The Cut (26 page)

“That's correct, Tommy,” Greg Bolton said on the screen. “The arbitrator has decided he cannot force the Giants to renegotiate T. J. Brookman's contract, regardless of Brookman's outstanding play these past two years.” A tiny microphone was clipped to his maroon tie, and he stood in front of a blue fabric backdrop.

Spencer, back in ESPN studios in Connecticut, shook his head. “Boy, rough news for Brookman and his agent, Barry Sturtz. Probably not what they wanted to hear.”

“No, I would think not.”

You're damn right about that
, Sturtz thought as he stood in his home office. He'd had the TV on all day in case ESPN knew about the decision before he did. It wasn't inconceivable, considering the depth with which they'd covered the story thus far.

In any event, he and his client did find out first, in the form of a fax that came out of the machine on Sturtz's desk about an hour ago. It now sat squarely on his blotter, isolated from all other paperwork. It was the only issue on his mind at the moment.

He hovered by the tall windows again, looking across the yard to where the deer had been. There were none out there now. No signs of life at all, which Sturtz found ironic since there weren't too many in here, either.

“I'm really sorry, T. J.,” he said for the third time, the Bluetooth headset jutting from his ear like a
Star Trek
prop. He was dressed in gray slacks and a light blue shirt open at the neck. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, not that I can think of.” Brookman sounded exhausted. “So what do we do now?”

Sturtz took a deep breath. “Well, we've got two choices. You get in there and play, make the best of it, do a great job, pray you don't get injured, and try to land a solid new contract at the end of this season, either with New York or someone else.…”

“Or?” His tone made it clear this wasn't his preferred option.

“Or we can ask for a trade again.”

“Can that really happen?”

“In theory. I've still got this one team interested,” Sturtz said, thinking back to the James Bond–type meeting he'd had in the middle of Nowhere, USA. “They said they'd be willing to give up quite a bit.”

“And who's that?”

“I can't tell you, I really can't.”

“Not even now?”

“No. None of it is supposed to be happening in the first place, remember?”

“Right.”

“So let me take care of it.”

“Do you think the Giants will go for it?”

“They're going to want a lot. Remember—they don't really want to let you go.”

Irritated, T. J. said, “They don't want to pay me, but they don't want to let me go. It's ridiculous.”

“I know it is. So what do you want me to do? Do you think you can tough it out for one more season, or should I make a call?”

After a brief pause, Brookman said, “The coaches are going to treat me like shit if I go back.”

“Not all of them,” Sturtz replied. “Dale Greenwood and Jim O'Leary seem to know that this is part of the game. They're decent individuals.”

“But Gray.…”

“Gray's going to be an asshole.” Then, almost to himself, Sturtz added, “But he
is
an asshole, so what choice does he have?”

“What if he makes Greenwood sit me? What if he signs one of those other guys who's there now and I sit on the bench all year? Who'll want to take me then? And what about my stats?” Brookman's voice was rising.

“I'm not going to lie to you, I've seen it happen before. Some coaches can be very vindictive.”

“And Gray is that type of guy.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Christ.… But if we insist on a trade, then we look bad, right?”

Sturtz turned away from the windows, finding no comfort there. “Well, it doesn't look
good.
You can get a reputation as a guy who isn't a team player.”

“But people will know why I did it. They'll understand, right?”

“Oh, everyone will know
why
. Even Gray knows
why
. He knows damn well that we were justified in our demands. But that doesn't mean someone won't use it against you.” He wandered without direction around the room, hands in his pockets. “This will be a tough, unpleasant negotiation. Everything will be on the table. If someone can use your … your
uncooperativeness
 … as leverage, they will.”

“Same with you, right?”

“Huh?”

“Trying to force a trade will make
you
look bad, won't it?”

“Yeah, a little. But not too much.” He surprised himself by smiling. “Everyone thinks agents are scum anyway, so what's the difference?”

