Kerri returned to work after Brian's knee was successfully subjected to corrective surgery. His doctor predicted confidently that by the time he reported to the Jets' training camp for the 1990 season, his knee would be "as good as new." The doctor warned however, that healing would be slow. He further cautioned Brian to avoid stressing the knee with all possible care. Finally, he suggested that physical therapy should begin in six to eight weeks.
Brian's injury was not limited to his knee. He lacked the psychological maturity to accept the setback to his career. He had been extremely lucky throughout his football career, miraculously managing to escape major injuries. He had sustained numerous cuts and bruises, but never anything serious enough to slow him down. Suddenly he had been stopped, removed from the limelight, and brutally introduced to the vulnerability of a professional athlete. Instead of using his free time to do productive things, he wasted it by brooding and feeling sorry for himself. Each morning following breakfast, he parked his body in front of the television set and consumed endless hours with less than stimulating programs. To enrich his evenings, he began to drink, lightly at first, then heavily. His behavior took an entirely predictable toll on his relationship with Kerri. The thrill and excitement with which they had once greeted each other was soon replaced by hostility and anger.
It was no accident that Visconti arrived at the office of Iacardi & Sons, just in time to share in the festivity of the company's annual Christmas party. His excuse for being there was to deliver the check for the margin call on his crude oil short. His real reason was to see Kerri Pyper again. He had been unable to forget her. Her youthful beauty had intoxicated him, touched him like no other female had. The fact that she was married to a famous athlete made her even more alluring, the challenge of possessing her even more exciting.
Visconti heard the sound of loud conversation, music and laughter when he entered the reception area. He continued to the inner office through a wide open door.
"Merry Christmas, Louis. Have a drink with us," Dennis offered, smiling and extending his hand.
Visconti forced a smile, in no mood for Christmas festivities. "Humbug," he muttered. He removed a white envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket, then handed it to Dennis, never once casting his eyes on it.
"What's this?" Dennis asked, staring at the blank envelope with a puzzled expression.
"Eight and a half big ones," Visconti replied, still looking away.
Dennis grinned. "Thanks. Hopefully it'll be your last."
"It will be," Visconti promised with tightened lips.
Dennis placed his right hand on Visconti's back. "What can I pour for you?"
"Scotch. Rocks."
Dennis turned and headed in the direction of the bar, the top of a desk in the center of the office.
While waiting for Dennis to return, Visconti scanned the office until his eyes fixed on Kerri. She stood alone in the doorway to Dennis's office, nursing a clear plastic glass filled with white wine. She had dressed for the occasion in a red skirt and a green blouse.
Dennis returned with Visconti's drink. "Drown your sorrows, Louis. It's the least I can give you for eight and a half million."
Visconti took a sip, placed the glass on the desk beside him, then shifted his focus to Kerri. "Miles, is it my imagination or is the love of my life unhappy?"
Dennis glanced at Kerri, then at Visconti. "You're as perceptive as ever, Louis. It's not your imagination. There's trouble in paradise. She's been miserable ever since her husband injured his knee in that game in Buffalo.
"Wonderful!" Visconti said, flashing a contented smile. "Are you sure? I mean have you asked her about it?"
Dennis nodded. "Kerri's an open book. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She told me her husband really took the injury hard. He gets pissed on the couch every day, watching television and wallowing in self-pity."
"Would you mind if I talked to her?"
Dennis frowned. "Be careful. She's very tender." He lifted Visconti's drink from the desk. "Take this. You'll need it to wash down the rejection."
Visconti accepted his drink. "You might be surprised," he said with a confident wink, then turned and headed straight for Kerri. "Merry Christmas," he said, stopping in front of her and touching her glass with his.
"Same to you," Kerri replied in a bored monotone, then looked away.
"Why do I get the feeling you don't really care if I have a Merry Christmas?"
Visconti's question encouraged a wry grin from Kerri. "What brings you here?" she asked.
"I just dropped in to deliver a check for eight and a half million dollars to your boss...When I saw you looking very depressed, I decided to try to cheer you up. How am I doing?"
Kerri showed a hint of a smile, but refused to answer.
"How's your job? Are you still enjoying the commodities business?"
She nodded. "Thanks for asking."
"Miles still treating you well?"
"Yes. He's been wonderful."
"Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you were going to tell me he beats you and works you like a slave. I was hoping you would tell me you wanted to quit your job and come to work for me. Have you forgotten that I offered to double your salary? I was serious you know."
"No, I haven't forgotten," Kerri replied, the corners of her mouth suggesting a smile.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Are you interested?"
Kerri decided to call Visconti's bluff. "Did Miles tell you he's paying me two hundred and fifty thousand a year?"
Visconti accepted the call. "Is that all? Then I'll triple it."
Kerri smiled, then laughed. "You really are serious."
"Very serious about cheering you up...I did a pretty good job, didn't I?"
Kerri was compelled to concede. Visconti had made her laugh when it was the last thing she wanted to do. "Yes, you did. Thank you."
"My pleasure. Any time you need to laugh or just talk, you know where to find me." Visconti kissed Kerri's forehead. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, then turned and walked away.
Visconti's kiss and sudden departure both startled and fascinated Kerri. "Merry Christmas to you, too," she said, her expression tinged with a strange combination of curiosity and melancholy.
Visconti, pausing without turning, raised his hand in acknowledgment, then continued his march back to the bar. He placed his right hand on Dennis's shoulder. "Two predictions for nineteen-ninety, Miles," he declared. "I'm going to win big in crude oil, and Kerri Pyper will be mine." To punctuate his statement, he finished his scotch in one gulp, then left before Dennis could respond.