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“See,” Rodarte said conversationally, “what I think is, is that before you used your big, strong quarterback’s hands to snap Bill Bandy’s neck, you dipped those hands into his private till.”
“That’s crap and you know it. How could I have taken any money? I was arrested at the scene.”
“A technicality,” Rodarte said with a dismissive gesture. “Before the real heat came down on you, you managed to stash the ill-gotten funds where nobody could find them. They’ve been sitting somewhere, earning interest, waiting on you to get out. Now they’re coming in handy. Just as you planned.”
He paused, frowned, and said sadly, “Only thing is, Griff, the way those Vista boys see it, it’s their money, not yours. They would be real grateful to anybody who could recover it and bring it home to them.”
“In other words, you.”
“I’m just trying to make things easier for you, is all. I’m doing everybody a favor. These guys get their money back, and they just might forget about what you did to poor ol’ Bandy. You see where this is going? How nice it would be for everybody?” His ingratiating smile collapsed. “Where’s the money?”
“You’re delusional. About Bandy. About ill-gotten funds. About every frigging thing. You think if I had money, I’d be driving this piece of shit?” He raised his arm toward the Honda. “A secondhand car I bought from my lawyer?”
Rodarte regarded him for a moment, then said smoothly, “You cut quite a figure in that new Armani jacket.”
Griff tried to keep his expression neutral. “Thanks. It would look like shit on you.”
Rodarte chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re right. I haven’t got
the figure.”
“You haven’t got the balls, either. If you did, you’d get out of that butt-ugly car, stop making veiled threats, and fight me like a man.”
Rodarte pulled a face as though considering it. “You sure you want me to do that, Griff? Think hard now.”
Griff was seething, but he knew he could not give vent to his rage. If he laid into Rodarte, he’d be giving the woman-beating son of a bitch exactly what he wanted. “Marcia didn’t have anything to tell you,” he said. “You ruined her face for nothing.”
Rodarte shrugged. “I guess. She didn’t tell me anything useful, and from what I understand she won’t be telling anybody anything for a long time. Wonder if she’s able to give blow jobs, what with her jaw wired shut and all. And something else…” Griff didn’t bite, but Rodarte told him anyway. “You’d think a whore wouldn’t make such fuss over getting it in the ass.”
A tide of red-hot fury washed through Griff.
Rodarte sensed it and grinned. “You ever had her that way?”
Griff had wondered if Rodarte’s assault included rape. He hadn’t asked Marcia because he hadn’t wanted to cause her further distress. And, possibly, he just didn’t want to know exactly how badly she’d suffered on his account. Now that he did, he wanted even more badly to kill the man grinning up at him.
Rodarte nodded toward the house midway down the block. “And what about her? Even from this distance, I could tell your new lady friend has a sassy little butt. Just as well tell me her name. I’ll find out anyway.”
Griff’s outrage went from fiercely hot to icy cold in seconds. The degree of his rage frightened him, and it should have frightened Rodarte. “One of these days,” he said softly, with conviction, with promise, “I’m gonna have to kill you.”
Rodarte dropped the gearshift into reverse and smiled as he backed the car away. “I have wet dreams about the day you try.”
Reluctantly, the concierge rang Marcia’s penthouse. With his back turned to Griff, he spoke in whispers into the telephone until Griff reached across the counter and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Give me the phone. Please,” he added but with impatience. Reluctantly, the man passed Griff the receiver. “Marcia?”
“Actually, it’s Dwight.”
“Hey, Dwight. Griff Burkett. I want to come up.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t.”
“Who says?”
“She doesn’t want company.”
“I need to see her.”
“She’s resting.”
