The Draft (21 page)

The boy's eyes thinned. “What?”

“I don't know everything he told you over the years, but I know he didn't tell you the whole story, or the real story, because he couldn't have. You wouldn't feel the way you do if he had.”

“I don't understand.”

“Ray … your daddy had some problems when he started in the league. He ran with a bad crowd and got caught up with drugs and alcohol. He—”

Raymond was shaking his head. “No, I know what you're trying to do. Don't say things like that.”

“Raymond, you can't go on thinking—”

“No, Uncle Pearly…”

“Raymond, you need to know the truth.”

“I already know the truth.”

“No, Ray. Listen to me. You need to know wh—”

Trembling, Raymond said, “I'm not going to let you betray him!”

“Ray…”

“No!”

He turned and stalked from the house, banging the screen door on the way out. Pearly went after him, but his old bowed legs made the effort futile. By the time he got to the front step Raymond was halfway down the sidewalk, visible only when he passed under a streetlamp.

“Raymond!”

Pearly lingered for a moment in the faint hope his nephew might come back. But of course he didn't.

“Damn.”

*   *   *

Quincy Pressner brought the bottle to his lips, tossed it back, and emptied it. Then he set it down on the bar with a sharp thud, although no one paid any attention. Bottles were slammed down all the time in the Blue Rose, one of Philadelphia's less-admired establishments.

“One more!” he called out, drumming the bottle on the tired copper surface.

The bartender, an enormous black man with thick glasses, ambled over and set his hands down, flat and well apart.

“Quince, you know I can't do that. I told you before, the bill you owe now is enormous. That was your last one.”

“Come on, Connie. I'll get the money.”

“Sorry, Quince. This time it's too much.” He took a small piece of paper from a metal spike on top of the cash register. “Over three hundred this month,” he said, holding it up.

Pressner dropped his head as if he'd suddenly fell asleep. “Oh, man. Okay.”

Connie put a hand on his shoulder. “I hate seeing you like this, y'know.”

The former NFL star looked up again. “Yeah, me too.” He laughed.

That famous face, one that Connie somehow never tired of seeing. How many journalists would love to get just one photo of it, would love to talk to him for just one minute, snag one quote? For someone who had been drinking all morning, he appeared to be remarkably clear-eyed and alert.

Connie Duellman had known Quincy Pressner for nearly ten years now. He didn't recognize him that first day he came in, but something about him was familiar. It wasn't until a woman sportswriter named Patti something-or-other followed him in one autumn afternoon to try to interview him that Duellman realized he was a Somebody. With a little help from others he knew in the neighborhood, he put the pieces together—big star in the league, then apparently dropped out of it for reasons unknown. Tried to make a go at a “normal” living, first in construction, then some kind of retail position selling boats or something. Then the depression set in. Drugs, booze, and the fade began. Quincy poured out the whole confession one long afternoon when business was slow. He was only half-drunk that day, but he knew what he was doing. Connie was deeply touched by Quincy's confidence in him. And, like any good bartender, he decided he to keep his customer's secrets locked up tight. Through the years, several people had come around sniffing for information. Connie didn't know a thing. Neither did anyone else in the community, such was their affection for their most famous resident. It was like Pressner had a personal army.

“How's that boy of yours doing?” Connie asked.

This produced a smile. “He's doing fine. Haven't seen him in a while.”

“You should. Give him a call.”

“Oh hell, I call him all the time. I just don't … you know.”

Connie nodded. “Yeah, I know. But you should go see him anyway. Don't worry about the reasons why you shouldn't.”

Pressner seemed to consider the idea, then nodded. “Yeah … yeah.”

He checked his watch, which wasn't exactly a piece of junk but was still a far cry from the gold Rolex he used to see down there. That one ended up on eBay in the late '90s.

“Well, I'm gonna get going.”

“Okay, Quince. Have a good day.” Connie gave him one last pat on the back.

