Half Court Press

by A. J. Stewart

  “The impression?”

  “Well, yeah, isn’t that what you’d do? You’d want to be able to show you had the money, you know, do a deal overseas or with Nike or whoever, but when you had to hand over the cash, the cops could follow whoever picked it up.”

  “That sounds like a movie.”

  “Maybe it is, what can I say? It’s never happened to me.”

  “Me, either,” I said. “So how could she show she had the money?”

  “Sign with the Chinese, that would do it. They’ll write her a signing check straight-up.”

  “For a hundred thousand?”

  “No, not that much, not upfront. But maybe half. And once she’s signed there, I could have a shoe deal within a week. Plus, she’d be out of harm’s way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She doesn’t have any enemies in China.”

  I nodded. It was a good point. But I couldn’t get over the fact that none of the threats were actually against Tania. They were against her mom and dad, and her parents probably weren’t going to hide in China with her, if she ever went.

  I thanked Kressic for his time, and he told me to call him if anything happened.

  “If there’s anything I can do,” he said, “just let me know.”

  I nodded and walked out of his little cupboard and past the cubicles and out to the elevator. I was about to hit the button to head back down when a thought popped into my head, so I hit the button to head back up to Bannerman’s main lobby.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The lobby still looked like a hotel and I still looked out of place, but I walked up to the reception and was greeted by a different person—this time a guy with a mane of black hair that made him look like a supermodel. He showed me his perfect teeth and asked how he could help.

  “Is John Cashman in?” I asked.

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Cashman?”

  “No. Tell him it’s Miami Jones.”

  This time, I didn’t wait to be told to sit, and I didn’t look at the commercials on the walls. I sat down and did nothing. I was the only one. Everyone else had their face in a screen of some description. I liked to give my brain time to recharge, and screen time doesn’t allow for that. I usually preferred my desk with my shoes off, or Longboard Kelly’s, but anywhere would do. Besides, I was pretty confident I would get seen, despite my request to see one of the most important people in the building.

  John Cashman had been an up-and-coming agent when I was in the minors. He had taken on a handful of guys who were drafted high and got signing bonuses and minor endorsement deals right out of the gate.

  I played for a time with one of those guys. He would be described in baseball parlance as a raw talent. He hit so hard he could have launched nukes into Russia with his bat, but he had no patience. He swung at everything. The coaches at Modesto asked me to pitch at him for extra practice, to try to help him learn to leave the occasional ball. I met John Cashman when he came down to visit his raw nugget. We chatted while I pitched and he stood to the side of the mound, watching his man smack me out of the park or go down swinging. But that wasn’t why John Cashman would see me today.

  Cashman’s young gun hadn’t just been impatient at the plate, he was also as dumb as a post. His idea of literature was Jughead, and he had the raging hormones of a rampant stallion. Over a period of weeks he managed to get himself into hock with a bookmaker who ran a poker game frequented mostly by Bay Area tech guys. One night, I got a call at our apartment from the stallion, pleading for help. He was about to be beaten senseless in a bedroom occupied by women who one might call ladies of the night. Now, the important thing is, baseball is a game of double standards. One half of the league uses a designated hitter and the other half doesn’t. And this kind of behavior—drugs, gambling, and prostitution—might get one tagged as colorful if he were a major-league slugger or a pitcher with a World Series under his belt. But in a minor-league raw talent, it got a line drawn through your name. There were too many talented guys willing to do it the right way.

  I called Cashman and he told me to get down there, and that’s what I did. I gave the bookie all the money I had in the world and told him he would get the rest the following day, and then, as the press was starting to arrive, I dragged the young gun’s half-naked carcass out of a third-floor window and into a cab.

  Cashman paid me back and said I’d done him and his client a solid, and if I ever needed a favor to just call. The fact that his client went on to get it together and earn a $100 million contract with the Yankees—negotiated by Cashman—might have increased the value of my marker over the ensuing years.

  A drop-dead gorgeous blond in a formfitting suit came out and asked me to follow her, which I was most willing to do. She asked if I wanted tea or coffee or Gatorade as we walked. I declined. Then she knocked on a door and said, “Mr. Cashman, Mr. Jones for you,” and then she shot me a smile that would have sold a lot of movie tickets.

  John Cashman’s office was different from Mark Kressic’s in almost every way imaginable. The furnishings were plush and the walls a deep hue like an English gentlemen’s club. One wall was solid window, and the twin blues of Florida ocean and sky shone like a neon sign. I was sure the window was polarized, because the color was supersaturated. The only things the office had in common with Kressic’s were the photos of the agent with his clients. The big difference was that in Cashman’s office, I recognized every face. Most were Major League Baseball players, but there were also golfers, a couple of NFL quarterbacks, and one woman who had won more Grand Slam tennis tournaments than I’d had Chinese dinners.

  Cashman stood from his leather chair and offered his hand. He was a big guy, not too tall but broad, and he had a personality that made you think sports agent.

