Play Dirty (7 page)

He continued the conversation as though there hadn’t been an interruption. “You were going to say that we could take the more conventional route. Have artificial insemination with an anonymous donor.”

That was exactly what she’d been about to say. “They keep sperm donors anonymous for a very good reason, Foster. We would never know his identity, never have a mental image of him. The child would be ours. We’d never be studying his or her features, looking for similarities to…to someone we’d met.”

“Do you object to Griff Burkett’s features?”

“You’re missing the point.”

He laughed and rolled his chair over to the love seat. “No I’m not, I’m teasing you.”

“I guess I’m not in a teasing mood tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” He reached up and ruffled her hair.

But she wouldn’t be placated so easily. “This is probably the most important decision we’ll ever have to make.”

“We’ve already made it. We’ve been over this a thousand times, studying it from every angle. We’ve discussed it for months. We talked it to death, and then talked it some more, and finally agreed it’s the right path for us.”

For
you,
she started to say but didn’t. “I know I agreed, but—”

“What?”

“I don’t know. In theory…” She let the sentence trail. What worked in theory didn’t necessarily translate well into flesh-and-blood reality. Particularly since it was
her
flesh and blood that would be affected.

“I’m only asking for one child,” he said, stroking her cheek. “If I could, I’d give you the three or four children we planned on. Before.”

Before.
There it was, that giant qualifier. That six-letter word was weighty with its significance to them. It was the line of demarcation in their lives. Before.

His eyes moved over her face lovingly. “I still dream about making love to you.”

“You do make love to me.”

He smiled wanly. “Of a sort. Not the real thing.”

“It’s real to me.”

“But it’s not the same.”

She leaned forward and kissed him intimately on the mouth, then nuzzled her face into his neck. He held her close, smoothing his hands over her back. During her busy workdays, hours would go by when she would forget his condition and the drastic effect it had had on their lives, their marriage.

Mean reminders of it would strike her unaware, coming from nowhere like blow darts, giving her no warning, making them impossible to dodge. During a meeting, or while she was on the telephone, or when she was conducting a brainstorming session, one would hit, numbing her for a millisecond before the pain set in.

But these quiet evenings at home were the worst. When they were alone, like this, each remembered how it used to be, how they used to make love when the mood struck them, laughing at their passionate haste, collapsing in happy satiation afterward.

Now she occasionally went to the room where he slept in a hospital bed, rigged with every modern contrivance to maximize his comfort. She would undress and lie with him, her body pressed against his. They kissed. He caressed her, and sometimes just the intimacy of that was enough. Other nights, she would reach orgasm, which wasn’t really satisfying because she always felt selfish afterward. When she expressed this, he comforted her by saying that his completion was derived from knowing that he could still give her physical pleasure.

But if she left his bed feeling like an exhibitionist, she knew he must feel like a voyeur. Because it wasn’t mutually fulfilling, it was…well, as he’d said, it wasn’t the same.

They rarely talked about their life together before the night it was turned upside down. Memories of that first year of their marriage were indulged privately, neither wanting to cause the other heartbreak by reminiscing aloud. The memories were agonizing for her. They must have been even more terrible for Foster. She was still whole and healthy. He wasn’t. He didn’t seem to harbor any resentment or bitterness toward fate, or God. Or her.

But how could he not?

Taking her shoulders between his hands now, he eased her away from him. “Do you have any misgivings, Laura? About using Burkett or anyone else. Any hesitation at all? If so, we’ll call it off.”

Did she have any misgivings? She had thousands. But this was the way Foster insisted it be done, so this was the way it must be done. “I want to see the results of a complete medical checkup.”

“He promised to act on that quickly and mail us the report. As soon as we’ve looked it over, we’ll burn it.”

“I don’t think there will be a problem. He appears to be as physically ideal as we believed.”

“What about his character?”

She scoffed at that. “Less than ideal. He proved that five years ago.”

“His crime doesn’t concern me. What I meant was, do you think we can count on his discretion?”

“I think the money will be incentive for him to keep our confidence.”

“I made the conditions as simple for him as I could.”

He had explained to Griff Burkett that he was never to make any claims toward the child, never to contact them, never to acknowledge their existence. If Griff kept to those conditions, he would receive one million dollars a year.

Burkett had asked, “For how long?”

“For the rest of your life.”

