stunt to throw off Boom Boom, wasn't it?'
'No. We were going to sacrifice a live goat at midfield to get to Boom Boom.'
'I knew it! Well, tough luck, because he'll still make the kick. A 33-yarder is a gimme for that little cricket.'
Bobby watched Stringer as the Mustangs came out of their huddle. Usually, the quarterback would just move to his spot, drop into the knee-down stance, and call the signals. But now, he was looking around the stadium, his eyes stopping on the end zone where Christine and steed had disappeared into the tunnel. Was he worried the horse would come back? Or maybe a stampede of the other horses he burned to death. What fiery winds were blowing through his mind?
'Christ, Stringer, get into your stance!' Kingsley yelled.
The quarterback did it then, hurrying to the spot, dropping to one knee. In the entire stadium, Bobby thought, there might be three or four among the multitudes who took note of what he saw. The Dallas special teams coach would have noticed and maybe the assistant coaches in the press box working the phones to the bench. Boom Boom would have seen it, but it was too late to do anything about it because Stringer was already barking signals.
Stringer had lined up a yard short!
Boom Boom had marked the spot for him, walking back eight yards from the spot of the ball, then toeing the ground a foot inches in front of that. Seven yards, two feet, the precise distance. But Stringer was a yard closer to the line of scrimmage.
One yard. Three feet. Thirty-six inches. It could be the distance from the earth to the sun.
Bobby's hopes soared. So much could happen now. Used to a longer distance, the center could snap the ball high. Even with a good snap, the defensive linemen would be one step closer to blocking the kick. Or it could distract Boom Boom as he approached the ball. So much in the kicking game required the same position, the same movements, time after time. The entire sequence-the snap, the hold, the kick-should take no more than 1.33 seconds, or the kick will likely be blocked. One little variation, and…
Before Bobby could think it through, the center snapped the ball. He must have made the adjustment because-damn it! — the snap was perfect. Stringer brought up both hands turned in slightly, with thumbs together, as he'd done a thousand times, as Bobby himself had done hundreds of times.
The long snap was true, hitting Stringer in both hands. But the ball thudded off his palms. One bobble, two bobbles, then he snared it. Boom Boom had already taken two steps, planting his left foot, and his right foot had begun its arc when Stringer finally had control. He rushed the ball down, clumsily tilted toward the kicker, laces facing the oncoming foot. Boom Boom stutter-stepped and threw his entire motion out of whack. His foot hit the top of the ball and sent it hard and low toward the line of scrimmage where it smacked the right guard in the buttocks and shot skyward, hooking back toward Stringer.
A startled roar went up from the crowd.
'Oh Christ no!' Kingsley raged.
'How about that?' Bobby laughed. 'How about that!'
For a moment, the field resembled a basketball court with all the players fighting for a rebound. Stringer leapt high and deflected the ball, sending it end-over-end, and keeping it in the air. One of Denver's linebackers got a hand on it and tipped it toward the sidelines where Marcus Ingram was waiting. Ingram was a defensive back who had been released by the Mustangs when Nightlife Jackson started playing on both sides of the ball. Denver picked him up, paid him league minimum, and had him playing second team cornerback plus duty on the special teams.
Ingram wasn't very good at pass coverage, and he hated physical contact so much he couldn't tackle a shoplifting grandmother. What he could do was run. Unless the horse returned to the field, Marcus Ingram was the fastest living thing within the sidelines.
When he saw the ball nestle into Ingram's hands, Bobby let out a whoop. He quickly scanned the field. Only Craig Stringer was between Ingram and the goal line. Ingram flew down the sideline, cut inside, leaving Stringer grasping at air, his legs tangled. When Ingram reached the goal line with Denver's fans screaming deliriously and the Mustangs fans looking on in stunned disbelief, he didn't spike the football. Instead, he calmly trotted to the official who was signaling the touchdown and flipped the ball to him. Then he dropped to one knee and crossed himself.
'Amen!' Bobby shouted.
Kingsley didn't say a word. His face knotted up like burls on a slab of pine, he stood frozen in place. Denver came out to kick the meaningless extra point, and when it sailed through the uprights, the final score was Denver 28, Dallas 23.
'You lost, Martin,' Bobby said. 'You didn't just fail to cover the spread. You lost the game, a game that had already been won. Everybody in the world saw you do it. And they know there can be only one reason why. You bet on the game! What do you think the papers will say tomorrow? What do you think the Commissioner is saying right now?'
One of the network cameras was jammed into Kingsley's face, and a jitterbugging sideline reporter thrust a microphone under his chin. 'Mr. Kingsley, why the field goal try? Why risk it? Did the point spread play any role in-'
Kingsley swatted the microphone away and took a swing at the reporter. 'Get the fuck out of my face!' he yelled on live television.
The reporter backed off, still speaking into his mike. 'Obviously, the Mustangs owner is upset. He may not answer my questions today, but you can be sure that the Commissioner will have his own in the next few days.'
On the Dallas bench, the players moved away from Kingsley, then with heads down, slouched off toward the locker room. In the center of the field, the winning players were diving onto each other, piling into a mosh pit of Denver beef. Kingsley dropped into a crouch and ran his hand along the ground, the way Bobby figured he must have done on so many dirt fields where he would drill for oil. Tears tracked down Kingsley's face, slowly at first in tiny rivulets, then gushing like a fountain.
'You're balling like a little girl,' Houston Tyler taunted, coming up alongside the two men. Turning to Bobby, he said, 'Hell, Martin never shed a tear when seven men were killed at the Texas City Refinery, but lookee here. He loses a game and a bet, and he's wetting his pants.'
Kingsley turned to look up at the cadaverous man. 'I don't have your money, Ty.'
'What do I care? I won't live long enough to spend it, and seeing you like this is worth more than five million dollars.'
'You don't want the money?' Kingsley got to his feet, drew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his eyes. 'What the hell does that mean? I lost everything betting on this game just to pay you off, and you don't want the money.'
'I wanted to see what you would do, Martin,' Houston said, hacking out a cough. 'You never understood that money don't mean nothing. I thought there was a chance you'd self destruct, but frankly, I never knew how big the bang would be.'
'You bastard,' Kingsley said, more with resignation than anger.
'Even now, I wonder if you've learned your lesson,' Tyler said. 'All that matters is how you live your life. Did you do more good than evil? Did you earn people's respect? Is the world a better place for your having lived? I've asked myself those questions, and I don't like the answers. Now it's your turn. Know this, Martin. You'll live out your years just like me. You'll be a pariah, an outcast.'
Tyler walked away, fading into the crowd.
'I underestimated you, Robert,' Kingsley said. 'I never would have thought you could have pulled off something like this.'
'I couldn't. But there are people who care about me who could. And you, Martin, you were your worst enemy.'
'Go ahead, Robert. Have your say. Gloat about it.'
'I have nothing more to say. You're old and stubborn, and even now, you can probably justify everything you did.'
'I did it all for my daughter and grandson.'
