Rough Trade (19 page)

I poured myself a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.

“Okay, first things first,” I said. “From here on in we’re on combat footing. That means that neither of you talks to the police without an attorney present and you don’t talk to the press at all. Understood?”

Chrissy and Jeff both nodded woodenly. Jeff especially seemed anxious and preoccupied, his thoughts elsewhere. It was as if he couldn’t quite get his mind around the fact that this was actually happening to him. But then, of course, neither could I.

“Now that the story of the move is out,” I continued, “I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t fill the police in on what’s going on with the team and the bank. Hopefully that’ll help take some of the heat off of you.”

“Thank God,” interjected Chrissy, with feeling. “Then maybe they’ll stop harassing us and start looking for who really killed Beau.”

Jeff said nothing, but instead shot Chrissy a peculiar, inquiring look. There seemed to be something off kilter with them today, a kind of edginess to their presence together that made me think that perhaps they’d had a quarrel. I couldn’t help but wonder whether everything that was going on wasn’t putting a terrible strain on their marriage. Of course, it would be a miracle if it weren’t.

The phone rang. “Don’t answer that,” said Chrissy. “After what happened yesterday we don’t have any friends left, and there’s no one I want to talk to. Let the machine pick it up.”

We listened as a woman’s voice came on the tape, identifying herself as a TV producer. She wanted Jeff to call her immediately. She wanted to send a crew right over to give him a chance to explain his side of the story. As soon as she hung up, there was another call, this time a radio announcer who explained that he’d slotted Jeff for a rush-hour interview and was just calling to let him know. When the phone rang a third time, Jeff stood up and carefully took the receiver off the hook. Even the mechanical throbbing noise that was meant to get you to return the phone to its cradle was less annoying than the incessant intrusions of the press. Besides, it turned itself off after a minute. Unfortunately, when it came to the media assault that had been launched against the Rendells there was no end in sight.

“As long as we’re all agreed,” I continued, “I’ll get in contact with the detectives investigating your father’s death and fill them in on the team’s situation. In the meantime, we have to decide what to do about the team and the bank. Today is Friday. On Tuesday Gus Wallenberg and First Milwaukee are going to call the loan. That gives us five days. So I guess the big question is, what do you guys want to do?”

“You mean, do I want to move the team to L.A.?” Jeff asked.

“That’s one way of asking the question. Another way is to ask what’s most important to you both as a family? What do the two of you want? Do you want to continue owning a professional football team? Do you want to stay in Milwaukee? Would you be happy in L. A.? I’ll try to get you to wherever you want, but I need to know the outcome you’re looking for.”

Jeff looked at Chrissy and then back at me. “I want things to be the way they were,” he said finally.

“Meaning?” I prompted.

“Meaning before my father sold his soul to First Milwaukee, before Jack McWhorter came waving this L.A. thing in my face... I want things to be back the way they were.”

“So if I could figure out a way that would be financially feasible for you to keep the team in Milwaukee, that would be your first choice?” I asked.

“How would you do that?”

“First of all I’d try to twist Mayor Deutsch’s arm to get him to the table. I’d explain that unless certain conditions are met—like the stadium renovation, like renegotiating the lease on more favorable terms—then you’re moving, no ifs, ands, or buts. Then, in the meantime I’d try to find a white knight, a partner with deep pockets who’d be willing to come in as the minority owner of the team in exchange for paying off the note to First Milwaukee.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” asked Jeff, brightening for the first time since his father’s death.

“It’s possible, but it’s still a lot of ifs.”

“I still can’t believe you’d want to stay after what they did to us yesterday,” declared Chrissy. From the level of grievance and exasperation in her voice I guessed this was what she and Jeff had been arguing about. “How can you possibly want to keep the team here after all those things that asshole Bob Deutsch said about you on TV this morning?”

“Dad liked to always say that football is a rough sport,” replied Jeff. “If you can’t take your licks, you’d better stick to chess. I just try not to take it personally. It’s like the guys who knock the shit out of each other on the field. It’s all just part of the game.”

