CHAPTER 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.

“Is she footing your bills these days? Buying you all that neat new stuff?” Rodarte laughed that nasty laugh again and noisily smacked his chewing gum. “Sure she is. And glad to do it. Stuck with a husband who’s only half a man, I’ll bet she’s willing to pay any price to ride a big, strong football hero like you.”

Griff didn’t move, even though he craved to see Rodarte bleed.

Lowering his voice to a suggestive whisper, Rodarte said, “I’ll bet she’s one of those no-nonsense businesswoman types who goes absolutely wild in the sack. Am I right? She works out all her career insecurities on your dick, and she likes to be on top. Come on, Burkett, share. Is she one of those?”

“You’re maggot shit.”

Rodarte barked a laugh. “You’re fucking a paraplegic’s wife and I’m maggot shit?”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing,” Rodarte said innocently. “Just thought I’d drop by, say hi. Didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you. I wanted to reassure you that when you self-destruct-and you will, you know-I’m gonna be there to see it, and hopefully to help bring it about. I’m so far up your ass, Burkett. You have no idea.”

Griff feared if he stayed any longer he was going to take the first step toward the predicted self-destruction. Which was precisely what Rodarte wanted. Despite his resolve not to turn his back on the man, he did so and began walking away.

“Jason’s showing progress.”

Griff whipped back around. Rodarte, laughing softly, spat his wad of gum into the dirt. “The boy hasn’t got much natural talent, but he works hard. Plain to see he worships the ground you walk on. Probably wants to follow in your footsteps. Well, not the cheating and murdering path you took, but your football glory days.”

Squinting at Griff across the space separating them, Rodarte let his evil grin spread across his acne-cratered face. “Be a shame if something were to happen to the boy. A crippling accident or something that would prevent him from following his dream. He might even die.”

Griff took the steps necessary to close the distance between them. “You lay one hand on that kid and-”

“Calm down,” Rodarte said in a cajoling voice. “I was just speculating on the fickle finger of fate. Jesus, you’re a hothead. I try to have a friendly little chat here at the middle school athletic field and you-”

“What do you want, Rodarte?”

He dropped his saccharine pretense, and his eyes turned flinty. “You know what I want.”

“I don’t have any of Vista’s money.”

“They’re not convinced. I’m sure as hell not. And I’m not going to stop with you till I break you and you give it up. I’m as permanent as a birthmark.”

Griff aimed his index finger at him and began backing away. “You stay away from me. You stay away from everyone around me.”

Rodarte laughed. “Or what, Number Ten? Or what?”

Griff violated a condition of his probation, the primo one that Jerry Arnold continually reminded him of: Don’t go near your former associates.

The way Griff saw it, he had no choice. Rodarte had threatened Jason. And the way he’d talked about Laura…The implied threat, which went beyond the nasty stuff, had raised the hair on the back of Griff’s neck. Rodarte wouldn’t have a qualm against harming either of them. Even Laura’s money couldn’t protect her. He would hurt her and Jason without a blink, and would enjoy the hell out of doing it.

To prevent that, Griff must confront this issue head-on, now. He wasn’t willing to live with the constant threat of Rodarte. He certainly didn’t want to inflict it on two people who were entirely innocent. He couldn’t bear the guilt of someone else falling victim to Rodarte’s brutality the way Marcia had.

Griff drove straight home from the practice field, rushed through a shower, and dressed. He left behind his new Armani jacket in favor of one he’d had before his incarceration, not wanting to look too well heeled.