The Cut (15 page)

“Hello?”

He went out there and found a smallish woman of Asian decent in a maid's uniform, his shirt and tie hanging from her finger.

She smiled. “Here are your things,” she said sheepishly, as if it were her fault they hadn't been ready. The mixture of Eastern and Western accents created a peculiar hybrid.

Kenner smiled back, reaching into his pocket. “Great, thank you for getting it up here in such a hurry. I'm sorry, but I have to go right back out or else I wouldn't have called.” He handed her twenty pounds.

The woman looked at it as if he'd just placed a snake in her hand.

“No, no, only seven,” she said.

“You keep the rest,” he told her. “I appreciate you getting it to me so quickly.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you.” She performed a spare, awkward bow and retreated to the hallway, closing the door.

Kenner returned to the bedroom, tearing off the plastic and slipping into the shirt as he moved along. He finished the call with his wife while doing the tie, then grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV. He went through the stock prices, seeing nothing of note, and switched to ESPN. His timing couldn't have been better—or, depending on your perspective, worse.

“… and now that this grievance has been officially filed with the league, the situation could spiral downward into a nasty spitting match, much in the spirit of a contentious divorce,” Greg Bolton was saying. He was standing in a studio somewhere, in a suit and tie, with a black backdrop covered by ESPN logos in red. “So the relationship between T. J. Brookman and the New York Giants appears to be getting worse instead of better.”

The broadcaster back at network headquarters thanked Bolton for his fine reporting and told him to keep on the story, then moved along to a baseball update.

Kenner was on the phone again in seconds. He switched to speaker and sat down on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands folded. The first person he spoke with was Amanda Bellwich, Alan Gray's assistant. Then, a moment later, Gray himself.

“Dorland! How are things going over there on the other side of the pond?”

“Busy,” Kenner replied. “Very busy.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Gray told him.

“No, nothing at all. Hey, listen, I'm in my hotel room, on my way back out, but I just turned on ESPN and saw this story about a grievance that T. J. Brookman filed against us. Is this true?”

There was a pause, and then Gray said, in a grave tone, “Yeah, I'm afraid it is. It looks like he's turned on us.”

“Why?”

“He wants more money. He and that asshole agent of his.”

If there was one feature of Alan Gray's personality that Kenner never cared for, it was his generous use of profanity. Kenner was sometimes guilty of it himself, but he believed a little went a long way. Gray used it as if he were being paid by the word. Some conversations with him were like watching lost scenes from
Scarface.

“If I'm not mistaken,” Kenner went on regardless, “T. J.'s one of the best tight ends in the league. He's done some great things for us, hasn't he?”

“There's no doubt the kid's talented,” Gray replied, “but he signed a contract, and Chet and I expect him to honor it.”

“But what about—”

“He only has one year left—this coming season—on the damn deal anyway. After that, we'll be happy to come up with a new one, something that's better suited to his current skills and contribution. But if we give him a new contract now, they'll all be coming in with their asshole agents. It'll be a stampede.”

Another pause, this time from Kenner's side.

“Don't worry, he'll be properly compensated,” Gray assured him. “But for right now, what with the vast complexities of the salary cap and everything, we really can't screw around too much with our current setup.” Gray had inserted the words “salary cap” on purpose, because he and Chet Palmer had determined, via previous conversations, that they had a magical effect on Dorland Kenner. He had some idea of how the cap worked, but the finer points of it were still out of reach. This was why the team had hired a cap expert full-time. In truth, Alan Gray didn't know much more about the cap than Kenner did, but he did recognize its manipulative value. When in doubt, bring “salary cap” out, and amazing things would happen.

“Next year will be different,” Gray went on, “but this year, we just can't.”

Kenner was nodding. “Okay, and what happens with this grievance? It's not making us look too good, is it? As I'm watching this report, looking at it from a fan's perspective, I'm thinking the Giants are the bad guys here.”