If nothing else, this got his client to laugh. “Shit … well, I'm sorry. This is causing a lot of trouble for you.”

“No, pal,” Sturtz replied, absently picking up a
Greatest Hits of the Seventies
CD that sat atop a pile of others by his stereo. He turned it over several times, then set it down again. “We made the decision to do this together. You have nothing to apologize for.”

The conversation faded again. Sturtz moved away from the stereo and toward a collection of autographed photos framed and hanging on the wall over the minibar. “So what do you think?” he said finally. “What would you like to do?”

Now it was Brookman's turn to take a deep breath. He didn't hurry with his answer.

But when it came, Sturtz was pleased. “You got it,” he said.

Then he was on the phone again.

*   *   *

“I gotta tell you, Alan, I was nervous there for a while.”

Palmer sat facing Gray, slumped in one of the two guest chairs on the other side of the coach's desk. He held a can of Coors in both hands, resting it on his stomach. He'd been nursing it for nearly thirty minutes, and it was warm now. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he was the only one around at this late hour, and Gray didn't want to celebrate alone. The coach had knocked down three in the same span and had just taken a fourth from the little fridge.

“
I
wasn't worried,” Gray said, delivering the lie in the easy way a person when they knew there was no way of disproving it. “There was no angle from which the arbitrator could justify the grievance. No way. If they okayed Brookman, then they'd have to rubber-stamp every punk in the league who thinks he should be getting paid more just because he had a good season. We'd be dealing with this shit every damn day.”

“I guess you're right,” Palmer said, taking another tiny sip and trying not to wince. “So what happens now?”

“With Brookman?”

“With everyone. With everything. Guys have been flying out of here left and right lately.”

Gray wiped his mouth with his hand. “Well, we've got to cut six more in total. Six more, and then we'll be at the magic number.”

“No problem with that?”

“None at all. I have only one more cut to make on defense, and I'm pretty sure who that's gonna be—Loman.”

Palmer nodded. “And on offense?”

“That's up to Greenwood.”

“What about your mole? Any progress there?”

Gray cracked open the new can, took a long swig, then belched mightily. “We haven't found the fucker yet, but we will.”

There had been two other interrogations, both similar to the one with Abraham. Like Abraham's, they were both dead ends. Blumenthal did check out Abraham's claim that he was only communicating with his father and discovered that the kid had been telling the truth. For the briefest moment, he thought about dropping in and issuing a brief apology. Then he heard that Gray cut the kid right in the middle of a practice, in front of everyone. Abraham fled before Blumenthal got the chance.

“And when Brookman returns, what do I do? Do I start putting together a new offer of some k—”

Gray was already shaking his head. He did this in a severe, self-important way that Palmer found irritating. “No new deal.”

“But we promised him—”

“That's irrelevant. No new deal. We'll squeeze another year out of him cheap, then dump him. I'll need that money for defense. I'm not blowing it on one kid. He and his agent will get nothing from us.”

He lifted the can and took another sip. Palmer watched this, fascinated not so much by the man's capacity for alcoholic intake as his unabashed nastiness. He realized Alan Gray wasn't so much hard-nosed or a taskmaster or any of the other names given to unflinching, ruthless people—he was just plain
mean
. A coldhearted sociopath with just enough charm to get ahead. Worst of all—he enjoyed it.

“So … what happens when he returns? Do we fine him for—”

“Fine him,” Gray said quickly. “Keep fining the bastard as much as we're allowed to fine him. That'll make him even cheaper than he already is.” He chuckled, pleased that the arbitration decision had essentially become a license to screw T. J. Brookman into the ground.

“And what about the three guys Greenwood brought in to replace him?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they've been doing pretty well, but we can't sign them all.”

“Again, that's Greenwood's department. But you're right—we can't keep them. I'll tell him to cut 'em.” Gray waved his hand. “They all have to go by Monday.”

