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19
IF YOU WANT TO PUT SPIN ON IT, YOU GOTTA GET YOUR THUMB under it.” Griff demonstrated the rotating hand motion to Jason Rich. “See? You gotta whip your thumb under just as you release the ball. Now try again.”
He handed over the football. Jason’s face was tense with concentration as he gripped the ball the way Griff had demonstrated and threw a pass. “Much better.”
“One more time, Griff? I think I let go a little too late.”
“Okay, but only one. Practice is about to start.”
Griff saw improvement in the second pass. “Good work, Jason. You’re getting the hang of it. Throw a few thousand more and you’ll have it down pat. You’ll be breaking records.”
Behind his mask, Jason’s sweaty face broke into a grin. “Yesterday was fun. Except for…you know.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I told my dad. He said you handled it the only way you could. If you had fought them, it would’ve made it worse.”
“I’ll say. Did you see the size of those guys?”
Jason laughed, then said tentatively, “Maybe we could go for milk shakes again sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me, too. See you tomorrow.”
Griff knocked on the top of the boy’s helmet, two taps. “I’ll be here.”
Jason trotted off to join his teammates, who were assembling on the sideline of the practice field. Bolly was among the other dads. Griff raised his hand in greeting, and Bolly waved back.
Griff jogged across the field to retrieve the footballs Jason had thrown and stuffed them into the cloth bag he kept in the trunk of his car. He pulled the drawstring to close the bag and slung it over his shoulder.
That was when he saw Rodarte, standing outside the chain-link fence, watching him.
Griff was already hot from being in the sun for the hour with Jason. When he saw Rodarte, it seemed his blood reached the boiling point in seconds. He had to force himself not to charge the fence.
Unhurried, he went through the gate and joined Rodarte on the other side. The son of a bitch didn’t even deign to look at him. Instead, he stared across the field to the far sideline, where the middle school head coach was cautioning his young team not to let themselves become overheated or dehydrated during practice.
“You’re pathetic, Rodarte,” Griff said. “Collecting old newspapers like a bag lady.”
Rodarte chuckled but still didn’t turn to face him. “Fun reading. I hated keeping it to myself.”
Griff started to grab him by the shoulder and force him around, but he didn’t dare lay a hand on the man. Rodarte would fight back. And if it got ugly, which it inevitably would, there were too many witnesses. In particular Bolly. Griff had promised him there wouldn’t be any trouble. Yesterday the sportswriter had entrusted his son to him. Griff would have hated like hell to betray that trust now.
He could tell Rodarte to go to hell and simply walk away. Let him stand there and dissolve from the heat till he was nothing but a puddle of sweat being absorbed by the hard, baked ground.
But ignoring him wouldn’t be smart. Rodarte’s being there wasn’t coincidence, any more than this morning’s incident with the newspaper was a harmless prank. After staying invisible for weeks, Rodarte had resurfaced. Until Griff knew why, he wouldn’t turn his back on him.
Rodarte reached into his pocket and took out a pack of gum. “I’m trying to quit smoking.”
“Good luck with that. It would be just awful if you got sick and died.”
Rodarte gave him a sly grin as he unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. “You still banging that broad?”
Griff’s jaw tensed.
“I suppose since your favorite whore is still out of commission, you gotta get it somewhere.” His grin got slier. “You could do a lot worse. Not only has Mrs. Speakman got a sweet ass but she’s loaded. But I’m sure you know that. Nobody ever called you stupid, Number Ten. A lot of other ugly names, but never stupid.”
Griff didn’t rise to the bait.
