by Paul Levine
"Will Craig really think this is Temptation?" Scott asked.
"That or her ghost."
But would he really? Christine didn't know. She hoped that, at first glance, he'd be fooled. "He'll be focused on the game," she said, "and what he'll see will be so out of place that his brain won't have time to think it through. Maybe he'll think he's hallucinating, but that should be enough to break his concentration."
"C'mon Mom, we don't have much time. You better change now."
"Okay, lead her up to the tunnel. I'll meet you there in a minute."
At first Bobby thought the rapping sound was just part of the raucous cacophony from the stadium. Ahead 23–21, the Mustangs had intercepted the ball at their own thirty-eight yard line. They would run out the clock, he was sure, and win the game, but not cover the spread. He and Christine would own the team…if only he was still breathing.
Suddenly he recognized the sound as a fist knocking on the metal door to the electrical room.
"Godammit, open the door!"
The West Texas accent sounded just like Kingsley. But now? Here? With the game on the line, Bobby thought.
Crew Cut tore himself from the window and must have been thinking the same thing. "Jesus, Mr. K., it's the play of the game. What are you doing up here?"
He threw open the door, and a man dressed all in black burst into the room. He was bald and had a chalky pallor, made even paler by the purple scar that covered one side of his face. Emaciated and old, he would have seemed feeble except that at that moment, he was swinging a tire iron at Crew Cut's head.
The startled big man stumbled backwards and raised an arm. The tire iron crushed his wrist with the sound of a machete decapitating a coconut. Crew Cut wailed and brought his arms down, tucking the wounded wrist into an armpit. The tire iron swung again, this time connecting with the man's right knee. Crew Cut toppled to the floor, screaming. The man in black was on him then, pressing the iron to his throat, then looking up at Bobby.
"I do a pretty good imitation of the bastard's voice, don't I?" the man asked. "Hell, I've heard him give orders so long I even hear him in my sleep."
"Who are you!" Bobby demanded.
"Where are the keys to your cuffs?"
"Right pants pocket," Bobby said, motioning with his head toward the fallen Crew Cut.
The man dug out the keys, unlocked Bobby, then cuffed the moaning Crew Cut to an exposed pipe.
"Why are you doing this?" Bobby asked.
"I'm the only man in the world who hates Martin Kingsley more than you do," the man said.
"You're Houston Tyler! But you're wrong. I don't hate him. I feel sorry for him." Bobby rubbed his wrists and worked the blood back into his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Tyler. Thank you very much."
"You're welcome. I didn't want Martin to get the better of you."
"Where is he now?"
"I followed him out of his suite, figuring he was coming here, but he took the elevator down to the field. I suppose he wants to get his face on the TV."
"No," Bobby said. "He wants to call the plays."
48
The Snap, the Hold, the Kick
Martin Kingsley couldn't see a damn thing until he bulled his way past the security guards and sideline photographers. By the time he got to Chet Krause, the team had run one play, a two-yard plunge by the fullback. Denver called time out to stop the clock with forty-six seconds left, and Craig Stringer trotted over to the sidelines to consult with the head coach. "Just take a knee," Krause said. "They're down to their last time out. Make 'em use it now."
"No fucking way!" Kingsley boomed, breaking in. "Chet, didn't you get my orders?"
"I got 'em Martin," replied the lantern-jawed coach, "but I figured you'd had too many margaritas."
"Godammit, listen! We gotta score again. Craig, throw the down and out so the receiver can get out of bounds and stop the clock."
Stringer's eyes flashed back and forth from the owner to the coach.
"Craig, you'll do no such thing. This game is already won and I won't risk a turnover. I don't know what the point spread is, Martin, and I don't give a shit. We play to win, not to satisfy your drinking buddies who've bet on the game."
"It's not them, you horse's ass! It's me! Now, do as I say."
"Hey guys," Stringer said. "We're gonna get a delay of game penalty if you're not on the same page pretty damn quick."
