moved closer and stood with his arms bent at the elbow, knees flexed, bouncing on his toes, glaring at Bobby with eyes hard as little black buttons.
'Martin, you're not in Dallas,' Bobby said, 'and I've got news for you. You'll never get your hands on him. I won't let you twist him into a clone of your sick self.'
Kingsley's laugh was as cruel as a land mine. 'You lost the case just like you've lost everything else! You don't know how to play hardball. You were born a loser and you'll die a loser. You should have taken my offer. You should have given me Scott and gotten your life back.'
'He is my life, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch!'
'Then you're a dead man,' Kingsley said, spitting out the words like poisonous seeds, 'because I'm taking him away from you.'
Bobby felt the rage in the pit of his stomach, hot and deep as a stab wound. His next movement was not volitional and he was scarcely aware of doing it. It was just a reflex, a drawing back of the arm, the balling of the fist, the pivot of the hip, the snap as his fist shot forward. The punch had too much loop to it, and Crew Cut, graceful as a tiger, took a step between them, deflected Bobby's fist with his forearm, then buried a short right hook into Bobby's gut.
A burst of air exploded from Bobby's mouth before he felt the pain. He dropped to one knee, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, feeling his stomach heave, threatening to hurl hor d'oeuvres all over his loafers. He heard Shari scream, a first rate, girly-girl horror flick scream. Through a cloud of pain, he was aware of the big man looming above him. Bobby's lips felt fat as sausages as tried to say something, but he had no air behind it. Then, he made a gurgling sound and out came, 'Fuck you, Tarzan.'
Suddenly, the man leaned down and ferociously boxed his ears with two open palms. The thunderclap rang into the depths of Bobby's brain, his skull pealing like a bell struck by a sledgehammer. He sprawled to the ground, fireworks lighting up his closed eyelids, pain surging down his spine. He felt as if he were drowning in turbulent waves, unable to move his limbs.
'Should I punch his lights out, Mr. Kingsley?' the man said, the words echoing faintly in some distant metal drum.
'No! Don't touch him!'
A woman's voice.
But not Shari. The voice was filled with anxiety and concern. How long had it been since he'd heard that in any woman's voice?
'Daddy! Tell him to stop! Now.'
Christine!
'All right,' Kingsley said. 'That's enough, Kyle.' He turned toward his daughter. 'He attacked me, Christine. I could have him prosecuted for assault.'
Suddenly, Bobby was aware of the scent of jasmine. Christine was crouched on the ground next to him, appearing from the dark night like an angel of mercy. She held one of his hands, then brushed the hair off his forehead and placed a palm to his cheek. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she asked if he was all right. He could barely hear her through the chapel bells ringing in his ears, which seemed to grow louder by the second.
'I'm fine. First rate. Tip top.' From her facial reaction, he realized he was shouting. He also realized he was lying as his head throbbed with every heartbeat. She said something to him, but he couldn't catch it. She seemed to repeat it, but again, he couldn't hear.
A moment later, Bobby was aware of being helped to his feet by a pair of strong hands. He turned to see Craig Stringer wearing a cowboy hat and a shit-eating grin. Stringer said something, too. It could have been, 'You okay, pardner?' or 'Your ocelot pooped' for all Bobby knew. He heard a mush of voices as if a tape recording were playing too slowly. Several feet away, Christine was wagging her finger at her father. Off to one side, Craig was talking to Shari. She said something that made the quarterback smile. He said something that made her laugh. Bobby wished he could hear them.
Now, Kingsley had his hands on Christine's shoulders, a real father-to-daughter Norman Rockwell pose, but she was shaking her head, not buying whatever he was selling.
That's my Chrissy. You're too smart not to wise up to that phony.
He could still feel the warmth of her hand against his cheek. Maybe if Crew Cut would stomp his head, he'd get a kiss from his ex-wife. He began to pick up snatches of words and phrases as the pealing bells began to subside. Christine had convinced her father to leave before the TV cameras showed up. She'd get Bobby out of there and smooth things over. He gave his daughter a forced smile and left, taking his entourage with him.
Christine returned to his side. 'I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm sorry for what happened in court today and I'm sorry for this. Do you need a doctor?'
Great. He could hear again. 'Nah, he just knocked the wind out of me with a sucker punch, then hit me when I was down. In a fair fight, I could've-'
'Gotten killed,' she said. 'Look, we should talk. Do you want to come back to my hotel?'
Only as much as I want to breathe.
Bobby's eyes flicked toward Stringer who was regaling Shari with one of his tales of last-minute heroics.
'Craig's got curfew tonight,' Christine said. 'He's got to get back.'
Perfect. He couldn't have planned it any better, though if he had, he would have omitted the five-Tylenol headache.
'Great,' he said, then turned to the pride of Galveston, Texas. 'Shari, can you fend for yourself tonight?'
'Sure, sugar,' she cooed. 'Ah been off and on since I was fifteen.'
'Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein.'
— Joe Theismann, TV commentator and former NFL quarterback
'It isn't like I came down from Mount Sinai with the tabloids.'
— Ron Meyer, former Indianapolis Colts head coach
32
Christine's room at the Fontainebleau had an ocean view, and on this cloudless night, the moon was as full as Bobby's heart. Moonbeams streaked across the black water, paving a shiny path from the hard-packed sand along the beach, through the gentle shore break to the endless horizon. The wind plucked at the curtains covering the sliding screen to the balcony. Bobby looked out at the shimmering water, tasted the scent of the sea breeze, and smiled at his good fortune.
Hit me again, Crew Cut. Hell, punch out my lights every day at high noon if it'll get me between Chrissy's sheets.
Bobby was propped up on two pillows in the king-size bed watching Christine fluttering at the vanity. She was rummaging through a pink cosmetics case, looking for aspirin, making feminine sounds, asking what she could do to ease his pain.
You could crawl into bed with me.
'I think I should just rest here a while,' he said.
'You don't have double vision, do you? You could have a detached retina. Do you want an ice pack? And what about your neck and spine?'
She spoke rapidly, as if she were an ER nurse running through her triage checklist.
'It's just a headache,' he said, trying to sound brave, as if it hurt like hell, which it did, but that he was man enough to bear it, which was problematic.
'What kind of headache? Is it a sharp pain or a dull, thudding pain?'
Christine was always more of a detail person than he was.
'It's like the cast of 'Stomp' is rehearsing in my cerebellum.'
'Are you sure you don't want a doctor?'
'I'm fine,' he said, wincing in a cheap ploy for sympathy. 'Thanks Chrissy. It means a lot to me that you
