by Paul Levine
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
The Last Days of Pompeii
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.
"I could use some training, up close and personal," Nightlife said with a serpent's smile.
"Then you've come to the right place," Bobby said.
"Bobby!" Christine's glare could have withered crabgrass.
"C'mon, Chrissy. We've got work to do." Bobby led her toward the house. Behind them, Nightlife was asking Lateesha what time she got off work.
"Bobby, are you crazy! That man's an animal. How could you encourage that woman to-"
"Lateesha can take care of herself," he said. He was going to explain but standing six feet in front of them on the steps outside the VIP room was Peter Constantine, the Commissioner of the National Football League. He was a tall, graying man in his fifties, who looked like a corporate lawyer, which he'd been. He was holding a drink and talking to two men Bobby recognized as a team owner and a network play-by-play announcer.
"Mr. Commissioner!" Bobby blurted out, realizing at once he was too loud. He sidestepped a stone urn and closed the distance in two steps with Christine following. "There's something you've got to know about the Super Bowl."
Constantine laughed and shot glances at his two companions. "And I thought I already knew it all."
"You don't! It's being tampered with. Gamblers are involved. Mobsters are extorting Skarcynski."
"Calm down, Bobby," Christine whispered into his ear. "Go slowly."
"How's that?" Constantine appeared alarmed. "Who are you?"
"A crackpot!" It was Martin Kingsley, in a black sharkskin suit and black boots, breaking into the circle. "I apologize, Pete. This is my ex-son-in-law. He's a disbarred lawyer with severe emotional problems."
"Kingsley's involved!" Bobby shouted, gesticulating wildly at the team owner. "He's got a five million dollar bet on the game. He's probably in on the extortion plot.. He'd do anything to win."
"I remember you now," the Commissioner said, appraising Bobby as one would a lizard on the bathroom tile. "You're the fellow who cracked up and went on television a couple of years ago."
&
nbsp; "He didn't crack up," Christine said, elbowing her way in front of Bobby, as if to shield him from harm. "He did what was right."
Kingsley's face reddened. "You'll have to forgive my daughter, Pete. Love is blind, as they say."
Kingsley took Christine by the arm and tried to lead her away.
"Don't touch her!" Bobby warned, moving toward Kingsley,
Suddenly, Bobby felt a hand gripping his shoulder. "Is there a problem here?" It was Mr. Crew Cut, or Tarzan, or whatever his name was, Kingsley's security thug who had boxed his ears. The guy had hands the size of hubcaps. He was dragging Bobby one way, while Kingsley was hauling Christine the other.
"Daddy, let go!" she pleaded.
"This is for your own good, darling."
"Bobby!" Christine called out to him, but now a second man had a grip on Bobby's other arm, and he was being hustled behind the caterers' tent that backed up to the seawall running along the bay. Suddenly, they were in darkness, the tent blocking out the lights from the party, the water dark and forbidding behind them.
"Hello asshole," the second man said, his voice hissing like water dousing a fire.
"I owe you some pain. Big time."
Bobby couldn't make out his face, but he recognized the voice. The angry, ugly voice of Dino Fornecchio.
43
A Magic Carpet of Moonlight
In her thirty-seven years on earth-thirty-eight as of next Thursday, Christine had never yelled at her father. No teenage tantrums, no adolescent alienation. The perfect child for the loving father.
Now, standing among his heavy-hitting brethren, the fraternity of wealthy team owners, she leapt at him, beating his chest with both her fists. "Where is he!" she screamed. "What have you done with Bobby?"
Kingsley backed up but she stuck to him like a burr to a horse's mane. Absorbing the blows as she continued to strike him, the blood seemed to drain from his face, and his eyes grew wide. "Calm down! You're hysterical. I've never seen you like this."
"Damn you! Where's Bobby?"
Conversation around them stopped, and hundreds of startled faces stared. Christine didn't care. Her heart was drumming like the wings of a bird. She pushed him with both hands to his chest, and he continued retreating until they were off the limestone terrace and in the shadows of a row of statues. In a moment, she had him pinned to the towering figure of Minerva, a marble goddess of wisdom.
"You've lied to me, Daddy! I know all about your bet with Bobby. I know everything."
"You don't know the half of it."
"What does that mean? What else have you done?"
"It's all been for you," he said. "I've brought Robert Gallagher to his knees for you and Scott. How do you think he got into this mess?"
"He told me all about it. He lost a big bet to a gambler named LaBarca."
"It was me! LaBarca was my beard. I dug a hole for that shyster ex-husband of yours, and he jumped right in. Now, I'm here to turn the last spadeful of dirt."
"No, no," she said, crying. "How could you?"
"I'm proud of what I've done for my family. I'd do it again. That man has caused us nothing but trouble."
"I love him. Scott loves him."
"Listen to me, Christine. He's not the one for you. He doesn't have what it takes."
"I've listened to you!" she wailed. "All these years, I've done everything you wanted. I've tried to please you. God, what I've done! What I've given up! Not only did I sacrifice my husband, I've given you my son!"
"You did the right thing, but now that bastard has misled you. He's mixed you up. I'll take care of you, and I'll take care of Scott."
He tried to put his arms around her, but she swatted him away. "No! I'll take care of myself, and Bobby and I will raise Scott."
"I won't let you do that, and neither will the judge."