"If you don't get at least three points, Craig, I'm putting you on waivers, but only after I have both your kneecaps broken," Kingsley said. "If we score, you get a five hundred thousand dollar retirement bonus and you become general manager of the team. Stock options, six million dollar salary, expense account, you name it."
"You got it," Stringer said, buckling his helmet and running onto the field.
Chet Krause turned away in disgust, and Kingsley moved down the sideline to stand at the Mustangs 40, the line of scrimmage. "Don't do it, Martin," said a voice behind him.
He turned to find Bobby walking toward him, brandishing a sideline pass to a security guard. "What the hell are you doing here?" Kingsley demanded.
"Watching you become a spectacle. Jesus, Martin, your face was just on the Jumbotron and on every TV set in the world. Everybody saw you arguing with Krause. What do you think the commentators are saying? If Stringer throws the ball now, everyone will know you've got money riding on the game. You can't do it."
"Why? So you can win the bet?"
Before they could answer, a gasp when up from the crowd. The two men turned to see Stringer rolling out to his right and firing down the sideline to a wide-open receiver who had caught the secondary playing up for the run. The pass was complete at Denver's thirty-seven where the receiver stepped out of bounds. The clock stopped with thirty-one seconds left.
"Way to go!" Kingsley yelled.
"It's not the bet," Bobby said. "I want to preserve the institution of football."
"You hypocrite! You're the one-"
They were interrupted by a second roar from the crowd. After faking a handoff to the fullback, Stringer dropped back and tossed a short pass over the middle. The tight end grabbed it, broke two tackles, then dragged a defensive back to the sixteen-yard line. Now, crazily, both teams attempted to call time out. Denver had to stop the clock in order to have enough time to score if they ever got the ball back; Dallas needed to stop it to have a chance for a field goal. The referee decided Denver had signaled first and ordered the time out charged to the defense. Nineteen seconds left.
"You tried to sabotage my team, you bastard," Kingsley said.
"I shouldn't have done it," Bobby admitted. "I shouldn't have become just like you. But now, you've won the game fair and square, so be happy about it."
"Screw you! All you care about is the bet."
"I care about the game. Don't destroy it. Too many institutions have been ruined. We don't trust the White House or Congress or the media or even our churches. Let us have something to believe in. Let us have football."
"You can have it on my terms," Kingsley snarled.
Time was back in, and now Stringer used a quick count and a two step drop before snaking a pass toward the end zone. The wide receiver on the right side was running a post pattern, streaking straight down the field, then cutting hard left to his left. He broke open just beyond the goal line, and Stringer's pass hit him squarely in the hands, but the ball squirted out like a wet bar of soap and fell harmlessly to the ground. Kingsley let out a groan as if he'd been knifed in the gut.
"Eleven seconds left," he said, shooting a look a the stopped clock. "I don't want to risk a sack or turnover. "Turning toward the bench, he waved his arms and yelled, "Field goal unit, get your asses in there!" Turning back to Bobby, he said, "Thirty-three yards. This is a chip shot for Boom Boom."
"It's crazy, Martin. Run out the clock. This will ruin you."
"Fuck you," Kingsley said, "and the horse you rode in on."
As Stringer broke the huddle and took his position with
one knee on the ground seven yards and change behind the center, another gasp went up from the crowd, but this time it had nothing to do with the play selection. As Stringer barked the signals, a spotted horse with a rider dressed in flowing black silk and a black mask galloped onto the field, headed straight for the kneeling quarterback.
Zorro, Christine thought.
I look like Zorro.
Her senses took in everything as the horse broke from the tunnel. The first two security guards let her pass, probably figuring she was part of the post-game festivities. A uniformed Miami-Dade cop wasn't so sure. "Whoa there!" he ordered. But Christine tugged at the reins and guided the bogus Temptation around him. The horse whipped its mane, which cracked like a rug snapped into the wind, then leapt over the Mustangs' bench, knocking over a table of Gatorade and scattering the players who stood at the sideline, ready to celebrate the victory that was already assured.
