The Protégé (7 page)

Suddenly there was a furious banging, a loud fist slamming against a door over and over.

“Jesus Christ!”
Wright shot up in bed.

“What’s wrong?” Peggy was up instantly beside him, rubbing her eyes. “My God, what is it?”

As quickly as it had started, the banging subsided, and Wright realized that the knocking had been on the door across the hall. He swallowed hard and ran his hand over his forehead. He was sweating like a leaky faucet. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

“David, what’s wrong?” Peggy asked fearfully, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing, baby, nothing,” Wright assured her, lying back down and pulling her beside him. He wanted to tell her so badly, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell anyone. Which was the hardest part of it all.

4

“
SO, YOU EXCITED?
”

Gillette watched Kurt Landry shove a cell phone–size forkful of sirloin steak into his mouth as they sat at a back table of Sparks Steak House in midtown Manhattan. Landry had starred as a defensive end for the New York Jets in the eighties, then caught on with the National Football League’s front office after a couple of high-profile stints—a two-year deal as a booth analyst for NBC’s primary Sunday game and some heavily marketed rental car commercials. So he was instantly recognizable to the public, a perfect spokesman. Once at the league office, he’d played his cards right by doing a lot of palm pressing and behind-the-scenes lobbying at off-season meetings, and he’d been elected commissioner two years ago in a close vote by the owners. He’d beaten out the senior partner of a prominent Wall Street law firm in the election, mostly because the bloc of owners backing Landry believed he’d act as their puppet—they didn’t want someone who would think independently.

Craig West had done some checking for Gillette, and apparently Landry’s backers had been right, he was doing exactly as they wanted. There were strings everywhere.

But Landry’s backers weren’t here today.

As he watched Landry gorge, Gillette noticed how many of the man’s physical features seemed oversize: his head, his mouth, his ears, his hands. He barely fit in a chair made for a normal-size man.

“How tall are you?” Gillette asked, ignoring Landry’s question.

“Six seven.”

“How much do you weigh?”

Landry laughed, a baritone rumble. “Two fifty, but that’s forty pounds under my playing weight. I’m damn proud of myself for taking off all that weight and
keeping
it off.” He scooped up a greasy spoonful of home fries and downed them with one swallow. “Come on,” he said, slapping Gillette on the back with a bear paw of a hand after putting down the spoon. “You excited?”

Gillette nodded. “Sure.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Hey, you’ve got a lot of fun coming your way with this thing. I mean, what could possibly be better than owning an NFL team?”

“I don’t like getting ahead of myself.”

“What does that mean?” Landry asked, scooping creamed spinach onto his plate out of a serving bowl.

“I want this to be a good investment for my partners,” Gillette answered. “Four hundred and fifty million is a ton to pay for something that’s never generated a dime of income. When we’ve done well financially, when we’ve made a good return on our money, then I’ll get excited.”

“Money-schmoney,” Landry said, smirking. “Think about all the perks, especially with a Vegas franchise.”

“There’s a downside to that city, too.”

“Hey, you’re the youngest owner in the NFL,” Landry pointed out, paying no attention to Gillette’s caution. “Everybody wants to see you again, too, especially after that article in
People.
”

Gillette pushed his plate of half-eaten filet and steamed broccoli into the middle of the table so he could put his elbows down. “Look, I’m not the owner, Everest Capital is. And I was never even interviewed for that article.
People
did that all on their own.” He was starting to feel like siccing Stiles on the guy who wrote the thing.

“I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you,” Landry said, wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “What was the story line? ‘Most eligible bachelors in the country’? Jesus, most guys would die for that kind of pub. I bet that article’s opened some doors, especially to some very attractive women. You’ve got it going on, don’t you, boy?”

“You know, I’m just not into personal publicity, Kurt.”

A concerned look came over Landry’s face. “But you’re going to be chairman of the team, right? You’re going to be making the major decisions, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Landry seemed relieved. “Uh-huh, well, I would have liked it if that article had been written about me.” He waved at one of the waiters, indicating that he wanted more water. “So, tell me about Everest. The
Reader’s Digest
version, please, I don’t know much about the investment world.”

