The head of Sex Crimes wore a navy pantsuit, starched white blouse, and pumps. Hair straightened and styled conservatively, a small gold hoop in each ear. She looked up from a brief she was marking up and smiled at her boss, white teeth in sharp contrast to her dark skin. Olmstead had quit smoking, too, but her professional duties and the nature of the defendants in her purview caused the occasional relapse. The DA asked if she could bum a smoke. To her surprise, Olmstead volunteered to join her. Christine was not the kind of executive who took breaks with her subordinates but, in her current state, she welcomed it.
The women stood to the side of the building, Olmstead lighting two cigarettes. She handed one to her boss and said, “My mom called this morning.”
The DA liked Olmstead. Her parents were originally from Antigua, and she had grown up in Ossining. She was hardworking and levelheaded. Already serving in a supervisory capacity, her future was promising.
Christine took a deep drag of the cigarette. “How’s your mom?”
“She wanted me to ask you a question.”
“You can tell her you’re a valuable member of the team.”
Olmstead smiled. “Thanks, but that’s not what she wanted to know.” The DA took another long drag. It tasted better than she remembered. “Mom wanted to know when you think you’re going to convene a grand jury on the John Eagle shooting.”
It was one of those transitional winter-to-spring days when the warming temperatures, the sun’s rays, the pleasant smells, all feel like a reward for surviving another northeastern winter. To be outside, to relax, to partake in this annual seasonal rite. Was it too much to ask for a few uncomplicated minutes? That was all the district attorney had wanted, nothing more than a low-key interlude with a trusted colleague, perhaps some small talk about each other’s children, or where to travel over summer vacation. Instead, a significant breach of protocol. ADAs, as a rule, did not attempt to divine their boss’s intentions. They followed orders. Christine tried not to think about skin color, but she had the fleeting thought that if Vere Olmstead had been white, she would not have asked this question. Then, she chastised herself for thinking that. Why wouldn’t a white ADA have questioned her? Still, she felt sandbagged.
“Tell your mother that the process will take its course.” Christine’s manner indicated that the matter was now closed. The query notched her anxiety level up. She had just received actual confirmation of her husband’s behavior, and the emotional fallout would be long and painful. There was a political campaign to think about. The arrival of a racially explosive situation smack in the middle of these already challenging circumstances was not welcome.
“I’m not going to leak it,” Olmstead said.
“You worry about Sex Crimes, all right?”
Her words came out more curtly than intended but the DA did not care. Pressure from below was unacceptable. She pressed the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply once more, letting the smoke fill her lungs, before exhaling through her nose. Then she dropped it half-smoked and ground it out with her shoe. The DA told Olmstead she wanted to take a walk and stretch her legs, but the real reason was that she didn’t want to ride up in the elevator together and risk further conversation on the subject of John Eagle.
CHAPTER TEN
The moneyed murmur in the elegant Stanford White dining room of the Paladin Club obscured the confidential nature of the lunch conversation that was taking place at a corner table between Jay Gladstone and D’Angelo Maxwell, who had dressed for the occasion in a suit so impeccably tailored it looked as if it could be removed only by molting.
When Jay became a team owner, he learned that fraternization with players was, for the most part, minimal. Although he occasionally allowed himself the indulgence of flying on the team plane, he didn’t socialize with the players unless it was a team-sponsored event, and was careful not to foist his presence upon them in unwelcome ways. Unlike many extremely wealthy individuals, Jay had a well-developed sense of how others viewed him, and he was intent on not being perceived as someone who was only in the room because he had the most money.
He had been dreading this lunch. When D’Angelo called and asked for a meeting, the club was Jay’s tactical choice. It was an environment in which he felt exceedingly comfortable. His father had been a member and had brought him to family events here, and now he was an officer.
To preserve his current waistline, Jay had ordered a Kobe beef hamburger without a bun. He sliced into the meat as he talked.
“We try to keep all of our assets in the best shape possible,” he was saying. “So, when we want to sell, should we ever want to sell, we’re not scrambling. It’s the same with horses. I treat them well because I’m a humane person, but they’re assets.” Jay stuck a forkful of the beef into his mouth and chewed. He looked forward to the lunch ending.
“Did you inherit all that real estate from your daddy?” Dag asked, cutting a piece of the asparagus next to his sea bass.
“A lot of it. But since I’ve been in charge, our company has developed several properties here in America, and we’re doing a major project in South Africa now.”
Jay was proud of his work in Africa and did not mind sharing the information with people of all races. He was familiar with the history of grandstanding white people trying to save Africa for their own reasons and was careful to not be perceived as one of them.
“I did a bunch of clinics in Africa last year,” Dag said. “With my foundation.”
“We’re developing an entire town, a small eco-friendly city actually, and if it goes well, if it’s replicable, we believe it will intrigue other developing nations.”
Dag took a sip of water and licked his lips.
“What do you get out of it?”
“Financially? Not much.” Jay chose not to elaborate. He was aware that good intentions were often regarded with suspicion and didn’t want to come off like another white intruder. “But it gets me away from my desk.”
