The Draft (16 page)

After a prolonged period of moaning and writhing, Bailey managed to crawl to the door leading to a smaller adjoining room. It was their utility room, complete with washer and dryer, slop sink, and water heater. Wrapping his good hand around the edge of the sink, he pulled himself to his feet, then used the same good arm to push aside one of the tiles in the hung ceiling. The paper bag was exactly where he'd hidden it. As the throbbing continued merciless and unabated, he went to bury the needle into his shoulder. This, he knew, was likely to be the worst injection ever. He found an ankle sock in a basket full of dirty laundry and, without the slightest hesitation, stuffed it into his mouth. He was faintly aware of the gross taste but had his mind on much bigger things and couldn't have cared less.

He stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger down at the same time. The pain nearly blinded him, and his screams were so powerful that it took only seconds for his throat to turn raw. He crumbled to the cement floor.

When he finally began to feel normal again, some fifteen minutes later, he got to his feet again and put the spent bottle and needle, along with the remaining dosages and their companion needles, back into the brown paper bag. Then, his chest still heaving, he replaced the bag in the ceiling and slid the panel over. He leaned against the washing machine for what felt like a long time, eyes closed, waiting for his heart rate to drop. Then he walked out of the room on weakened legs and continued through the gym and back upstairs.

The problem wasn't getting any better.

9

Jon felt like he'd never left
his office. It had all been a blur.

He walked out the previous night just after eleven and got home just before midnight. His brain was numb to the core. He couldn't feel anything, couldn't hear anything, could barely see anything. His eyes were red and puffy, and they stung like hell.

He came into the house as quietly as he could, laying his bag and his jacket on a big chair in the living room. Everything was dark and quiet, a world of shadows and night-lights. He stripped to his boxers and crawled gently into bed next to Kelley, hoping he wouldn't wake her. The baby monitor hissed with white noise on the nightstand. He let out a long, weary breath and set his head on the pillow. No sooner had he done so than the alarm went off, beeping with the urgency of an intruder-alert system in a government installation.

He slapped the snooze bar and cursed, wondering if the damn thing was defective.
I just laid down, for Christ's sake!
Then he saw that it was exactly four-fifteen in the morning. The last four hours had passed as though they were mere seconds.

He didn't feel any more rested, but there was little he could do about it. He shook his head and reminded himself again of how much he loved his job and that he wanted to continue doing it. He threw the covers back and hustled into the adjoining bathroom, where he showered and shaved. Then into a new pair of khaki trousers and a Ravens polo, and he was downstairs stuffing a banana into his mouth. As he stalked back out the door, he realized he hadn't actually
seen
Kelley at any point. Lately she was just a shape under the sheets.

He didn't listen to the radio on the way in. He wanted to maintain the silence so he could continue going over deal possibilities. He'd done this so many times in the last few days he felt like one of those stats wizards who could quote every significant number pertaining to every player in the league since the merger. He swore he knew every bit of data about defensive guy on every team. He could write a goddamn book about them.

Susan Schiff, much to his gratitude, was already in the office, ready to roll. She had his paperwork organized on his desk and a mug of steaming coffee on its coaster. She wasn't anywhere in sight when he came in, but he realized she'd already been there a while.

He got into his chair and took a long sip of the coffee. She always made it just right. When the mug was half empty, he set it aside and dove right into the day's torture. He turned on his computer, launched Microsoft Excel, and first went to his own roster, into which he'd been keeping notes—

Then he turned to his updated list of draft picks—

And finally to the new, and certainly most important, list he had created in the last few days—

The first one was the most depressing. What a mess. The draft picks he didn't mind so much. But the players—the
guys.
He was throwing them out there like poker chips. And all for the sake of one man.

If McKinley doesn't pan out, they're going to come to my house and hang me from the nearest phone pole.

He was still six defensive players away from a solid package. The two he'd received from other teams so far had been expensive. How would it go from here? Part of him didn't want to know. He wanted this to be nothing more than a bad dream. He wanted to wake up and find himself lying in bed at home, with Kelley and Lauren next to him, Michael Bell still in perfect health …

With a deep sigh he turned back to the list of talent that might be available around the league. The first five names were crossed off. Two of them were now part of the package for Henderson. Technically they didn't represent final deals but instead tender offers; little more than a gentleman's agreement. So, in a sense, they were hypothetical at best. But all parties had given their word. No one would back out. They'd be crazy considering what Jon had given up.

The seventh name on the list was that of Martin Brynmoor. A second-string, third-year defensive tackle on the Bengals. Very talented, showed great promise when their starter went down with a broken leg the previous season. People were watching him now. His contract was ending this year, and it was no secret that he wanted to move on from Cincinnati. He and the head coach didn't get along, so he was seeing minimal playing time. Brynmoor was a difference maker, and he wanted out.

The problem was that getting him meant going through the team's GM, Tommy Greer. Jon groaned. Greer was sharp—too sharp. Dealing with him was like dealing with a mind reader. Jon admired and respected his business skills, but secretly wished he could turned them off like a light when
he
had to deal with the guy.

The phone rang twice and an assistant answered. She put Jon on hold for a moment, then Greer came on—

“Jon Sabino!”

“Good morning, Tommy.”

“How's it going?”

“Could be better.”

“So I've heard. What can I do for you?”

“I'm interested in making a deal for one of your guys, if you're interested.”

“Which one?”

“Martin Brynmoor.”

“Brynmoor?” Jon could hear papers being shuffled. He shook his head.

“The defensive tackle, Tommy. From Loyola.”

“Our defensive tackle from Loyola.”

“That's him. Six-five, three hundred and seven pounds. Going into the third year of his contract.”

“Correct. Third and final.”

“Right.… He's been a real contributor to this club,” Greer said, beginning the sales pitch Jon knew was coming. “He hasn't played much, but when he has, he's been pretty good. He averaged three solo tackles and three assists per game when he filled in for Jenkins last year. Not bad for someone who came off the bench.”

“Yeah, he's decent,” Jon replied, ready with his counterpitch. “But he's also a second-stringer, and frankly, Tommy, he knows he's good. He's had a chance to show his stuff. Others are sniffing him out now. Good DTs are hard to come by. It's not a glamour position, but he's a natural. He's big and strong, and he's quick as hell. He's coming into the prime of his career, and he'll want a good contract next time. Trust me, Tommy, he'll be looking to move up. He's going to cost you.”

This was the phrase that would get him, Jon knew. If there was one thing Tommy Greer was not allowed to do in that organization, it was spend money.

There was a pause, and Jon smiled. He had a pretty good idea what was going on in Greer's mind at the moment.

“You think so, huh?”

“Definitely,” Jon said. “He's in the perfect position to ask for a raise, so to speak.”

“We got him cheap the first time. He was a fifth-round pick.”

“That was then, this is now. His value has gone up. And with other teams looking his way, he knows he's in a good position to make a deal.”

“I don't think we could really help him with that,” Greer said quietly, almost to himself.

“Then let me take him off your hands. I promise to give you some guys who won't be pawing at you for every dime. You can have some draft picks, too.” Jon laughed. “They almost always come cheap, right?”

Greer laughed, too. They were suddenly good buddies. “Right, sure. Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“How about Kevin Curtis, the defensive tackle we picked up in the draft last year? He's a rookie and he hasn't played a down yet. He's not costing us much, so he should be a good replacement for Brynmoor.”

“Okay, I'm writing him down.”