“Only for the moment,” Gray said. “Only for the moment. I'm very confident this will fizzle into nothing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, mainly because T. J.'s claims are unfounded. Yes, he wants more money. Don't we all? Doesn't everyone? And he and that little prick of an agent waited until right before training camp to pull this. Why not back in April or May, when we would've had time to deal with it? Why right now? Because he thinks it gives him leverage, that's why. Frankly, I think it makes them look bad, not us.”

Kenner nodded. This made some sense, he thought. “And in the meantime, he's not in training camp, right?”

“That's right. We're trying out three other guys, all of whom have some real talent. If worse comes to worse, we'll have to play one of them instead.”

“But they won't be as effective on the field as T. J.,” Kenner noted.

“You never know,” Gray said quickly. “We didn't think T. J. would turn into the player he's become, either. But I had a feeling about him.”

Kenner sighed. “Okay. I guess the situation's about as good as it can be, all things considered.”

“Don't worry,” Gray said. “This'll work out in the end. T. J. will be here, playing and contributing.”

Kenner nodded again. Then he remembered why he was back in his hotel room in the first place. When he checked his watch for the third time, his heart skipped a beat. “All right, Alan, thanks as always for your time.”

“My pleasure.”

“Please keep me updated on what's happening with this.”

“I sure will.”

Kenner terminated the call with a hard tap on the speaker button and zoomed out, grabbing his jacket and sliding his arms into it before he reached the door. A moment later he hit the London sidewalk and jumped into the first available cab. It melted into the traffic flow and was gone.

*   *   *

Back in northern New Jersey, at the team's offices in Giants Stadium, Chet Palmer was sitting at his computer, typing out an e-mail that would be sent to everyone in the organization, when his phone rang. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he grabbed the receiver.

“Chet Palmer.”

“It's Gray,” the coach said gruffly from 135 miles away, in Albany. Palmer instantly knew something was wrong; he'd been dealing with the guy long enough to spot that certain tone in his voice.

“What's the matter?”

“The boy knows about the situation with Brookman and Sturtz.”

Anytime Gray spoke to Palmer about Dorland Kenner, he referred to him as “the boy.” Put simply, Gray was the type who believed that the young should have no function in society other than to serve at the pleasure of those who were older—and they most certainly should not be the
employers
of those who were older. Although Gray never came out and said as much, Palmer could sense that he loathed, with every fiber of his being, the fact that the man who provided his paycheck was more than twenty-five years younger. Palmer was also of the belief that Alan Gray enjoyed being a coach, at least in part, because it gave him limitless opportunity to push kids around—many of whom were already wealthier and more highly regarded than he would ever be. And if they disobeyed or displeased him, he could exact whatever punishment suited his whimsy. It was yet another nasty thought about Alan Gray, but he couldn't deny what he'd seen over the years.

“How'd he find out?” Palmer asked.

“It was on fucking ESPN, Chet!”

“Oh, good God.”

“Yeah, good God.”

“Well, don't get all riled. It won't go anywhere.”

“That's what I told the sonofabitch,” Gray said, and Palmer was thankful the phones around here weren't bugged—whereas in some clubs, or at least he'd been told by some reliable sources, they usually were. “He's concerned anyway. Wants to know what's going on. Wants to be updated.”

“Okay, so we'll keep him updated. We'll manage the situation, and we'll keep him updated.”

“Yeah,” Gray said, then let out a quick, irritated sound. “You know, I liked it a lot better when that fucker wasn't so interested in how things worked around here.”

“I know,” Palmer said.

“One thing's for sure,” Gray went on.

“What's that?”

“We have to find our mole.”

“Our who?”

“The mole. The scumbag who's feeding all this inside information to the media.”

“Alan, that could be anyone,” Palmer said. “Teams always have moles. Sometimes more than one. How are we going to accomplish that?”

“I'll find out who it is, trust me,” Gray told him, and Palmer detected the slightest touch of excitement in his voice—like a hunter in the hour before the fox is released, almost twitchy with psychotic eagerness. Suddenly Palmer wanted this conversation to end.