He’d divided an incredulous look between them. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Regarding them as though they had both lost their minds, he said, “Having a kid, and keeping its conception a secret, is that important to you?”

The question sounded like a prelude to extortion. Laura wouldn’t have been surprised if at that point he’d demanded twice the amount they were offering. But when Foster said, “Yes, it’s that important to us,” Burkett chuckled and shook his head, as though finding such an ideal incomprehensible. Obviously he had never felt that strongly about anything or held anything that dear. Not even his career.

“Well, it’s not like I want a kid,” he said. “In fact, since puberty I’ve been damn careful to guarantee that I didn’t father one. So you can relieve yourself of the worry that I’ll show up someday to claim him. Or her,” he said, addressing that to Laura.

“What about the confidentiality issue?” Foster asked.

“There is no issue. I get it. I keep my mouth shut. We run into each other by accident, I look right through you with no recognition whatsoever. For a million dollars a year, I can lose my memory. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “One thing, though.”

“What?”

“What happens if you…if I outlive you?”

“Laura would uphold our obligation to you.”

“What if she’s not around?”

That was one question they hadn’t anticipated. They’d never considered the possibility that he would survive both of them. She and Foster looked at each other, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. If Griff Burkett outlived them, they were leaving their child and heir vulnerable to extortion, financial as well as emotional. They had agreed that their child would never know how he came to be. They would let him assume, as everyone else would, that Foster had fathered him.

“That’s a scenario that hadn’t occurred to us,” Foster admitted.

“Well, now that it’s occurred to me, it needs to be addressed.”

Laura said, “By that point in time, you would be extremely well off.”

“You’re well off now,” Griff retorted. “You wouldn’t enter into a contract with a contingency as important as this left unsettled. Would you?”

He was right, but she was reluctant to concede the point. “I’m sure that over time we can work something out.”

“Un-huh. Not over time. Now.”

“He’s right, Laura. The timeliness is critical. I’m proof that our lives can change in a heartbeat. It’s better that we resolve this issue now, rather than leave it dangling.” Foster thought on it for a moment, then said, “Unfortunately, every solution that comes immediately to mind would involve paperwork, and it’s essential that we avoid that.” He spread his arms, palms up. “Griff, either you’ll have to trust me to come up with a workable solution, or—”

“When?”

“I’ll give it top priority.”

Burkett frowned as though that weren’t good enough. “What’s the
or
?”

“Or, what I’m reading from you is that it’s a deal breaker.”

Laura noted that he didn’t have to think about it for long. “Okay, I’ll trust you to work something out. After all, you’re putting your trust in me, and I’m the convicted felon.”

“I’m glad you’re the one who cited that, Mr. Burkett.”

Laura had spoken before thinking, but she didn’t regret saying it. He’d needed to be reminded that the risk they were taking far outweighed his. He moved nothing except his eyes, but she felt their angry impact when they connected with hers.

“You mean so you wouldn’t have to,” he said. “So you wouldn’t have to point out that if anybody in this room is untrustworthy, it’s me.”

“Laura meant no offense, Griff,” Foster said.

Continuing to hold her stare, he said, “No. Of course not. None taken.”

But she knew he didn’t mean it, just like he knew that she
had
meant what she’d said.

“Risk on both sides is inherent to any business partnership.” Foster spoke from experience. He was also an excellent mediator, who always tried to defuse a disagreement before it got out of hand. “I think shared risk is a positive thing. It leaves everybody vulnerable to some extent and keeps everyone honest.” He turned to Laura. “Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“Excellent,” he said, slapping his hands on the arms of his chair three times. “Let’s shake on it.”

Now Foster was saying, “You told him you’d be in touch within two weeks.”

“I’ll be monitoring my cycle, taking my temperature each morning, so that hopefully I’ll know the day I ovulate.”

“And how long after that before you’d know if you conceived?”

“Two weeks.”

“I get giddy thinking about it.”

“Get giddy when I pee on a stick and it turns pink. Or blue. Or whatever it’s supposed to turn.”

Laughing, he kissed her soundly, then by tacit agreement, they headed for the elevator tucked discreetly under the stairs. “Race you to the top,” he said as he rolled his chair into the metal cage.

She jogged up the curving staircase and was there to meet him when he arrived. “You always win,” he grumbled.

“Those sprints up the stairs keep me in good shape.”

