Family Fortune

“Take it easy, Cale.” His agent placed a restraining hand on Caleb’s forearm while the last doctor ducked out.

Caleb shook Leland off. “And you...” He scowled at his agent. “What’s the holdup on my contract? I started the season in good faith.”

“Now, Cale. The money man’s dragging his feet. He wants some kind of assurance he’s not buying a pig in a poke.”

“Then assure him. You tell him I’m starting physical therapy in a couple of days. I’ll be stronger than moonshine before we play Detroit. Tell him that.” Caleb poked a forefinger into the agent’s skinny chest, forcing him to take flight, too.

His hand on the doorknob, Leland ran a skeptical eye over Caleb’s collection of wires and pulleys. “We’ve been associates a long time. I’m telling you, Cale, the chance of signing while you’re in this shape...well, it stinks. I can’t...won’t lie to the man.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Cale’s green eyes fired. “I’m gonna lick this thing.”

“Yeah. For a minute there, I thought... Hell, Cale. A lot of guys retire at thirty-one. You must have a sizable nest egg by now.”

Caleb clenched his hands. The thought of quitting the only work he knew set his heart beating so furiously he was afraid it’d fly clean out of his body. Football and farming were all he’d ever done. If he hadn’t signed the farm over to his uncle and aunt last year...

But he had. He’d deeded them the land. They deserved more for putting their lives on hold to take care of the girls. Gritting his teeth, Cale forced a smile. “Emmitt Smith knows a doc who’s first-rate at getting old bones shipshape. Have Medical Records overnight my X rays. I’m not washed up, Lee. That’s God’s honest truth.”

“Sure, buddy. But I expect we’ll have to wait for the new doc’s report before we go back to the bargaining table. ’Cause the way it stands now, unless they see their money’s buying a sound man, the bastards are saying hasta la vista.”

Stunned by the finality of the notion, Caleb watched the door close. Despair warred with terror. Then a blinding rage welled up from his sandbagged toes. He swept a hand across the surface of his table. Paperbacks, a box of tissues, magazines and a water glass flew, hitting the floor with a satisfying crash.

He regarded the mess. It hadn’t even begun to abolish his gut-deep panic.

Someone rapped on his door. Caleb chose to ignore the intrusion. Leland had probably told a nurse he was in a foul mood. Well, he was. How in hell did they expect a man to feel when he’d just been told his career was over? Dammit, it wasn’t over until he said it was over. And he didn’t think it was asking too much to keep the news of his progress—or lack thereof—quiet. At least until he’d recovered enough to prove he was sound.

The knock sounded again. Louder.

“What do you want?” he thundered when the door opened slightly and a woman, a stranger with a pale face and huge blue eyes, peeked in. She was a bitty thing. If Caleb stood, the top of her shiny dark hair wouldn’t hit him midchest. He ground his teeth. “You’ve landed in the wrong room, Pocahontas.” As the woman eased through the opening, she flipped an ebony braid as thick as his wrist over a slim shoulder, facing him head-on, keeping both hands out of sight behind her back. Hiding a needle, probably. Forsythe must have ordered a shot to calm him.

“You can take that syringe and stab it into some other poor slob’s backside.”

As she noted the debris scattered on the floor, Crystal thought at least he hadn’t disappointed her expectations. It was a shame Skipper couldn’t see his idol in the throes of a tantrum.

“I’m not a nurse.” She met the man’s stormy eyes.

“No? Then who in hell are you?”

“I’m, ah, Crystal Jardin. From WDIX-TV,” she said on a flash of brilliance. After all, what football jock didn’t roll over and salivate at the prospect of gaining a little media attention? Crystal suspected he’d offer his autograph more readily if he figured he’d get something in return. Something he’d consider more substantial than the adulation of an ailing child. But if Tanner didn’t act too arrogant, she might ask the WDIX sports director to send a reporter and a cameraman. That should make the man happy.

Busy congratulating herself on her cleverness, she was slow to realize Tanner wasn’t reacting as she’d anticipated. Instead, his brows drew together over smoking eyes and he bellowed, “Vultures. Bloodsuckers! Do I have to climb off this bed and throw you out, too?”

Then he lunged. Pulleys spun wildly, unexpectedly snapping a cord. The flying hook knocked over an infusion stand that held an empty N-drip container. The monitor mounted above his headboard flashed like a pinball machine. As he all but fell out of bed, a noisy alarm began to bleat in the entryway..

