Paydirt

even suit up.'

'Excellent,' Bobby said.

'What? What is it?' She saw the shadow of a thought crossing his face. It was a look she knew as well as a sailor knows the sky.

'I've got to make a call,' Bobby said.

Vinnie LaBarca awoke in slow, ponderous motion, like a diver emerging from the depths. When he opened his eyes, his head was a bucket of sand that shifted with every movement.

Goddamn sinuses. Goddamn allergies.

He also realized that the humming electrostatic ozone machine that was guaranteed to knock all the dust motes, mildew, and airborne crud out of his apartment was a twelve-hundred dollar ripoff. It was supposed to cleanse the air but couldn't re-circulate a fart. He made a mental note to take the machine back to the Bal Harbour shop where he bought it, and stick the salesman's hand into the fan.

Finally, he realized that the phone was ringing. Now what? He'd already been awakened once, that dickwad Fornecchio calling from the hospital.

He picked up he phone and said, 'This better be fucking good.'

'How many points is Nightlife Jackson worth?' a man's voice asked.

'Who the fuck is this?'

'C'mon Vinnie, Dallas is favored by four. What should the line be if Nightlife doesn't play?'

'Gallagher? Is that you? When I find you, I'm gonna tear off your arms and beat you to death! I'm gonna chop off your head and piss down your neck! Do you hear me Gallagher?'

'Nightlife's scratched. Physically unable to perform. It'll be announced at a press conference at ten a.m. The game will either go off the board or the line will move to what, dead even, pick 'em?'

LaBarca saw where Gallagher was going, but how could he trust him? 'Are you shitting me, Gallagher?'

'Nope. I've got the Mustangs' marketing director here with me right now if you want to check.'

'If you're talking about your ex-wife, she ain't the best character witness.'

'Then just assume I'm right. How much is Nightlife worth?'

'In my book, a touchdown. Christ, he plays both ways, and he's the best player on both sides of the ball. He's a combination of Deion Sanders and Jerry Rice, and his backups are both journeymen.'

'So why don't you put everything you've got on Denver?'

'You know damn well why, and I don't say anything on any phones unless I know who's listening in.'

'You won't do it,' Bobby said, 'because you know Skarcynski's gonna be throwing the ball to the cheerleaders.'

'No fucking comment.'

'But you control that. Whatever you bet on Dallas is at risk now. Maybe Denver will cover even with Skar tanking it. Now, if you tell Skar to take the gloves off, they should easily cover the spread and may even win outright. Let Skar play and put everything you got on his team.'

'Go fuck yourself, Gallagher, and if I see you anywhere near the stadium, I'm gonna…'

The beep of call waiting broke his concentration. Now what? Damn modern technology. You can't even threaten to poleax some bum without being interrupted. At three-thirty in the morning for Christ's sake.

'Yeah,' LaBarca said, clicking onto the new line.

'Your half wit associate let Gallagher get away,' Martin Kingsley said, angrily.

'No shit,' LaBarca said.

'Well, do something about it, goddamit!'

'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?'

'You don't scare me! Do you know what I have riding on this game?' Kingsley said. 'I got into it because of you. It's a lock, you said. Now Gallagher is shooting off his mouth and jeopardizing everything. You were supposed to take him out of commission but what happened? Jesus H. Christ, it's the morning of the game, and all hell's broken loose.'

The old man sounded strung out. What a fucked up family. 'Mr. Kingsley, I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't talk business on the phone, if you get my drift.'

'Goddammit, find that bastard. If he sets foot in the stadium, shoot him in the kneecaps!'

'You've been watching too many movies, Mr. Kingsley. I'm trying to be polite here, and I'm taking into account that you're under a lot of strain…'

'You're goddamn right I am.'

'By the way, is Nightlife Jackson out of the game?'

There was nothing but the buzz of the telephone line until Kingsley said, 'How did you know that?'

LaBarca clicked back to the other line. He had underestimated the lawyer. Somehow he managed to knock the star player out of the Super Bowl the night before the game. 'Okay Gallagher, you're on to something. But It ain't solid. Besides Nightlife, you got any more tricks up your sleeve for today?'

'I've got two or three aces I haven't played yet.'

'Good, 'cause I think Skarcynski's gonna have the game of his life.'

At four a.m., Kingsley reached for the ringing phone in his hotel suite. The noise did not disturb him. He'd been drinking bourbon ever since he got the news about Nightlife, and a warm buzz filled his head. He wasn't sleeping and halfway expected a call. Maybe LaBarca intending to apologize, to say, 'sure Mr. Kingsley, I'll take care of it.' Maybe it was Christine, calling in tears to say he was still the most important man in her life and that she now appreciated everything he'd done for her.

Putting down the glass of Jack Daniels, he picked up the phone and said, 'Kingsley here.'

''Morning pardner,' rasped Houston Tyler. 'I figured you'd be awake. Heard you had a little trouble at the party last night. Also heard you lost one of your thoroughbreds for the game.'

'How the hell did you know that?'

Christ, bad news travels like a tornado down here.

'You want to know what's going on in a hotel, hang around with the housekeepers, Martin.'

'I'll remember that.'

'I hope this little setback doesn't jeopardize anything,' Tyler said.

'Don't worry, Ty. It's money in the bank.'

'Good,' he said, then clicked off.

Kingsley finished his bourbon, then summoned his security chief from the next room. The burly, crew-cut George Brauninger was an ex-cop who was thrown off the force for excessive brutality in making arrests. There were even stories about a missing witness in an Internal Affairs investigation, a witness who turned up too dead to testify.

Just days ago, in Kingsley's presence, Brauninger had flattened Gallagher, and the memory of it gave him some pleasure now. But earlier tonight-yesterday really-Brauninger had let Gallagher get away. His security cheif was a man who took pride in his work, and Kingsley knew he was humiliated.

'You let me down,' Kingsley said, when Brauninger came to his suite.

'I'm sorry, Mr. K. It won't happen again.'

'I know that, George. And you can make it all up today. Gallagher will be at the game. He's got a press box pass and a sideline pass.'

'You want me to detain him, Mr. K.'

'Permanently, George.'

'I want to make sure I understand you, sir.'

'Oh, I think you do.'

'Yes sir, Mr. K, I do.'

Scott pretended there was nothing special about it, nothing special at all, his Mom and Dad having breakfast together on Super Bowl Sunday, Dad making the coffee, Mom slicing grapefruit. So here they were, all gooey, just looking at each other, but only a total dipstick would make a big deal out of it.

'You want some more French toast, Scott?' his Mom asked.