The I.P.O. (13 page)

“Ok, so I’ll meet you back here at 6,” Dillon agreed, gesturing to his booth.  He then picked up his laptop and his phone and carved out a circuitous route toward the exit, making sure he wasn’t followed.  The convention center was big and crowded enough that he would never be missed, and the hotel was conveniently connected to the arena through another building, so he wouldn’t even have to step outside, but it was still a good ten minute walk, and he had some work to do.

His first stop was the business center in the hotel lobby.  Using his room key to pay, he sat down at one of the terminals and plugged in his laptop.  In no time at all he'd grabbed the shot of the press pass and several other recent photos of Ryan off of the digital frame.  Then with remarkably little effort, he fashioned Ryan a personalized press pass, changing the text and the photo but keeping the Fox reporter’s bar code on it.  He then printed it out, cropped it, inserted it into the plastic sleeve from his “exhibitor’s pass” that he was wearing around his neck, and took off for the arena.

Just as the game was scheduled to start, Dillon arrived at the will call window to pick up his tickets – one in section 230 and one in 213.  Then he walked out the northeast exit to look for Ryan.

Ryan was leaning against the rail at the top of the stairs just outside the arena, wearing a Hunting Valley Academy polo shirt, per the plan, when he saw Dillon exit the building. 

Dillon looked like he was stepping into the sunlight for the first time in his life.  His mop of coal-black hair accentuated the pallor of his complexion, and his gaunt limbs looked like white pipe cleaners with knees and elbows.  He was almost three years older than Ryan, but he was a little shorter and actually looked younger.  He was dressed in a plain black t-shirt and baggy jeans, hunched forward, struggling under the weight of his overstuffed backpack.

Ryan didn’t have time to register, much less modify, the gut reaction of surprise and disappointment that was painted across his face at first sight of his colleague before Dillon made eye contact with him.  Dillon’s pale white cheeks blushed as the look of determination and resolve on his face gave way to searing embarrassment, and his gaze sunk back to the ground in front of him.  He’d seen that look before – so many times.  But he’d never gotten used to it – one of the many reasons he preferred to stick with electronic communication.

When Dillon looked back up, Ryan’s expression had overcompensated to an unnaturally effusive smile that came across as both condescending and emasculating.  Dillon scowled at Ryan as he brushed by, his self-consciousness now turned to anger. 

Ryan put it together immediately.  He had to go through the same thing at the beginning of each school year, before saying or writing a word.  He was the cute little kid with the can-do attitude.  He realized he’d just given Dillon the same “Look at you, in the big kids’ classroom!” smile that he’d gotten every August at school.  And unfortunately, he couldn’t take it back.

Just before Dillon turned the corner of the arena, he removed a smaller bag from his backpack, placed it on the ground against the wall and continued on his way.

Ryan started after him, picked up the bag and yelled out, “You dropped your bag!” – just for the purpose of satisfying any potential witnesses.  But by that point Dillon had already re-entered the arena.

Ryan unzipped the bag to find a ticket to the game, the press pass, a walkie-talkie and a Bluetooth earpiece. 
A Bluetooth-enabled walkie-talkie.
  He had to hand it to Dillon, that was a pretty clever way to make sure there would be no record of their communication with each other.  He fit the earpiece in his ear, turned the walkie-talkie on, put the smaller bag inside his backpack and headed into the arena.  Amazingly their plan was still right on schedule.

~~~

The score was 24-18 Chicago at the end of the first quarter, and the CSKA Moscow execs were getting restless.  Scowling with their arms crossed in front of them, they muttered to each other tensely in Russian.  J’Quarius Jones had yet to take the floor.

“Ya govoryu po rusky
(I speak Russian),
”
Bradford announced in their direction to try to settle them down with the only Russian he knew, hoping they wouldn’t test him on it. 

He bit down on his knuckle as one of the Chicago kids scored again.  The longer they continued to lead, the slimmer the chances were that J’Quarius would see any action.  “You’ll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen?” he grinned coldly.

Stopping about halfway up the aisle, he pulled out his phone and fired off a message to Hansford Washington: “GET J’QUARIUS IN THE GAME!  NOW!  RUSSIANS ARE HERE!”  Then he stared intently across the court as he slammed his finger down on the send button to see if his text came across.  Hansford’s hand went briefly down to his right front pocket, apparently silencing his phone, but he never diverted his attention from the game.

Bradford was seething, but with no other recourse, he sauntered back down the stairs and joined his restless guests in the stands, reassuring them that J’Quarius would probably see “significant action” in the second half.

“Yes!” he whispered, pumping his fist slightly as the Ohio team scored, cutting the lead back to six.