  “Miami Jones,” he said, coming around the desk.

  “Cashman.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Long while.”

  “What, last we spoke, you were with the A’s.”

  “That’s right. You said if I got an offer I should call.”

  “Didn’t happen, huh? Organizations are like that.”

  “They are.”

  “I’ve seen you in the papers. You’re a private dick or something?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s awesome. Come on, let’s sit.”

  He directed me to a couple of wing-backed chairs by the window. I could see the street below and was thankful I didn’t have vertigo.

  “You drink beer?” he asked.

  “I’ve been known.”

  “Or you want to join me in a tequila?”

  It felt like tequila was becoming a thing.

  “Sure, whatever.”

  “Great. One of my clients started his own label. It’s worth $500 million, last I heard.”

  “That many people drink tequila?”

  “Go figure.” Cashman poured two shots. “I had to give up the beer. Too many carbs.”

  He put the glasses on the round table between our chairs, sat down, and then picked one glass up.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Back at ya.”

  Unlike Penny Morgan, John Cashman wasn’t a sipping guy. He threw the shot back and then smacked his lips. I am nothing if not a sheep, so I followed suit. I didn’t think his tequila was as good as hers, but I couldn’t argue with 500 million bucks.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me back then.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Plenty of guys would have worried about their own skin and done nothing, and plenty of others would have called the press themselves to kill off competition. You did a good thing for no obvious upside. I don’t forget that. I’m just sorry I couldn’t help you more with the A’s.”

  “Don’t sweat it. It didn’t work out and that’s life. If I’d have pitched better I’m sure you would have looked after me.”

  “You can
bank on it. So what brings you around today?”

  “I’ve got a client, a female basketball player. She’s just gone number one in the WNBA draft.”

  “Tania Bryson.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not personally, but I keep up on it. She’s one of ours, isn’t she?”

  “She is.”

  “Who’s handling her?”

  “Mark Kressic.”

  Cashman pouted his lips like he was trying to place Kressic. It was a big agency and I supposed that not everyone knew everyone else.

  “So the thing is, she’s getting threats.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Yeah, you know about that?”

  “With her, no. But I’ve seen it. Poor kids get money, bad eggs come out of the woodwork.”

  For a moment I pictured bad eggs coming out of woodwork.

  “What do you do about it?”

  “Every situation is different. Sometimes nothing, sometimes plenty.”

  “Based on what? The value of the client?”

  “No. I don’t work that way. Every client gets what they need.”

  “Really? You’d do the same for an NFL first-rounder as for a tennis player who’s five hundredth in the world?”

  “Sure. Look, what you gotta understand is that as my clients got bigger, I looked after fewer of them. I could give them more time. But if I were to sign some kid with raw talent to a contract, I’d give them what I’d give any of the MVPs. But I get to choose who my clients are, you see?”

  “What if you didn’t?”

  “Back in the day I didn’t. But it was the same. Everyone gets my full attention, as much as they need, whenever they need it. That’s how you make it in this business. You make it so your client can’t imagine functioning as a human being without you.”

  “So back in the day, what would you have done?”

  “Like I say, depends. I had one client who had family members demanding this and that, and I told them that if they got off their lazy backsides and did something worthwhile that I would help them, too. Of course they didn’t. I just told my client to move on. He did. I had another guy who had this gang he used to hang with, and they come around his parents’ house and want their piece of the action. I get them a vanload of sneakers and crap, right? And I tell them that’s it, and if they come around again, I’ll have friends of mine come back and kill every last one of them.”

  “And they believed that?”

  “Of course not. One of them comes around for more, wants some cash this time.”

  “You didn’t kill him.” I said it, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Nah, but there’s a message in a twenty-year-old guy living the rest of his days in a wheelchair in the hood, know what I mean?”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed every word, but I wasn’t sure I didn’t. I glanced at my glass for a moment and although I didn’t really want another tequila, Cashman took it as a cue and got up to play host, pouring two more.

  “The thing is, you gotta do anything for your client. If they’re worth fifty cents or fifty million, it doesn’t matter. You do less than everything, then that’s who you are. If you want to represent winners, you gotta be a winner. You gotta sacrifice and go all the way.”

  “What would you do with Tania Bryson?”

  “What’s the deal?”

  I told him about the letter, the graffiti and the text.

  “Honestly, it sounds like amateur hour. If you really want cash, you gotta know how you want to get it. Three messages and no demand on how they get the money? It’s a joke. It were me, I’d just spread the word that the cops are out of it and you’re gonna deal with it the old-fashioned way. Tell all her family, her friends, everyone, you’ll put a bullet in the knee caps of anyone who tries to hurt her or her family.” He shot his tequila and looked at me. “You got a gun, right? Just wave it around. I bet they get the message.”

  “I’m not sure your client will appreciate that. She’s a bit skittish as it is.”

  “Who’s handling her again?”

  “Mark Kressic.”

  He stood and moved behind his desk and tapped on his computer keyboard. Then he nodded.

