It Had to Be You (6 page)

He was on the brink of turning over a new leaf. No more career women, no more glamour pusses, no more sex bombs. He had his eyes out for a down-home woman, the kind who’d enjoy having a toddler mess up her hair, a woman whose idea of high fashion was a pair of blue jeans and one of his old sweatshirts, an ordinary kind of woman who didn’t turn heads and make men crazy. And once he’d committed himself, his roaming days would be over. He hadn’t cheated on his first wife, and he wasn’t going to cheat on his last one.

Next to him, Tully Archer was still gnawing over the subject of Phoebe Somerville. “You know I don’t like to speak ill of anybody, especially the fairer sex, but that blond chicky called me ‘sugarplum.’ Damn, Ice. That’s just not the sort of person should be owning a football team.”

“You got that right.”

Tully’s Santa Claus face puckered like a baby’s. “She’s got a poodle, Dan. Now both of us know the Bears’ coaches are always fighting with Mike McCaskey, but damn, at least they’re not working for an owner who carries around a French poodle. I tell you, I’ve been avoiding all of them since that funeral. I’ll bet they’re bustin’ a gut laughing at us.”

Once Tully got wound up. it was hard to stop him, and he moved on to the next subject. Dan noted that the congresswoman was gradually making her way to the elevator banks, a cadre of aids surrounding her as she departed. He glanced at his watch.

“This was supposed to be the transitional year for us, Ice,” Tully said. “Bert fired Brewster last November and hired you as head coach. We got lucky on Plan B, did better than we expected in the draft, and even won a couple of games at the end of the season. But who could have figured Carl Pogue would quit and we’d end up having Ronald in charge of operations?”

A muscle ticked in the corner of Dan’s jaw.

Tully shook his head. “Phoebe Somerville and Ronald McDermitt, the Stars’ new owner and acting general manager. I tell you, Ice, even Vince Lombardi’s laughing at us, and just think how long he’s been dead.”

Silence fell between them as both men’s thoughts took equally dismal paths. In the six weeks that had passed since Bert’s funeral, Phoebe had disappeared, bringing team business to a standstill because no one else was authorized to sign contracts. When she couldn’t be located, Carl Pogue, the Stars’ general manager, had quit in frustration and subsequently taken a job in the Commissioner’s Office. Now, Ronald McDermitt, the man who had been Carl Pogue’s assistant, was the Stars’ acting general manager, completing the chronicle of disaster.

The terms of Bert’s will had been leaked to the media, leaving all of them stunned. Like everyone else, Dan had assumed Bert would pass the Stars on to Reed immediately, not at the end of the season. Although Reed Chandler had a good reputation in the community, Dan had always found him a bit slippery, and he hadn’t looked forward to working for him. Now, however, he would have given just about anything to see Reed sitting in Bert’s old office.

“Howie told me you’ve been trying to get in touch with Ray Hardesty. You’re not feeling guilty about finally letting me cut him, are you, Dan?”

Dan shook his head, even though the cut still bothered him. “We had to do it.”

“Damn right. He was missing more practices than he was making, and there was no way he was going to pass a drug test.”

“I know that.” Lyle Alzado’s death from steroid abuse hadn’t taught guys like Ray Hardesty a damn thing. Dan knew Tully had been right to insist that Ray be cut from the team, and he should have done it when Ray had been picked up for his second DUI arrest of the year. Instead, he’d dragged his heels, giving the Stars’ veteran defensive end more last chances than he would have given anybody else. Hardesty had been a great player until his drinking and drugging had gotten out of control, and Dan had wanted to exhaust all of his options. He’d done his best to get Ray into rehab. He’d talked to him until he was blue in the face about showing up on time for practice and at least pretending to follow the rules, but Ray hadn’t been listening to anybody except his street corner pharmacist.

Tully tugged at his collar. “Did you know that Ronald took me aside a couple of days after Carl quit and told me to put more pressure on you to cut Hardesty?”

Dan hated talking about the Stars’ acting general manager nearly as much as he hated talking about the new owner. “Why didn’t Ronald talk to me in person?”

“He’s scared to death of you. Ever since you stuffed him in that locker.”

“He made me mad.”

