by Wil Mara
After a prolonged period of moaning and writhing, Bailey managed to crawl to the door leading to a smaller adjoining room. It was their utility room, complete with washer and dryer, slop sink, and water heater. Wrapping his good hand around the edge of the sink, he pulled himself to his feet, then used the same good arm to push aside one of the tiles in the hung ceiling. The paper bag was exactly where he’d hidden it. As the throbbing continued merciless and unabated, he went to bury the needle into his shoulder. This, he knew, was likely to be the worst injection ever. He found an ankle sock in a basket full of dirty laundry and, without the slightest hesitation, stuffed it into his mouth. He was faintly aware of the gross taste but had his mind on much bigger things and couldn’t have cared less.
He stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger down at the same time. The pain nearly blinded him, and his screams were so powerful that it took only seconds for his throat to turn raw. He crumbled to the cement floor.
When he finally began to feel normal again, some fifteen minutes later, he got to his feet again and put the spent bottle and needle, along with the remaining dosages and their companion needles, back into the brown paper bag. Then, his chest still heaving, he replaced the bag in the ceiling and slid the panel over. He leaned against the washing machine for what felt like a long time, eyes closed, waiting for his heart rate to drop. Then he walked out of the room on weakened legs and continued through the gym and back upstairs.
The problem wasn’t getting any better.
9
Jon felt like he’d never left his office. It had all been a blur.
He walked out the previous night just after eleven and got home just before midnight. His brain was numb to the core. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t hear anything, could barely see anything. His eyes were red and puffy, and they stung like hell.
He came into the house as quietly as he could, laying his bag and his jacket on a big chair in the living room. Everything was dark and quiet, a world of shadows and night-lights. He stripped to his boxers and crawled gently into bed next to Kelley, hoping he wouldn’t wake her. The baby monitor hissed with white noise on the nightstand. He let out a long, weary breath and set his head on the pillow. No sooner had he done so than the alarm went off, beeping with the urgency of an intruder-alert system in a government installation.
He slapped the snooze bar and cursed, wondering if the damn thing was defective. I just laid down, for Christ’s sake! Then he saw that it was exactly four-fifteen in the morning. The last four hours had passed as though they were mere seconds.
He didn’t feel any more rested, but there was little he could do about it. He shook his head and reminded himself again of how much he loved his job and that he wanted to continue doing it. He threw the covers back and hustled into the adjoining bathroom, where he showered and shaved. Then into a new pair of khaki trousers and a Ravens polo, and he was downstairs stuffing a banana into his mouth. As he stalked back out the door, he realized he hadn’t actually seen Kelley at any point. Lately she was just a shape under the sheets.
He didn’t listen to the radio on the way in. He wanted to maintain the silence so he could continue going over deal possibilities. He’d done this so many times in the last few days he felt like one of those stats wizards who could quote every significant number pertaining to every player in the league since the merger. He swore he knew every bit of data about defensive guy on every team. He could write a goddamn book about them.
Susan Schiff, much to his gratitude, was already in the office, ready to roll. She had his paperwork organized on his desk and a mug of steaming coffee on its coaster. She wasn’t anywhere in sight when he came in, but he realized she’d already been there a while.
He got into his chair and took a long sip of the coffee. She always made it just right. When the mug was half empty, he set it aside and dove right into the day’s torture. He turned on his computer, launched Microsoft Excel, and first went to his own roster, into which he’d been keeping notes—
Then he turned to his updated list of draft picks—
And finally to the new, and certainly most important, list he had created in the last few days—
The first one was the most depressing. What a mess. The draft picks he didn’t mind so much. But the players—the guys. He was throwing them out there like poker chips. And all for the sake of one man.
If McKinley doesn’t pan out, they’re going to come to my house and hang me from the nearest phone pole.
He was still six defensive players away from a solid package. The two he’d received from other teams so far had been expensive. How would it go from here? Part of him didn’t want to know. He wanted this to be nothing more than a bad dream. He wanted to wake up and find himself lying in bed at home, with Kelley and Lauren next to him, Michael Bell still in perfect health …
With a deep sigh he turned back to the list of talent that might be available around the league. The first five names were crossed off. Two of them were now part of the package for Henderson. Technically they didn’t represent final deals but instead tender offers; little more than a gentleman’s agreement. So, in a sense, they were hypothetical at best. But all parties had given their word. No one would back out. They’d be crazy considering what Jon had given up.
The seventh name on the list was that of Martin Brynmoor. A second-string, third-year defensive tackle on the Bengals. Very talented, showed great promise when their starter went down with a broken leg the previous season. People were watching him now. His contract was ending this year, and it was no secret that he wanted to move on from Cincinnati. He and the head coach didn’t get along, so he was seeing minimal playing time. Brynmoor was a difference maker, and he wanted out.
The problem was that getting him meant going through the team’s GM, Tommy Greer. Jon groaned. Greer was sharp—too sharp. Dealing with him was like dealing with a mind reader. Jon admired and respected his business skills, but secretly wished he could turned them off like a light when he had to deal with the guy.
