The Draft (19 page)

“Jerry, Allison Blake. Ally, this is my agent, Jerry Wahlberg.”

Allison Blake smiled at last.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. They shook hands over the patient.

“You, too.”

“Okay, Mr. Bell, you're all set until tonight. I'm sure you two will want to be alone. I'll come back in a little while.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wahlberg.”

“Same here.” After she was gone he said, “Pretty formal place.”

“Yeah, too formal.”

“So how are you feeling, all things considered?”

“All things considered I feel all right. My back is killing me, but they keep me doped up so it doesn't get too bad. I'd like more, but they've already said no twice.”

“Yeah? And how's everything else?”

“Everything else is fine.”

“That's good. You've got more tubes and wires than a jet engine.” He motioned toward the small population of medical equipment behind the bed. “What is all this stuff?”

“I have no idea. One's for blood pressure, another's for heart rate. One of them is for my brain. They brought it in yesterday.”
After I started having dizzy spells,
he thought. “I think they're searching for signs of intelligence, but I keep telling them they're wasting their time.”

Wahlberg laughed but kept his eyes on the machines. They made him nervous. He had come here as a businessman worried about his central investment. His value in the agenting community would sink like a brick if his best client couldn't take the field anymore.

“When do you think you'll be up and about again?”

“By next season, as long as I do everything right,” Bell told him. “That's what they're telling me.”

“Will you do everything right?”

“You think I wanna be here?”

“No, of course not.”

There was a pause, and then Bell said, “You know the Ravens will try to get Christian McKinley in order to replace me, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Look at it from their side. Wouldn't you? The first question Peter Connally will ask is, ‘Why do I need two expensive quarterbacks?' You know how it goes in this business.”

Wahlberg
had
considered this but hoped it was nothing more than typical worrying on his part. It was part of his job to review all possiblities, even if most of them never arose.

“They want that third trophy, and I don't blame them,” Bell went on. “I would, too.”

Wahlberg didn't appear to be listening now. He was staring into space, lost in thought.

Finally he patted his star client on the arm. “I'll take care of it, Mike.”

“You'll what? What do you mean?”

“Don't worry.” Wahlberg headed for the door.

“Jerry, don't do anything nasty,” Bell said. “The Ravens have been good to me.”

“I know that. I won't do anything you won't like,” Wahlberg said over his shoulder, lying through his teeth. If Bell only knew half of what had gone on behind closed doors. He wasn't one of the wealthiest players in NFL history simply because he had a nice smile and an engaging personality.…

In his car on the way back to the hotel, Wahlberg began exploring the situation further in his mind. If he didn't do something fast, everything he'd worked for would be gone. And he knew no one else would sign with him; not with his reputation. He'd made plenty of enemies, all of whom would be outwardly delighted to see him crash and burn.

Not this time, fellas,
he thought with a nasty smile.
I've still got a good trick or two up my sleeve.

11

Unaware that one
of the turning points in his life was only moments away, Rob Macintosh sat on the couch watching television and eating Chinese food with chopsticks. He flipped from channel to channel, coming to rest every now and then on ESPN in the hopes of seeing himself. He'd had a brief interaction with the press today as he was leaving the offices. One of his great pleasures was making appearances on television, talking team business. He was neither handsome nor beastly, but he had natural presence on screen and knew how to use it. Unfortunately, the media generally ignored him, opting for the bigger fish—Connally, Sabino, Blanchard. But every now and then fate would toss him a bone and send the cameras his way.

The phone rang. He jumped as if he'd been poked with a stick. He wasn't expecting any calls. In fact the phone rarely rang here. The number was unlisted, and less than a dozen people knew it. He had almost no friends and liked it that way. Friends were a burden he didn't need. It couldn't be anyone in his family, either. His parents, brother, and sister were all still alive and well, but they only had his office number; it was easier to cut a conversation short using work as an excuse. It might be Jennifer calling from California, but that was doubtful.

Curious, he strolled across the carpet in his bare feet and lifted the cordless phone from its base on the glass table. He placed his thumb over the off button, ready to press at the first sign of solicitation.

“Hello?”

“Robert?”

“Yes?”

“It's Brendan Cavanaugh, of the Denver Broncos.”

Macintosh's heart began thumping.
He received the résumé …

“Oh … hi.”

“Hi. I'm sorry to be calling out of the blue like this.” He kept his voice calm, friendly. Always charm them at the start. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.…

“That's okay, no problem.”

They'd met once before—at a league meeting in Tampa two years earlier. Cavanaugh remembered getting along with him well despite the lingering tension between the Broncos and the Ravens over the whole Bell debacle.

