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Bolly frowned. “What’d you have in mind? Not that I think there’s a chance in hell of this going anywhere. I’m just curious to see how your mind is working.”
“You can’t be everywhere at once, Bolly. You can’t cover more than one game at a time. I know you use people to cover games for you. Provide the color only someone who is actually at the game can get.”
“I use some stringers, yeah.”
“Let me be one. I majored in English. I have a fair command of the language. As much as anybody in Texas.” His quick grin wasn’t returned. “I can at least put two sentences together. Most important, I know the game. I lived the game. I could give you insightful play-by-plays that nobody else could, add a perspective that would be unique, based on actual experience. Years of it.”
He’d rehearsed the pitch, and to his ears it sounded good. “I could describe how great it feels to win. How lousy it feels to lose. How much worse it feels to win when you know you’ve played like shit and the win was a fluke.” He paused, then asked, “What do you think?”
Bolly studied him a moment. “Yeah, I think you could give an accurate account of wins and losses with some original flavoring thrown in. You’d probably be pretty good at it. But even with terrific language skills, you couldn’t come close to describing what it’s like to be a team player, Griff. Because you don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” But he didn’t have to ask. He knew what Bolly meant.
“You were a one-man show, Griff. You always were. Going all the way back to high school, when you first started gaining notice from college recruiters, it was all about you, never the team. You led your teams to victory after victory with your amazing ability on the field, but you were a piss-poor leader off it.
“Far as I know, you were never voted a team captain, which doesn’t surprise me. Because the only thing that made you part of any team was wearing the same color jersey. You made no friends. Teammates admired your game. Those who didn’t envy you idolized you. But they didn’t like you, and that was okay with you. You didn’t give a damn so long as they carried out the plays you called.
“I never saw you encourage another player who’d made a mistake, never saw you congratulate one for making a good play. I never saw you extend your hand in friendship or lend a helping hand to anyone. What I did see was you giving back Dorsey’s Christmas present unopened, saying, ‘I don’t do that crap.’
“I saw you rebuke Chester when he invited you to a men’s prayer breakfast for his wife, who was going through horrible chemo and radiation. When Lambert’s fiancée was killed in that car wreck, you were the only one on the team who didn’t attend the funeral.
“You were an outstanding athlete, Griff, but a sorry excuse for a friend. I guess that’s why I’m surprised, and slightly offended, that you would come to me now, like we’d been good buddies, and ask for my help.”
It wasn’t easy to hear those things about himself, especially since they were true. Quietly, humbly, Griff said, “I need the work, Bolly.”
Bolly took off his glasses to rub his eyes again, and Griff knew he was about to turn him down. “I hate what you did, but everybody can make a mistake and deserves a second chance. It’s just…Hell, Griff, I couldn’t get you into any press box in the league.”
“I’d cover college ball. High school.”
Bolly was shaking his head. “You’d be met with the same animosity there. Maybe even more. You cheated.
First you broke the rules by gambling. Then you threw a game. You fucking threw a game,” he said with heat. “For money. You robbed your own team of a sure-win Super Bowl. You were in bed with…with gangsters, for crissake. Do you think anybody would allow you near kids, young players?” He shook his head and stood up. “I’m sorry, Griff. I can’t help you.”
He had lunch at a Sonic drive-in. Sitting in the borrowed Honda, he gorged on a jalapeño cheeseburger, a Frito pie, two orders of Tater Tots, and a strawberry-lemonade slush. It had been five years since he’d had junk food. Besides, he figured that if he was going to be a despised outcast, he might just as well be a fat one.
On the drive out to Bolly’s neighborhood and up till the time Bolly had told him not only no but hell, no, Griff had congratulated himself for having the character to seek a job when, by two-thirty this afternoon, his immediate money problems would be solved. He’d sought work before going to the bank to check the contents of that safe-deposit box. In his opinion, it had taken a lot of integrity to humble himself and appeal for a job, hat in hand, when after today he wouldn’t have to do any labor, ever, if he didn’t want to. He’d even endured Bolly’s sermon, and the sportswriter hadn’t gone easy on his personality flaws.
Although he had to admit that Bolly’s memory was sound. The man also had a keen insight into his nature. That was why he hadn’t asked forgiveness or tried to justify himself. He’d never been the touchy-feely type. He’d never wanted to pat his teammates on the ass after a big play, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted any of them patting his. He’d left all that rah-rah bullshit to the benchwarmers, while he was out there on the field doing the bone-breaking, bloody work, getting creamed by tacklers who got marks on their helmets if they sacked him.
But why was he stewing about Bolly’s censure? None of that mattered. Now he had only two teammates, and all he had to do to make them happy was get one of them pregnant. Easy enough.
He had indigestion as he walked inside the bank building. He blamed it on the jalapeños, not nerves. He looked about him, as though expecting to be spotlighted and exposed for the most gullible fool ever to walk the planet.
But it went exactly as Foster Speakman had told him it would. No muss, no fuss. He made an inquiry at the information desk, then was escorted to an elevator that went into a subterranean part of the bank, where a polite, grandmotherly type asked him to sign a card. She compared it with the signature card that Foster Speakman had filed, as promised. Satisfied, the grandmother showed Griff into a cubicle.
His heart was knocking in a beat out of time with the Yanni filtering through the overhead speakers. Grandmother delivered the box, told him to take his time and to press the button on the wall when finished, then withdrew. The key Speakman had given him last night was in the pocket of his jeans. He fished it out and unlocked the box.
From the bank, Griff drove straight to NorthPark for a shopping spree. He liked his jeans old and “worked in,” but he bought two new pairs anyway—because he could. His boots were too comfortable to replace, but he had them shined. He found three designer shirts in Neiman’s that didn’t look too faggy. He changed in the dressing room and wore one of them out of the store.
None of the sports jackets in the Armani boutique were wide enough in the shoulders for him, but he found one that would work with some tailoring. He was told he could pick it up in a few days.
He bought a four-hundred-dollar pair of sunglasses. Odd that styles of sunglasses had changed more than anything in the past five years. He also bought a cell phone. It probably wouldn’t have taken as long to buy a house. By the time all the added features had been demonstrated to him, and the calling plan options explained, and his voice-mail retrieval set up for one-digit dialing, he was impatient to get out of there and actually use the damn thing to make a call.
Which was to Marcia. He dialed the first number listed on the card she had given him and got an anonymous, innocuous recording asking him to leave a message, which he did. Waiting on her to return his call, he drove around the area, taking in all the commerce, going past his old haunts and favorite restaurants. Some were still in business, others had given way to new.
When, after an hour, Marcia still hadn’t called, he dialed a number that belonged to one of her girls. Young, gorgeous, satisfaction guaranteed.
“Hello?”