"What are you going to do? Sue me?" The anger boiled up inside her like soup in an iron kettle.
"I'll do what I've always done," he said, his eyes a steely blue. "Whatever it takes. If you're consorting with that felon, if you're behaving irrationally, then maybe you should go away for a rest somewhere. Get some treatment. I'm sure the judge would see it my way."
"What are you talking about?"
"Custody of Scott. I've had Jailbreak look into it. When both natural parents are unfit, a grandparent is the next logical custodian."
"You'd do it, wouldn't you?" Tears ran down her cheeks like two flowing brooks, all the strength seemed to seep out of her bones. The hurt pierced her heart. Her father had been everything to her. That he could turn on her, that he could threaten to take Scott was unthinkable.
He looked at her now with a triumphant glare. She'd seen he same look in business deals when her father had the upper hand, when he was about to squash his opponent like an insect under the heel of his boot. This was just another deal, another game to be won. She had become the enemy, another foe to vanquish.
"Bobby was wrong about you," she said, walking away. "You're an even bigger bastard than he knows."
Bobby's ankles were banging off the rough steps of the stone bridge as he was dragged along the seawall behind the mansion. Crew Cut had him under one arm, Dino Fornecchio under the other. After crossing the bridge, they went up a second set up steps and into a stone gazebo at the water's edge. A sliver of moon rose over Biscayne Bay, lighting a path across the dark water straight to the seawall.
"Stop here," Fornecchio said, and they both released their grips.
"Now what the fuck am I going to do with you?" Fornecchio asked. A white bandage was taped across the bridge of his nose, and his voice had a heavy adenoidal twang. He pulled a handgun from a holster inside his suit coat and waved it in Bobby's face. "I never killed anybody in such a scenic place before."
"That would be smart, Dino," Bobby said, struggling to stay calm. "Why not dump my body in the VIP room when they're having their Key lime pie? I'm the guy who just told the Commissioner the game is fixed by gamblers and that Kingsley's involved, and the last two guys I'm seen with work for Kingsley and the biggest gambler in town. Why not take an ad in the Herald saying who killed me?"
That seemed to stop Fornecchio a moment, and Bobby frantically tried to think his way out of the jam. He fought to control his panic, resisting the urge to run like a rabbit in front of the dogs, wondering if Fornecchio would put a bullet in his back. He tried to focus on his surroundings, to plan a path of escape. In the distance, a yacht chugged across the bay, and water slip-slopped against the seawall from its wake. Here he was, on the verge of death, and the rest of the world continued at its own pace, oblivious to his and a million other tragedies.
"Maybe you ought to call Vinnie before you do something that'll piss him off," Bobby said, buying time. In his heart, he knew LaBarca could order him killed as easily as he ordered linguine with clam sauce
"You think all I do is take orders from him?" Fornecchio asked, angrily.
"I think when you take a shit, you ask him for permission to wipe."
Growling like a hungry Doberman pinscher, Fornecchio jammed the barrel of the gun against the tip of Bobby's nose. "You broke my nose, asshole. How would you like me to shoot off yours?"
"Good thinking, Dino. There are only about two hundred security guards on the other side of those hedges. Why not shoot yourself in the foot at the same time?"
Fornecchio drew back the hammer of the gun, the metallic click seemingly as loud as a gunshot itself.
"Hey, wait a second, Dino," Crew Cut said. His neck seemed ready to burst the top button on his banded collar shirt. His arms were so thick they hung away from his body like a gorilla. "I didn't bargain for this. I gotta check in with Mr. K if you're gonna go ballistic."
Fornecchio's stupid face lit up like a neon sign. "If this prick tried to get away, you think Kingsley would mind if we messed him up?"
"No," the big man, said warily.
"Didn't think so."
"So?"
Hold him!" Fornecchio demanded, and Cr
ew Cut, used to following orders, grabbed Bobby from behind, looping his arms through Bobby's armpits. "Hold him up straight."
Propped up, Bobby braced for what was coming. Fornecchio threw a hard right that landed squarely in Bobby's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. His stomach heaved once, twice, and then, he gagged and vomited straight onto Fornecchio's shoes.
"Oh shit!" Fornecchio shouted. "My wing tips! I'll never get the crud out. You're gonna lick my shoes clean, asshole, then I'm gonna inflict some pain on you."
Bobby heaved again, and this time he hurled even farther. Fornecchio stepped backward but the splash caught the cuffs of his suit pants. "You dirtbag!"
"Hey, Dino," Crew Cut said, "this smell is making me sick." He released his grip on Bobby and turned his head, trying to suck in some clean air.
Through a haze of tears, Bobby saw the path of moonbeams stretched across the bay. The light seemed to beckon to him. He got to his feet, sidestepped Fornecchio who was shaking off his pantleg, and raced to the open face of the gazebo that sat at the water's edge. He knew from fishing in the bay that the water was exceptionally shallow along the seawall. Concrete waste from repairs to the mansion formed a rocky ledge just inches below the water line. He would have to clear the ledge.
With his last step, he shot into the air in a racing dive, extending as far as he could, praying he would make it.
In a second, he felt the splash of surprisingly warm water and the tangle of sea grasses, but he had just cleared the ledge. As he kicked off his shoes and began swimming furiously away from the seawall, he heard the shout behind him.
"Get him!" Fornecchio yelled.
