“Cute kids,” he remarked, rather than saying what he thought, which was junior Jew-haters.
“I know, right?” Aviva said.
What Jay took away from this entire exchange: It could have been so much worse. Without denying the suffering of the Palestinians, he believed what Aviva had done was rash and irresponsible, although also quite plucky, a quality he admired. Her desire to address the troops, however misguided (in his view), showed embryonic leadership ability. It wasn’t as if he could punish her, so he chose to appreciate his daughter’s curiosity about the world and the fact that Hamas had not murdered her.
“Oh, I have some news,” Jay said, in hopes of relaxing the edgy nature of the conversation. He turned to face the backseat and once again found himself looking into the camera lens of Axel’s raised phone. “Excuse me, Alex.”
“It’s Axel, Pops,” he said.
“May I see your phone?”
“Sure,” Axel said, handing it over.
Jay slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll give it back when we drop you off.” Axel knew he had been temporarily outmaneuvered and offered a wry grin. Imani was taken aback but said nothing.
“Dad, give him his phone!”
“I don’t want to be taped against my will, all right? Now, that’s a reasonable position. I told Axel I’d give it back later, and then he’s going to erase whatever he recorded since we’ve been together.”
“Well played, Pops,” Axel said.
Paying no attention to Axel, Jay said, “The president of Tate called me and asked if I’d speak at your graduation.”
A whoop of joy from Aviva would have been too much to ask for, and Jay did not anticipate that his declaration would elicit one. But he would have liked some positive response. Instead, this information produced nothing at all in the way of emotion. His daughter’s face was an empty chalkboard. Imani looked skeptical.
“I hope you didn’t say yes,” Aviva said.
“I did.” Jay tried to hide his disappointment in her disappointment. “Look, it’s your day. But let’s talk about it at least.”
“You should give a speech,” Axel said. “They’ll love you.”
The subtext, served with a ladle, was impossible to miss. Jay wanted to throw this kid out of the car, but that only would have further impaired relations with Aviva, so he ignored the remark.
“No,” Aviva said. “That would be too awkward.”
“Awkward!” Imani said in an artificially high voice followed by a barely suppressed giggle.
“It’s your choice,” Aviva concluded.
This declaration was far from the ringing endorsement Jay had desired. In his flattered state after the college president’s call, it had not occurred to him that his daughter’s mortification might be an issue. As the car inched along, he reproached himself for not considering it.
“Maybe I can draft a speech you like.” Aviva did not respond. “I have a dream,” he intoned. No one was amused.
The Manhattan skyline loomed, glass towers shimmering. Jay always thrilled to that view. It was possibility and prospect, and in its iconic but ever-changing profile seemed to convey that somehow, the future would always be brighter. In his life, it usually worked that way and today was no different. As Jay contemplated what appeared to be his daughter’s moral relativism and budding lesbianism, he discreetly popped an antacid pill and took comfort in knowing that Aviva no longer seemed to suffer from threshold anxiety. He turned to face the three Tate College students in the backseat.
“I hope you’re all going to come to our Seder.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On West 139th Street between Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard to the east and Frederick Douglass Boulevard to the west lay Striver’s Row. A landmark block in Harlem, for more than a hundred years it has been a home to African-American notables like Eubie Blake, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, W.C. Handy, and, more recently, the sports agent Jamal Jones who stood at the second story window in the hallway of the newly renovated brownstone that served as his home and office gazing down at his former client, D’Angelo Maxwell, waiting at the front door below. Across the street, Jamal spotted Trey Maxwell leaning against the McLaren smoking a cigarette.
Dag had called and texted but Jamal, still smarting from being fired, had not responded. News had reached him of Dag’s Los Angeles fracas. He thought perhaps his erstwhile friend and client might benefit from experiencing a little of life without Jamal Jones running interference. There were other matters to occupy him and having Dag on his list was no longer essential to the success of his business. Jamal’s business was already successful. That morning he had met with a television production company in Midtown to pitch an idea for a show. In half an hour, he was having lunch with a projected NBA lottery pick at Sylvia’s Restaurant and expected to sign the kid before the peach cobbler arrived at the table. After that, there were drinks with an agent in town from Atlanta with whom he was thinking of partnering. If the encounter bore fruit the Jones Group (he named it “Group” when he learned the Gladstones used the same word) would have a second front. Jamal could hear the two junior agents he employed working the phones down the hall. Business was thriving.
“You want me to let him in or not?” The speaker was Donna, Jamal’s assistant. An African-American woman in her forties, she wore a patterned knee-length dress and flats. Her head wrapped in a cloth scarf from which several braids snaked. Donna was Jamal’s majordomo, taking care of his scheduling, travel, and the day-to-day operations of the Jones Group.
He quickly reviewed any grievances Dag might be nurturing. In light of what the man had inflicted on Moochie Collins, Jamal did not want to forget something he might have done (or that Dag might think he had done) that could be the cause of another violent outburst. Donna narrowed her eyes.