~~~

“Tell me what you know,” Ryan said bluntly, wearing his Bluetooth earpiece.  Direct and to the point, the statement couldn’t be construed as condescending, and it highlighted the fact that Dillon had essential information that Ryan not only needed but was unable to get himself.  He hoped it would be enough to erase the first-impression fiasco.

“First of all, hi,” Dillon said with a low but cracking voice that was obviously in the process of changing.  There was a confidence to his tone that suggested Ryan’s play must have worked.  “Do you have something to jot notes on?” he asked.

“I don’t need to take notes,” Ryan said dismissively.

“Listen, you need to know this like the back of your hand.  I would suggest you jot some stuff down.  If you end up not needing the notes...”

“Look, I – I don’t need to take notes,” Ryan repeated, more self-consciously than boastfully.  “You said you’ve seen my file?”

“Oh.  Right,” Dillon said, remembering why he’d sought Ryan out in the first place.  “So this is what I found.  You might already know some of this, but J’Quarius was raised by his grandmother, Verna Jones, who died of cancer.  His mother Cheryl Jones died in childbirth, and his father is unknown, but Avillage has always been supremely confident that no one is going to come forward.  There’s no paper trail as to why they’re so confident.

“He was adopted by Avillage and placed with Arlene and Hansford Washington just after he finished 7th grade.  Hansford is a high school basketball coach and the assistant coach of the Chicago AAU team.  Arlene primarily stays at home and helps out with coaching too.  Aaron Bradford is the chairman of his board of directors.”

“Ok.  Any controversy?  Any dirt?” Ryan asked, unsure how to use any of this bland biographical information in a post-game interview.

“It looks like J’Quarius really had his heart set on going to college, but Avillage wouldn’t release his medical records, so no one could offer him an athletic scholarship.  He’s resigned to go to Russia to play professionally at this point, but I don’t think he’s too happy about it.”

“I wonder if J’Quarius knows anything about his biological father,” Ryan wondered aloud.  It seemed to him that J’Quarius was doing pretty well with Avillage (like Ryan was himself.)  Sure, he was probably miffed about not being allowed to go to college and by the fact that he’d be losing a huge chunk of his pro basketball salary down the road to his shareholders, but Ryan wondered if that would be enough for him to put any effort into joining their cause. 

On the other hand, every adopted kid wants to know about his biological parents; that was Ryan’s whole motivation for being at a basketball game in downtown Cleveland instead of at his friend’s house in the suburbs.

“Dillon,” Ryan asked hesitantly.  “Do you have any more info on my parents?”

“Yes,” Dillon answered curtly.  “We can talk about it later. 
After
you get J’Quarius to join us.”

“It’s conditional?” Ryan asked, shocked and somewhat offended.  Maybe Dillon wasn’t over that unintentional look he’d given him.

“It has to be,” Dillon said flatly. 