Coach Bennato arrived at the door with his hair disheveled and his tie askew after he’d gotten into a shoving match with Chip Henderson, the sportscaster from Channel Four, who’d tried to intercept him in the driveway for an interview. From his tone of voice it sounded as though he’d almost enjoyed it. Bennato also had a few choice epithets for Mayor Deutsch, including a couple that I was unfamiliar with. The kind of transaction-based practice I maintained might be considered the locker room of the legal profession, but in football the locker room was really the locker room.

From the kitchen I heard baby Katharine crying. Chrissy excused herself to get the baby out of the swing and take her upstairs to the nursery. Ever since her father-in-law’s death her house, her life, no longer were her own. The phone, the door, fruit baskets, condolence callers, and reporters—all not just unwanted, but unasked for.

I wished Coach Bennato good luck against Green Bay, not wanting to linger. He looked exhausted and irritable rubbing his knuckles in the front hall as if still looking for a fight. The sight of him reminded me that Chrissy and Jeff were not the only ones who’d been profoundly affected by recent events. When Beau died Coach Bennato had lost his staunchest supporter. With Jeff at the helm, his future, along with everybody else’s, seemed much less secure.

I hurried up the stairs to gather up my things. I was planning on staying only until Jack came to collect Jeff to take him to the airport. Even though my mandate from the Rendells was to find a way to keep the team in Milwaukee, I’d managed to convince Jeff that negotiating aggressively to move the team to Los Angeles was one of the key elements of my plan. To that end I’d arranged for one of the partners from the firm’s L.A. office to meet them at the airport. He was one of the attorneys who handled the Raiders’ move to Oakland and was more than capable of moving things along in a convincing manner.

As I stood balling up my clothes and dumping them into my overnight bag, I found myself thinking how fortunate it was that Jack’s company had its own jet for their trip to the West Coast. After the mayor’s TV blitz I doubted Jeff would make it to the gate in the regular terminal alive.

I was just carrying my overnight bag downstairs when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, checking through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a film crew from
Hard Copy
before I opened the door. As I turned the handle, I concluded that it was actually someone worse. I pulled the door open and confronted Harald Feiss.

“I’m here to speak to Jeff,” he announced, trying to muscle his way inside.

“Is he expecting you?” I demanded, arms crossed, deliberately blocking his path.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what he expects,” puffed Feiss, treating me to a whiff of last night’s gin. “He can either talk to me here or in court.”

“Are you sure you still know the way to court?” I inquired. “I understand it’s been a long time.”

“I don’t need to take this shit from you,” he fumed. “If Jeff won’t see me, I’m going straight down to the courthouse and filing a minority shareholder suit.”

“Alleging what?” I demanded. Feiss owned something like 2 percent of the team, which Beau had convinced him to take in lieu of payment when money got tight.

“That, among other things, the Monarchs Corporation has failed to hold regular board meetings and has excluded the minority shareholders from key business decisions.”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” I exclaimed. “You and Beau went out drinking together every night. What did he need to call meetings for?”

“Are you going to let me in or not?” huffed Feiss.

“Let him in,” said Jeff from behind me.

He and Bennato had just emerged from their meeting in the dining room. From the look on Bennato’s face I could tell he was surprised to see Feiss here.

“We missed you at the house after the funeral,” continued Jeff quietly. His voice had a dangerous edge to it that I’d not heard before. I wondered whether sitting down with Bennato had finally brought home the reality that he was now the owner of the Monarchs. “I guess by the time you were done giving interviews about what an ingrate I am, it was too late for you to stop by and pay your respects.”

“I was your father’s best friend. His death hit me hard,” he said. “I know this hasn’t been an easy time for you, but it’s been tough for me, too.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” demanded Jeff, with more authority than I’d expected. Even Bennato looked surprised.

“No. I came to bring you something,” answered Feiss, producing a large manila envelope and holding it out to Jeff, who made no move to receive it.

“I already heard. You’re suing me. Go ahead, but you’d better hurry. I hear there’s a long line down at the courthouse. Apparently this town is full of guys who think I’m a pansy and just can’t wait to fuck me over,” he added bitterly.

