Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (13 page)

I’m sorry to tell you this, Dominique, but we’ve just fulfilled our quota for cornerbacks at Florida State.

There were similar messages from coaches from South Carolina, Georgia, Auburn, Arkansas, Florida, Louisiana State. The list went on and on.

What is this? What did I do?

Then Dixon looked at his Twitter feed. He put his hand over his mouth as he scanned the messages.

@NiqueBaller2 Good luck at junior college next season

@NiqueBaller2 Reggie Bush’s uncle gave him an Audi TT too #toxic

@NiqueBaller2 Was there cash in the trunk? #sorryimnotsorry

@NiqueBaller2 Ignore those jealous punks … you gotta get it while you can #yolo

@NiqueBaller2 Sellout! You would’ve looked great in orange and blue #gogators

Dixon tried to blink back the tears that welled up in his eyes. All he’d worked for was vanishing right in front of him. Every scholarship. Every dream. Gone in the time it took to post a picture of his new car.

He opened a web browser on his phone and surfed to a recruiting website which contained a short story about him on the front page.

Toxic Bayou?

SAINT-PARRAN, La. - Almost overnight, five-star recruit Dominique Dixon went from top-flight recruit to toxic when a post of him and a new sports car went viral earlier today. Sources say that almost all the colleges that offered Dixon a scholarship are no longer interested due to the social media faux pas.

While Dixon isn’t the first player to squander a chance to play at a major college program due to missteps on social media, his story is one of the harshest cautionary tales.

Dixon seethed as he glared at his phone.

“I’m not playin’ at some junior college in the sticks in front of fifty people.”

He slammed his fist on his steering wheel. He pressed the ignition button and the engine roared to life. It then purred before he jammed the stick into first gear and barked the tires.

He needed to call Sanders.

CHAPTER 21

“WHAT IS IT, HONEY?” Kelly asked as walked into the room. “I just finished making dinner. Can it wait?”

Cal shook his head. “Not if you want me to land that book deal.”

Her face lit up. “How can I help?”

“I need you to enhance a picture taken by a camera phone.”

“Cal, I’m a photo journalist, not a miracle worker.”

“Just see what you can do to get a better resolution on this image. I’m emailing it to you now.”

“OK, but no promises.” She left the room to retrieve her laptop.

Cal read through his notes for the next fifteen minutes before Kelly returned carrying her laptop.

“Could you do it?” Cal asked.

Kelly winked at him. “Does a kitty cat have climbing gear?”

“Seriously? You? The south has taken hold of you already? Nobody down here can answer me straight. It’s always some strange colloquial expression.”

“What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Cal cut his eyes at Kelly and snarled.

“You know you love me,” she said. “And you’ll love me more after you see this.”

She pushed the laptop in front of Cal, who stared at the image spread across the screen. Kelly managed to enlarge the picture while maintaining vital details. Not a single feature on the alleged Alabama booster’s face was lost.

“Brilliant! You are amazing!”

“Yeah, yeah. Wait until you taste the chicken cordon bleu I made for us tonight.”

Cal smiled. “Give me a few more minutes and I’ll join you.”

Kelly left the room as Cal picked up his cell phone and began dialing.

“Is Barry Hunter there?” Cal asked when someone answered.

“Speakin’. Who’s this?” the man asked.

“This is Cal Murphy from
The
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. I’m working on a recruiting story and I heard you were an expert when it came to identifying boosters of college football programs in the south.”

“The midwest and southwest, too,” Hunter corrected.

“Excellent. I have a picture I want you to look at. I have a hunch there’s some dirty dealings going on with a recruit I’ve been following and I was wondering if you could confirm if a guy in a picture is affiliated with Alabama or not.”

“Only if you keep my name out of it.”

Cal agreed and then wrote down Hunter’s email address. In a matter of seconds, Cal emailed the photo and waited on the phone.

“That dirty dog,” Hunter said.

“What? Do you know who that is?”

“Guy ‘the snake’ Lewis. He’s dirtier than two ticks mud-wrestlin’ in an outhouse.”