Pressner nodded and slid off the stool. Across the smoky room, two kids were playing pool. Quincy could tell they were watching him. They stood together at the far end of the table, one holding his cue straight up, the other at an angle as he chalked the tip. They were in the shadows, enveloped by a smoky haze, but Pressner could feel their eyes upon him. There was a time, he remembered, when youngsters looked at him like a god.
What do they think of me now?
he wondered.

He shuffled to the door and pulled it back, momentarily bathing the cavernous club in a blaze of afternoon sunlight. It staggered him for a moment, burning his weary eyes. He had to shield them as he went out.

His apartment complex was two blocks away. On one side of it was a condemned building sometimes used by drug dealers and loan sharks. On the other was a mountain of rubble that served as an elementary school about a million years ago.

Pressner walked listlessly up the front steps and to the door, which was being held open with rope. The fluorescent light in the foyer buzzed and stuttered. After climbing a long flight of steps, he went to the end of the second-floor hallway, found number seventeen, and turned the knob. Beyond lay four small rooms with ancient fixtures and uneven floorboards. It was reasonably clean, but he'd lived in better. Much better.

He went into the kitchen to search for more beer. Nothing in the fridge, nothing in the cabinets. There was a round table near the window, freckled with burn holes from Pressner's cigarettes. He sat down and had one, watching some kids play basketball in a public lot across the street. They were all pretty good, but one was much better than the rest.

Keep practicing, son,
Pressner couldn't help thinking. Give it all you've got and get the hell out of here. And remember that sometimes, even if you escape, you end up coming back.
Take it from one who knows.

When the cigarette was finished he doused it in the sink and tossed it into the garbage can. Then he went into the bedroom. A load of
Sports Illustrated
issues were piled in the corner. It was the one indulgence he allowed himself, using a false name on the mailing address. He grabbed the latest one and lay down on the bed. The springs squeaked rhythmically beneath. He made it halfway through one article before he was out cold and snoring softly.

*   *   *

Less than an hour later, a brown Gran Torino pulled up in front of the building, and Quincy's brother Pearly stepped out. He locked the vehicle, not because it was worth anything but because he had no other way of getting home if it was stolen.

Pearly spoke to his brother occasionally, and it was more contact than Quincy had with his other brother or his sister. The brother was a software architect living on the outskirts of Silicon Valley. He had money to burn but was tighter with it than a clam's ass. He kept Quincy at a distance simply because he was afraid his brother might ask for a loan. The sister wasn't much better. She lived in a well-to-do Chicago suburb with her husband and two children and had no idea “what to do” with Quincy, so she did nothing. What little information these extant siblings received about their infamous brother came unsolicited through Pearly. As far as they were concerned, he was Quincy's keeper.

The joints in Pearly's knees screamed as he made his way up the stairs. He paused at the top catch his breath and patted his forehead with a handkerchief.

He knocked on Quincy's door and called his name but received no response. He knew this meant nothing. He pressed his ear against the door, and when he detected the snoring he turned the knob and went in.

“Quincy, get up! It's me, Pearly!”

He heard his brother roll over and mumble.

“Quince, come on!”

Pearly took a chair from the kitchen and set it next to the bed. He eased himself down but had to drop last few inches due to the stress on his knees. Then he gave his brother a shake, triggering another symphony of metallic squeaks and squeals.

“Quince, come on…”

“Hmm? Huh?”

“It's me, get up.” He checked his watch. “Not even one o'clock yet. Christ.”

“Pearly?”

“Yeah, that's right. Come on, up.”

Quincy slid up onto his elbows. The magazine dropped to the floor.

“I can't believe I fell asleep.”

“Me neither. You usually make it until at least five.”

“Yeah, that's funny. Say, do you have two hundred and eighty bucks I could borrow? I'll pay you back.”

“No. I don't even have eight bucks.”

“Damn. Okay.”

“Look, we need to talk about something.”

“Like what?”

“Like Raymond.”

