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“Right. Were the sessions helpful?”
“Oh, yeah. I learned how to fill out a job application. Was urged not to scratch my ass or pick my nose during an interview.”
Looking chagrined, Turner asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”
“Get a job.”
“For sure. What I mean is, do you have any prospects lined up?”
“Do you know an NFL team looking for a starting quarterback?” Turner’s face went so flaccid, Griff laughed. “That was a joke.”
The estate was enclosed by an ivy-covered, twelve-foot-high brick wall.
“Holy shit.” Griff pulled the red Honda up to the call box at the gate. He’d known by the address that this was an affluent part of Dallas, but he hadn’t expected it to be this affluent.
Instructions on how to contact the house were printed on the box. He punched in a sequence of numbers on the keypad, which he supposed rang a telephone inside. In a moment, a voice came through the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Griff Burkett to see Mr. Speakman.”
Nothing else was said. But the iron picket gate opened and he drove through. The brick lane was bordered by cultivated beds of low shrubbery and flowers. Beyond them the tree-shaded lawn looked like a carpet of green velvet.
The mansion itself was as impressive as the landscaping. Older than Griff by several decades, it was constructed of gray stone. Some of its walls were ivy covered like the estate wall. He followed the curving driveway and parked directly in front of the entrance, then got out of the borrowed Honda and approached the front door. It was flanked by urns containing evergreen trees. Idly Griff wondered how in hell they got a tree to grow in the shape of a corkscrew.
No cobwebs clinging to the eaves. Nary a stray leaf anywhere. Not a smear on any of the windows. The house, the grounds, the whole place was freaking perfect.
When he’d told Wyatt Turner he didn’t have any prospects, he’d lied. Not that job offers were pouring in. Right now, Griff Burkett was arguably the most detested man in Dallas, if not the entire Lone Star State. No, that was still limiting: He was despised in the whole football-loving country. People sneered his name, or spat after saying it as though to ward off an evil spirit. Nobody in their right mind would want him on their payroll.
But he did have this one prospect, however slim.
A few days before his release, he had received an invitation to be in this spot, on this date, at this time. The stiff card had been engraved: Foster Speakman. The name was vaguely familiar, although Griff couldn’t remember why it would be.
; As he depressed the doorbell, he couldn’t imagine what a guy who lived in a place like this could possibly want with him. He had assumed the appointment portended a job offer. Now, seeing this spread, he thought maybe not. Maybe this Speakman had been a diehard Cowboys fan who only wanted his own pound of Griff Burkett’s flesh.
The door was opened almost immediately. He was greeted by a waft of refrigerated air, the faint scent of oranges, and a guy who looked like he should be wearing a breechcloth and carrying a spear.
Griff had expected a maid or butler—someone in a white apron, with a soft speaking voice and polite but aloof mannerisms. This guy didn’t come close. He was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and black slacks. He had the wide, flat features of Mayan royalty. His skin was smooth and beardless. Straight hair black as ink.
“Uh, Mr. Speakman?”
He shook his head and smiled. Rather, he revealed his teeth. You couldn’t really call it a smile because no other feature of his face changed, even moderately. He stood aside and motioned Griff in.
A vaulted ceiling loomed three stories above. Oriental rugs formed islands of subtle color on the marble floor. Griff’s image was caught in the enormous mirror that hung above the long console table. The curving staircase was an architectural marvel, especially considering when the house had been built. The space was vast, and as hushed as a cathedral.
The speechless man motioned with his head for Griff to follow. Again it occurred to Griff that Foster Speakman might be lying in wait. Did he keep thumbscrews and whips in the dungeon?
When they reached a set of double doors, the butler—for lack of a better word—pushed both open, then stood aside. Griff stepped into the room, obviously a library, the walls on three sides consisting of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The fourth wall was almost entirely windows, affording a view of the sweeping lawn and flower gardens.
“I wondered.”
Griff turned at the unexpected voice and got his second surprise. The man smiling up at him was in a wheelchair.
“Wondered what?”
“How physically imposing you would be in person.” He sized Griff up. “You’re as tall as I expected, but not as…bulky. Of course, I’ve only seen you from the distance of a stadium box, and on TV.”
