Dead Man's Hand (2 page)

Book One: The Set Up

Chapter 1

“
Set, t
hree eighty-five
, t
hree eighty-five
.
”

As was the custom, the
rowdy hometown crowd grew quiet in anticipation.

Calvin—USC
’
s All-American running ba
ck—stood behind his quarterback,
waiting. His number had been called for a play he
’
d executed hundreds of times. Most teams were prepared for the play, but none could stop
him
when he had his eye on a target.

The Trojans were up by four points with less than three minutes left. All they had to do was eat
the clock
—
kill time
—
and they would be
Sugar Bowl champs
again
.

The Nebraska Corn
h
uskers were ranked #1 in the
n
ation on defense, but on this day they had been unable to stop Calvin. He already had 118 yards rushing
,
but
another 42 would give him the
new
school record,
beating
the record he had
set last year.

If I can turn the corner and get a block, I can spring it for a touchdown.

As the center was about to snap the ball,
Calvin
saw the captain of the Nebraska defense call an audible and change the defensive positioning.

H
e
scanned
the field
. His quarterback had missed the change. None of his teammates had seen the audible call. They were frozen, awaiting the snap of the ball.
If they went
ahead and ran the play, there was a chance that he would not only be tackled immediately, but
the
whole design of the play
would be blown
.

The smart move would be to
receive the ball, fall to the ground and keep the clock running, giving his team an opportunity to run out the clock. Or he could try to run the play on his own and carry the team on his shoulders.

“
Hike!
”
The quarterback grabbed the ball, turned and held it out.

Calvin received the hand
off, securing the ball with both hands. But his fullback missed the critical first block.

Everything after that happened in slow motion.

The Husker defense roared full throttle toward him. He was able to dodge the first defender on natural instinct, but as he was avoiding that player, two Corn
h
uskers struck him at the same time
. One caught him high while the other dove low, cutting him at the knees. The sudden impact twisted his l
egs into a
position
the human body was not meant to be in
. The excruciating pain, combined with the force of the hit, jarred the ball loose from his numb fingers.

Fueled only by a
drenaline, he twisted
on the ground and reached for the ball
against the football
-
hungry attackers. W
hen the dust cleared, a Nebraska linebacker held the ball up in victory.

Calvin grabbed his knee and screamed, but that was lost in the clamor of the crowd.

In a pool of sweat, he shot up in bed.
“
Jesus!
”

Pain bolted through his
swollen right knee, but the emotional pain from a shattered ego hurt even worse. It was the same pain and nightmare that had visited
him
many nights over the last four years. He was the only one to blame for
USC
’
s humiliating loss
and his own
humiliating personal
downfall.

Removing
the
sweat-soaked sheets, he hobbled across the room,
dodged the strewn clothes on the floor,
stepped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He flicked on the light and squinted as the sudden brightness blinded him. Then he reached for the bottle of Percocet, his loyal companion in these isolated, agonizing nights.

He shook three of the blue painkillers into his hand, his steady diet of Percs. When he couldn
’
t get enough from his doctor, he bought extras from a dealer. He downed the pills, chasing them with a
mouthful
of water. They would take some time to kick in, but relief was on its way. The drugs, along with his secret hopes and plans, were all that kept him from slipping over the edge.

He us
ed
his hands on the vanity to hold his weight
and
stared into the mirror. At twenty-six
,
h
e already had the hair
and face
of a stranger
.

“
You should let your
dreadlocks
grow long,
”
his boss suggested.
“
More
intimidating
.
”

The patchy facial hair was Calvin
’
s decision. The overall
effect
was
menacing—just
right for his line of work.

His sharp brown eyes, which at one time had won him glances from beautiful women in college, were usually
hidden behind dark sunglasses.
Unseen eyes were intimidating too and when he took them off to stare at a victim, he could use his eyes to look like a madman

He closed them now
and shook his head in disgust.
“
You look like shit. Hell, you
are
shit.
”

The press had certainly thought that, four years ago. Always ready to tear down a hero, they had shown no restraint in attacking him for his egotistic, selfish decision
and
obvious
desire to break his own school record
.
One minute he was touted as the next Walter Payton, the next he was
a door mat for local media.