“I’ll say.” He reached around and smacked her on the butt.

Hearing their approach, Manuelo opened the door from inside Foster’s bedroom. “Can we skip the therapy tonight?” Foster asked. The aide smiled and shrugged, indicating he didn’t understand the question. “He’s faking that. I know he is. He knows damn well I’m talking about the therapy he puts me through and how I feel about it.” He clasped her hand tightly. “Spare me, Laura. Please.”

“Hey, I’ve got it just as tough tonight. I’ve got to review that union contract again. But I’ll come and tuck you in.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and continued down the wide hallway to her office.

But an hour later, when she went into Foster’s bedroom, Manuelo had done everything that needed doing. The drapes were drawn. The thermostat was set to his preferred temperature. There was a carafe of ice water and a drinking glass on his nightstand. The call button was within reach. He was sleeping, a book resting on his lap.

She turned off the bedside lamp and for the longest time sat there in the darkness, in the chair beside his bed, listening to his breathing. He didn’t stir, and she was grateful that he was able to sleep so well.

Eventually, she left him and went alone to the bed they used to share, wishing that her sleep could be that sound.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, GRIFF HAD A HITCH IN HIS BACK
from sleeping on the soft mattress, which sagged in the middle. He denied that the chronic pain was a holdover from thirteen years of getting slammed into by tacklers—eighth grade through his years with the Cowboys.

His right shoulder also bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Over the course of his playing days, he’d had four fingers broken, one of his small fingers broken in the same place twice. The second time, he hadn’t bothered to have it set, so it had healed crooked. Assorted other gridiron mishaps and melees made getting out of bed every morning a slow process.

Fondly recalling the comfort of Marcia’s perfumed and silky sheets, he limped into the drab kitchen, boiled water for instant coffee, toasted a piece of bread, and washed it down with a glass of milk to chase the bitter pseudo-coffee taste from his mouth.

Before he forgot, he called the probation officer assigned to him. Jerry Arnold’s voice-mail recording had made him sound like a likable enough guy, and now his live voice sounded even friendlier and nonthreatening. “I was just calling to make sure you got the message I left yesterday,” Griff said after an exchange of hello-how-are-yous.

“Sure did. But let me repeat the info back to you, check to see I got it right.” He recited the address and phone number Griff had left.

“That’s right.”

“How about a job, Griff? Anything yet?”

“I’m seeing about that today.”

“Good, good. Keep me posted on any progress.”

“Will do.”

“Well, you know the conditions of your probation, so I won’t bore you with them again.”

“They’re etched onto my brain. I don’t want to go back to prison.”

“And I don’t want you to.” The bureaucrat hesitated, then said, “You were a hell of a ballplayer, Griff. A thrill to watch.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, good luck today.”

That chore out of the way, Griff headed for the shower. It had furry black stuff growing on the tile grout, but to his surprise the hot water was plentiful. He dressed quickly but carefully, choosing the best from the clothing Wyatt Turner had left in the apartment for him. He made a mental note to ask his lawyer where the rest of his stuff was being stored and how he could go about retrieving it.

Then he remembered that if the Speakmans came through with their down payment, he could go out and buy all new stuff. The thought made his gut purl with happy anticipation.

However, he wouldn’t know until after two o’clock today if they’d come through as promised. In the meantime, he had other errands to run.

He got to the walk-in medical clinic at eight-thirty and was out in under an hour. “How soon before I can pick up the lab results?”

“Three to five days.”

“Make it three,” he said, giving the nurse a wink and his best smile. Simpering, she promised to try. Obviously she didn’t follow Cowboys football.

From the clinic he drove to a branch of the public library—the one nearest his former Turtle Creek address. He doubted there was one in the neighborhood of his present apartment, doubted many of the residents in the area could read.

He arrived at the library only to discover it didn’t open until ten. A cluster of toddlers and young mothers—when had young mothers got so damn good looking?—had congregated at the doors waiting for them to open.

Moms and kids alike regarded him curiously. At six feet four he towered over all of them. The cut and bruise on his cheekbone, Rodarte’s contribution, drew their attention, too, making him feel particularly conspicuous among the Thursday Morning Story Time at the Library crowd.

Once the doors were unlocked, the moms herded their children to a far corner while he went to the information desk. The librarian smiled pleasantly and asked what she could do for him. “I need to use a computer. And I’ll probably need some help.”