“Ronald was never anything more than Carl’s gofer.” Tully shook his head. “Everybody knows he only got the job because Bert owed his daddy a favor. I know Bert would never have let his daughter get her hands on the Stars if he knew Carl was going to quit. Ronald’s a candy ass, Ice. Did I tell you about the time Bobby Tom was foolin’ around after practice last season when Ronald came out to the field? You know how Bobby Tom is, just havin’ a little fun, says, ‘Hey, Ronnie, we’re looking for a new wide-out.’ And he lobs the ball at him real soft, couldn’t have been more than five yards. Anyway, Ronald puts up his arm to catch it and jams his finger. He starts shaking his hand like somebody killed him. Bobby Tom like to bust a gut. How can you respect a general manager can’t even catch a lob like that?”

Tully’s monologue was interrupted by one of the subjects under discussion, last year’s starting wide receiver for the Stars, Bobby Tom Denton. Bobby Tom liked to dress well, and his impeccably tailored black tuxedo was accompanied by a ruffled white dress shirt, glittering silver bow tie, lizardskin boots, and a big black Stetson.

As far as anybody knew, the only time Bobby Tom took off his Stetson was when he put on his helmet. One of his many girlfriends had told the
National Enquirer
he even wore it when he made love. Her word was suspect, however, since she’d also told the
Enquirer
that Bobby Tom was the illegitimate son of Roy Orbison, a statement that had mightily upset Bobby Tom’s mother, despite the fact that anybody who’d ever heard Bobby Tom sing could have figured out it was a lie.

Bobby Tom nodded his Stetson at Tully and Dan. “Coach. Coach.”

Dan nodded back. “Bobby Tom.”

The wide receiver turned to Tully. “Hey, Coach, what d’ya think? That redhead over there told me all her girlfriends think I’m the best-looking wide-out in the league. What about you? Do you think my profile’s better than Tom Waddle’s?”

Tully contemplated the wide receiver’s profile while he gave the question serious consideration. “I don’t know, Bobby Tom. Waddle’s nose is straighter than yours.”

Bobby Tom tended to get belligerent when anyone challenged his good looks, and tonight was no exception. “Is that so? For your information she said I look like that movie star—what’s his name? Christian Slater.” Bobby Tom frowned. “Either of you know who Christian Slater is?”

Neither of them did.

For a moment Bobby Tom looked befuddled. Then he snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and grinned. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing about him. He’s a damned fine looking sonavabitch.”

They all laughed. Dan liked Bobby Tom off the field, but he liked him even better on. One of the best wide receivers Dan had seen in years, he had guts, brains, and hands so soft you couldn’t even hear the ball hit when he caught it. What he didn’t have was his new contract signed, and that fact was driving Dan to contemplate murdering a certain blond bimbo.

Bert had died just as he’d been finishing the complex negotiations with Bobby Tom’s shark of an agent. Now there was no one in the Stars’ organization with authorization to sign the final contract except Phoebe Somerville, whose answering service reported that she was on vacation and couldn’t be reached.

Bobby Tom wasn’t Dan’s only unsigned player, either. He had an offensive tackle named Darnell Pruitt, who was so good he was scary, and a young safety who had led the Stars in forced fumbles last season. None of them would be traveling to the Meadowlands that weekend for the Stars’ fourth preseason game against the Jets. And if something didn’t happen soon, none of them would be in uniform for the season opener in two weeks.

Thanks to the disappearing bimbo, Dan Calebow was in danger of losing three of the most promising players in the league. He understood the way the NFL worked, and it didn’t take a crystal ball to know there were a dozen team owners waiting in the wings with open checkbooks and saliva dripping from their jaws just hoping those three players were going to lose patience with a team that was rapidly becoming a joke.

At an early age the sting of his daddy’s belt had taught Dan that winning was what counted in life. He’d always been an aggressive competitor, mowing down anyone who got in his way, and right then he made a promise to himself. If he ever got his hands on a certain brainless bimbo, he’d teach her a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.

“Hi, Coach, I’m Melanie.”

Bobby Tom’s gaze roamed over the shapely young beauty who had eyes only for Dan. The young wide receiver shook his head. “Damn, Coach. You got more women than I do.”

“I’ve got a head start on you, Bobby Tom. You’ll catch up.” He put his arm around the girl. “Now what did you say your name was again, honey?”

