The Draft (26 page)

“There doesn't need to be,” Jon shot back. “The guidelines in the Collective Bargaining Agreement are very clear.”

“We want more than one year.”

“You're not entitled to more than one year.”

“That will be for an arbitrator to decide.”

Jon froze as the words—and the meaning behind them—sunk in.

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“You'd have no chance of winning.”

“Perhaps,” Wahlberg said, and it was his casual, carefree tone that made everything clear—Wahlberg wasn't interested in winning in arbitration. That wasn't his strategy at all. The ugly fact of the matter was that a grievance could take weeks to settle, and a lawsuit, if it came to that, could drag on for years. Even if the team managed to draft McKinley, they'd never be able to sign him. Bell's contract would be valid until the dispute was settled. If McKinley wasn't signed, he couldn't play. If he couldn't play, the Ravens could forget about reaching a third Super Bowl.

And Wahlberg knew it.

“You're the biggest sonofabitch I've ever known,” Jon said.

“You'd be, too, if you were in my position.”

“Don't try to justify what you're doing, you f—”

“But maybe we can work something out,” Wahlberg inserted.

“What?”

“Maybe we can work out a deal.”

“You mean a blackmail arrangement?”

“Call it whatever you like.”

Jon got up and began pacing. If Wahlberg was in the room instead on the phone, he'd be lying unconscious by now.

“I'm sure you've already got some idea about the terms?”

“In fact I do. I was thinking of, aside from the remainder of his salary for this season, a lump sum of twenty-two million.”

Jon chuckled as he stared out the window. “Forget it. That's more than three-quarters of his remaining contract. I'm not paying that to anyone who isn't contributing.”

“Okay, twenty million.”

“Not a chance.”

“Jon,” Wahlberg said in the type of singsong voice one normally reserves for children and pets, “this can be easy, or it can be hard.”

“That much money would devastate our cap for the next three seasons.”

“Not if it's deferred correctly.”

“No,” Jon said sharply. “I'm not strapping us like that for a player who isn't playing. Forget about it. You'd have to be insane.”

A silence stretched into eternity between them.

“Okay, look,” Wahlberg said finally. “You obviously need some time to think this through. I'll call you back tomorrow and get your final offer.”

“Don't make it too early,” Jon snapped.

“I won't, don't worry.”

“You're a fucking leech, you know that? Nothing more than a common parasite.”

“Have a nice day,” Wahlberg said, then the line went dead.

14

Billie Jo recognized
the eager little reporter as he came through the door—midtwenties, lean, and wearing a Ravens' cap. He was kind of cute, she couldn't help thinking. But he also appeared to be a brainy type, and she didn't like brainy types.

He surveyed the restaurant until he spotted her, sitting alone at one of the small, elevated tables. He was fresh off a Delta flight from Los Angeles but didn't feel the least bit tired. He was too jazzed up for that. Kenny Meehan had landed some big stories before, but never one as big as this. If this girl lived up to everything she'd claimed on the phone the day before, his name would be bouncing all over the world of sports journalism for months.

He worked for a monthly full-color rag called
Pro Football Today,
one of dozens of substandard periodicals desperately trying to gain share in a market dominated by
Sports Illustrated
and
ESPN: The Magazine.
It was printed on cheap paper, used cheap labor, and ran poorly written feature articles from questionable sources. Meehan, who'd been on the masthead from the beginning, was tired of toiling in obscurity and had been secretly planning to catapult it—and, in turn, himself—to the next level by breaking something big. Just one story, one that made waves and got people talking, and he'd be on the map.

And this just might just be it.

With a small knapsack slung over his shoulder, he weaved through a sea of other tables and customers. When he reached Billie Jo, he smiled and said, “Ms. Forrest?” There was no way he could have known it was a pseudonym, and that was fine with her.

“That's right,” she replied, taking a long, purposeful drag from her cigarette. She didn't bother asking if he minded the smoke. This, too, was purposeful. She wanted to establish that she had the alpha position in the relationship. That meant she didn't ask for permission for anything; etiquette and courtesy were
his
burden. She also kept a blank face, although a touch of arrogance and assurance didn't hurt. “You're Kenny Meehan, I take it?”

“Yes, I am. Do you mind if I sit?”

“No.”

He transferred the knapsack from his shoulder to the back of the chair and took out a small notebook.

“I'm going to take some notes, too, if that's okay.”

“Fine with me. Do you have the money on you?”

Meehan hesitated for just a moment and diverted his eyes. She sensed she had committed some type of error with her bluntness. But when he looked back at her and said, “Yeah, sure,” with a little laugh, she somehow knew he was desperate. This would be easy.

They spoke for a little under an hour, and she told him everything except her real name and the fact that she worked in Bailey's home; he didn't need those details. When Meehan insisted on some kind of proof that her story was true, she produced the empty cortisone bottle and needle. She'd put them first in a clear plastic bag, then in a yellow Giant supermarket bag.

“I guarantee you'll find his fingerprints on there,” she told him. “I know he's been in trouble before, so you should be able to get them.”

Meehan stared at her, astonished by the remorseless fashion in which she was selling this man down the river. Then he realized he was an accomplice to the act—she gave him the story, but it was his choice to run it or not to run it. He knew what he was; he had always known. Here they were, two bottom feeders trying to pull another person off the ladder and down to their level so they could feel better about themselves. It really was that simple.

“Now, I believe we had an agreement,” she said after he'd had time to drool over the evidence.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.…”

He reached around for his knapsack and took out a small Whitman Sampler box. She controlled the urge to leap across the table and grab it. Once it was in her hands, she lifted the lid and found a roll of hundreds held tight by a rubber band that had been wound around it several times and looked ready to snap.

