The Cut Read online

  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.

  “The opposite-side tight end could even run a post pattern,” Reese went on, “going up about ten yards, then cutting out.…”

  * * *

  Through the dorm window two hours later, Daimon Foster watched the full moon in the night sky. He lay on the cot, hands folded across his chest, with his cell phone between his fingers. His roommate, Howard Jenner, another undrafted player who was hoping to nab a spot on special teams, was snoring softly on the other side of the room. Foster barely knew him.

  Everyone else was asleep now, as it was almost midnight. He knew damn well he should be asleep, too. Adequate rest was essential during training camp, and the last thing he wanted to do was take unnecessary risks with his future. But he couldn’t help it—he couldn’t turn his mind off now. Not after the call from Alicia.

  O’Leary ended their meeting just before eleven. He told all four of them that they were doing great, that he was pleased with their progress. Foster believed him—he seemed like a very decent man, very honest and straightforward. Daimon thought he was slightly ahead of the other two, Hamilton and Reese. Maxwell apparently was going to make the team regardless. He had two years left on his contract and knew what he was doing. The Giants wanted to replace T. J. Brookman, and Daimon had begun to believe he just might be the one they’d choose. He was by far the fastest of the three. Since he was the youngest and in the best physical shape, he had greater speed and quickness. He didn’t have the distraction of Reese’s rebuilt knee, nor the weight of Hamilton’s years. He was just as smart as they were, too. Smarter, maybe. True, they had more experience. But what was experience except knowledge? He would learn in time. He had good studying habits, he was observant, and he had plenty of native intelligence. Anything they can do, I can do better. This had become his new motto.

  When he first arrived, he was scared of his competition. Hamilton and Reese had already been there, knew their way around. He figured he was the long shot. Then he got on the field and began studying them, looking for places where he could outdo them—and he found many. Hamilton sometimes seemed winded. He didn’t have the endurance of a young man. He compensated for it with excellent hands and remarkable knowledge of the playbook. He also knew every defender’s trick imaginable, and he overcame them with a few of his own. But Daimon watched and learned. Let the guy show off, he thought several times in the relentless August heat. The more he shows them, the more he shows me. And Reese had lost a step or two since his glory days. Foster sensed the knee still worried him. Maybe it really was fully healed and fully functional, but Reese didn’t seem to think so. Physical scars and mental scars were two different things. When the former healed, the latter often lingered. Maybe all Reese needed was for someone to walk up to him and say, “You’re doing fine. Don’t worry about the knee. It’s working just the way it’s supposed to.” If so, Daimon sure as hell wasn’t going to give it to him. Perhaps that was a cold way of looking at it, but that was how he believed he had to be now. There was too much at stake here. Far, far too much.…

  That damn phone call.

  He tried to talk to Alicia every night before he went to sleep. A few times he was just too tired and couldn’t even bring himself to unfold the phone. Once he even dozed off in midconversation. On this night, though, he was feeling pretty good. Two great practice sessions in which he’d made several solid plays, some words of encouragement from Coach Greenwood plus a few teammates who’d barely noticed him during his first few days of camp, and then the meeting with O’Leary. He was walking two inches off the ground as he headed back to his room. He couldn’t wait to give Alicia the news.

  But something was wrong; he could hear it in her voice. She was excited for him, but it was forced. She was distracted, upset. He knew her too well now. They weren’t married, weren’t even engaged, yet she was an open book to him.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, I know you better than that.” He was trying to keep his voice low, trying not to wake the snoring Jenner. “What’s happened?”

  She told him—two break-ins on their street in the last week. One woman was viciously beaten; an elderly woman, no less. Her house had been ransacked, all her silver and jewelry stolen. She’d been taken to the hospital, and Alicia hadn’t heard any more. There was yellow tape around the house. The police were looking into it. They had no leads yet. Bunch of kids, someone said. A gang, most likely, but there were many in the area. There had been a spree of murders, too. All prostitutes. Some were comparing it to the famed Jack the Ripper killings of 1888 in London. Again, the police had no clues. The same kids? Maybe. Then again, there were a lot of loonies who came to the casinos for a few days, did their thing, and left. Could’ve been anyone. Atlantic City was a transient’s mecca, as all casino towns must be. Solving crimes in such an environment was a near impossibility. Could it actually be getting worse? What happened to the civic improvements that were advertised by the politicians when the casino owners began building their glittering towers? What happened to the feel-good promises of a greater, happier, healthier Atlantic City? A place to have children, build a home, and receive your slice of the American dream? What happened to all of that?

