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“They want their money.”
Finally Bandy’s funereal tone captured Griff’s attention. No longer nervous or fidgety, Bandy’s pale gaze was rock steady. Even his nose had dried up temporarily. Griff thought maybe the fable of his poisoning an elderly uncle was true.
Maintaining that cold expression, he continued. “Be glad they sent me as the messenger, or you might not be starting on Sunday, or any Sunday for the remainder of the season. Make no mistake, they can inflict serious injury on you, Griff. They will.”
“It wouldn’t make sense for them to injure me. If I can’t play, they’ll never get their money.”
The argument didn’t make a dent in Bandy’s resolute expression. Griff pushed aside his plate and sighed with disgust that he had to deal with this now. The team was facing the Falcons on Sunday in Atlanta. The Cowboys were favored, but not by much. It wasn’t going to be a cakewalk by any stretch. He should have been psyching himself up for a tough game, studying the playbook, not pandering to gangsters.
“Okay. Give me a few days,” he told Bandy. “I’ll liquidate something. A car. My condo in Florida. Something. What’s the minimum amount that would temporarily satisfy them? Two hundred thousand? That’s more than half what I owe them. Would that buy me some grace?”
Bandy dabbed his leaking eyes with a corner of his handkerchief. “There may be another way.”
“To buy me time?”
“To cancel the debt.”
Griff gaped at him as if he’d said that he could have a week on a desert island with every Playmate of the Month for the past year, that they were all nymphomaniacs with the hots for him, and that no clothes were allowed.
Bandy asked, “Are you willing to meet with them? Discuss options?”
“Where and what time?”
The “them” Bandy had referred to were three men, who welcomed Griff into Vista’s opulent offices with hearty handshakes and unlimited hospitality. What would you like to drink? Help yourself to the tray of sandwiches there. I highly recommend the beef tenderloin with the horseradish sauce. How about a massage after the meeting? We’ve got a girl on staff who’ll give you a massage with a happy ending. Wink, wink. If you get my meaning. Which Griff did.
You’d never know by the reception they gave him that he owed them over a quarter million dollars and that they were making threats against his person
if he didn’t pay this debt immediately.
The only native Texan was tall, trim, darkly tanned, with large and very white teeth. He was an avid golfer who talked loudly, lewdly, and nonstop. It was he who placed his arm across Griff’s shoulders and told him about the masseuse with the magic hands and mouth. Larry was the guy’s name.
Martin had a swarthy, Mediterranean look. He was obese. He didn’t breathe, he wheezed like an off-key bagpipe, and looked like he could go into cardiac arrest at any moment if only his heart could work up the energy.
The third, Bennett, was quiet and unobtrusive. Balding and fair skinned, he sat apart, contributing little but studying Griff with the unblinking, lashless stare of something scaly and venomous.
After the initial greetings, they got down to business. The terms of their proposal were simple: Throw the Atlanta game on Sunday, and his debt would disappear. That was not how they put it, but that was the bottom line.
Martin told him they didn’t expect him to try to lose. “Just don’t play up to your full potential.”
Larry winked again. “Give the fucking Falcons a fucking chance. That’s all.”
“And who knows,” Martin wheezed, “if the Falcons pull out a win, we could throw a little extra bonus your way, in addition to clearing your debt.” Gasp. “Right, Bennett?”
Bennett the Silent nodded his stiff comb-over.
Griff told them he’d think about it.
Fine, they said. He had till Sunday to make up his mind. And just to show their goodwill, they insisted that he avail himself of the massage with the girl, who capped off the fifty-minute rubdown with a blow job. Not that he couldn’t get head whenever he wanted it. There were always girls just dying to notch their bedposts with the Lone Star logo of the Dallas Cowboys. But this girl was exceptional.
On Sunday, while he was suiting up, during the singing of the national anthem, even as he took the field following the opening kickoff, he was still wrestling with his decision. He didn’t know what he would do until late in the fourth quarter, with a 10–10 score, when Dallas was deep in their own territory and it was third and twelve.
He took the snap. Dallas linemen went down like bowling pins under a Falcons blitz. His fastest, strongest running back got blocked by two linebackers. The third one was chugging toward Griff, smelling blood. Scrambling, looking for an open receiver, Griff realized how easy—and convincing—it would be to throw an interception.
Atlanta won 17 to 10.
The partnership was forged.
CHAPTER