Looking at him now, no one would believe that back then he was a thousand-
yard rusher
in the NCAA
and
welcomed with open arms in every
established
club in Southern California. Hell, he had been bigger than the
m
ayor
of LA
.

The sports pages of the various newspapers in the USC area had indeed printed headline stories about him the day after the game, but not the kind he
’
d imagined when he
’
d decided to run with the ball.

That the resulting injury had ended his college
football career
and
most importantly, any chances of a pro career didn
’
t matter to them. By making the wrong, selfish, prideful decision, he
’
d made himself a target for the press and all USC fans.

“
No one to blame but yourself,
”
he muttered to his haggard reflection.

If he
’
d just fallen on the ball,
taken a knee and stopp
ed
the play
without trying to be the her
o, his life would be different.

The devastating, career-ending knee injury wasn
’
t the quarterback
’
s fault for missing the audible, or the fullback
’
s fault for missing the key block. It was his
and
it had taken him some time to understand and accept responsibility for it. In the end, Calvin Watters, an unstoppable force, had been brought down by his own foolish pride.

He splashed cold water on his face, took a step back and turned
sideways,
assessing
his body, proud that he
’
d been able to maintain his well-sculpted physique through hard work, discipline and
the right diet.

Three months after his last surgery, when the doctors said
t
hey
’
d done all they could, he had set up a home gym in his apartment.

“
Everything okay, Calvin?
”

He looked at her in the mirror, her eyes barely open from the sudden light.

“
How long you been standing there?
”
h
e asked.

“
Only a minute.
”
Rachel approached him and wrapped her arm
s around his midsection,
rubbing his abdomen.
“
How long have I known you
?
”

He smiled.
“
A few years.
”

She pinched his minimal fat
and squeezed his bulging pector
als.
“
In all that time, your body continues to get harder and more muscular.
What a
six-pack. A guy in your line of work, with everything you
’
ve been through, shouldn
’
t be able to keep up like this.
”

He turned and pulled her to him. Her hair smelled of sweet jasmine
and
her body felt warm and soft.

“
Go back to bed, Rachel. I
’
ll only be a minute.
”

“
Okay, but hurr
y up. I
’
m in the mood.
”
She winked and smiled as she closed the door.

She was right. His
abs
were
still smooth and rock solid
and
although his legs had lost some of their bulk, focusing his exercise around a permanently disabled knee had made them more lean and muscular.

He grunted.
I could keep up with any twenty-year-old on the field.

He was now aerobically in the best shape of his life, even with the
long hours and
emotionally exhausting nature of his work.

My work.

After
he spent
three years
building a reputation
as the toughest collector in Vegas, no one even knew he
’
d
been one of the greatest college running backs ever.
To them, he was just
“
The Collector.
”

He knew Rachel would feel his misery and
he
didn
’
t want to bring her down. Not tonight. He shut off the light.

When he tiptoed from the bathroom, he saw that Rachel had already fallen asleep.

“
So much for being in the mood,
”
he whispered, smiling to himself.

He limped across the room and sat next to her, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty.

When he
’
d run
into her three years ago, just
legal at
eighteen
, he
’
d
wondered how she
’
d
reached that point, how she
’
d fallen into a life on the streets. He didn
’
t know much about her back then,
didn
’
t even know her name
or even how prost
itution worked. He
’
d seen a lot
and learned not to be taken in by a sad story and
a
pretty face.

A blond
e
, blue-eyed angel.

He slid beneath the sheets, growing numb and weary as the
Percocet
kicked in
and
the pain
began
to subside
. A strand of hair covered Rachel
’
s mouth and he
inched
it
away
from her face.

He marveled at her. She
’
d survived years of abuse from her stepfather. How such a petite woman
had escaped and recovered—for the most part
—inspired Calvin. And he
had taken
it upon himself to pay her step
father back, even though Rachel knew nothing about it. The man now knew what pain was all about.