  Daimon’s blood boiled as she spoke, his temperature rising with every grisly detail. The urge to run to his car and zoom down the New York Thruway itched like maggots under his skin. Alicia was a strong individual, but even she lost her composure a few times. She hitched and sobbed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to disturb Daimon’s mother. They were helpless down there. Helpless to defend themselves. A gang? Hell, even one punk would have no trouble taking the two of them. If they were willing to attack some old lady, what chance did Alicia have? She was a natural beauty, rarely wore makeup and didn’t need to. Daimon was sure they’d seen her around the neighborhood, sure someone had tabbed her as a future target. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only reason they hadn’t made a move yet. He was a big guy, and he had a few friends who were also big—and straight, and didn’t like those little bastards any more than he did. They feared some form of retribution. But what if word got out that he wasn’t around now? What if they noticed his car hadn’t been in the driveway? What if they already noticed and made their plans? It could happen any day now—any minute.

  His mind swirled with the grim possibilities, the images so stark and clear that he was more awake than ever. The break-in, the screaming, the beating and possible rape. His heart pounded, his tongue was dry. He couldn’t sleep, even though he was exhausted in every way. He wanted to be down there, protecting both of them. It was the police’s job, of course, but they couldn’t be relied upon to do shit. They didn’t waste their time on that side of town. Not while the zillionaires on the other side were paying their salaries in one way or another. The only two people in the world he truly loved were goddamn sitting ducks.

  It was the discipline that kept him here—the discipline, and the beyond-his-years wisdom that made him realize the true answer to all these problems lay in this place at this time. If he earned a spot on the roster, he’d never have to worry about this kind of thing ever again. If he didn’t, he be back down there in hell right alongside them. Going down there now would only provide a temporary solution to the problem. Making the team, however, would pay dividends forever. But the strength required to stay the course was like none he’d ever known. Meanwhile, he—they, really—would have to continue playing the odds and hope the numbers fell in their favor. Because that’s all it really was—mathematics. Every time the sun sank into the west, the wheels began to spin and the cards began to fly in Atlantic City, and a very different form of gambling began, where the winners claimed their prizes in the shadows and the losers lost more than their money. So far they had been lucky. But Foster knew as well as anyone that luck ran out eventually. />
  He found his playbook and dragged his weary body into the bathroom.

  15

  “How has Krueger been doing at fullback?” Gray asked, unscrewing the cap from his bottled water and taking a sip. He then set it down in the only bare spot left on the table, which was covered with a variety of spiral notebooks, looseleaf sheets, and open copies of both the offensive and defensive playbooks.

  “Coming along pretty well,” said Tony D’Angelo, who was in his seventh year as the Giants’ running backs coach. D’Angelo, with his baggy eyes and carefully trimmed silver mustache, was a quiet type, competent and utterly reliable. No pretensions, no delusions of grandeur. Most important to Alan Gray, he had never expressed any interest in being a head coach in the NFL, so Gray decided to keep him around when he took over the team.

  “He looked pretty sluggish to me,” Gray said. “I saw him drop two handoffs last week.”

  D’Angelo wasn’t the least bit fazed. “He has some possession issues, no doubt. I’m not going to deny that. But he is also very quick, very tough, and very competitive. If I can get him past his fumbling problem, he can be first-rate.”

  Gray ran a hand over his hair, then twiddled his pencil. “All right, keep me updated. What else on offense? How about receivers?”

  Camp had been in session for just over one week, and this was the first day that Alan Gray had assembled the coaching staff to review the team’s progress. Because of this, it was also the first day that he gave the players off. Most of them slept late to let their bodies heal, then fled into the town of Albany to hit the bars and restaurants. Hamilton and Reese chose to stay in their dorm rooms and study their playbooks. Daimon Foster wanted to do likewise, but instead hopped into his ancient Honda and zipped down to Atlantic City to make sure everything was all right. He brought the playbook with him anyway, which technically was a violation of team rules.