The Cut (23 page)

“Sure. But.…”

“What?”

“Well, what are you going to do to the person responsible if and when you catch them?”

“I'll take care of that.”

*   *   *

Garrick Hart had a problem. Actually, he had four—and they were all in the form of speeding tickets.

“You've got to get me out of this,” Hart pleaded. “They're going to take my license away!”

Maybe they should,
Freddie Friedman thought.
You drive like a damned lunatic.

“All right, take it easy” was what Friedman actually said into his headset. The wire down ran into his shirt, snaked around his back, and connected to a cordless phone attached to his belt.

Friedman was a small, spare man of forty-six, with dark hair that he kept well oiled and combed straight back. He was the president and CEO of Good Sports Ltd., an agency that represented over two dozen pro athletes, most of whom were in the NFL. He had built the company from nothing, starting with a gifted basketball player who had gone to high school with him back in Brooklyn and eventually landed a contract with the Dallas Mavericks. Friedman had a gift for numbers and powers of retention that bordered on freakish, but his most endearing quality from his clients' perspective was his integrity. He could be so brutally honest at times that it stung, but he always played it straight. In a business infested with maggotry, this was by far his greatest asset. He kept his client list relatively small, but they were all big-ticket people. He didn't steal their money, didn't sleep with their wives, and didn't ignore their phone calls. In return, all he asked was the standard 15 percent of their earnings—which they happily gave. As a result, he had become a very wealthy man.

One of the only disadvantages, he had come to discover, was having to deal with the antics of mental toddlers like Garrick Hart.

“I just bought that Alfa, man!” the four-time Pro Bowler whined on. “Over two hundred grand! If I can't drive it around—”

“I said take it easy,” Friedman repeated, firmly but kindly. “I'll make some phone calls and see what I can do.”

“Shit, they'll want me to go to one of those driving schools with all those losers.”

If there's anyone on this earth who needs to be schooled in the art of driving
.…

“You won't have to go to school. But look, if I manage to get this cleared up, you've got to start driving a little more responsibly.”

“Re
spon
sibly?!”

“That's right. Doing ninety through a mall parking lot might be a bit much.”

“They were
closed
, Freddie. I just wanted to see what she could do.”

“You could've killed yourself, or your girlfriend. Or both.”

He knew the mention of the girlfriend would get him to back down. Friedman didn't even know the woman's name. It might be Alexandra; or maybe that was the last one. He'd lost track at some point and didn't really care enough to follow up. What he did know for sure was that Hart's wife wouldn't be too happy if she found out.

“Shit … all right. I'll try and slow down.”

“I hope so, because next time they'll stick you in the cooler for a month. That'll mean the end of your endorsements, too. And I won't be able to do anything to help you if that happens. You've got to behave yourself.”

“I know, I know.”

There was a beep, and Friedman snatched the handset from his belt. The tiny screen displayed a phone number with an 816 area code, and the words above it read
KANSAS CITY CHIEFS
. Since Friedman didn't have any clients with them, he was a little puzzled.

“Garrick, I've got to go. I've got another call. I'll let you know what happens.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He thumbed the
FLASH
button, and Hart disappeared.

“Hello?”

“Is this Freddie Friedman?”

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't quite put a name to it.

“Yes, that's right.”

“Oh, good. I was afraid I might've had an old number. Freddie, this is Derek Knudsen, general manager of the Kansas City Chiefs.”

“Hey, how are you?”

What's he calling for?

“I'm fine, very well. How are things on your end? I'll bet it's beautiful in upstate New York.”

Friedman, who was already standing (he rarely sat when he was on the phone; moving around helped him think), turned and admired the view of the Adirondack Mountains through two panoramic windows.

“It certainly is. What can I do for you today? Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. I'm calling about one of your clients.”

“One of
my
clients?” Odd—they were all under contract.

“Yes. Now, you understand, Freddie, this call is strictly off the record.…”

Friedman had a digital recording device on his desk that could be activated simply by pushing a button. What stopped him from doing just this was Knudsen's reputation. He was a brilliant man with a razor-sharp understanding of how the National Football League worked. He had degrees in law, business, and sports psychology. He was too smart to say anything over the phone that he shouldn't, so there would be little point in capturing the conversation.

“Sure, that's fine.”

“Good. We're just having a discussion here about one of your boys.”

“May I ask which one?”

Knudsen laughed. “I suppose I should mention him at some point, right? It's Corey Reese.”

Another surprise.

“Corey? What about him? He's in camp with the Giants right now.”

“We know. And we've been watching him. Pretty impressive.”

“Yeah, he's done well so far.” Never disagree with a compliment from a prospective customer.

“A lot of us thought that knee injury two seasons ago signaled the end of his career, but he seems to have bounced back.”

“Amazing, isn't it?”

This was no lie—Freddie Friedman
was
amazed at how Corey Reese had brought himself back from the brink of ruin. He'd seen other athletes suffer the same injury, and most of them never saw action again. They all vowed they'd return, but it rarely happened. It was like battling lung cancer—a fraction won the battle, but the majority did not. Reese, through discipline, education, and raw determination, had defied the odds.

“It is indeed. That's why we decided this call was necessary.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

Knudsen's voice dropped. “Freddie, I realize the comment I'm about to make isn't in keeping with league policy and is a violation of unwritten ethics, but we wanted you to know that, should Corey fail to make the final cut in New York, we'd be very interested in having him here in Kansas City.”