  “Okay, yeah, I know this guy. Not well, but I’ve seen him around. Honestly, I think it’s up to you, Miami.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think this guy’s got the cojones. I really don’t see him being around here much longer.”

  “Why not?”

  He sat down again but didn’t pour more tequila. “Look, this is a high-performance game. This Kressic, he’s playing in the minors, and at his age, if you don’t have a breakout client, if you haven’t signed a several-hundred-thousand-, let alone million-dollar, client, you probably never will.”

  “But if the big guys like you get all the great clients, how do you do that?”

  “By going all the way, Miami. I’m not saying you have to sign a $100 million deal, but you’ve got to break out, show management you’ve got what it takes, attract the attention of other athletes. You got to show you’ll go the extra mile.”

  “And that’s what you did.”

  “You bet it is. Look, I don’t know of an agent who has killed for a client before, but I’m not going to swear on a stack of Bibles that it hasn’t happened. You know, you could have made it in this game. I bet you go the extra mile for your clients.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “I bet you do. See, most of the clients in the WNBA, they make what, fifty, a hundred kay? They could be handled by an intern for that money.”

  “So why aren’t they?”

  “Because we’re big, one of the biggest sports agencies in the world. We can cover the cost of managing low-value clients. It’s FOMO—fear of missing out—you never know when an athlete might break out and become the next big thing. Plus, honestly, there’s an element of not wanting to look sexist.”

  “How so?”

  “Most of the big-value sports are male sports, but there are some sports where women make big money, and if we don’t represent any women, then those big-ticket women start asking why. Trust me, Serena Williams walks in here, she’ll notice how many posters of women we have on the walls.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus, like I say, handling clients like the WNBA or Minor League Baseball, it’s like our own version of the minors for agents. Management gets to see who has what it takes, without putting too much money on the line.”

  “So if you had Tania Bryson?”

  “Look, if I was really worried, I’d hire security.”

  “Would the agency cover security?”

  “Hell no. The client would cover it, and I’d be out doing every endorsement deal I could find so they could pay for it.”

  “What if your client won’t sign a deal?”

  “That’s part of the job. It’s not just negotiating with organizations and corporates. It’s negotiating with the player and the family. It’s knowing your man—or woman—knowing what makes them tick, and doing what’s best for them even when they don’t know it yet. And it’s always best for them to sign the deals.”

  “I’ve spent time with Tania, and I don’t have a read on what makes her tick.”

  “So talk to the two people who know her best.”

  “I spoke to her mother.”

  “Nope.”

  “Dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who?”

  “Her college coach and her college roommate.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I left Bannerman Associates feeling a slight tequila buzz, but the walk back to my car cleared out the cobwebs some. By the time I got back to the apartment, the sun was dropping fast.

  Danielle was home and sitting at the small table in a blue T-shirt and jeans. Her smile lit me up. I kissed her and then went to the fridge and found the bubbles I had left last time. I popped the bottle open and poured two glasses. We sat at the small table and clinked glasses.

  “Good
to see you,” I said.

  “Good to be seen.”

  We sipped and then I looked at her.

  “How’s work?”

  She took a long breath like maybe she didn’t want to talk about it, or maybe she wanted to talk about it too much.

  “It’s busy. Long days, tough cases.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I don’t know if enjoy is the word, but it’s fulfilling.”

  It was hardly an endorsement for a career in law enforcement.

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “Still doing this thing for Ronzoni. Running around in circles a bit.”

  “You were in Miami today?”

  “Yeah, the girl’s agent is down here.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Plenty. I just don’t know if any of it is relevant.”

  We sipped our wine and then sat in silence for a while. Back home on Singer Island, lying together on our loungers, watching the world float by on the Intracoastal, silence had always felt like the most natural thing. Now, in this dark studio apartment, it felt strained and uncomfortable.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  “Same as you, I’m sure.” She looked at me and I shrugged.

  “Is this it?” she said. “Is this all there is? This little place, this long-distance relationship? Being with someone in theory but not in practice?”

  She made to sip her drink but didn’t. “This job, it’s long and hard and exhausting, and I see things that humans do to each other that make me wonder how we survive as a species, but at the same time, it’s thrilling and fulfilling, even the dull bits.”

  She paused for a long moment and then said, “But the loneliness is consuming. I feel like I’m leading two half lives—one in West Palm and one here in Miami—but the two halves don’t equal a whole.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “What do you want? Are you happy with this?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Danielle put her drink down. “I think about quitting and coming back to Singer Island to be with you, and then I worry that I’ll resent you for that choice, and then eventually the poison will set in. So then I think about calling time on us and going hard into my career, but then I think about my dad, sitting in Arizona, all alone, the Alzheimer’s taking his mind bit by bit, no kids within a thousand miles, his wife long gone, all because he focused on his career and he forgot he had a family that needed more than just a paycheck. And you know where I end up? Hoping that he has more times forgetting than he does remembering, because the remembering has to be torture. And I hate myself for thinking it.”