“Please stop!” she begged. “Lie still.” Football forgotten, she charged forward. The sound of crunching glass-and the strangled epitaphs coming from the man who now dangled precariously—sent her into full retreat again. “Help!” she called, with her head stuck out into the corridor. “We need a nurse!”

Two nurses tore down the hall at a dead run. Crystal’s last look at Skip’s hero, after one nurse thrust her aside, was of a man writhing in pain.

Shaken, Crystal felt partially. to blame, although she’d done nothing to warrant his outburst. He’d obviously been confused, thinking she was a nurse. Hurrying back to the children’s ward, she caught a glimpse of herself in a window. He could have mistaken her summery white pants and loose-fitting blue tunic for a uniform.

Suddenly she smiled. So big tough Caleb Tanner was scared of a needle? He’d seen her white pants, thought nurse-with-a-needle and gone ballistic. It did make him more human, she decided, gazing at the football she still gripped.

The problem was, how did she tell the boys that she’d come back empty-handed? At least Tanner’s fear of needles was safe with her. She’d never tarnish his image with boys who’d already been let down by too many male role models.

Or maybe she would. Boys Skipper and Randy’s age ought to admire men who were sensitive and kind. Not ones spoiled by fame and fortune.

In the end, though, Crystal couldn’t trample their rosy picture of Caleb Tanner. It was hard enough having to brave their crestfallen faces.

“Look, guys, I’m really, really sorry. You have my solemn word—” she placed a hand dramatically over her heart “—I will get Skip’s ball signed. Even if they ship Tanner to a private facility, I’ll track him down through his agent.”

Skipper, ever the optimist, accepted Crystal’s word. “It’d be neat if you could get the other guys some signed pictures of Cale in his uniform. Before he got hurt, he handed out a bunch of ’em at a new brew pub in the Quarter. We saw it on TV.”

“Why, you little con artist. I failed my mission today, so I have to hit him up for photos, too? Can’t you phone the Sinners’ PR department?”

The boys exchanged worried looks. “Pablo’s just back from therapy. He heard a tech say the Sinners won’t renew Cale’s contract because his knee ain’t gonna heal. Would Nate Fraser know if that’s true?”

Crystal glanced up from opening her instrument case. Nate Fraser, WDIX-TV’s sports director, could find out if he didn’t know. Even though Crystal passionately disliked Tanner’s choice of career, she experienced an unexpected surge of compassion. She knew how she’d feel if she had to give up her music.

“I’ll ask Nate tomorrow. If the story’s true, maybe we should wait on that autograph. Tanner might be having a hard time dealing with the news.”

“Yeah,” Skipper said, suddenly empathetic. “But maybe hearing that some kids still think he’s number one will cheer him up.”

“It might at that, Skip. Hey, not to change the subject, but would you like me to play some tunes?”

“Yeah!” the boys exclaimed as one. Next to watching TV and talking endlessly about sports, they liked listening to Crystal belt out jazz.

She ran through a few warm-ups. Before long, nurses, residents and interns drifted in to listen. Patients on crutches and in wheelchairs lined the walls.

She didn’t think any audience appreciated her more.

THE MUSIC, AS IT HAD on other nights, filtered into Cale’s private room and shaved the edge off his pain. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine the talent it took to make an instrument sob and wail like that. A seductive sound. His blood pulsed as the beat possessed him. N’Awlins blues certainly made a man feel... something. Any kind of feeling was preferable to the terrifying emptiness he’d plunged into earlier.

Why had he let the doc’s words get to him? This wasn’t his first injury. He’d always bounced back; he would this time, too. Yeah! He let those deep, shivery notes absorb his anger.

Ordinarily, when it came to music, Cale could take it or leave it. He knew when it was too loud at a party or too fast if he was trying to seduce a new lady with slow dancing. The music tonight lit a fire in his soul. But he couldn’t put into words how it touched him, couldn’t explain the way it made him feel. That was why he’d never asked the phantom soloist’s name. Knowing the nurses, they’d parade the guy in here and expect Caleb to give him all kinds of flowery compliments.

Well, he couldn’t. He could rattle off plays in a year’s worth of football games, but he got tongue-tied trying to express the stuff he felt inside.

When fans waylaid him to praise a great pass, he loved it. He frowned as it occurred to him that musicians probably liked praise, too.

