getting more ink than Chet Krause, the Dallas coach, which was fine with both of them. Krause was an x's and o's guy who distrusted the press and could never figure why they needed comments every damn week when it all boiled down to the same thing: if we block and tackle better than they do, we'll win. Kingsley, on the other hand, never met a microphone he didn't want to fondle.
Although he had a personnel director, a head coach and ten assistant coaches, Kingsley never failed to take credit for the strategy that won games and the trades that brought enough talent to the team to make it to the Super Bowl. The pre-game hype and hysteria were just beginning. Once the team arrived, the media feeding frenzy would really begin. In the meantime, he would manipulate the press as he always had, kneading the reporters egos as a baker works his dough.
Outside the bungalow, a photo shoot was setting up around the pool. Kingsley watched from his patio as a photographer and several assistants fussed around three apparently anorexic young women in a low-cut cocktail dresses who were standing in the extraordinarily shallow end of the pool, the water barely covering their toes. An earnest young man in baggy shorts and t-shirt spritzed water on their golden bosoms. Again, Kingsley wished his father could be here to behold the wonders of such a strange place.
A moment later, his second visitor arrived, a stocky man with a bent nose and an unfriendly sneer. Kingsley welcomed the gangster and led him into the living room of the bungalow. He smiled to himself, imagining Bobby's fear in dealing with Vinnie LaBarca. What an able cast he had chosen for this little charade, Kingsley thought, and so far, all the actors had played their roles to perfection. Wouldn't his ex son-in-law shit a brick if he knew how he'd been played?
That's right, Robert. You're a puppet and I pull your strings.
'You want to take a walk, get away from all these fruitcakes?' Vinnie LaBarca asked, gesturing past the open patio door toward the pool.
'I'm not sure it's a good idea for us to be seen together,' Kingsley said, pulling the white curtains closed. 'The Commissioner frowns on owners associating with known gamblers.'
LaBarca laughed. 'Right. He's gotta say that, but if it wasn't for betting, who'd give a shit about a game between a couple cellar dwellers in December?'
Outside, hotel guests in chaise lounges pretended not to stare at the models in the pool.
'So how's our boy?' Kingsley asked, watching the scene through the window.
'He's in a hole so deep he can't see the sky,' LaBarca said. 'A million four with interest.'
'And he thinks you'll break his legs if he doesn't pay?'
'Break his legs, hell. I'd make him disappear. I got a reputation to protect.'
'I like your attitude, Mr. LaBarca. You're a winner.'
Everything would be so much simpler with Bobby Gallagher out of the picture, Kingsley thought. He could raise Scott himself, mold him into a man. Hell, he had always wanted a son. He let the thought roll around for a moment, then stored it away, the knowledge that Bobby Gallagher's life hung by the slimmest of threads and he held the shears.
That was a treat to be savored later. For the moment, he wanted to enjoy the glorious scam that put Gallagher in debt to him. It was a combination of skill and the old Kingsley luck. He'd been feeding LaBarca inside info of injuries and game plans for years, and a week ago, he called in the debt, telling the gangster to make the first bet with Gallagher. It was a no-lose proposition. If LaBarca lost the bet, he would have challenged Gallagher to try and collect it. Win, he'd force Gallagher to pay. Once the spread moved on the game, Kingsley told LaBarca to double down, and with luck, he middled his hapless ex-son-in-law.
Like making the eight the hard way.
So far, everything had gone according to plan. Hell, better than that.
'Thanks Mr. Kingsley, and remember, you can call me any time you need an electrician.'
'How's that?'
'When you want to put somebody's lights out.' The mobster's sharp laugh sounded liked the howl of a coyote.
'I'll keep it in mind,' Kingsley said.
An exasperated cry went up from the pool, 'Too harsh!' The photographer, a skinny man with a ponytail stomped his feet and gesticulated wildly with his light meter. 'Damn this tropical sun!'
'It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. LaBarca,' Kingsley said formally, sliding the second envelope of the morning across the table. This one was larger, legal-sized, and stuffed with even more cash.
'Hey, the pleasure's all mine. I never got paid to place a bet before. I just wish it had been my money up.' He took the envelope, opened it and riffled through the first stack of hundred-dollar bills. He paused a moment and seemed to consider some quiet thought before speaking. 'Mr. Kingsley, I'm a man who likes to return a favor. I got a real good hunch on the Super Bowl if you want to hear it.'
Kingsley shook his head. 'I've got to be careful. Laying down a bet myself is too risky.'
Besides, the Commissioner's been on my ass about cutting corners on the salary cap, fudging injury reports and tampering with players and coaches under contract elsewhere, so I've got to watch my backside.
'Too bad,' LaBarca said, 'because I've got the skinny on the game.'
'Even if I wanted to take a ride, I don't like the spread. My Mustangs are a four-point favorite. Hell, if we beat the Pats by a field goal, I'd still lose the bet.'
'What if it wasn't a gamble?' LaBarca asked, a conspiratorial smile creasing his face.
What's he saying? This isn't some college kid shaving points in a Wednesday night basketball game. This is the Super Bowl with everybody in the world watching.
'What are you telling me? That you know my Mustangs will cover?'
'Dead solid certain. It's a lock.'
'Chet Krause tells me he thinks the Pats have better personnel and are better coached, and he ain't just being humble. He also says they're hungrier.'
'They could be starving. Wouldn't make any difference.'
'But how can you be sure?' Kingsley pressed him.
'Trust me, you're better off not knowing.'
Martin Kingsley would not trust Vinnie LaBarca any farther than he could throw Buckwalter Washington, and the defensive lineman had an ass the size of Arkansas. Still, the possibilities were intriguing. God, how he wanted to win the Super Bowl, and how he'd love to win a huge bet.
Five million dollars had a nice ring to it. A nice round sum to pay off Houston Tyler.
But an owner of a pro team can't consort with bookies or even go to a legal sports book in Vegas or the islands. He'd taken a huge risk dealing with LaBarca on the conference championship game. Now, unlike his father, he didn't want to push his luck. Still, how could he pass it up?
The wise guys have gotten to somebody. An official, a key player for Denver, but who? And how?
'You're certain?' Kingsley asked again.
'I'll be surprised if they score a single touchdown.'
Somebody on the Denver offense. Jesus, that could be anyone from an offensive lineman who'll jump offsides on fourth and goal to the star quarterback, Mike Skarcynski.
'You're sure?' Kingsley pressed him for what seemed like the tenth time.
'You could bet your life on it,' LaBarca replied.
No, he wouldn't do that. But it had become something other than a bet. For all the world, it looked like a business transaction without risk, a chance to pay off Houston Tyler and savor his team's victory at the same time. These next eleven days, Kingsley felt certain, were going to be the best time of his life.
25
Bobby had been walking out the door of his Coconut Grove cottage, headed for a dreaded meeting with his