“What does he do?”

“I don’t know what his real job is, but he moonlights as a fake booster for hire. You want to pin somethin’ dirty on a program, you call Guy Lewis. He’ll dress up in just about anybody’s team colors and do some dirty dealin’ for the right price—except maybe Bryant University’s.”

“Is he a Bryant booster?”

“Nobody knows for sure. But I know of at least ten schools that he’s done this to in the south—and Bryant ain’t ever been among ‘em. But this is a bit surprisin’.” “How so?”

“Nobody normally gets this close to him to take a picture.”

“Kids and their cell phones these days.”

“I reckon. But it’s sloppy, even for Guy. He usually wants to give off the illusion that he’s representin’ a team. I don’t think he wants his face associated with this. Bad for business.”

Cal thanked Hunter for his help and hung up. He immediately began a web search for Guy Lewis and came up with several images that confirmed what Hunter said. Cal didn’t doubt for a second that the man depicted in the photo talking to Dixon was Guy Lewis.

Cal walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. A half-eaten chicken breast stuffed with ham and Swiss cheese sat on Kelly’s plate.

“Hungry?”

“Famished. What did you find out?”

“I’ve got a question for you first.”

“What’s that?”

“Do we have any mileage we can use for a plane ticket?”

“What on earth do you need that for?” Kelly said as she put down her fork.

“I have to level with you, Kelly. I need to go back to Louisiana.”

“The paper’s not going to pay for it?”

“Gatlin took me off the story permanently,” Cal said as he sat down.

“What?”

“Yeah, he didn’t think there was anything there.”

“What about your literary agent? Can’t he help pay for it?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean, the publisher found another story to publish and cut me loose. I’m on my own.”

Kelly broke down and started sobbing. Cal walked over to comfort her but she pushed him away.

“Leave me alone. I should’ve known this was going to happen. I’m never going to get pregnant.”

“Honey, it’s just a temporary setback. It’ll work out.”

Cal returned to his seat and ate his dinner over Kelly’s quiet cries. He couldn’t bear to see her in such emotional pain. But he wasn’t ready to give up on the story either.

CHAPTER 22

DOMINIQUE DIXON SAT SLUMPED against the cinder block wall of the Saint-Parran High field house as he waited for Hugh Sanders. The hum of the light on the utility pole and the cacophony of croaking bullfrogs created a soundtrack to accompany the nip in the evening air. Dixon snatched a swatch of grass and picked at it as he pondered the recent events in his life. A tear streaked down his face. He sniffled and wiped the tear away with the back of his hand.

“Everything all right?” a man asked as he appeared from around the corner. It was Hugh Sanders.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Dixon answered as he stood up.

“You’ve been through a lot lately. I think anyone would understand being a little emotional after all you’ve been through.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you were fine, we wouldn’t be here. The truth is everything you worked for is crumbling. I hope we can rectify that situation for you.”

Dixon seethed inwardly but put on a pleasant demeanor for Sanders as if his future depended on it.

“I hope so, too.”

“So what have you got for me?”

“The smoking gun on Bryant University.”

“Smoking gun? I’ve heard that said about dirt on Alabama’s program plenty of times, but nothing ever comes of it.”

“There’s never been any dirt like this.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, watch this video Tre’vell forwarded me,” Dixon said as he pulled out his phone and replayed the footage. It lasted just over a minute.

Once the video ended, Sanders stared at Dixon, mouth agape. “Does anybody else know about this?”

“I don’t think so. If they knew I had it, I’d likely be dead now, too.”

“What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ this video is what got Tre’vell killed.”

“You really think that?”

“Coverin’ up a murder in Saint-Parran is far easier than tryin’ to refute this video.”

Sanders nodded and stroked his chin. “Hard to disagree with that.”

“So, you think there’s still a spot for me at Alabama?”

“Son, we’ll name a building on campus after you if you give me that footage.”

Dixon smiled. “Great. All you have to do is get Coach Raymond down here to agree to meet with me and guarantee me a spot on the team in writing.”

“He can’t do that.”