The distant beat slid like silk into a bossa nova, and Caleb felt a sudden urgency to connect with the artist whose music pounded through his veins. He fumbled to locate his call bell, then pushed it repeatedly. He’d just give the dude a locker-room clap on the back and tell him man-to-man that his playing had balls. Yeah. He drummed his hands on the bed covers. Where in hell were all the nurses? He pressed the button again.

A timid aide opened his door. “You rang, Mr. Tanner?”

Caleb had discovered that if you didn’t speak with authority in this place, requests got ignored. “Tell that musician to stop by and see me. Tonight,” he ordered.

“Is that it?” The aide sounded relieved and at his nod rushed out, leaving Cale to contemplate what an asshole he’d been the past few days. That was the word, all right. He’d heard it muttered by one of the nurses. Tomorrow he’d apologize. To the nurses, to Leland and maybe even to that pushy TV reporter.

The telephone beside his bed rang. “Hiya! Hey, Patsy...I’m doing great. Improving every day,” he fibbed to his sister. One of the three girls called every night to check on his progress. No sense worrying them.

“The bridesmaids’ dresses cost how much? Whatever you decide, kitten. Sure. If you want buckets of mums at the church, fine. Have ’em send me the bill.”

Caleb tucked the phone into the hollow of his shoulder. “Of course I’ll walk you down the aisle. Who said I wouldn’t? Gracie? She called Doc Forsythe?” Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Quit crying, puddin’. Listen to me. You know doctors are full of double-talk. Have I ever lied to you girls? That’s right. Never.”

Easing back, Caleb listened to additional plans for the late-October wedding and injected appropriate responses. It was now September 5. His head spun. A few minutes later, the excited twenty-one-year-old rang off. Cale gripped the receiver for a long time, attempting to add in his head the costs she’d listed. Patsy, his middle sister, a homebody who’d practically been their mother’s shadow, had been the most affected by her death. Patsy did poorly in school. Having a husband and a house of her own was all she’d ever wanted. He wouldn’t let his troubles affect her heart’s desire.

It would be all right. By her wedding, he’d be good as new. Better than new. His contract would be signed and money wouldn’t be an issue. Replacing the receiver, he lay down and let the throaty notes of the saxophone transport him to a zone free of stress.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING, Crystal hopped off the streetcar at the end of its route, near the heart of the business district. Juggling her purse and saxophone case, she waved goodbye to the regulars and prepared to walk the two blocks to Lyon Broadcasting. She could have driven to work. For that matter, she had access to a chauffeur-driven limo. She happened to believe that one less car on the congested roads kept at least a trace of hydrocarbons out of the environment. Besides, she loved the eclectic group of people who used public transportation.

Margaret sometimes teased her saying she ought to write a book about the offbeat assortment of daily commuters. Crystal responded by suggesting Margaret do an exposé on the family. That reminded her—at their last meeting, Margaret had given her the key to a safe-deposit box. She said it contained her will and other documents important to the family. Her instructions were that Andrbé given the key in the event of Margaret’s death.

Crystal recalled thinking that Paul’s death had sparked a morbid sense of urgency in Margie. She’d been adamant that the contents of the box be made public only if she, André and Gabrielle died simultaneously. A thought as gruesome as it was unlikely.

Crystal opened the wrought-iron gate that had guarded Lyon Broadcasting for fifty years. Dam, she wished Margaret would call home! Her continued absence was disturbing everyone.

Going directly to her office, Crystal breathed easier once she determined there’d been no further activity in the bank account. Then she set to work compiling reports for the end-of-the-month board meeting. Margaret would surely return for that.

As Crystal came to the figures from the sports department, she remembered the promise she’d made Skip—to call Nate Fraser and check on Tanner’s retirement.

If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have verified the rumor with Tanner last night. Certainly he’d provided an opportunity. At the end of visiting hours, a nurse’s aide had flagged her down and said Tanner wanted—no, demanded she stop by his room.

Crystal had declined. She wasn’t a masochist. But after she’d boarded the streetcar home, it struck her that maybe he wanted to break the news of his retirement. She’d told him she worked for WDIX, and maybe he wanted to arrange an interview to announce it. In that case, Nate would have her head for missing out on a real coup. Hmm. She’d better go see Nate right now and in person. She didn’t stop to wonder how Tanner knew she’d remained in the hospital.

