culminating in a desperate love making crescendo in the center of the living room rug. Brian closed his eyes, exhilarated, but guilty. He had cheated, broken his marriage vows to Kerri for the first time.
CHAPTER 36
Kerri telephoned Billy Ray Vincent, an aging black linebacker and one of Brian’s teammates. In happier times, Brian had introduced Vincent to her as his closest friend on the team. Vincent, a giant of a man, deeply religious and nondrinker, was happily married. He lived with his wife and four children in nearby Port Washington. “It’s Kerri, Kerri Pyper,” she announced, agonizing over making the call and revealing the details of a very personal and sensitive problem to an individual she barely knew.
“Hi, Kerri. How you doin’?” Vincent asked.
“I’m fine, but Brian isn’t… That’s why I called… I was hoping you would help him.”
“Did that old dog hurt himself again?”
“No… It’s much more serious than that… He’s drinking heavily and if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to ruin his health and his career.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Kerri. That must be hell for you. How can I help?”
“I would be grateful if you would try to get him to understand what he’s doing to himself. He has an enormous amount of respect for you, and if anyone can do it, you can.”
Brian rested the back of his head against the rim of the whirlpool, then closed his eyes and allowed the jets of hot water to massage and stimulate the circulation in his injured knee. Thoughts of Tina DeSouza and soon returning to Runway Thirty-eight danced in his brain.
“You sleeping it off?” Vincent asked, then placed his strong black hand on the top of Brian’s head and pushed downward, completely submerging his head.
Hot water splashed in all directions as Brian hoisted himself to an upright position. He glared at Vincent. “What the hell was that for?”
“I’ll tell you what the hell, Pyper. You’re blowin’ it. You’re pissing away a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“What kind of bullshit is this? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you do, Pyper, and that’s what I’m talkin’ about. I’ve known a whole hell of a lot of guys with less than half your talent. They made it in this league because they were motivated and focused. They made it because they looked after their bodies and their minds. You know the history of this league is replete with the sad endings of super talented washed up drunks?”
“Where the hell do you get off, Vincent? What I choose to do with my mind and body is my business, not yours.”
Vincent frowned and glared at Brian. “I’ll tell you where I get off. Someone who loves you very much cared enough to call me last night. She was real upset, Pyper. She told me you’re drinkin’ your way into oblivion. You better smarten up or you’re goin’ to find yourself out on the street with all those other washed up million dollar hotshots who thought they were indestructible.”
Vincent’s confrontation succeeded only in alienating Brian, clouding his mind with contempt for another individual who had dared to invade his privacy. “You have no fucking right to tell me how to live my life! It’s none of your business!” He jumped from the bath and headed for his locker.
Brian slurped a large and very dry martini as he paced his kitchen floor. “I’ll put an end to this crap once and for all!” he vowed.
Kerri entered her apartment at seven fifteen, shivering from the cold and tired from a long work day. Her fatigue was forgotten when she saw Brian moving toward her as fast as he could hobble. She saw anger in his eyes. Before she could remove her coat, he seized her right shoulder with his left hand and slapped her face as hard as he could with his right. “That’s for Billy Ray!” he shouted. “Next time you decide to tell someone how you think I should live my life, tell me first.”
The stinging pain of the blow caused Kerri’s knees to buckle. The shock and surprise of being hit by her husband for the first time brought tears to her her eyes. She trembled in fear of being hit again.
“Why?” Brian bellowed, his face contorted with rage.
The smell of alcohol turned Kerri’s stomach. “You’re hurting my arm,” she screamed.
The moment Brian released her, she fell backward against the wall, then slowly sank to a fetal position. She buried her face in her hands. “All I wanted to do was help you,” she sobbed, fighting an urge to criticize.
“Don’t do me any more favors,” Brian said, then opened the closet door beside Kerri. He removed his winter coat and left the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Devastated and more alone than ever, Kerri remained on the floor for a long time, pondering her marriage and worrying about its future.
CHAPTER 37
March, 1990.
For Louis Visconti, every one dollar decline in the price of crude oil represented a paper profit of thirty million dollars. For Saddam Hussein, the president of Iraq, a similar price decline represented huge losses. In view of the dire financial plight into which h
is country had fallen, oil prices meant everything. With annual oil production of three million barrels per day, every one dollar drop in the price of crude oil meant an annual loss more than one billion dollars.
Since the end of its costly war with Iran in 1988, Iraq’s economic condition had been deteriorating. Saddam resented the fact that his country had borne the full weight of resisting Iran. He complained bitterly that Iraq’s sacrifices had not been fully appreciated by its Arab neighbors, particularly Kuwait. His resentment, festering for a long time, was approaching the boiling point.
By contrast, Kuwait, the world’s sixth largest oil producer, was flush with cash. It’s assets abroad exceeded one hundred billion dollars. The ruling family and other wealthy Kuwaiti investors held an additional fifty billion dollars privately. Kuwait’s income from diversified investments actually exceeded that from oil sales. Consequently, they had little incentive to increase oil prices in 1990. Such increases would slow the world economy and depress the value of their investments, the main source of their income. Kuwait’s intransigence on crude oil pricing further enraged Saddam.
Another extremely contentious issue between Iraq and Kuwait was the huge banana-shaped Rumaila oil field. The pool, just over ten thousand feet below the desert surface, straddled the border between the two countries. With reserves of more than thirty billion barrels, it was one of the world’s largest reservoirs, more than three times the size of Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay field. More than ninety percent of the fifty mile long formation was inside Iraq, yet most of the oil pumped from it was by Kuwaitis. Aware that Kuwaiti pumps could theoretically drain the pool, Saddam claimed full ownership and accused them of stealing Iraq’s oil. Storm clouds were building.
CHAPTER 38
Long Island. Friday, March 16, 1990.
Brian parked his black Eldorado, then hurried inside Runway Thirty-eight. He was hurt and angry. No, betrayed. His pain and suffering had never been fully appreciated by Kerri. Worse, she had the audacity to enlist the support of that prick, Vincent. Pushed beyond the limits of tolerance, he had once again escaped to his refuge. There he was appreciated, adored, free from interference.
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