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“TV adds ten pounds.”
The man laughed. “To say nothing of shoulder pads.” He extended his right hand. “Foster Speakman. Thank you for coming.” They shook hands. Not surprisingly, his hand was smaller than Griff’s by far, but his palm was dry and his handshake firm. He pushed a button on his fancy wheelchair and backed away. “Come in and have a seat.”
He motioned Griff toward a grouping of comfortably arranged pieces with appropriate tables and lamps. Griff chose one of the chairs. As he sank into it, he experienced a pang of homesickness for the furnishings of similar quality he used to own. Now he had to keep his bread in a fridge with an irritating hum.
Taking another glance around the room and the acreage beyond the windows, he questioned again just what the hell he was doing here, in an ivy-covered mansion, with a crippled man.
Foster Speakman probably had five years on him, which put him around forty. He was nice looking. Hard to tell how tall he would be standing, but Griff guessed just shy of six feet. He was wearing preppy clothes—navy blue golf shirt and khaki slacks, brown leather belt, matching loafers, tan socks.
The legs of his trousers looked like deflated balloons, not much flesh to fill them out.
“Something to drink?” Speakman asked pleasantly.
Caught staring and speculating, Griff shifted his attention back to his host’s face. “A Coke?”
Speakman looked over at the man who’d answered the door. “Manuelo, two Cokes, por favor.”
Manuelo was as square and solid as a sack of cement but moved soundlessly. Speakman noticed Griff watching the servant as he went to the bar and began pouring their drinks. “He’s from El Salvador.”
“Huh.”
“He literally walked to the United States.”
“Huh.”
“He tends to me.”
Griff could think of nothing to say to that, although he wanted to ask if Manuelo, despite his smile, kept a collection of shrunken heads under his bed.
“Did you drive from Big Spring today?” Speakman asked.
“My lawyer picked me up this morning.”
“Long drive.”
“I didn’t mind it.”
Speakman grinned. “I guess not. After being cooped up for so long.” He waited until Griff had taken his drink from the small tray Manuelo extended to him, then took his own cut-crystal glass and raised it. “To your release.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Manuelo left through the double doors, pulling them closed behind him. Griff took another sip of Coke, becoming uncomfortable under Speakman’s blatantly curious stare.
What was this? Invite a con for drinks week?
The whole scene was beginning to make him uneasy. Deciding to cut to the chase, he set his drink on the end table at his elbow. “Did you ask me here to get an up close and personal look at a has-been football player? Or a convicted felon?”
Speakman seemed unfazed by his rudeness. “I thought you might be in the market for a job.”
Not wanting to look desperate or needy, Griff gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Any offers yet?” Speakman asked.
“None that have interested me.”
“The Cowboys aren’t—”
“No. Nor is any other team. I’ve been banned from the league. I doubt I could buy a ticket to an NFL game.”