“Is it all here?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking.

“Yep. Five thousand,” he said in a whisper.

She wrapped her hand around the wad and stuffed it quickly into her purse, dropping the sampler box on the table.

“Thanks,” she said, then took a final sip of her soda and slid off the stool.

“You're welcome,” Meehan said. “If I have any questions, I can reach you at that cell phone number you gave me?”

“Sure can,” she said.
But you better hurry, because I'm canceling the service tomorrow.

She was gone in seconds, and Meehan figured he would never see her again. He also guessed correctly that she hadn't provided her real name, and that she'd been wearing a wig and probably didn't really need those glasses. He didn't give a damn. He was all but certain her story was true. Why else the disguise and the phony name, and the secret meeting? And the bottle and the syringe … she was right—he could easily find out if Bailey's prints were on them. He'd already done some background checking to see if he was currently taking the medication legally. There was no recent reports of Bailey having sustained an injury. So, odds were her claim was true—Bailey was hiding one. It looked like he really caught the break he'd been praying for.

He returned to the airport and caught the first flight back to the West Coast.

*   *   *

Jon snapped at Susan Schiff, which he'd never done before.

He'd asked to be left in peace for a while and shut the door. He paced and thought about Wahlberg.
Only that sleazy little bastard could dream up such a reprehensible scheme.

Then Susan stuck her head in ten minutes later, holding a manila folder.

“I thought I asked not to be disturbed?” he said sharply.

For the briefest moment, Susan looked as though she'd been slapped. Then her eyes darkened in that way they always did when she got pissed.

“You wanted to see this folder, so I'm bringing it to you, Jon.”

He looked at the folder like it was some kind of alien object. Then he realized she was right. And her willingness to stand up for herself had a secondary benefit here—it pulled him out of his bad mood and into a more focused frame of mind.

“Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry. Just … just some bad stuff going on.”

“Wahlberg, right?”

He took the folder from her. “Yeah. Who else?”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No, I have to work it out on my own.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” She turned to go back out. Just before she closed the door, however, she said, “By the way, you already
are
disturbed.”

He smiled. “Funny.”

“Yes, it is.”

He hadn't told anyone else about the Wahlberg mess yet. Connally would go berserk. He wasn't just hoping for McKinley anymore—he was
expecting
him. He didn't take disappointment well. It had been a mistake to go in there and get his hopes up.

Jon consulted the wall calendar—three days left.
Shit—three days.
There was no way this matter could be resolved in three days. Wahlberg was approaching a landmark contractual crisis, one that would add new pages to the legal books. The commissioner would have to get involved; maybe a review committee. This wasn't someone paying a parking ticket. This was full-scale litigation.
Could things get any worse?
he asked himself, about ready to scream.
The draft mess, Michael's injury, and now this … my God.

The phone rang. Jon was reluctant to pick it up. It had to be someone with a problem of some kind—general managers were the problem solvers, after all. Then he decided he could use the distraction. A ten-minute discussion about ordering more athletic supporters would be refreshing right now.

“Yes?”

“Jon? Freddie Friedman!”

His shoulders sagged.
An agent.
Life could be so cruel. The funny thing was, he and Friedman had a pleasant repartee. Freddie had a sterling reputation in the front office community, secretly admired for his ethics. Yes, he usually acted like a hyperactive child, and yes, he could wear you down in negotiations while trying to squeeze every last dime out of you for his clients. But he was basically an honest guy. If he had a client who wasn't worth big money, he wouldn't try to get it. If he had a client who had covered up a past injury, he'd tell you about it. He was a pain in the ass, but everyone liked him.

Nevertheless, all agents were demons in Jon's book right now.

“What can I help you with, Freddie?”

“I'm calling because I understand you might be interested in acquiring a quarterback.”

“The thought's crossed my mind, yes.”

“See why it's good to read the papers? Look, I have someone you should at least take a look at.”

“Oh yeah? Null gonna give it another shot?”

Jon managed to smile at his own joke, cheap shot though it was. Barry Nuller had been Friedman's “Great Discovery” twelve years ago—a kid from Kentucky who was nearly seven feet tall and could throw a ball through a tire at fifty yards. Friedman noticed him on a practice field while driving around lost one day. He signed Nuller to a free-agent contract and bragged that he would be the next Joe Montana. In spite of his physical skills, however, Nuller had the mind of a child. Friedman never bothered to check his school records, for if he had he would've known Nuller had been kept back three times and only made it to college because he could throw a ball a country mile and couldn't be knocked down with a steam shovel. In the NFL, however, he would be required to memorize playbooks as thick as phone books, and he could barely remember where his locker was.

“Yeah, you're
so
funny. No, I got someone here a little better than that.”

“And who would that be?”

“His name is Raymond Coolidge.”

“Coolidge? I think I've heard of him.”

“From a small school near Philly. But there's a lot more to him than you might think.”

Friedman was notorious for this kind if hype. Jon thought his true calling was sales or advertising. He could sell a pile of cow crap as a dinner table centerpiece.

“I'd like to bring him there and have you meet him in person.”

“I'm sorry, Freddie, not now. I'm up to my ears in a crisis.”

“Oh … how about tonight? We could meet at Hops, your favorite joint. I'll buy.”

Jon stopped pacing. “You're in Baltimore?”

“Uh-huh. At the Hilton, about ten minutes away.”

“And this kid is with you?”

“Of course he is. What did you think, I was going to fax him to you?”

Jon had to admit he was intrigued. Freddie Friedman had interrupted his own work day—which happened once every century or so—to come down here and present this kid. In spite of his high-spiritedness and appalling fashion sense, he was very serious about his business. And he had never been one to waste other people's time—if he called you about something, he believed it was something worth calling about.