“He will if he wants this footage. Bryant’s not the only one I’ve got dirt on—just remember that.”

Sanders scowled. “Let me call Coach Raymond and see what I can do.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Sanders said as he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and walked toward the parking lot. His new Audi TT awaited him. And he didn’t care who saw him. He didn’t care what people wrote about him on Twitter either. He was sure he was going to play for the University of Alabama.

***

Hugh Sanders remained behind the field house several minutes after Dixon left. He didn’t want to cause the young man any more trouble than he already had.
No teenager should get a red sports car and be subjected to anything but good ole-fashioned jealousy.
But Sanders had more important matters to address.

He walked to his truck and climbed in before hitting speed dial.

“What’s going on now?” Alabama coach Dick Raymond said as he answered his phone.

“You’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

“Unless it’s the second-coming of Herschel Walker or Bo Jackson, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Oh, this is something you’ll want to hear about.”

“Why’s that?”

“I just saw the reason why Tre’vell Baker and Dominique Dixon decided to renege on their commitment to Bryant University.”

“You saw it?”

“Yeah, it’s a video. It wouldn’t be admissible in court, but the NCAA would take it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s something you have to see for yourself.”

“Send it to me then.”

Sanders took a deep breath. “It’s not that simple. I don’t have a copy of it. And Dixon won’t give me one unless you come down to visit him and guarantee him a scholarship.”

“I can’t guarantee him anything. He’s the one who dragged his feet. We got our backup target in Dallas—and he’s got a lot less baggage than Dixon.”

“Maybe so, but Dixon’s got something that will sink Bryant.”

“Sink them?”

“Yeah, like the NCAA death penalty.”

“What time should I be at the airfield in the morning?”

“Be there at six a.m. I’ll take care of all the arrangements and have you back in Tuscaloosa by ten. Does that work for you?”

“I’ll be ready at six.”

Sanders hung up and texted Dixon details of the next morning’s meeting.

“This just might be better than winning a championship,” Sanders said to himself.

CHAPTER 23

FRANK JOHNSON STARED at his beer bottle and smiled. A sports anchor on the television at the end of the bar at Bons Temps reported the demise of high school superstar Dominique Dixon. Every college interested in Dixon withdrew their scholarship offer, according to anonymous sources, of course. The ever-watchful eye of the NCAA created a cottage industry for compliance officers at universities across the country, all employed to ensure that their school’s coaches adhered to every recruiting guideline. It was the only way to shirk constant inquiries and probation threats from college athletics’ governing body.

He felt a jolt to his arm and nearly spilled his beer. He turned around to see Phil Potter sliding into the seat next to him.

“What do you think about that?” Potter asked as he gestured toward the television. “That kid should’ve stayed in state and gone to LSU.”

Johnson laughed. “Why? So he could finish second every season?”

Potter glared at Johnson but stopped once he caught the eye of the bartender so he could order a drink. Once the drink was ordered, he returned his gaze to Johnson.

“LSU still beat Bryant like a three-legged yard dog this year,” Potter snipped. “Better than finishing near the bottom of the league every year.”

“We’re on the way up,” snarled Johnson.

“It’s the only way your sorry team can go.”

Johnson buried his face in his hands. He’d set himself up for Potter’s barb, one that stung because it was true. Despite all of Bryant’s money, not much had been able to wrestle the balance of power away from Alabama. He finally looked up. “One day, it’ll happen. You can count on it.”

“Not if you scare away five-star recruits like Dixon and Baker.”

Johnson rolled his eyes. “My school isn’t the one that can’t keep top talent in state. That’s your school.”

Potter didn’t hesitate before he socked Johnson in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. Johnson stood up and bum-rushed Potter. The altercation lasted all of ten seconds before other patrons stepped in and broke up the fight.

The bouncer escorted the pair to the door and shoved them out by the back of their shirt collars.

“Sober up before you come back tomorrow, boys. And start actin’ like grown ups.”

Johnson touched the corner of his mouth with the fingers on his right hand. He checked his hand: blood. It wasn’t much, but Potter got the better of him.