It was nervy to arrive at Vista’s offices unannounced, but he was betting that the triumvirate would agree to see him, out of curiosity if for no other reason. He was right. After waiting in a reception area for almost half an hour, he was summoned into the inner sanctum where he’d met with them the first time.

Same paneled walls, indirect lighting, and sound-absorbing rugs, but the hospitality was noticeably lacking. No sandwich tray, no open bar. Larry’s tan was just as bronze, but it appeared that more time may have been spent in the club bar than on the links. He’d gone a little soft around the middle.

Griff was surprised to see that Martin could still breathe without some form of respiratory apparatus. But he was now relying heavily on a cane to help support his immense body.

Bennett had given up on the comb-over and shaved his head. It was perfectly white and round, and from the back looked like an overgrown billiard ball sitting on his shoulders. With even fewer lashes now, his eyes were more reptilian than before.

Larry had one hip propped on the corner of a desk. Bennett was in an armchair, legs crossed. As Griff walked in, Martin collapsed onto a short leather sofa that was barely wide enough to accommodate him. Both his lungs and the seat cushions emitted a whoosh of air as he settled.

Griff wasn’t invited to sit.

Martin began. “What do you want?”

Griff responded just as bluntly. “Call off Rodarte.”

No one said anything for a full thirty seconds. Finally Larry broke the taut silence. “Would that be Stanley Rodarte you’re talking about?”

Griff didn’t buy the dumb act. “You’ll be glad to know your watchdog is persistent. He was in Big Spring the day I got out, and he’s been making a nuisance of himself ever since. He assaulted a friend of mine. A woman. Sodomized her and ruined her face. When that failed to win me over, he set two guys on me. For a week after, I could barely walk and my pee ran red.”

“Gee, Griff, we’re sorry to hear that,” Larry said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “And this would be our problem…why?”

Griff resented their playing innocent. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, so he’d rather they just own up to it and tell him that he and Marcia had it coming.

“Look, it sucks for you if Bill Bandy hid money where you can’t find it. But get off my back about it. I didn’t take anything from him. And you know damn well I didn’t kill him.”

“You had motive.”

“So did you.”

The FBI had arrested Bandy on charges of illegal gambling. Facing several years in federal prison, Bandy had played his bargaining chip-Griff Burkett. He told the feds about Griff’s association with Vista, specifically about the upcoming play-off game against Washington. No one in Dallas was happy about the loss that day, except the federal agents who were building a strong racketeering case against the Cowboys’ QB.

The deal Bandy had struck worked out great for him. Griff got caught; all charges against Bandy were dropped. But this exchange had made the Vista men nervous. What if the FBI wanted more from Bill Bandy than a cheating football player? The bookie might have been tempted to use them as another free pass at some point in the future.

The Vista trio had removed the temptation from Bandy by killing him.

At least that was what Griff had surmised and now had essentially accused them of. Unfazed, their stares remained unblinking.

“Maybe there was some secret stash,” he continued, “but I haven’t spent the last five years on a treasure hunt. I don’t want back in your operation, and I’m not working for a competing outfit. You can threaten me till doomsday, and you’ll still come up empty. So whatever you’re paying Rodarte to put pressure on me is money wasted. Call him off.”

Several moments passed. They sat like statues. Eventually Martin looked over at Larry, Larry looked over at Bennett, and Bennett continued to stare at Griff.

If Griff had still been a wagering man, he’d have put his money on Bennett as the enforcer of the group. Larry was the windbag, the people person, the public relations guy. Martin was the brains and the puppet master. Bennett, silent and stationary Bennett, who seemed to have ice water in his veins, was responsible for damage control.

It was Martin who finally spoke. “What makes you think…” Wheeze. “…that we’d have dealings…” Gasp. “…with a scumbag like Rodarte?”

“He told me himself. He said he’d talked to you. He passed along your message that there might be a way for me to make amends. That you might be willing to forgive and forget.”

“Forgive and forget?”

This was the first and only time Griff had actually seen Martin smile, and it made his balls contract.

“Is Rodarte delusional, or are you?” Larry asked. “After you gave the grand jury the juice on us, you think we’d ever welcome you back?” He snorted his opinion on the chances of that. “First of all, asshole, we’re not forgiving or forgetful. Number two, you’re the last person we want in our operation. We’re not slow learners. Once you screw us over, you’re screwed. Third, if one of our competitors-not that we have any that matter-takes you in, that’s good news to us. It only shows that they’re fucking ignoramuses.

“Lastly, you’re actually right about one thing. Rodarte did come sniffing around just before your release. He’s always had the mistaken idea that he’s a hotshot and that we’re impressed by him. We’re not. He’s a lowlife thug, is all.

“But, hey, we don’t want to appear unfriendly, especially to someone so inferior. So we dazzled him with bullshit and a couple shots of eighteen-year-old scotch, then sent him on his way. If he’s squeezing you, he’s doing it on his own time and for his own reasons.”

“And more power to him,” Martin wheezed.

“Amen to that,” Larry said. “More power to him. We won’t be brokenhearted the day you die, Burkett. The only reason you’re still breathing is because you deserve no better than Rodarte. We’d rather somebody of his caliber handle an asswipe like you, save us having to get our hands dirty. Now get the fuck out of here before we remember just how pissed off we really are.”

On his drive back from Las Colinas, Griff got stuck in a traffic jam behind a freeway accident that had two lanes closed. Staring into the brake lights of the car ahead of him, he ruminated over what Larry had told him. It felt like the truth. They wouldn’t mourn his passing, but if they’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

The Vista boys were scary, but Rodarte, acting on his own behalf, was even scarier. Griff wasn’t comforted by the knowledge that Rodarte was working independently.

That thought was interrupted by his cell phone’s chirp. He flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Are you free?”

CHAPTER 20

HIS HEART SKIPPED. “WHEN?”

“Now.”

“I’m fifteen minutes out.” Thirty at least, but he didn’t want her to change her mind.

“I’ll see you then.”

It took five minutes for him to get past the accident; then he herded the Honda as though driving in the Le Mans and reached the house twenty-two minutes after getting her call. He went in through the unlocked front door and found her standing in the center of the living room.

She was wearing a snug white skirt and a sleeveless red top with white buttons down the front and wide straps over her shoulders. She looked great.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I was on 114 when you called. There was an accident.”

“I didn’t give you much notice.”

He shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of the nearest chair. “How have you been?”

“Fine. What about you?”

“I’ve been okay. Airline keeping you busy?”

“Always.”

“This heat sucks.”

“I can’t remember when it last rained.”