“You’re gonna keep Dag standing on the stoop?”
The man hug with which Dag greeted his former agent caught Jamal by surprise. Given how they had parted, he was expecting something a little more formal. They were in Jamal’s office, overlooking the street. One of the walls was a gallery of framed photographs, several of which were of Jamal and Dag: at the Super Bowl, on vacation in Mexico, on the court at Sanitary Solutions Arena, all suffused with a bonhomie that reflected their years of friendship. Now Jamal stood in front of his desk and, pointedly, did not offer Dag a seat.
“All right if I sit down?”
“Dag, I got a busy day.”
Knowing it was the price he had to pay, Dag remained standing. Jamal wanted to ask about California, about the hand injury, but he was still indignant over being fired. So, he said nothing.
“How are you coming with Chevy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Chevy trucks, man. You were working on endorsements.”
“You forgetting something, Dag?”
“It wasn’t Ford, was it? It was Chevy, right?” Dag grinned and waited for Jamal to reciprocate. This would signal that there were no hard feelings. The echo was not forthcoming.
“You fired me.”
“Forget that, Jamal. We boys. You got lunch plans?”
“Yeah.”
“Cancel ’em. I’m taking you out, my treat.”
“Dag—”
“I owe you an apology, man. I’m apologizing to everyone. Already said I was sorry to Church, Gladstone, and the team. Now it’s your turn.”
“Just checking all the boxes.”
If Dag heard the judgment in Jamal’s words, he barreled ahead in spite of it.
“I was mad that day at my house, I said some shit I regret, I’m sorry and now let’s you and me get back to business.”
“Did you apologize to Moochie?”
“Why you worried about Moochie?”
Jamal pondered how it was that guys like Dag rarely understood the ramificatio
ns of their actions, how because of their ability to put a ball through a hoop, the ordinary laws of human interaction did not apply.
“Forget Moochie, man. I’m worried about you.”
“I appreciate that. I’m gonna write Moochie a check. How much you think I should send him?”
“You’re not hearing me, Dag.”
“What am I not hearing?”
“You fired my ass.”
“I told you, forget that shit.”
“You meet with Gladstone to try to negotiate for yourself, you beat up Moochie, injure your hand.”
“Ain’t gonna miss a single game!”
“That’s great, Dag.”
Dag seemed surprised at the pushback he was getting from Jamal. He pointed to a picture on the wall. It had been taken the previous summer at the D’Angelo Maxwell Summer Charity Basketball Tournament and showed Dag and Jamal posing with the winning team, a group of gangly teenagers, everyone happy.
“Them kids had a helluva squad. Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, Dag. I put that tournament together with Trey.” Jamal felt he had to namecheck Dag’s brother even though he had done most of the work himself. Placating stars was reflexive.
Dag continued to examine the display of framed photographs: Jamal’s high school and college teams, Jamal with various sports and entertainment celebrities, Jamal with his wife and two young daughters. All of it spoke to a life independent of D’Angelo Maxwell.
“How do you know I met with Gladstone?”
“The man called because he was worried.”
“About what?”
“He was worried you weren’t thinking clearly.”
However true it might have been, the implication did not please Dag, who was getting more worked up. Jamal kept a Louisville Slugger baseball bat near his desk. It was meant to be decorative but would serve as protection if Dag came at him. “So, he called you?”
“The guy likes you, D’Angelo.”
“He’d kick me to the curb like a ten-dollar ho.”
Jamal ignored this. They both knew professional sports was transactional and that was the level on which 99% of all decisions were made. When it appeared that Dag was not going to become violent, Jamal relaxed.
“If you want a max contract from a major market team, maybe you shouldn’t have beat up Moochie. That ain’t franchise player behavior.”
In the course of their friendship, Jamal had never once castigated Dag. For the player, this represented an unwelcome new day in their relationship. Jamal cracked his knuckles and regarded Dag. He enjoyed the shift in their power dynamic although he took pains not to show it.
“Moochie needed to get schooled,” Dag said.
“So now you want me to clean up the big mess you made?”
And like it was the most natural thing in the world, Dag said: “Yeah.”
Jamal put his hands in his pockets. Dag waited.
“You told me I was bush league, Dag. You remember that? Rinky-dink.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember? Maybe you remember this: The last contract I negotiated for you paid a hundred and twenty million. A hundred. And twenty. Million. That sound rinky-dink to you?”
“Jamal, from my heart,” Dag said, and pounded his chest with his fist, “I apologize.” He looked out the window as if to draw on the African-American collective capacity for endurance that had manifested on the sidewalks of this venerable neighborhood. When he turned back to his former agent, there was an imploring look in his eyes that Jamal had not seen before. “I need you, man.”
Jamal reached up and placed a hand on Dag’s shoulder. Dag smiled ruefully. He genuinely seemed to feel remorse over his recent actions. For all Dag’s superstar affectations, Jamal believed somewhere inside lived the humble kid he first encountered at the McDonald’s All-Star Camp when they were in high school.