“Trust me,” Gray said again, “I'll find him … or her.”

Then Palmer got his wish—the call was terminated, followed by the dull single note of the dial tone.

14

“See how the
outside linebacker cuts in right here?” Jim O'Leary asked, using his laser pointer to place a small, glowing dot on the player in question. The slightly blurred frame was frozen to the markerboard in the tiny classroom assigned to the tight ends. O'Leary sat behind a black IBM laptop, an overhead projector humming alongside it. “When he does that, you need to break from the outside lineman you're covering and let the left tackle step in.”

Jermaine Hamilton, looking as serious as ever, nodded. “My initial assignment is the outside lineman, unless the back moves in,” he said.

“That's right. Since we place a second tight end on the opposite side, along with a receiver,” O'Leary continued, moving the dot over, “the defense may be lured away from the sweep, so this scenario shouldn't be that common.”

“The left guard pulls at the snap,” Daimon Foster said, “leading a blocking line in the direction of the run.”

“Correct.”

“Along with the center,” Corey Reese added, “to create a curtain so the back can turn the corner.”

“You got it.”

It was a toss-sweep play that the team had used sparingly over the last season. Greenwood had swiped it from the Cowboys' playbook and made some modifications to fit his own personnel. When properly executed, it all but guaranteed minor upfield progress, ideal in short-yardage situations. Occasionally it provided a bit more than that. Once, when running back Jason Thomas found himself hemmed in, Lockenmeyer yelled for the ball to be tossed back to him in an impromptu flea-flicker. He then mailed it twenty-eight yards downfield to T. J. Brookman, who had found a lane on the weak side and was wide open. Brookman went twelve more yards for an easy score against the 49ers. It was almost a sandlot play, unplanned and undisciplined, but Greenwood liked it so much that he put it in the book. He even had the unit practice it from time to time, although he hadn't used it in a game yet—it was such a big deal in the highlight films that defensive coordinators watched for it.

“By putting one of you on the far side of the action,” O'Leary continued, “we create a dual threat. The linebackers aren't sure where to commit.” He told them the pseudo-flea-flicker story. “We just got lucky with that one, but it made us realize we could turn this into a passing play if we wanted to. And, psychologically, our opponents now worry about us doing this any time we run it.”

“The advantage of a two tight end set,” Reese said, almost to himself.

“No weak side” was Foster's comment.

“You could do almost anything,” Hamilton added. “This could become a pass play, starting off in an I-formation as if you were planning on running up the middle or to the outside.”

“With two tight ends,” Foster said quickly, not wanting to be outdone, “the defense couldn't cover them both,
plus
a receiver.”

“The tight end who throws the initial block on the left side could even break away and move into the interior for a short pass,” Reese said. “Shit, even the back could throw it. It wouldn't be more than five or six yards.”

O'Leary smiled in the dark. These three were like excited children, such was their enthusiasm and focus. It was almost ten o'clock at night, when most players were barely able to walk and only wanted to fall into their cots, and these three were still hard at it. Furthermore, they were going over a play that was late in the book—they were studying ahead while most of the other hopefuls were running just to keep up. What started out as merely another training camp was quickly materializing into one of the most enjoyable experiences of Jim O'Leary's thirteen-year coaching career. This really was what his profession was all about—guiding eager young talent so they could fulfill their potential and succeed. Even Hamilton, who supposedly was past his prime and ready for the broadcasting booth, seemed like a rookie again. O'Leary couldn't recall a time when he'd had such attentive pupils. The only sad part was that he and Greenwood could only have one of them. The other two would have to be thrown back into the water, two fish who were allowed to get away. Glenn Maxwell, who was also in the room but had said nothing all evening, was the mainstay, the grunt worker. So their other tight end had to be someone special. At first O'Leary wondered if such a person was to be found in these three prospects. Now he would have trouble deciding which of the three it would be.