The conversation had meandered for half an hour, and Dag was not pursuing any discernible line of inquiry. Jay expected that he wanted to talk about the contract and wished he would bring it up so they could be done with it.
“My money guy has me in a bunch of real estate investments,” Dag said, impaling a piece of sea bass and placing it in his mouth.
“What kind?” Jay asked, to keep the conversational ball in the air. Jay was thinking about his daughter, who was now in Israel. He had texted her and had not heard back.
“I’m not sure to tell you the truth. Shopping centers, condos, some golf resort down in Nicaragua—”
“A golf resort in Nicaragua?” Jay repeated, making sure he had heard correctly, as a vision of a Sandinista soldier teeing off burbled up. “Do you want me to vet any of them for you?”
“You don’t have to do that. But, listen, Mr. Gladstone, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
At last, Jay thought, they were going to get down to business. But then a middle-aged white man in a Brooks Brothers suit approached their table. His short hair and his smile were equally crinkly. Jay made as if to stand.
“Don’t get up,” the visitor said, a trace of Canarsie in his accent. “I wanted to come over and see if I could get Mr. Maxwell to sign with the Knicks.”
“Chuck, I believe that’s called tampering,” Jay said.
“I’m not an owner,” he said. “I can’t tamper.” The friendly man chuckled and looked at Dag, who nodded uneasily.
Jay said, “Dag, have you met Senator Schumer?”
“No, I haven’t,” Dag said and extended his hand, which the politician clasped and shook.
“The Knicks could use you,” Senator Charles Schumer (D—NY) informed him, placing his other hand over the one that was already holding Dag’s.
“I have a contract with Mr. Gladstone’s team,” Dag said, pulling his hand away as Senator S
chumer reluctantly released his grip. “You understand.”
“But you’re a free agent once the season’s over, am I right?”
Dag’s eyes darted around the room. He was the only black man there who was not pushing a cart or carrying a tray. Although D’Angelo Maxwell was a man of many accomplishments on and off the basketball court, it concerned him that in this context he might be unfairly viewed as just another African-American jock surrounded by two far more influential men of European descent whose ingrained sense of dispensation, and the gilded environment in which it was being exercised, rendered him a prop in the conversation. He wasn’t sure if Senator Schumer was serious or not but wanted to know why Jay didn’t just shut down the whole line of questioning. The way the politician beamed in Dag’s direction made him uneasy.
Then Senator Schumer turned his ingratiating attention to Jay. “Are you coming to the dinner for President Obama at the Waldorf?”
“I’ll be there if I’m in town,” Jay said. “The company bought a table, but I’ve been doing more traveling than Marco Polo.”
“Did you ever play that game in a swimming pool when you were a kid?” Senator Schumer asked Dag. “I say Marco; you say Polo.”
“They didn’t have that game in my neighborhood,” Dag said.
“Hey, I grew up in Brooklyn,” Schumer answered. “Before it was fancy.”
“You O.G.,” Dag said, trying to get into the jocular spirit.
“Have you met the President, Mr. Maxwell?”
Mr. Maxwell? Dag liked that. “Not yet.”
“Bring this man to the dinner, Jay,” Senator Schumer said. “I’m sure the president would enjoy meeting him. He’s a big basketball fan.” Then, to Dag: “Get your owner to take you.”
Your owner. That word again, with all of its antediluvian implications. Never mind that it was not the liberal speaker’s intention. Dag was already on edge. He didn’t like sitting across from this boundlessly privileged white man, born rich, who never had to contend with anything resembling the trials of Houston’s 5th Ward in order to ask that he be paid what he believed himself to be worth for his talent and prodigious labor. He resented the whole dance and was trying to tamp down these restive feelings. He had an agent, so these kinds of conversations should be unnecessary.
But he didn’t have an agent. Why had he fired Jamal?
To the senator’s suggestion, Dag said, “We’ll see about that.”
“And if you come to the Obama dinner,” Senator Schumer said, “I promise not to talk about the Knicks.”
Jay and Dag both feigned laughter, Jay’s the mirth of satisfaction, Dag’s the heh-heh of social obligation.
“You’re one of the great players of your generation,” Schumer gushed to Dag.
“And he’s all ours,” Jay said.
Dag seemed gratified by the owner’s declaration, knew it would give him leverage. Schumer gave Jay’s shoulder a friendly pat before strolling back to his table. Dag wondered why the encounter with the senator had made him uncomfortable.
“Knick fans are crazy,” Dag said.
“They never lose hope,” Jay said.
And then Dag wondered why he had said Knick fans are crazy when with his boys he would have said Knick fans be crazy. Why was he kowtowing to Jay Gladstone?
“But I appreciated the respect,” Dag said. He took another sip of water, swallowed, and rolled his neck. A loud crack ensued. “Mr. Gladstone, I think the Knicks would pay me.”
“Lots of teams would pay you, Dag. I hope you re-sign with us.”
“Yeah, well. I want to.”
This news delighted Jay. He waited for Dag to say what was on his mind. He knew enough to never negotiate against himself. But Dag did not elaborate on his declaration.
“How’s your fish?”
“Tasty.”