The phone rang twice and an assistant answered. She put Jon on hold for a moment, then Greer came on—
“Jon Sabino!”
“Good morning, Tommy.”
“How’s it going?”
“Could be better.”
“So I’ve heard. What can I do for you?”
“I’m interested in making a deal for one of your guys, if you’re interested.”
“Which one?”
“Martin Brynmoor.”
“Brynmoor?” Jon could hear papers being shuffled. He shook his head.
“The defensive tackle, Tommy. From Loyola.”
“Our defensive tackle from Loyola.”
“That’s him. Six-five, three hundred and seven pounds. Going into the third year of his contract.”
“Correct. Third and final.”
“Right.… He’s been a real contributor to this club,” Greer said, beginning the sales pitch Jon knew was coming. “He hasn’t played much, but when he has, he’s been pretty good. He averaged three solo tackles and three assists per game when he filled in for Jenkins last year. Not bad for someone who came off the bench.”
“Yeah, he’s decent,” Jon replied, ready with his counterpitch. “But he’s also a second-stringer, and frankly, Tommy, he knows he’s good. He’s had a chance to show his stuff. Others are sniffing him out now. Good DTs are hard to come by. It’s not a glamour position, but he’s a natural. He’s big and strong, and he’s quick as hell. He’s coming into the prime of his career, and he’ll want a good contract next time. Trust me, Tommy, he’ll be looking to move up. He’s going to cost you.”
This was the phrase that would get him, Jon knew. If there was one thing Tommy Greer was not allowed to do in that organization, it was spend money.
There was a pause, and Jon smiled. He had a pretty good idea what was going on in Greer’s mind at the moment.
“You think so, huh?”
“Definitely,” Jon said. “He
’s in the perfect position to ask for a raise, so to speak.”
“We got him cheap the first time. He was a fifth-round pick.”
“That was then, this is now. His value has gone up. And with other teams looking his way, he knows he’s in a good position to make a deal.”
“I don’t think we could really help him with that,” Greer said quietly, almost to himself.
“Then let me take him off your hands. I promise to give you some guys who won’t be pawing at you for every dime. You can have some draft picks, too.” Jon laughed. “They almost always come cheap, right?”
Greer laughed, too. They were suddenly good buddies. “Right, sure. Okay, what do you have in mind?”
“How about Kevin Curtis, the defensive tackle we picked up in the draft last year? He’s a rookie and he hasn’t played a down yet. He’s not costing us much, so he should be a good replacement for Brynmoor.”
“Okay, I’m writing him down.”
“And I see your running game’s a little thin,” Jon said. Last in the league in yards per run and yards overall, he thought. Calling their running game “a little thin” is being saintly. “How about Aaron Holloway? He’s in his second year and looking pretty good. We simply don’t need another guy in that position.”
“Okay…”
“Finally, I can give you three draft picks—our second from this year, and our third for next year. That’s a total of four players, none of whom should put a strain on your wallet.”
He could hear Greer mumbling, going over everything in his mind.
“Yeah, that’s pretty good,” he said finally. “That’d sure help us out.”
“Great. So we have a deal?”
“Uh, no.”
It was said with such decisiveness that Jon found himself dumbstruck.
“No?”
“That’s right.”
Jon tapped the point of his pencil on his legal pad. “Not enough?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Not nearly enough? Four players for one guy? A guy who has only played in eight games?”
“That’s right. I know it doesn’t sound nice, but I know what you’re trying to do, what package you’re trying to put together. You want McKinley. Even better—at least from my perspective, is the fact that you need him. Am I right?”
Now Jon paused. And every moment of silence that passed, Jon knew, put him in a shittier position.
“Well, I don’t know about nee—”
“More, Jon,” Greer said in a tone that was absolutely chilling. “If you want me to give this guy to you instead of the Chiefs, I want more.”
There was another long silence, until Jon finally said, “Okay, let me take a look at what I have.”
* * *
Brendan Cavanaugh returned to his office with mug of fresh coffee. The mug, of course, bore the Broncos’ logo. His secretary walked in with a pile of mail bound by a rubber band.
“Here’s today’s,” she said, dropping it into his wire basket.
He pulled off the rubber band and began sifting. A few magazines, a catalog, a letter from an agent, a letter from the league … and then a nice-looking envelope with a name on the return address that had a familiar ring—Robert Macintosh.
He took a brass opener from the drawer and slit the top. Inside were three items—a cover letter, a business card, and a résumé.
The business card caught his attention simply because it had the Ravens’ logo on it. Setting it aside, he read through the cover letter. Macintosh was wondering if the Broncos had any positions available now or in the near future. His tone was polite and professional, but between the lines was the voice of someone who was looking to escape. He gave no official reason as to why he sought employment elsewhere; no “I’m getting married and moving up there,” or “The company has announced a series of layoffs starting in two weeks.” No explanation at all.