Dan heard the siren just as he reached the point on the Eisenhower Expressway where the East West Tollway split off to the left. He had abandoned Melanie at the reception an hour ago, and as he glanced in the rearview mirror he was glad his heavy drinking days were behind him.

He pulled his red Ferrari 512 TR over. The car was too small for him, but he put up with the lack of legroom because the Testarossa was the most beautiful driving machine in the world. Still, two hundred thousand dollars was an obscene amount of money to pay for a car when people were sleeping on the streets, and after he bought it, he’d written a matching check to one of his favorite charities. Most years he gave away more money than he spent, which he figured was only right considering how much he was worth.

By the time the trooper approached the driver’s side of the car, Dan had his window lowered. The cop had already taken in the Testarossa’s distinctive “ICE 11” vanity plates.

He braced his elbow on the hood of the car and leaned down. “Evening, Coach.”

Dan nodded.

“I guess you’re in a hurry.”

“What d’you get me at?”

“You were doing eighty-seven when you passed Mannheim.”

Dan grinned and slapped the steering wheel. “Damn, I love this car. I was holding it down, too. There are a lot of fools on the road tonight.”

“You can say that again.” The cop took a few moments to admire the car before he returned his attention to Dan. “How do you think you’ll do against the Jets this weekend?”

“We’ll give it our best.”

“Bobby Tom signed yet?”

“Afraid not.”

“That’s too bad.” He took his arm away. “Well, good luck, anyway. And ease up on the gas pedal, will you, Coach? We got some boys on duty tonight who are still nursing a grudge over that sneak you called on fourth and one when you lost to the Browns last year.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

It was almost one in the morning when Dan pulled back onto the expressway, and traffic was fairly light. He had already removed the jacket of his tuxedo, and as he shot into the left lane, he tugged off his bow tie and unfastened his shirt collar.

Despite a blemished record with the law, he liked cops. They’d stood by him ever since he was a twelve-year-old punk caught stealing beer. And the cops in Tuscaloosa had done a lot more to set him straight when he was playing for the Tide than his old man. One of them had even managed to convince him of the value of a college education one night after the cops had broken up a brawl between Dan and some upperclassmen from Auburn at a bar called Wooden Dick’s.

“You got brains, boy. When you gonna start usin’ them?”

The cop had talked to him most of the night and made him begin to think about his long-term future. Football was Dan’s ticket out of the poverty he had grown up in, but the cop made him realize that he wouldn’t always be able to play.

Over the next few semesters, he had gradually replaced his phys ed and industrial arts classes with courses in business, math, and finance. By his junior year he was doing well with a demanding academic schedule, despite too much late-night carousing. His greatest satisfaction at ‘Bama was realizing he had a brain and not just athletic talent.

He exited at Cermak Road into the affluent sprawl of Oak Brook and wound through the side streets until he saw the convenience store on his right. He pulled into the lot, turned off the ignition, and got out of the small, sleek car.

There were five people inside the convenience store, but only two of them women. One was a dyed redhead and he dismissed her right away. The other looked too young to be in a 7-Eleven so late at night. She was standing by the Hostess display chewing a wad of bubble gum and contemplating the Ho Hos. Her bangs were teased, but the rest of her hair was pulled back from her face and fastened at the crown of her head with a silver clip. Even though the evening was warm and muggy, she had both hands buried in the pockets of a high school jacket with “Varsity Cheerleader” written in script over her left breast.

She saw him approaching, and her jaw stalled in mid-chew. A short, skintight Spandex skirt peeked out several inches from beneath the school jacket. Her legs were thin and bare, her feet shoved into a pair of black flats. As he stopped in front of her, he noticed she was wearing too much makeup the way young girls sometimes did.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Do you now?”

“Uh-huh.” She took three staccato chews—nervous, but not giggly. “You’re the Stars’ football coach. Dan—uh—Mr. Calebow.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Tiffany.”

“Is that so.”

“I’ve seen you on television lots of times.”

“How old are you, darlin’?”

“Sixteen.” Her eyes began to rove over him with a maturity far beyond her years. “You’re cute.”

“And you look real grown-up for sixteen.”

“I know.” She worked her gum for a few seconds then looked down at the toes of her shoes. “My folks are gone for the night. You want to come back to my house with me, Mr. Calebow?”