Jay noticed Dag was massaging his neck, which seemed to be causing him discomfort. Did the player have an injury he had not disclosed? It was bad enough that he was already playing on a surgically reconstructed knee. Now Dag shifted his shoulder, so a joint in his back audibly cracked. His body, imposing in so many ways, had a lot of mileage on it.
“My agent told me he had a conversation with Church about a new deal.”
“I heard something about that.”
Dag outlined the parameters of the offer Jamal had relayed. “My agent said that’s your opinion, too. No max deal.”
Jay measured his words. “You’re a great player, Dag, certainly one of the best in the league.” Dag agreed. They could have been discussing an element on the periodic table. “And as you know, we’re trying to build a contender.”
“I’m all about winning.”
“We love that about you,” Jay said. “The basketball minds in the organization, Church and his guys in the front office, they’ve made a determination. If that’s how he wants to allocate the funds allowable under the salary cap, then my job is to support him.”
“Yeah, well, we know who the best player on the team is,” Dag said, with the supreme confidence that comes with having been a star when he was ten years old, and in high school where he was the best player in Texas, and as an all-American during his one college season, and for most of his career in the pros. “And when you look around the league, I don’t care what team, the best player gets a max.”
“That’s not true. Teams get stuck with bad deals, declining productivity puts them in situations where they’re overpaying. But let’s not wander into the weeds here. This is between your agent and Church.”
“I fired my agent,” Dag said. “I’m negotiating.”
The rashness this decision indicated caused Jay to pause. It was unheard of for a player of Dag’s caliber to enter into a high stakes negotiation without representation.
“Listen, Dag. Since you’ve been on the team, we’ve gotten to know each other a little bit, and at this point, well, I don’t think it’s too much of a leap to say that I consider you a friend.”
“We’re buddies,” Dag said, in a faintly derisive tone that Jay chose to ignore.
“I know this is a business and you’re going to do whatever it is you have to do for you and your family. I respect that. But negotiating a deal like this without an agent—” Jay did not have to finish the thought, but could not help himself. “You might want to rethink that plan.”
“Like you said, I gotta do what I gotta do.”
Dag seemed entirely rational. Church had told Jay that the appetite around the league for lavishing a huge contract on him was not there which meant that they could call his bluff. But Jay was genuinely fond of Dag and wanted to keep him on the roster with no hard feelings.
“Why don’t you hire a new agent?”
Dag appeared to ponder that possibility. There was a proliferation of cutthroat agents, shrewd operators who could obtain close to max deals for players who were not necessarily worth the investment. But if he wanted to do that he wouldn’t have asked to meet for lunch. Dag was a talented offensive machine who fans forked over hundreds of dollars per ticket to see work his mojo live. And the television networks? The checks they wrote for the rights to broadcast the games had ballooned to the billions since the time he had entered the league. Sure, everyone in the NBA was a world-class player, but it was the superstars who drove the money wagon, and Dag was still undeniably a superstar. That he had seen his last gargantuan payday was, to him, beyond comprehension.
“You know we’re one game out of the playoffs right now,” Dag pointed out.
“Yes, I follow the team,” Jay said, an attempt at humor. He hoped it hadn’t veered into condescension.
“And you want to make the playoffs, right?”
The expression on Jay’s face slid from genial concern past barely concealed surprise and arrived at mild distress.
“We count on you to play your best every nigh
t,” Jay said. “Especially in a contract year.”
“Dag always delivers.”
At this juncture, Jay could have just nodded his assent. He could have corroborated Dag’s self-assessment quickly enough. Could have said Let me think about it. He did not do any of these things. Instead, he drilled down:
“To your point, we committed the maximum salary allowed to you. You’re our guy, and if the season were to end today, we wouldn’t be in the playoffs. Sorry to put it quite so bluntly, but you brought it up.”
This lightning bolt of a reality check hurled from the summit of Mount Gladstone stunned Dag. Its implication—if you were as good as you claim, no one would be wondering if the team was going to qualify for the playoffs—was, at the very least, insulting. It was also, in Dag’s estimation, rude, insolent, and, on the most basic level, emasculating (its undeniable accuracy immaterial). To Dag, who made his living asserting his potency, his physical superiority, and his iron determination over other athletic marvels, this was enraging. His right bicep, the one with 5th tattooed on it, twitched beneath the wool sleeve of his suit jacket.
“So, you’re telling me what?”
“You really should hire a new agent,” Jay said. “I’m not going to negotiate. I have too much respect for you.”
Dag underwent a brief impulse of wanting to upend the table and drive his fist into the owner’s face as payback for having dared violate the unspoken pact that prohibited anything but happy talk when discussing the career of a superstar of Dag’s magnitude with the actual superstar, but the august surroundings and the high stakes of the conversation had an inhibiting effect. Also, Dag had brought it up, so the athlete only smoldered. He recognized how undignified an outburst would have appeared to the other diners, not to mention the Internet clickbait that would have resulted—DAG DECKS OWNER IN DINING ROOM DUSTUP—and remained immobile, though no less infuriated. Then he upped the ante:
“How many black faces do you see here besides the waiter or the dude who handed me a towel in the washroom?”
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 10