More clues could be found in the résumé itself—Macintosh had been with the Ravens a while. Too long, in fact, to not have reached the next rung on the ladder. For whatever reason, he felt his time in Baltimore had run its course. The future lay elsewhere. Maybe someone had taken a disliking to him. It happened all the time in the league. If one of your superiors didn’t like you, you were finished. Cavanaugh knew this all too well—he’d held more people down than he could remember.
But this was more than that. This was opportunity knocking. In a matter of seconds, Brendan Cavanaugh had a fully formed plan in his mind. Every nuance, every detail—and if it played out correctly, it would pay huge dividends. If it didn’t … well, he knew how to protect himself in that event. But it would. He was going to make sure of that.
He replaced the contents of the letter and, smiling, slipped the envelope into his briefcase.
* * *
Garrick Hart was unhappy. Nothing new there, Freddie Friedman thought. But when a player of Hart’s caliber was unhappy, you had to deal with it. As much as you wanted to tell him to grow up and shut up, you couldn’t. Not when he was making just over four million dollars a year and 15 percent of it was yours. When a client like that had a problem, you went from agent to parent, best friend, and/or therapist. Freddie didn’t like it, but he didn’t hate it, either. It simply went with the job.
“I realize they haven’t finalized the lease yet, but trust me, they will. In the meantime, loan your girlfriend one of your other cars. It shouldn’t be for more than a week or two. Just make sure your wife doesn’t find out. The last thing you need right now is marital problems.”
He moved freely around the office with the aid of a telephone headset. It had become a permanent part of his anatomy. He had three power packs for it—one main, one spare, and one for emergencies. Few things made him more nervous than the prospect of a dead battery. The mere thought of using an “old-style” telephone with a cord, or even a cordless phone that had to be supported with your shoulder, made him cringe. He liked to have both hands free to do other things. If he couldn’t do more than one thing at a time he got restless.
“Yes, yes … I understand she wants that model, but it isn’t available in America. The team is having one shipped from Germany this week. I saw a copy of the flight manifest. It should be here in a day or two.…”
His office was spacious and tastefully decorated, but not overly so. The centerpiece was a kidney-shaped desk buried under piles of paperwork. Behind it, through a gigantic single pane of glass, lay the misty Adirondack Mountains. The view was breathtaking by anyone’s standards, like a postcard come to life. Freddie admired it from time to time but suspected he didn’t appreciate it as much as others would. Visitors always commented on it, though.
“If the car isn’t delivered by the beginning of next week, give me a call back and I’ll rattle some cages.…”
He liked to keep a casual atmosphere around the office. There were only twelve other people in the company—Good Sports, Ltd.—so there was no need for a tight-ass corporate mentality. On most days he wore a dress shirt (pastels with a white collar) but no tie, and suspenders but no blazer. He removed his shoes the moment he came in, as he secretly loved the feeling of the freshly vacuumed carpet under his silk socks.
While Hart continued to whine (but was losing steam, thank goodness), Freddie’s secretary came in. She was hunched over as she struggled to keep the day’s mail—a pile of letters and a few packages, one of which was Pearly Pressner’s—against her chest. She hurried to nearest corner of the desk and dropped the load just in time.
As she turned to leave, Freddie expertly pressed the mute button on the transmitter and said, “Janey, could you please dig up the files for Grant Cole, Michael Harris, and Todd Blakely? I’m especially interested in Todd’s contract. There’s a conditional clause I’d like to review before I call him this afternoon. Thanks.” Just before he disengaged the mute button, he added, “Oh, and please wish Tommy a happy birthday for me, would you? Give him a copy of that new Tom Clancy book and put it on my account.”
/>
In all of her thirty-two years, Janey Davidson had never known anyone with Friedman’s power of retention. The Blakely contract was a prime example—it’d been finalized almost three years ago, and Freddie hadn’t glanced at it once since then. Yet he had just recalled a tiny facet of it as if it’d been drafted yesterday. And he always remembered her husband’s birthday every year, without fail, no matter how much other stuff was going on.
She went out, and Freddie reluctantly returned to his babysitting.
“Right, uh-huh … I understand. Yes, I know. I know they are. Well, don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it. Okay. And don’t forget that you have a photo shoot with Adidas on the twenty-ninth. You missed the last one and they were pretty pissed. What’s that? No, I don’t think she’d be interested … right, okay. Have a great time in St. Croix. Have a few on me. Talk to you later.”
He terminated the connection, called Hart a douchebag, and began digging through the pile of new mail, all the while placing another call.
“Janey! Are you having trouble finding those files?”
“No,” came her muted reply from the next room. The door was open, but just a crack. “Just give me a minute!”
He got behind his desk while the call went through, grumbling something about minutes being money, and went through the letters. All junk, he decided, and tossed them aside.
The first two packages weren’t much better. One of them, he could tell by the return address, was a signed jersey from one of his clients who played for the Rams. Freddie asked for it as a get-well gift for the twelve-year-old son of one of his employees. The other package came from the NBA and looked semiofficial, but not official enough to warrant immediate attention. It, too, was relegated to a secondary sector of the desk.