Clearly, Landry hadn’t been very involved in the selection process. If he had, he wouldn’t have needed the Everest primer. His minions—or the owners’ minions—must have done the heavy lifting as far as analyzing the different bids. “We’re an investment firm,” Gillette began. “We usually buy and manage companies that manufacture things or provide services. And they’ve usually been around for a while before we get involved, so this situation is different for us. Which is why we have to be extra careful here. Not that we aren’t always careful, but we want to be extremely cautious in this situation. Anything goes wrong with this thing and my investors will be on my ass. That’s why I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. You’re going to make a boatload of money on this thing,” Landry said confidently. “Besides, that article said you have the magic touch when it comes to investing.”

“I do all right.”

“There were lots of people trying to get this franchise.”

“What won it for us?” Gillette asked directly. “Was it price alone, or were there other things?”

Landry put down his napkin and leaned back, folding his thick arms over his barrel chest. “I really can’t comment on that, Christian. There were lots of criteria; obviously price was very important. But the owners don’t want me to talk about what went on behind closed doors.”

“Who were the other bidders?” Gillette asked, ignoring the soft warning.

“Mostly wealthy individuals.”

“Who?”

Landry chuckled nervously.

Obviously, he wasn’t used to this kind of cross-examination. In his position as commissioner, he probably didn’t sit on the hot seat often. When there was a controversial issue, the owners probably handled it for him. They must have anticipated that today’s lunch would be just a formality. They probably figured the winner would be so happy at getting the franchise that he wouldn’t dig for information. But Gillette was always digging. Having information others didn’t was a surefire way to make money. “It really would be helpful to know,” he pushed. “I don’t understand why it’d be a problem to tell me now that the selection process is over.”

“All names I’m sure you’d recognize. I mean, there aren’t that many individuals around who could afford an NFL team.” Landry held up his hands. “But I, I really can’t say any more. League policy.” He grimaced.

Like all of a sudden the meeting wasn’t going the way he thought it would, or like he wished it were one-thirty and he could leave, Gillette thought, interpreting the grimace.

“Let’s talk some more logistics,” Landry suggested, picking at something between his teeth.

“Okay.”

“Tell me about the stadium construction. What’s the timing there?”

Another indication Landry hadn’t been one of the decision makers. All that information had been spelled out in the final bid package Everest had submitted to the NFL two months ago. “The architectural plans for the stadium were in the bid package. We still need to choose a primary contractor, but that shouldn’t take long. There are only three or four serious players for this job. Our advisers tell us that once we’ve chosen the contractor, the stadium can be finished in eighteen months.”

Landry rested his chin in his palm, as though he were thinking hard. “So, then, the plan is for your team to start playing not next season, but the season after that. We’ll have the expansion draft a few weeks after next year’s Super Bowl. That’ll give you time to see what veterans you’ve got before the college draft.” Landry grinned. “Damn, I wish I were in your shoes.” His grin grew even wider. “If I were you, I’d make sure I was there for cheerleader tryouts.”

Gillette broke into a halfhearted laugh. Landry had no conception of what it meant to be in charge, no idea of the pressure involved. “I’ll remember that, Kurt.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit,” Landry said enthusiastically. “The NFL is fun, a marketing machine, the biggest damn party in all sports, and now you’re at the center of it.” He pointed at Gillette. “You beat out some people who’ve been trying to get one of these teams for a long time. There’s folks out there who are pissed off right now, but the NFL made the right choice. It always does.”

Gillette picked up his fork and pushed the broccoli around his plate. “Why are they so pissed off?”

“Because they lost,” Landry said, as if the answer were obvious.

“Well, they didn’t bid enough, so they’ve only got themselves to blame, right?”

Landry shrugged. “Right . . . I guess.”

Suddenly, Gillette wished he could have been a fly on the wall during the selection meetings. Wished he could get his hands on all the bid packages. Something didn’t smell right. “There’s one more thing I want to talk to you about today,” he said, glancing at his watch: one twenty-three.

“What’s that?”

“Organized crime.”

Landry’s body went stiff in the chair, water glass halfway between the tablecloth and his mouth. “Huh?”

“The Mafia.”

