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.'
'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.