There it was, as plain as day. Yes, making an offer for a player who was already under contract was a great whopping breach of rules and regulations. But Knudsen, Friedman noted, was careful not to make a specific offer. All he did was make it clear that they were
willing
to make an offer. Dancing along the edges, that's what Knudsen was doing.

“How interested?”

“I can't get into the details, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But I assure you it would be worth investigating further.”

Friedman was doing quick numbers in his head, getting a general idea of where he would want to go with the negotiations. One factor, unfortunately, was Corey's dire financial situation. He had urged and pleaded with Corey to keep it as quiet as possible. Amazingly, the media had never caught wind of it, but that didn't mean people within the league weren't whispering about it. Did Knudsen know? He had a reputation for thoroughness, and he rarely went into a negotiation without digging up as much information as possible.

Most important, however, was that this new twist meant Freddie now had some leverage. There was a time when it appeared as though Corey Reese would be doing TV commercials and magazine ads for the rest of his life. Now he was on the radar screen of two different teams. After a few more showcase performances, maybe there'd be four or five.

“Freddie? Are you still there?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. I'm sorry.”

“Well, what do you say? If things don't work out, can I count on a phone call from you?”

“I believe I can promise you that, yes.”

“And to us first?”

Friedman almost laughed.
He's trying to find out if anyone
else
has called, too.

“Sure.”

“Great, great. Okay, I'll let you go now. I appreciate your time very much.”

“My pleasure. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

Still staring at the beautiful view that he didn't take the time to admire as much as he should, Friedman shook his head and smiled.

He really did it—he really came back from the dead.

“Incredible,” he said to the mountains and the blue summer sky. “Just incredible.”

24

Hunched over his
laptop and sitting in the bathroom with the toilet lid down and the lights off, Giants defensive lineman Howie Abraham reviewed what he'd just written.

Gray is the biggest jerk I've ever played for. He won't let me get in there, doesn't pay attention to me when I'm doing drills. I've played just fourteen downs in two preseason games. He only wants
his
guys on the team, guys he's known for years. Antonio Burgess has been with him since he was an assistant coach with Minnesota. But Burgess is an old man who has the grace of an elephant. I was playing better than him in my freshman year at Cal. I honestly don't even know why I was invited to this camp. I got a bad vibe from Gray on day one. He clearly doesn't like me and isn't interested in what I can do. What a waste of time.

He looked like a mad scientist, the way his face was lit by the diffused glow of the monitor in the otherwise darkened room. He made a few grammatical adjustments to the text, then clicked the
SEND
button at the bottom of the IM box; thank God for the free Wi-Fi in the building. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he was exhausted. These occasional late-night writing sessions always took a toll, and he'd pay for them tomorrow, but he had to get this stuff off his chest, had to do something to strike back at Alan Gray. He certainly couldn't vent to any of his teammates. They were good guys, but trust only went so far when there was so much on the line. The competition was tight now.

After a few minutes, a reply arrived.

I know it's tough, but it'll be worth it in the end. If the Giants don't take you, someone else will, I'm sure. I'm glad that you're confiding in me this way. What else is happening?

Abraham smiled; he had a feeling the man at the other end would ask this—he always did. He set his fingers on the keyboard and started pouring out more thoughts.

The loud
BOOM!
that shattered the night silence and caused Abraham's heart to lodge in his throat was caused by someone smashing the door open in the main room. Seconds later, the bathroom door was yanked back and a hand reached in and flicked on the light. Abraham, momentarily blinded, never had the chance to shut the laptop and kill the connection.

“Hey, what the
fuck
?” he heard his roommate say.

“Shut up and stay still,” came an authoritative, deep-voiced response from someone Abraham couldn't see. The reason he couldn't see the guy was that there were two other people in the bathroom doorway—Don “the Turk” Blumenthal and, just behind him and smiling broadly, the subject of Abraham's last message. In spite of the fact that it was at least two o'clock in the morning, both Gray and Blumenthal were fully dressed and as clear-eyed as if it were high noon.

“What's going o—”

The Turk snatched the laptop from Abraham's knees with a speed that few would've believed he possessed.

“Hey! No!”

The Turk passed it back to Gray, then put a hand on Abraham's massive chest when the latter stood up. In spite of the ridiculous difference in their sizes, the Turk wasn't the least bit intimidated.

“A little late-night correspondence, Mr. Abraham?” Gray said with a chuckle. He set the computer down on the student desk—an exact copy of the one in Daimon Foster's room, although in slightly better condition—and pulled out the chair.

“That's a private message,” Abraham said.

“Oh, nothing's too private around here, son. You should know that.”

Abraham pushed himself far enough forward to observe the rest of the room. He noted with faint horror that the third man—the one with the deep voice—was now leading his roommate, safety Brandon Wade, into the hallway and closing the door. “Come on out here with me,” he told Wade. “This doesn't concern you.”

Abraham was petrified but refused to show it. He remained motionless until Gray was finished going through the dialogue he and his correspondent had exchanged for the last half hour.

“Hmm … I'm quite a guy in here, Howie. You've got me one notch below Hitler.”

No response.

Gray read a little more, then stood and faced the defendant. “Tell me, how much are they giving you?”

Abraham's face made a slow transformation from defiantly blank to genuinely puzzled. “What?”

“Over at ESPN. How much? Are you getting cash, or is it something else? Promise of better coverage for yourself?”

Abraham looked briefly to Blumenthal—who, he realized for the first time, was studying him
very
carefully—then back to Gray. He felt like he was being interrogated by the CIA.
Was this even legal?

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Those messages—”

“Who else sends e-mails—”