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and folded his hands across his chest. Palmer continued staring dead-eyed at this man whose nerve was not to be believed. He had manipulated the situation flawlessly, bringing in three eager hopefuls, all of whom had performed magnificently in the belief that they really had a shot. Now that Gray had what he wanted, they were to be tossed out like any other trash.

What Palmer didn't know was that someone else was even more amazed by Gray's audacity than he was—someone who had been standing outside the half-open door and had heard every word.

29

Jermaine Hamilton possessed
the enviable gift of being able to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, in any position. No matter what the circumstances, if he was tired enough, he could simply close his eyes and drift away.

He lay sideways on his too-small cot, atop the messy sheets rather than under them, snoring generously. Just overhead, reared back like a cobra poised to strike, was the reading lamp he'd purchased at Wal-Mart on that first night with Freddie Turner. It was still on and shining into his face. Alongside his pillow, lying open, was his playbook. He'd gone through it so many times that he'd just about memorized everyone else's assignments, too—to the point where he occasionally (and with the requisite diplomacy) corrected some of his teammates, on both offense and defense, during practices. He could not remember a time in his career when he knew a playbook so well.

The door opened just minutes before one o'clock. Corey Reese crept through first, followed by Daimon Foster, both dressed in dark tracksuits. Foster closed the door quietly.

Reese knelt beside Hamilton and set a hand gingerly on his shoulder. This caused Hamilton's snoring to become louder and more erratic.

“Jermaine?” Reese whispered. “Hey, wake up.” He gave him a gentle shake. “Jermaine, come on.…” He turned back to Foster briefly. “Maybe if I kicked him in the balls.”

Foster didn't even crack a smile; the whole idea of this visit didn't sit well with him. Reese had woken him up less than an hour ago and spilled his story, so he knew it was inevitable. But he still didn't like it.

“Jermaine, come on.…”

Reese shook him hard once, and that did the trick. Hamilton came to in an instant, rolling over and croaking something unintelligible, his eyes wild with confusion.

“What? Huh? Hey, what are you—”

Reese put both hands up. “Take it easy, now, take it easy. I'm unarmed, see? Okay?”

Hamilton looked from him to Foster, and those red eyes narrowed. “What the fuck—what are you two doing here?”

“Shhh,” Reese said, putting a finger to his lips. “You'll wake up the whole damn floor.”

“What? Get the hell out of—”

“Jermaine, shut up,” Foster said flatly. That seemed to have some magical effect, for Hamilton, stunned, fell silent. Nevertheless, he looked like he had murder on his mind. “You need to hear what Corey has to say.”

Hamilton looked to Reese again, who managed a smile. Then he took the liberty of sitting on the empty bunk on the other side. It had been vacated five days earlier, when the Turk came to claim Turner. Hamilton hadn't been here when it happened, but he found a note on his pillow. Short, sweet, and a little sentimental, but the pain between the lines was unmistakable. Hamilton imagined Turner trying to keep a steady hand as he wrote it, then handing it to Blumenthal so he could review it for acceptable content before letting Turner set it down.

“Okay, look,” Reese began, “you and me and Daimon here, we're all in some trouble. Big trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“I was on my way to see Coach O'Leary a few hours ago, and as I was walking past Gray's door I heard him talking to someone. I think it was Chet Palmer.”

Foster watched Hamilton closely, the way one cop standing in the darkened corner of an interrogation room watches a suspect while another fires the questions. “So?”

“So, I don't make a habit of eavesdropping, but I heard them talking about
us.
” He motioned to the three of them with a quick sweep of his finger. “All of us.”

Concern dawned on Hamilton's face, diminishing an equal part of his anger, and he slid up onto one elbow. “Yeah? So why is that—”

“We were set up,” Reese said, and he said it with no pretense or emotion. Because of this, it carried even greater impact.

“I don't understand.”

“We were brought here as leverage for Gray against T. J. Brookman.” Reese's disgust was communicated through his emphasis on the word “leverage.”