“What about it?” Landry kept his voice low, his eyes flickering around.

“Do you have any information about how active they are in Las Vegas?”

“No. I mean, I don’t, specifically, have any information.”

“Does someone else at the NFL office have that?”

Landry hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you guys must have looked at that hard before you decided it was all right to have a franchise in Las Vegas.”

“Of course we did,” Landry agreed emphatically.

“And?”

Landry hesitated. “And I’ll talk to our people who are in charge of franchise development later this week, when I get back from my trip. But what the hell are you worried about? We’ve never had a problem with the Mafia.”

“You’ve never been in Las Vegas.”

“No, but we’re in New York, Chicago, and Florida,” Landry argued. “What do you think they’d do, try to make players fix games? We monitor that very carefully. We have a team of people who review every game tape with a microscope to make certain there wasn’t anything shady going on. Experts who can spot quarterbacks just barely under- or overthrowing receivers, running backs going down without really being hit, linebackers missing easy tackles, placekickers going wide on purpose. I don’t understand what you’re worried about.”

“It has nothing to do with the actual operation of the team,” Gillette explained. “I’m more concerned about the casino and them trying to influence the regulators on license renewals and things like that. And what they might gouge me for during construction of the casino and the stadium because they control the unions. You know, slowdowns and sick-outs if I don’t pay them.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve done some checking,” Gillette continued, “and I think they’re still active out there, maybe more so than people think. I’ll have better information on that in the next day or two. I’m willing to share that with you as long as you share what you have with me.” He looked at Landry intently.

“Of course, of course.” Landry cleared his throat as he checked his watch. “Look, maybe the best thing is for you to back off on this casino idea for a while? Get the franchise established first, then we’ll talk about the casino again in a few years.”

Landry suddenly seemed nervous, pulling the napkin through his fingers, bouncing one knee.

“No way,” Gillette said firmly. “The only reason we offered four hundred and fifty million for the franchise was so we could build the casino. Without that, the bid doesn’t make sense.” Not entirely true, but Landry didn’t know that. “That was clearly stated in the bid package.”

“Right, right, but things change. We all know that. Everything’s always up for renegotiation, right?”

“Not this,” Gillette answered coldly. Landry gazed back for a few seconds, then glanced away, unable to stare Gillette down. “I hope I’m making myself clear.”

“Let me get back to you.”

Gillette shook his head. “No, I need an ironclad yes right now, or I go to our friends in the press and let them know you’ve reneged. If I do, you won’t get close to four hundred fifty million when you reoffer the franchise. People will smell a problem, especially when I tell them why we backed off.”

Landry blinked. “No, no, don’t do that.”

“What’s your answer, Kurt?” Gillette demanded, glad the Wall Street lawyer hadn’t won the election for commissioner. “I need to know right now.”

Landry took several gulps of water, then nodded. “Okay, okay, you got your casino.”

WRIGHT MOVED
slowly through Saks Fifth Avenue’s main entrance across from Rockefeller Center, then meandered through a maze of glass counters full of perfumes and body lotions. He gazed emptily at the perfectly made-up women behind the counters who were smiling back, ready to sell him something outrageously expensive.

He stopped and rubbed his face hard in the middle of an aisle, hoping he’d wake up in his bed beside his wife and realize that what had happened at the sex shop had all been just an awful nightmare. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, praying, knowing he was being irrational—which he prided himself on never being—but unable to calm down. He was holding on to anything at this point, anything that might give him a shred of hope. But when he opened his eyes, he was still in Saks, still in trouble.

“You all right?” asked a pretty, dark-haired woman from behind one of the counters.

Wright glanced over at her. “Huh?” He’d been thinking about how he hadn’t seen or heard anything on TV or radio about a woman being found dead between two parked cars in the West Village. Which seemed strange. The story might not be enough for CNN, but it should have made the local news.

“You look like you’re having a bad day,” said the saleswoman. “Girl trouble?”

Wright gazed at her, the horrible image of the woman dropping from the block of wood still vivid in his mind.

“You know,” the saleswoman continued, “you should give her something nice.” She reached for a small bottle on a purple velvet cloth. “This is called Allure,” she said. “It’s one of our best sellers.”