“Do you have a moment? Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

“Huh? Oh no, no. Just watching some basketball.”

He went back to the couch and muted the TV, silencing the first game in the NCAA's Sweet Sixteen tournament.

“What's up?”

“Well, I received this résumé from you, and frankly it looks pretty good.”

Macintosh paused. It couldn't be this easy, could it?

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. You've got plenty of experience. I'm surprised, though, that you're leaving a team you've been with for so long.”

Silence from the other end.

“Are you having problems there?” Cavanaugh asked, goading him. He didn't think it would take much.

“I'm … concerned about the future,” Macintosh said.

“Your future?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me guess—nowhere to go, right?”

Another pause, and then, “Not for me, it seems.” The bitterness was unmistakable, so Cavanaugh went in for the kill.

“Is it Sabino?”

“Oh no, he's okay. I mean, I know you two aren't crazy about each other, but he's not the problem.”

“Higher up, then?” Cavanaugh continued. He knew there was only one person in that area. “Right?” It was no secret Peter Connally wasn't the most personable individual in the world, particularly if he took a disliking to you.

Macintosh replayed the humiliating encounter in Connally's office in his mind. “Yeah, higher up.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Cavanaugh said in a gentle, almost fatherly manner. He wanted Macintosh to feel comfortable with him, trusting.

It worked. Unable to hold himself back, Macintosh launched into a long-simmering tirade about how he'd had such a bright future with the club during the previous regime and thought he would end up either the general manager someday or maybe even go into the pure business side of it and become one of the financial officers. Real power, real influence. But then Peter Connally came along and left him drying on the vine.

Cavanaugh couldn't have cared less, but he listened patiently and delivered the appropriate sympathies at the appropriate moments. He could feel the hook sinking in.

“So now I've got to start over,” Macintosh said in conclusion.

“That's awful,” Cavanaugh said, managing to sound just disgusted enough. “Ridiculously unfair. By the way, have you sent this résumé to anyone else?”

“No, I thought I'd try you first. I have some friends in Denver, so I can move up there pretty easily.” This was a lie, but he wasn't about to give the impression getting to work every day would be a hassle.

Cavanaugh drew a deep breath. This was the big moment. His instincts told him he was on the right side of the odds and the victim had been adequately primed.

“Okay, look, I've got something in mind for you. Technically you could consider it work for the Broncos, but you're going to have to stay in Baltimore to do it.”

“Huh?”

“I need some information, Robert. I need a pair of eyes and ears on the inside.”

Macintosh smiled.

“Spying?”

“You could call it that,” Cavanaugh said.

“Whoa.” The game required that he sound at least mildly shocked.

“It would all have to be kept fully confidential, of course. No paper trail, no e-mails, that kind of stuff.”

“Sure, sure.”

“It happens more often than you think, Robert. Remember that rumor about a Falcons' special-teams coach spying on a Giants' practice from atop the Meadowlands Sheraton? Everyone said it was nonsense, but later that week the Falcons crushed the Giants as if they'd known every offensive play ahead of time.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“It really does happen.”

“Okay, look, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“What's that?”

“For the sake of argument, let's say I accept this, uh, ‘job' and everything works out great. Once that's done, can I have a position on the team?”

“Absolutely.”

“Something decent?”

“Yes.”

“I won't be washing the goddamn towels or anything, right?”

“No.” Cavanaugh laughed. “No towel washing.”

“Can I ask what, specifically, you'd have in mind for me?”

There was a pause. Macintosh wondered if perhaps he'd pushed too hard. In reality, Cavanaugh was simply thinking of who he'd been hoping to get rid of.

“How about operations manager?”

Now it was Macintosh's turn to pause.

“You're kidding, right?”

“Not at all. You've been there for eight years—eight years of solid experience. That's more than enough to run operations, at least as far as I'm concerned.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“We can consider this an official part of the deal?”

“Yes, we can. You help me with what I need, and I promise I'll take care of you. It'll be worth it, believe me.”

Macintosh paused again, thought about the obvious dangers—and tremendous consequences—of spying in the NFL. Cavanaugh was right—people had done it before, and some got caught. Those who did weren't around anymore. It wasn't so much the sin that got them blackballed, but the fact that they weren't good enough to succeed.

Macintosh believed he was good enough, more than good enough. The rewards far outweighed the risks. He allowed himself a momentary fantasy, one that involved his new position, his greatly enhanced salary, and stealing the girl of his dreams away from that two-bit asshole.

The words seem to come out on their own—“I'll do it,” he said firmly.

Cavanaugh smiled.

Bingo.