Entering the noisy newsroom, Crystal wove her way among the cubicles to Nate Fraser’s domain. His four walls were weighted down by sports memorabilia. Crystal knew he’d once played for the Vikings and had won a Heisman trophy, which impressed most people. Crystal and Nate didn’t have a lot in common, unless their endless arguments over his expense account could be considered common ground. Other than that, she liked his wife Jill, a lot. In fact, they’d become fast friends after Gabrielle had introduced them.

The man glanced up when she appeared in his door. “What’s wrong now?” he barked, cracking his nut-brown knuckles one after the other.

“I thought you’d given up trying to intimidate me, Nathan.”

“Can’t help it if your mama didn’t train you right, white girl.”

Shaking her head, Crystal dropped into a chair. “Shall I phone Jill and tell her how you talk at work?” Nate’s brilliant and beautiful Creole wife currently served on the U.S. president’s council for the advancement of race relations. Nate doted on her.

He looked sheepish. “For a woman who detests sports, you play hardball, Miz Crystal. If you aren’t here to hassle me about greenbacks, what is on your mind?”

“Verifying a rumor that Caleb Tanner’s ending his football career.”

Nate catapulted from his chair. “Not our prize quarterback?”

Crystal nodded.

Nate’s eyes glittered with interest. Then he plopped back into the chair, crossed his arms and scowled. “You wouldn’t be jivin’ me, would you?”

“So you can’t confirm it? Shoot. That means I’ll have to brave Tanner’s room again to get Skipper’s football autographed.” She stood up and moved toward the door.

“Wait.” He rounded the desk fast for a big man. “This is no joke? You’ve been in Cale’s hospital room?”

“Yes, and I don’t relish going back. He’s obnoxious and—”

Nate stopped her midsentence. “Every sportscaster in town’s been trying to get past those battle-axes at the nurses’ station. The docs, Cale’s agent and the spokesperson for the Sinners all issued a standard no-comment.” Nate reached around her, shut the door and gently urged her back into her chair. “This is serious. Tell Papa Nate what gave you the wild idea Cale’s cashing in his cleats.”

She inspected her nails. “There’s probably not a shred of truth to the rumor.”

“Let me be the judge.” He listened intently as Crystal explained how she came to be at the hospital and ultimately in Tanner’s room.

“The skinny dude you saw Cale throw out on his ear sounds like Leland Bergman, his agent. So Cale’s in mega-pain? This kid—he’s sure the tech said Cale’s career is in the toilet?”

“Not quite in those delicate words,” Crystal drawled. “But that was the gist.”

“Well, well, well, well.” He rocked forward and back, singsonging the word. After a stretch during which neither of them spoke, Nate grabbed his phone. He made several calls, presumably to- sources, all the while indicating Crystal should stay seated.

“What did you find out?” she asked when at last he hung up and rubbed his palms together excitedly.

“My source believes the Sinners are quietly casting the waters in hopes of landing a new quarterback.”

“Then I guess that’s that.” Crystal got to her feet. “Don’t you. feel the slightest bit of compassion for Mr. Tanner? After all, an injury forced you out of pro sports.”

“Of course I sympathize with his situation.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You look delighted.”

“I am that. My top sportscaster, Jerry Davis, took a job in L.A. If we work fast, we might entice Cale to replace him.”

Crystal, who’d again started for the door, glanced over her shoulder. “An announcer? The man’s like a buffalo in a china shop. You can’t polish his rough edges enough to put him on camera. He wears a gold stud in one ear, for Pete’s sake.”

“The guy’s got a great voice.”

“He bellows.”

“He can charm the frogs off their lily pads.”

Crystal tapped her toe impatiently. “He has the manners of an orangutan.”

Nate smirked. “Yeah. He’ll fit right in. And since you, lovely lady, have access to the man, you’re going to hire him for us before a competitor hears he’s on the loose.”

“Me?” She tried to bolt, but Nate beat her to the door and held it shut with a ham-size palm. “Do your own dirty work,” she snapped. “I’ve got other shrimp to peel.”

“No one else in the media can get near the man,” he said, trying to wheedle.

“Yeah, well, he tossed me out and probably ruptured something doing it.”

“Didn’t you say that later on, he wanted you to stop by his room? I bet he intends to apologize. Cale’s got a rep for being real nice to the ladies. Tell you what. Give me an hour to put together an employment offer and get André’s okay. I’ll have to talk to Michael McKay in Human Resources, too.” He stroked his chin. “Ought to have it ready for you to run over to Tanner by eleven or so.”