“It’s not a lawsuit.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a letter of intent and a check from the Wauwatosa Stadium Development Corporation.”

Jeff reached over and took the offered envelope and passed it wordlessly to me.

“Aren’t you even going to open it?” demanded Feiss in disbelief. “Don’t you even want to know how much it’s for?”

“I’ll have to have my attorney review it and get back to you,” replied Jeff coldly.

“What do you mean get back to me? I’m a goddamned minority shareholder. I have a right to have a voice in this.” He looked at Bennato and gestured to include him. “We both do.”

“Then I guess you should be the first one to know I’ve decided to move the team to L.A.,” he announced savagely. “I’m leaving for California within the hour to work out the details.”

I had to admire Jeff. I couldn’t think of a better way to make credible the threat of moving the team than convincing Feiss. Obviously Jeff had decided that he wasn’t playing chess.

“But your father and I had a deal,” protested Harald. “He
wanted
to move the team to a new stadium in the suburbs. He gave me his word!”

“I have news for you, Harald,” declared Jeff. “My father was a shitty businessman who got into a shitload of trouble by listening to you. Whatever promises he made died with him. From here on in you’re dealing with me.”

We’ve learned so much of how to behave from the movies and TV. Actors have set the standards for seduction; the Kennedy widows have shown us how to grieve... but in the process it has also crippled us, left us lost and stammering whenever we stray too far from the script. Chrissy knew how to play the supportive wife of an unfairly accused and embattled husband; what she didn’t know was what to do once he’d slid into the back of the car that would whisk him to the airport. There was no script for how to be a prisoner in your own home in a town that has overnight made up its mind to despise you.

Reluctantly I realized that there was no way I could just leave her alone and head back to Chicago. I felt worse than tom. It wasn’t even a matter of choosing between Avco and the Monarchs. The day of the funeral I’d instructed Cheryl to insert the language that I’d dictated into the revised registration document that had been transmitted to the SEC. There was nothing to be done until we heard back.

The problem was how best to take care of Chrissy. Which did she need more? Someone to stick with her in her terrible isolation or someone to fight to save the team from the jaws of the bank? Before she came downstairs from putting the baby down for her nap, I considered just coming out and asking her, but one look at her face, ashen and exhausted behind her makeup, gave me all the answer I needed.

“Where shall we sit?” I asked. “How about the living room? Why don’t you get comfortable and I’ll bring you a cup of tea?”

Chrissy nodded and drifted wearily toward the front of the house while I quickly stuck two tea bags into mugs and doused them with scalding water from the instant-hot-water faucet. The limits of my culinary skill thus tested, I followed Chrissy into the living room. I found her curled up on one end of the couch, staring off into space.

“Do you think he could have killed him?” she asked softly as I set down her mug.

“What?” I asked. “Do I think who could have killed whom?”

“Jeff. Do you think that Jeff could have killed his father?”

“Could or did?”

“Did.”

“What makes you ask?” I countered, ever the lawyer. “He was so strange just now. He didn’t even really say good-bye....”

“He has a lot on his mind,” I replied. “You and I both need to be careful not to read too much into things. Let’s just try and take it one step at a time.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” replied Chrissy. “I mean, sometimes I can force myself. Like when I’m taking care of Katharine or physically doing something. I actually tell myself, ‘Now I’m doing the dishes,’ ‘Now I’m changing a diaper.’ It’s almost as if I’m trying to convince myself that even though my entire life has been turned upside down, there are some things that are still normal. And then there are other times when I just go off the emotional deep end, when I want to scream or tear my hair or just run away. I couldn’t sleep last night. I just lay there in bed looking at Jeff and wondering whether I was lying next to a murderer.”

The sound of breaking glass kept me from responding. For a second, maybe two, I wondered whether a picture had fallen from the wall or dishes had shifted in the rack, but I immediately dismissed it. I’d lived in the city long enough to distinguish between broken crockery and a broken windowpane.