Five years of advancement in computer technology equaled aeons. But the librarian patiently showed him how to access the Internet and do a Google search, and soon he was knee-deep in information on SunSouth Airlines and, more specifically, its owner.

First, he got an overview of Foster Speakman’s background. Starting in the 1920s with his great-great-grandfather, his family had amassed a fortune from oil and natural gas. As sole heir, Foster was bequeathed megamillions in addition to vast parcels of land in New Mexico, Colorado, and Alaska.

He held an MBA from Harvard Business School and was a polo player of renown. He had received countless citations and awards from business and civic groups for community service. Economic analysts lauded his courageous takeover and turnaround of the foundering airline.

If he’d been a football player, Speakman would have been the starting quarterback for the Super Bowl champs and voted MVP.

He and Mrs. Speakman—not Laura—were photographed attending various charity and social functions. One photograph accompanying an article in
Forbes
showed Foster standing tall and proud in front of a SunSouth jet, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a man who’d just conquered the world. He appeared robust and strong.

Which meant that somewhere between the time he’d bought the airline several years ago and now, he’d become paraplegic. Illness? Cataclysmic event?

While pondering the possibilities, Griff came across Elaine Speakman’s lengthy obituary. She had died after a valorous and lengthy battle with leukemia. No children had come from the marriage.

The widower had married Laura Speakman one year and five months following Elaine’s death.

Foster and Elaine had been well represented in the press. But Foster and Mrs. Speakman II were featured nearly daily—which explained his allusion to their being celebrities.

Then Griff found what he’d been looking for. One year and seventy days into their marriage, Foster and Laura Speakman’s lives were irrevocably changed. The story made the front page of
The Dallas Morning News
under a banner headline and a graphic photograph. The news hadn’t reached Big Spring. Or if it had, he’d missed it. Or if he had heard about it, he’d forgotten it because it didn’t pertain to him and he’d had no interest.

Griff read the story twice. There were links to numerous follow-up stories. He read them all, then, using the back icon, returned to the original story and read it yet again. And when for the third time he reached that telling sentence, which explained so much, he sat back in his chair and said, “Huh.”

It was a nice neighborhood. Unlike the one he’d grown up in, there were no loose shutters or curling window screens on these houses. Lawns were mowed, hedges were clipped, and flower beds were weeded. The basketball hoops actually had baskets, and if the driveways were littered with anything, it was shiny bikes and skateboards, not rusted-out cars sitting on blocks.

Although this neighborhood was younger by twenty years, it had the same kind of “family” feel as the one where Coach and Ellie Miller lived. Where
he’d
lived from the day Coach had removed him from his mother’s ramshackle place. Coach had contacted Child Protective Services and handled the legalities, which were incomprehensible and uninteresting to Griff as a fifteen-year-old. He supposed Coach got himself appointed his guardian. In any case, he’d stayed with the Millers until he graduated high school and went away to play football for the University of Texas.

He located the address he sought and drove past the house slowly, checking it out. On either side of the front door was a pot of white flowers. Above the backyard fence, Griff could see the top of a swimming pool slide. Two kids were tossing a football back and forth on the front lawn. They were old enough to be cautious of strangers and eyed Griff warily as he slowly rolled past.

He went to the end of the block and turned the corner. He realized his palms were damp with apprehension. And that made him angry at himself. Why the hell should his palms be sweating? He had as much right as anybody to be on these nicely maintained streets. The people who lived here were no better than he was.

But he’d felt the same anxiety that day when Coach Joe Miller had pulled into his driveway and said, “Here it is.” Griff had looked at the house with the welcome mat on the threshold and the blooming ivy crawling up a trellis and felt as out of place as a turd in a punch bowl. He didn’t belong here. But he’d die before he let on that he felt inferior.

Sullenly, feet shuffling, he’d followed Coach up the steps and through the front door. “Ellie?”

“In here.”

Griff had seen Coach’s wife at the games. From a distance, she looked okay, he guessed. He’d never really given her a second thought.

She turned to them as they entered the kitchen. Her hair was in curlers, and she had bright yellow rubber gloves on her hands.

“This is Griff,” Coach said.

She smiled at him. “Hi, Griff. I’m Ellie.”