“My Raymond?” His eyes flashed to the collection of photos that decorated the perimeter of the dresser mirror, each one stuck between the glass and the frame. They were arranged chronologically and ran clockwise, starting in the upper lefthand corner; a photographic history of his son's life. They were Quincy's most cherished possessions.

“Yeah.”

At the mention of his son's name, Quincy entire demeanor changed. The transformation was so abrupt and severe that it was almost frightening.

Very awake now, he said, “What about him?”

12

The very last guy
on Jon's list was a safety with the Cleveland Browns named Otis Vancleave. He was Skip Henderson's type of guy—tall and lithe, with great speed and ferocity. He'd put good stats together in his four years in the league, but Cleveland's two starters were both occasional Pro Bowlers, and one of them—the one Vancleave was supposed to replace—instead became the NFL's Comeback Player of the Year after missing two seasons with a back injury. Now Vancleave was all but disposable. He gave the team great depth, but they, too, were heading toward cap problems, so they couldn't afford extraneous guys who ready to take the next step.

Jon didn't know the Browns' director of player personnel, Drew Saks, all that well. Saks had been promoted to the position just two months before, after their previous personnel director retired.

He turned out to be pleasant and affable, and notably more diplomatic than most others Jon had dealt with over the last few days. He seemed to understand Jon's predicament and asked for no more than a fair deal. In the end he received two players and one pick—the Ravens' first overall in 2008. Jon was grateful for small mercies and faxed over the paperwork for the tender offer with his signature. Saks signed it and sent it right back, and Jon decided he'd made a new friend.

And with that last piece of paper, his package for Skip Henderson was complete. He read the rundown several times, and he was blown away by it—there was simply no way that old bastard could turn his nose up this time. It was just
too good.
Hell, it was almost a better defense than the Ravens already had. Whether or not they gelled as a unit was Skip's problem. It wouldn't be the first time a bunch of talented guys got together and nothing happened in the chemistry department. That was the unfortunate variable. You put egos and big money in the same place, there's always a chance the shit is going to start hitting the fan. Jon couldn't care less. None of the guys on that list would ever don a Ravens' uniform.

He went to navigate back to the spreadsheet illustrating his own team's roster, but he stopped himself. He simply couldn't look. His stomach had been in knots for days. It reminded him of his college years, when money was so tight that a Big Gulp at the local 7-Eleven brought a certain guilt. He's simply spent too much. But this was what Connally wanted—that third championship, at any cost. McKinley could give it to him. If he couldn't, no one could. And if they didn't make it, it wouldn't be from a lack of trying on his part.

He took a deep breath, then reached for the phone.

*   *   *

As it turned out, spying came naturally to Robert Macintosh. True, he was jittery at the beginning and his paranoia ran wild. But that passed quickly enough. Soon the procedure was almost casual.

A number of sportswriters had called today, asking for information on a rumored deal in principle between the Ravens and the Chargers. The media was going crazy over it. Would Baltimore really land Christian McKinley? Would they once again emerge victorious from the heat of battle? It was all they talked about.

Macintosh waited until dark. Jon had left for the day but could still return unannounced. Sometimes he went home, other times he went out for dinner and came back. The man was a machine.

As he settled into Jon's chair, he thought about the final details of the deal he'd made with Cavanaugh—not just the job in Denver after this first “project” was finished, but the cash bonus for getting it done cleanly. His heart had been thumping; it was like something out of a James Bond movie. He'd heard about stuff like this happening in the league. It wasn't surprising, really—the NFL was, in essence, a war between factions competing for the same prize. And the stakes were enormous—millions of dollars and the futures of thousands of people. One moment you were making six or seven figures, the next you were updating your résumé and wondering if your kids would have to pay for their own college education. The league was a lot like a big corporation that way. Secrets were sacred and the right information was priceless. He'd been warned about the possibility of being contacted by the competition. The procedure, of course, was to reject such offers and report them immediately.