“Only if André says I have to,” she said reluctantly. “But I’ll go after work. I’m summarizing a report for the board. Besides, I promised Skipper I’d visit him this evening. I’m not making two trips to the hospital in one day.”

Nate straightened away from the door. “I hate to drag our heels in case somebody else gets wind of this. Let’s see what André and Mike want to do.”

“Deal.” She stuck out her hand and they shook. “It’ll frost in the French Quarter before André gives sports precedence over company finances.”

CRYSTAL HAD A PENCIL stuck in her hair, one between her teeth, and reports strewn all over her desk when her door swung open. Looking up, she saw Nate, André and his son-in-law, Michael, bearing purposefully down on her. “Hey, you guys are causing a draft,” she shrieked, grabbing for a couple of pages that had skittered to the floor.

“Sorry.” Nate closed the door while André and Michael collected the spreadsheets that had landed beside her desk.

“Nate brought us up to snuff on the Tanner deal. Thanks for calling this to Nate’s attention, Crystal.” André tucked the loose papers under her elbow. “Did Cale indicate what salary he’d accept? Can he be had for eighty-five thou?”

Crystal’s chin almost hit the desk. “Eighty-five thousand, as in dollars?”

André tugged at his lower lip. “Probably peanuts to him, all right. But he must have a fortune socked away. We’ll go with eighty-five. If he scoffs or claims to have another deal pending, angle for his bottom line. We’ll try to match it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” André pursed his lips; Michael merely shook his head.

Nate grinned at Crystal. “I think it just frosted in the French Quarter, kid.”

She stuck out her tongue at Nate, but appealed to André and Mike. “Tanner has no experience. That salary puts him on a par with our managers.”

“We can afford it, can’t we?” Michael asked.

“Yes, but—”

“His name alone will raise our ratings. That’s our offer.” André dug a sealed envelope from his suit jacket and pressed it into Crystal’s hand. “The three of us are going to K-Paul’s for lunch and to organize some plans. Michael has an idea for sending Tanner into the community—chanty stuff, you know, to enhance the station’s image. I’m taking my cellular. Phone us with his answer.”

Crystal watched them walk out, talking animatedly. It was Caleb this and Caleb that. She felt like throwing up. André used to be so levelheaded. Having a son late in life must have affected his brain. Andy-Paul was barely six, but Crystal should have remembered seeing André racing around the yard at Lyoncrest, tossing various balls to the kid. Footballs. Soccer. Softballs. And where was Gaby during all this? Right out there with them, Crystal recalled. Gaby claimed Andy-Paul, a change-of-life child, was a miracle that had given her a new lease on life. That new lease on life had turned André and Gabrielle into sports nuts.

Crystal glared at the envelope. Why should she recruit a person whose profession she didn’t respect for a television station she loved? Because André asked you to.

Well, maybe Caleb Tanner had other plans. She could always hope.

Sticking the envelope in her purse, Crystal retrieved her sax. She left the stack of reports on her desk. “After this, I deserve the rest of the day off,” she muttered.

“I’m running an errand for André,” she announced to the bookkeepers working in the next room. “Field my calls, please, April. If Margaret phones, tell her to use my cellular number. It’s listed in the office directory in case she doesn’t have it with her.”

Ray Lyon burst out of his office across the hall. “What errand are you running for André?” He appeared agitated, more agitated than usual. “Did you mention something about a call from Aunt Margaret? André hasn’t heard from her, has he?”

“If you spent as much time phoning clients with delinquent accounts as you do with your ear glued to the door, profits would double.” Crystal wasn’t in any mood for Ray’s habit of butting into conversations that didn’t concern him. Nor did she care to discuss André.

“Don’t take my head off. Everybody’s talking about the old lady’s disappearance. If you ask me, it just proves she’s short a few dots on her dominoes.”

“Oh, right. Like you came from the deep end of the gene pool. Get a life, Raymond.”

He hitched up his pants. His too-pointed incisors were all that showed when he smiled. “You’ve grown awful big for your britches, missy. I’m gonna love watching the seams split when the balance of power shifts our way.”

Crystal honed in on his size-fifty-two waist. She did nothing more than arch one brow to send him skulking back into his office.