She noticed the strange sound coming from the stands, a communal catching of breath, a soft whooshing wind that turned to laughter and cheers as the horse galloped past the line judge and directly toward the twenty-two men on the field. As she closed on them, the crowd suddenly grew silent, as if someone had turned off the TV set, and she could hear the horse's breathing and the clomp of its hooves on the grass.
Craig Stringer looked up then as the horse bore down on him, looked up from his kneeling position, and through his face mask, his face appeared to freeze, his mouth open, his eyes wide in terror. Then his features seemed to melt, like a block of ice perched close to a flame. Christine tugged hard on the reins, and the horse halted, reared on its hind legs and whinnied, the sound as accusatory as a lover's lament, the cry crawling up Christine's spine like a saw blade shrieking against iron. The horse, she thought, sounded just like Temptation.
Stringer emitted a high-pitched scream, then ducked and covering his helmet with both hands, as if the horse would crush him with its striped hooves.
Suddenly, Christine was aware of a piercing whistle. The referee ran toward her, followed by several uniformed police. She dug her heels into the horse and headed for the end zone. None of the policemen made a move to block the path of fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh, and she flew out the stadium exit, streaking toward the horse van at the far end of the parking lot.
What in the name of jumping Jesus Christ is going on!" Martin Kingsley fumed.
"All those years of horse riding lessons just paid off," Bobby said.
"The hell does that mean?"
"Nobody ever listens to me," Bobby said, shaking his head. At first, he was angry. He had told Chrissy not to mess with the game. To Chrissy, he thought, there was something larger at play.
This was the ultimate act of rebellion against her father.
The referee signaled timeout, then jogged from sideline to sideline to confer with the head coaches. The clock still showed eleven seconds remaining and wouldn't start again until the ball was snapped. Stringer removed his helmet and trotted straight for Kingsley.
"I don't think we should go for the points, Mr. K.," he said. He was as pale as the papers his lawyers filed against the insurance company for the dead horses, Bobby thought.
"What the hell's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"It doesn't seem right. I mean, the game's won."
"Not my game! Now, get the hell back in there and give him a good hold. Boom Boom can make this one in his sleep."
Stringer pulled his helmet back on and trotted back toward Dallas huddle.
Kingsley turned angrily to Bobby. "Goddammit! You were behind this, weren't you? This was some cheap stunt to throw off Boom Boom, wasn't it?"
"No. We were going to sacrifice a live goat at midfield to get to Boom Boom."
"I knew it! Well, tough luck, because he'll still make the kick. A 33-yarder is a gimme for that little cricket."
Bobby watched Stringer as the Mustangs came out of their huddle. Usually, the quarterback would just move to his spot, drop into the knee-down stance, and call the signals. But now, he was looking around the stadium, his eyes stopping on the end zone where Christine and steed had disappeared into the tunnel. Was he worried the horse would come back? Or maybe a stampede of the other horses he burned to death. What fiery winds were blowing through his mind?
"Christ, Stringer, get into your stance!" Kingsley yelled.
The quarterback did it then, hurrying to the spot, dropping to one knee. In the entire stadium, Bobby thought, there might be three or four among the multitudes who took note of what he saw. The Dallas special teams coach would have noticed and maybe the assistant coaches in the press box working the phones to the bench. Boom Boom would have seen it, but it was too late to do anything about it because Stringer was already barking signals.
Stringer had lined up a yard short!
Boom Boom had marked the spot for him, walking back eight yards from the spot of the ball, then toeing the ground a foot inches in front of that. Seven yards, two feet, the precise distance. But Stringer was a yard closer to the line of scrimmage.
One yard. Three feet. Thirty-six inches. It could be the distance from the earth to the sun.
Bobby's hopes soared. So much could happen now. Used to a longer distance, the center could snap the ball high. Even with a good snap, the defensive linemen would be one step closer to blocking the kick. Or it could distract Boom Boom as he approached the ball. So much in the kicking game required the same position, the same movements, time after time. The entire sequence-the snap, the hold, the kick-should take no more than 1.33 seconds, or the kick will likely be blocked. One little variation, and…
Before Bobby could think it through, the center snapped the ball. He must have made the adjustment because-damn it! — the snap was perfect. Stringer brought up both hands turned in slightly, with thumbs together, as he'd done a thousand times, as Bobby himself had done hundreds of times.