“Well, what if I can’t get to him?” Ryan asked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

“Then we’ll have to come up with a plan B,” Dillon said unsympathetically.  “This is
very
important.”

~~~

By halftime the game was knotted at 46, and the Chicago team jogged off the floor to a chorus of boos.  The Russian businessmen clearly weren’t the only ones who had noticed J’Quarius’s conspicuous absence from the court. 

The game had been both entertaining and competitive, but the
only
thing most of the fans had paid to see was the next NBA superstar before he was a star.

Above the entrance to the visitors’ tunnel, Leonard Weinstien jockeyed for position with a host of amateur photographers.  Then just before J’Quarius was directly beneath him, he unfurled a 72 by 36 inch banner with a neon-orange background that couldn’t be ignored.  On the left side of the banner in large black print was Leonard Weinstien’s contact information along with the statement, “Your father loved you.”  Taking up the entire right side was a blow-up of the picture Melvin Brown had enclosed in his letter to Weinstien.  Melvin was nineteen in the photo and in perfect health with bright eyes and a wide smile, kneeling on one knee in his football uniform.  J’Quarius stopped cold just in front of the sign.  Aside from the dated hairstyle and thin moustache, he could have been looking in a mirror.

He looked up at Weinstien who smiled reassuringly at him and nodded back down to his contact info printed on the banner, before J’Quarius was rushed into the tunnel by his coaches.  Hansford, who’d entered the locker room ahead of J’Quarius, hadn’t seen the banner.

Hansford and Arlene had warned J’Quarius that one day someone may come forward claiming to be his biological father.  They’d made it clear that whether the claim was true or not, they would never stop being his parents and they’d never stop loving him, but they’d warned him to be skeptical.  And he was. 

The banner read, “Your father
loved
you” though.  Past tense.  Was he dead?  In jail?  Had he stopped loving him?  Whatever the case, it would be an ineffective way to start a scam, if that was the intent.

From the opposite end of the arena, Ryan had watched the banner unfurl in front of J’Quarius through his binoculars.  He now had his answer.  J’Quarius did
not
know about his biological father.

“[email protected],” he whispered, committing the email address of the man with the banner to memory.

Two sections and twenty rows closer to the court, Bradford had watched the same scene unfold, aghast at the sight of Melvin Brown’s picture.  He was and should have remained a non-factor.  Things couldn’t be going much worse.  He frantically added Weinstien’s contact info into his phone while the banner was down, inadvertently transposing the “e” and the ”i” at the end of Weinstien’s name.

Back in the locker room, Coach Wright harped on his players about stepping up their pathetic defense and sluggish ball movement, while scattering in just enough praise to keep the team’s spirits up.  As he ranted, Hansford briefly dropped his gaze down to his phone and read the new message from Bradford.

As soon as the head coach finished his pep talk, Hansford walked up behind J’Quarius to see how he felt.

“Fine,” he said.  “I’ve felt fine the whole time.  I’m just nervous.”

“You think you might want to try and play a little bit?” Hansford asked.  “The Russians are here to watch you.”

“I guess I’ve gotta try at some point,” J’Quarius said with a tepid smile.  “It’s probably harder on my heart having to watch the other team make runs on us, being stuck on the bench.”

“I’ll talk to Coach Wright,” Hansford said, patting him on the shoulder.  “Now listen.  If you feel like you need a sub, you ask for one.  Don’t try to be a hero.”

“I won’t,” J’Quarius assured him.  “Oh and Dad, there’s one other thing I want to talk to you about – after the game.”  With only four minutes until the start of the second half, there wasn’t enough time to bring up a subject as complex as his biological father.

“Sure, son.”

~~~

The subdued crowd erupted, as J’Quarius finally shed his warm-ups and threw them over to the bench.

Bradford heaved an internal sigh of relief, but glanced at his Russian friends with a knowing smirk, as if he’d never had a doubt.  The Russians couldn’t help but smile back.

From the opening tip of the second half, the crowd’s discontent evaporated.  J’Quarius mesmerized the fans, his teammates, his soon-to-be employers and even the other team with highlight-reel dunks, no-look passes, and lockdown defense.  The ESPN announcers screamed out the play-by-play, straining to yell over the crowd.

By the end of the third quarter, Chicago was up by a comfortable fourteen points, and Bradford was seeing green.