ex-father-in-law, when the phone rang. Scott had answered-'Hey, it's Mom!' — and quickly fabricated a story that he was home because there was no school in Miami today in celebration of Jose Marti's birthday. Playing hooky was a no-no with Christine. After speaking with her son for several minutes, she asked for Bobby, and he knew at once from her tone that something was wrong.
'I wanted you to know first,' she said, sounding both apologetic and guilty. 'Craig asked me to marry him.'
'Craig Stringer? The quarterback with capped teeth the size of garage doors, the drunk I got off when he rode his Harley up the escalator of Nieman Marcus, the guy who's banged every groupie in the NFC East. That Craig Stringer?'
'He was going through a phase.'
'I'll say. His bourbon and Vicodin phase. He's a pill popper, Christine. When he got busted for DUI with his pockets full of vikes, I had a friendly doctor write an ex-post-facto prescription in return for two box seats.'
'Craig was playing with a shoulder separation and turf toe that turned his foot the color of an eggplant. He was in constant pain.'
' I'm in pain! Lots of people are in pain, but they don't become junkies.'
'He had a problem and sought help,' she said, sounding more like a defense lawyer than Bobby ever did. 'It was a courageous thing to do.'
'What's so courageous about checking into a thousand-dollar a day spa?'
'You're behaving irrationally, Bobby. You're striking out at Craig because of your feelings for me. If you'd just get on with your life…'
I would, if I had one. You and Scott are my life.
'Craig Stringer, I just can't believe it,' he said, sorrowfully. He felt as if his chest were a barrel tethered by steel straps that tightened with every breath.
'Craig's changed, matured. I like to think I've been a good influence on him. I've helped him overcome a lot.'
'Why not help me? I'm the one who needs it.'
'Oh Bobby,' she said, with what he hoped was longing but feared was pity. 'You only know Craig from your work. Off the field, at home, he's quiet and thoughtful and sensitive. Do you remember when his horse stables burned down and all those thoroughbreds were killed? He was heartbroken.'
'He cheered up quick when the insurance paid off for those nags.'
'See Bobby, there you go. You're making light of someone else's loss. You have a great capacity for angst but little compassion for others.'
'That's not fair, Chrissy. Craig Stringer was losing his shirt in the horse business. The fire was a windfall that got him out of debt. I feel bad for the barbecued ponies but not for your All-American boyfriend. He's a guy who gets all the luck and my wife, too.'
'You've changed, Bobby. You've become harder.'
'Your father will do that to a man.'
'Let's not start with that.'
She was right. There was nothing in that for him. 'You said Stringer asked you to marry him, but you didn't tell me your answer.'
'At first I said to wait until after the Super Bowl. I didn't want him to have any distractions, and the press would be all over him, but he insisted on an answer, really became so agitated I was worried about his ability to focus during the next week. He gave me a ring, which I won't wear until after the game, but I did tell him yes, I'll marry him.'
'Am I hearing you right? You told this gridiron Lothario you'd marry him because you were afraid he'd overthrow a receiver if you turned him down?'
'Our relationship has been progressing. We've grown very close. We have similar interests. Craig would make an excellent executive in the franchise.'
'Love!' he shouted into the phone.
'What about it?'
'Are you talking about a corporate merger? Where's the word, 'love?' I haven't heard you say you love him so much your heart aches for him.'
The words were no accident. That was the inscription on her first anniversary card to him. 'Bobby, I love you so much my heart aches for you. My body trembles at your touch.'
'There are many different kinds of love,' she said, echoing her father's words. 'Besides, you know I want another child.'
'Volunteers can form a line behind me.'
'Bobby, please.'
He felt as if a knife were being twisted in his gut. Why had she called him?
Am I supposed to rescue her from this catastrophe, show up at the church like Dustin Hoffman in 'The Graduate' and whisk her away?
'Don't do it, Chrissy. You don't love him.'
'I'm going to marry him,' she said, then slammed down the phone. In his mind's eye, Bobby pictured her sobbing, but he quickly realized that the only tears he could be sure about were his own.
26
An hour after hanging up with Christine, Bobby stood in front of the Delano where the valet parkers looked at his scarred and dented limo as if it were a four thousand pound cockroach. Parking at the hotel was sixteen bucks, and it usually took twenty minutes for these young Adonises in white shorts and shirts with epaulets-cruise ship cabin boys-to get your pride and joy back to you. Bobby was a heavy tipper of bone-weary waitresses who got the order straight and bartenders who drew his beer with no head, but he made a mental note not to reward these callow youths.
He almost didn't show up at all. Bobby hated groveling in front of his ex-father-in-law and would never have done it except Angelica Suarez insisted she'd quit if he refused to take the meeting. Now he wondered…
Just how do you borrow a fortune from someone who hates you?
Once inside, he saw Martin Kingsley in the high-ceilinged lobby where tourists and celebrity wannabees made an effort not to gape at the mismatched, funky furniture. A man in plaid Bermuda shorts half reclined, half sat on a metal bed draped in faux fur, then gave up and rolled off. Nearby, a tiny woman nearly disappeared into an oversize sofa with a towering winged back. The place was way beyond funk. It was in a league of its own, post-modern trendy, hey-look-at-me-Alice-in-Wonderland-on-crystal meth design.
Kingsley stood in the dead center of the lobby surrounded by a gaggle of reporters who scribbled notes or fooled with mikes. His ex-father-in-law was the image of a successful businessman in his jet-black Armani suit, white-on-white shirt and gold cuff-links. Only the flowing mane of white hair and the lizard cowboy boots gave any hint of Texas.
'I'm not Joe Namath, so I won't guarantee a win,' Kingsley said with his politician's smile. 'But I'll tell you this. It'll be a hard-fought game on both sides, and nobody will turn off their sets early. We're gonna sell a lot of beer, and you can quote me on that.'
C'mon, the reporters prodded, hoping for a prediction, some enticing headline.
'Well, I'll tell y'all this,' Kingsley relented, slathering on the accent as thick barbecue sauce. 'Them Pats better be ready 'cause we're planning to open a can of whup ass.'
The reporters scratched at their pads, the cameras rolled, and Kingsley parried a few more questions, praising his all-world receiver Nightlife Jackson, reminding the scribes that only the genius of the G.M.-Kingsley himself-allowed the Mustangs to steal him from the Forty-Niners for a tight end with bad knees and two low-round draft choices.