The long snap was true, hitting Stringer in both hands. But the ball thudded off his palms. One bobble, two bobbles, then he snared it. Boom Boom had already taken two steps, planting his left foot, and his right foot had begun its arc when Stringer finally had control. He rushed the ball down, clumsily tilted toward the kicker, laces facing the oncoming foot. Boom Boom stutter-stepped and threw his entire motion out of whack. His foot hit the top of the ball and sent it hard and low toward the line of scrimmage where it smacked the right guard in the buttocks and shot skyward, hooking back toward Stringer.
A startled roar went up from the crowd.
"Oh Christ no!" Kingsley raged.
"How about that?" Bobby laughed. "How about that!"
For a moment, the field resembled a basketball court with all the players fighting for a rebound. Stringer leapt high and deflected the ball, sending it end-over-end, and keeping it in the air. One of Denver's linebackers got a hand on it and tipped it toward the sidelines where Marcus Ingram was waiting. Ingram was a defensive back who had been released by the Mustangs when Nightlife Jackson started playing on both sides of the ball. Denver picked him up, paid him league minimum, and had him playing second team cornerback plus duty on the special teams.
Ingram wasn't very good at pass coverage, and he hated physical contact so much he couldn't tackle a shoplifting grandmother. What he could do was run. Unless the horse returned to the field, Marcus Ingram was the fastest living thing within the sidelines.
When he saw the ball nestle into Ingram's hands, Bobby let out a whoop. He quickly scanned the field. Only Craig Stringer was between Ingram and the goal line. Ingram flew down the sideline, cut inside, leaving Stringer grasping at air, his legs tangled. When Ingram reached the goal line with Denver's fans screaming deliriously and the Mustangs fans looking on in stunned disbelief, he didn't spike the football. Instead, he calmly trotted to the official who was signaling the touchdown and flipped the ball to him. Then he dropped to one knee and crossed himself.
"Amen!" Bobby shouted.
Kingsley didn't say a word. His fa
ce knotted up like burls on a slab of pine, he stood frozen in place. Denver came out to kick the meaningless extra point, and when it sailed through the uprights, the final score was Denver 28, Dallas 23.
"You lost, Martin," Bobby said. "You didn't just fail to cover the spread. You lost the game, a game that had already been won. Everybody in the world saw you do it. And they know there can be only one reason why. You bet on the game! What do you think the papers will say tomorrow? What do you think the Commissioner is saying right now?"
One of the network cameras was jammed into Kingsley's face, and a jitterbugging sideline reporter thrust a microphone under his chin. "Mr. Kingsley, why the field goal try? Why risk it? Did the point spread play any role in-"
Kingsley swatted the microphone away and took a swing at the reporter. "Get the fuck out of my face!" he yelled on live television.
The reporter backed off, still speaking into his mike. "Obviously, the Mustangs owner is upset. He may not answer my questions today, but you can be sure that the Commissioner will have his own in the next few days."
On the Dallas bench, the players moved away from Kingsley, then with heads down, slouched off toward the locker room. In the center of the field, the winning players were diving onto each other, piling into a mosh pit of Denver beef. Kingsley dropped into a crouch and ran his hand along the ground, the way Bobby figured he must have done on so many dirt fields where he would drill for oil. Tears tracked down Kingsley's face, slowly at first in tiny rivulets, then gushing like a fountain.
"You're balling like a little girl," Houston Tyler taunted, coming up alongside the two men. Turning to Bobby, he said, "Hell, Martin never shed a tear when seven men were killed at the Texas City Refinery, but lookee here. He loses a game and a bet, and he's wetting his pants."
Kingsley turned to look up at the cadaverous man. "I don't have your money, Ty."
"What do I care? I won't live long enough to spend it, and seeing you like this is worth more than five million dollars."