He kept his like-I-give-a-shit frown in place so they wouldn’t guess that his heart was beating harder than it did before a fourth-and-goal play, and in the hope they wouldn’t hear his stomach growling. He’d glanced through the open door of the pantry. Besides at the supermarket, he’d never seen so much food stored in one place. On the counter was a pie with a golden crust, oozing cherry juice. The aroma was making Griff’s mouth water.

Coach said, “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

If this news came as a shock to Ellie Miller, she hid it. “Oh, well, good,” she said. “Welcome. Now, can you give me a hand, Griff? That pie leaked sticky stuff all over this oven. I’m trying to get the racks out so I can clean it while it’s still warm, but my gloves will melt if I grab hold. Pot holders are there in the top drawer.”

Not knowing what else to do, he’d got the pot holders and removed the hot metal racks from the oven. With no more ceremony than that, he moved into the Millers’ house and into their lives.

He always suspected that Coach and Ellie had discussed the possibility of this before Coach came to get him that morning. Because he was shown into a room set up for an adolescent boy. It had a double bed covered by a red-and-white blanket with the image of the high school team mascot on it—a fiercely scowling Viking. Other sports pennants were tacked to the wall.

“That’s the closet. Let me know if you need more hangers.” Ellie glanced down at the small duffel bag Griff had brought with him but didn’t comment on how little it would hold, how little he had. “You can keep your folding clothes in this chest. If anything needs washing, the hamper is in the bathroom. Oh, goodness, I haven’t shown you the bathroom.” It was so clean, he was afraid to pee in the toilet.

They all went to Sears that afternoon so Ellie could “pick up some things,” but what they came home with was new clothes for him. He’d never had food like Ellie cooked, including the pie they ate for dessert that night. He’d never been inside a house that smelled good, that had books on shelves and pictures on the walls.

But he learned from the oven-cleaning experience that such luxuries didn’t come free. He was expected to do chores. Never having been required to do a damn thing in his life except stay out of the way when a man was in the bedroom with his mother, Griff found that this aspect of family life took some getting used to.

Ellie’s rebukes were gentle and usually included some reproach to herself. “You forgot to make your bed this morning, Griff. Or did I forget to tell you that sheets aren’t changed till Friday?” “You won’t be able to wear that favorite T-shirt tomorrow, because I didn’t find it under the bed until after I’d done the laundry. Be sure it gets in the hamper next time.”

Coach was less subtle. “Have you finished your history paper?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it due tomorrow?”

He knew it was. One of his assistant coaches was Griff’s history teacher. “I’ll get it done.”

Coach turned off the TV. “Right. You will. Now.”

Whenever he was disciplined, Griff muttered rebellious plans to leave. He was sick and tired of their harping. Do this, do that, clean up this, carry out that. Only dorks went to church on Sundays, but had he been given a choice? No. It was just expected. And what did he care if the car was washed and the lawn mowed?

But he never followed through on any of his threats to leave. Besides, his muttering was largely ignored. Ellie chatted over it, and Coach either turned his back or left the room.

Coach didn’t go soft on him at practice, either. If anything, he was tougher on him, as though to assure the other players that Griff was nothing special to him just because he was lodged under his roof.

One afternoon, still mad over being denied access to the TV the night before, Griff sloughed off during drills. He didn’t connect a single pass to the receivers. Running backs had to come take the ball from him because he didn’t scramble to get it to them. He fumbled a snap.

Coach watched him; despite his scowl, he didn’t blow the whistle on him, give him a pointer, or chew him out.

But at the end of practice, when everyone else headed for the locker room, Coach ordered him to stay where he was. He placed a blocking dummy thirty yards away and tossed Griff the football. “Hit it.”

Griff threw the ball with no more effort than he had put into the rest of the practice and missed the dummy. Coach glared at him. “Try again,” he said, tossing him another football. Again he missed.

Coach handed him a third football. “Hit the damn thing.”

“I’m having an off day. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that you’re a chickenshit.”

Griff threw the ball then, straight at Coach. The ball bounced off his barrel chest. Griff turned toward the locker room.

When Coach grabbed him by the shoulder and whipped him around, his helmet nearly flew off, taking his head with it. Before Griff could recover, Coach planted his wide, leathery hand in the center of his chest and shoved. He landed hard on his ass. Pain shimmied up from his tailbone, straight along his spine, and directly into his brain. It hurt so bad, he caught his breath and tears came to his eyes. They were more mortifying than his position on the ground.