Scandal for the ages: Romo throws game for Simpson
See, it was a snowy day – blizzard-snowy – because I remember calling my wife Cheryl to tell her I would have to spend the night in my office on the plush leather couch. Poor Cheryl. She’s a dear, and she worries about me. But I can take care of myself. I’ve been in some really sticky situations before – saltwater taffy-sticky – and I’ve never met my match. I’m Donald Winchester, Private Eye, and this is my story.
He came in through the door with a trenchcoat and his collar up. I couldn’t see his face – the room was far too dim for that – but I could tell by his posture that he was an older fella. Sixty, maybe seventy. Haggard. Worn down. Undead, maybe. I don’t like the undead, but something about this guy meant business – Rockefeller or Carnegie-type business – and I wanted to hear what the man had to say.
As he came closer, I knew I had met him before. Was it in the war, encamped in some barracks on the edge of civilization? Was it in the academy, or maybe some dusty bar in the dirty south, when I briefly checked “alligator farmer” next to my name on the annual tax return? I didn’t know at first, but when he shook my hand, it clicked into place.
It was Jerry Jones. The owner of the Dallas Cowboys. America’s Team. Lonestar Legends. How ‘bout them Cowboys?
But I didn’t ask about that. No sir. That would be weird – a 22-year old getting crazy for Hannah Montana-weird – and I had to keep it cool. I asked him straightforwardly and simply, not too eagerly but not with dismissal, “What can I do for you?”
He had a problem, see, and it was big – woolly mammoth-big. His quarterback, the man they called Tony Romeo, had run amok in Mexico, and he needed someone to go down there and make sure things didn’t get out of hand. He would pay me a handsome sum – Tom Brady-handsome – if I left that next day and headed for the border, where I would use my daring wit and broken Spanish to track down the Romeo and that pop-star tramp he was sight-seeing with.
I was honored – Mira Sorvino at the Academy Awards honored – that Jones had sought me out. I told him I could do what he asked. I was on the next plane to Los Cabos, dressed inconspicuously as an American tourist named DeShawn Martinez. Hawaiian shirt. Cool shades. Straw hat. English-Spanish dictionary. Penchant for flirty conversation.
I met a woman, her name was Rosalia, and she was beautiful. I took her back to my room and casually asked for information, all while seducing her. Cheryl would understand. It’s part of the job. She told me she had heard of a resort where the Romeo and his pop queen could be found. I mixed Rosalia a drink, a special concoction of rum, cola and tranquilizer. Rosalia was out cold – Amy Winehouse at a gin joint out cold – and I immediately opened up the phone book to track down the resort she had named.
Within days, I had spotted the Romeo. He was by the pool, with his lady nearby, and some body guards. One of them was named Marc Colombo. A hilarious pseudonym. I was tickled – Tickle-Me-Elmo-tickled – and maybe that’s why I lost focus.
I planted my cameras and audio equipment in Tony Romeo’s hotel room, and I heard and saw everything. I can’t give you all the details, folks, but the facts are these: there was some kissing, some champagne, and her saying he needed to wait for marriage before going any further. There was disappointment, a shrill rendition of “Irresistible,” and then, something else.
I heard her say she was working on a new album, and she would be leaving the Sunday after Dallas’ big game with New York. Headed for Europe, where she would be recording for weeks. If Tony was there for her on that last Sunday, she would bend the rules, lost in the passion of going-away rapture.
I needed some time to ponder the ramifications. I’m a smart man – not Albert Einstein smart, but maybe Robert Oppenheimer smart – and it all came together pretty quickly for me. Jessica’s special day was the same day as the NFC Championship game. And if Tony was going to be available that day … well, that meant he wouldn’t be playing that day, didn’t it? That meant the Cowboys had to lose to the Giants. But Romeo, the golden boy -- as golden as his temptress' locks -- would never intentionally do such a thing, would he?
Then, I spied Ms. Simpson leaving her resort room. She headed out near the floating pool bar. There, she met a man whose head was covered with a colorful hat. Real colorful, Richard Simmons colorful. Using my binoculars, I looked closer and saw that she was canoodling with Tom Coughlin, coach of the New York Giants. I heard some muffled words about how Romeo was willing to go along with "the plan."I felt a knot in my stomach, and I reached for my cell phone to alert Jerry Jones to the plot. Mr. Moneybags would want to hear about the sabotage afoot, and what Romeo was about to do for this busty little tart with the pearly white teeth, and the old fuddy-duddy who looks bewildered after every official's ruling. He would be angry. Very angry. Maximus, as portrayed by Russell Crowe in "Gladiator" after they killed his wife and son-angry.
That's when I felt strong hands grab my shoulders. Romeo had sent his henchmen – Marc Colombo and Jason Witten. They hauled me away off the property.
Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my office, bruised, bloodied and broken. How could you do this to America's team, you blond harlot? I had failed you, Jerry Jones. I’m sorry. But Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will rise again. The Cowboys, however, are done. T-bone steak at Fred’s Bar and Grill-done.
Labels: Donald Winchester