Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [204]
Eventually, the two parties settled and Hudson received $209,000. He never heard from Walter Payton again.
Two months after shooting Hutson, Payton flew to New Jersey to attend the Mike Tyson–Michael Spinks heavyweight championship bout at the Atlantic City Convention Center. Though far from a diehard boxing fan, Payton was happy to trade in his status for some free tickets to the biggest bout of the year (albeit one that would last ninety-one seconds). For a man getting used to being out of the spotlight, the night proved a nice ego boost. Along with such luminaries as Sean Penn, Milton Berle, and George Steinbrenner, Payton was introduced to the crowd of 21,785, receiving a loud ovation when he stood and waved. He signed an endless stream of autographs, and posed for dozens of pictures.
In the months since his last NFL game, Payton had spent much of his time pursuing women not named Connie Payton. Though his tiny rear office at Studebaker’s was a suitable place to conduct professional business (visitors marveled at the dozens of football helmets that lined the walls), it doubled as, in the words of Eamonn Cummins, “Walter’s fuck pad.” A bouncer first hired by the club in 1987, Cummins was in charge of determining who could—and couldn’t—enter Studebaker’s. He stood sentry at the front entrance, telephone by his side, and informed Payton of visitors. The majority of the club’s female patrons were hardly Heather Locklear–esque. These were fanny-packers, not miniskirters; women with careers and, oftentimes, children, looking for a couple of hours of escape.
Payton, however, drew his own special genre. He would jump into the deejay booth during especially crowded nights, spin a couple of records, and emerge with fifteen phone numbers.
“So many females came by to see Walter,” Cummins said. “He’d call me back to his office and say ‘A woman is going to be here in ten minutes. I want you to get her and bring her right back.’ They were always the same—bimbo-ish, big hair, always white, always kind of stupid. They were cheesy, mostly twenty-five–ish. I remember one Saturday night early in my career, a girl showed up at eight on a Saturday night. An hour or so later she left, and then another girl showed up. I went back there to bring her in and he was just laying on his couch, waiting and ready.”
In Atlantic City, Payton’s wandering eye zeroed in on a long-legged twenty-one-year-old flight attendant of Puerto Rican descent. She had brown eyes, bright teeth, wavy hair, and large breasts, and Payton made his move while both were waiting on a convention center line. Lita Gonzalez had never heard of Walter Payton, and certainly had no idea that he was a legendary football player. She could, however, tell that he was somebody. “He walked very confidently,” Gonzalez said. “With an air of importance.”
The two struck up a conversation, word about his wife never escaping Payton’s mouth. As always, Payton was complimentary and smooth. Just as in football he used his hands to protect the pigskin, with women he used his hands to gently touch a shoulder, subtly brush back a stray hair. “He was very charming,” said Gonzalez. The two went out to a club after the fight. The next morning Payton caught a flight back to Chicago and Gonzalez went to work for Continental Airlines. She assumed she would never hear from him again. Instead, he called incessantly. “When Walter wanted a girl, his approach was to call, call, call, call,” said Quirk. “He would overwhelm people with contact.