“I’m gonna think on it, Dag.”
Dag stepped back and looked at Jamal as if he were some bizarre animal species of whose existence he was previously unaware. Agents did not refuse opportunities like this. Jamal’s commission on Dag’s next contract would be several million dollars. He was going to “think on it”?
“What’s there to think on?”
“You disrespected me, man.”
People did not say no to men like D’Angelo Maxwell, especially anyone in the position to financially benefit from their talents. It contravened the laws of nature and Dag was unsure how to respond. He had apologized already. There was no point in doing that again. This was when they were supposed to clasp hands, embrace, and then go out to the lunch Dag had offered to pay for. Why had Jamal departed from the routine? First Gladstone, then Brittany, now Jamal all were undermining the foundations of his existence. The frustration this engendered and the general sense that something he could not entirely understand had shifted disoriented him.
“That’s what you got for me? All the money I made for you?”
“Ain’t about the money, Dag. Ain’t about the money for you, either.”
Dag gestured toward the room, its high ceilings and ornate moldings, all exquisitely restored. “I put you in this townhouse, man. I ain’t gonna apologize again.”
“You wouldn’t let anyone diss you the way you dissed me.”
The degree of resolution Jamal exhibited left Dag unmoored. He had a disturbing vision of life without Jamal. How he would manage was not entirely clear.
“What happens if we’re not in business together?”
“The lawyers and accountants sort it out.”
“That’s how you gonna be?”
“I told you I’d think about it.”
The ongoing ambiguity was more than Dag could take. He had prostrated himself, begged. The superstar posture had been dropped, but to no positive end. The existential aloneness his longtime agent’s abandonment revealed was terrifying.
“That’s fucked up, Jamal.”
Jamal watched, unsurprised, as Dag rolled his shoulders and strode out of the office. He had wanted to provoke him, to provide the shock that would convey the new reality. He knew Dag was going to return eventually.
As he passed through the front door and stood on the stoop, Dag considered going back to Jamal’s office and apologizing once more. All that history, their years together held deep resonance. But he quickly banished the thought. He had done enough apologizing. If Jamal wanted to throw away what they had built together, let him. He doubted that would happen. He hoped it wouldn’t happen. Still, he remained on top of the brownstone steps. With each passing second, the degree to which Dag depended on his former advocate came into sharper focus. He glanced at the windows of Jamal’s office. Should he go back up? No, he told himself; don’t do that. Jamal would realize his error and come crawling back. That was their essential dynamic. Dag believed he only had to survive the current impasse, and all would be well. He squinted into the sun.
“Dag Maxwell! What up, G?”
Dag peered down the steps. Rooted there was a trio of black teenagers. The boys wore identical low-slung baggy jeans, oversized flannel shirts, and white Jordans accented in �multihued palettes. The one in the middle was average sized, but his sidekicks were at least six five. The tall kids were twins. Sideways baseball caps, two Knicks and a Laker. Ballers. It was the kid in the middle who had spoken.
“What are you doing up here, man?” one of the twins asked, his voice pitched high with excitement.
“This and that,” Dag said, and regally descended the steps. The boys had abandoned their studied indifference in the presence of this hardwood god.
“We saw you play the Celtics,” the non-twin said.
“Should’ve won that night,” Dag replied.
“Can we get a picture with you?” the other twin asked.
Dag had interacted with the pu
blic for so long it was part of the fabric of being Dag Maxwell, and he did it like punching a clock. But there was something about these boys, their unbridled joy at spotting him, the pure approbation, no, it was more than that, the worship they radiated as if this were some holy rite and Dag the idol to which they prayed. It was a welcome balm to his spirit on a stressful day. He beckoned Trey over from across the street and told him to take their picture.
The shorter kid produced a phone and handed it over. As the boys gathered around Dag to immortalize the experience, other passersby stopped. An older man dressed in a natty suit, two young mothers pushing strollers, a deliveryman from a laundry service watched and when Dag finished taking pictures with the boys all of them wanted pictures, too. Word filtered down the block in both directions, and a flock of students from Medgar Evers Learning Academy came running over from a nearby playground. They carried cardboard boxes and were accompanied by their Latina science teacher. Dag observed the boxes and wondered what they were for.
Two minutes later there were several dozen people on the sidewalk, young, old, different races, and Dag was autographing pieces of paper, and T-shirts and his smile broadened when he signed a Dag Maxwell jersey with a Sharpie someone handed him. The flock called encouragement, wished him luck in the playoffs (they assumed the team would get there), assured him no one cared about what had happened in California.
Dag was signing an autograph for an older woman who had asked him to make it out to her nephew when he noticed a shadow rolling across the street, covering the cars, the asphalt, the facades of the buildings as if a supernatural being was slowly pulling a shade over the sun. The temperature dipped. The windows of buildings dulled. Without warning the school-kids placed the cardboard boxes over their heads. Several of the adult bystanders looked toward the sky, but the science teacher warned everyone not to. They waited. Several people whooped. Dag heard someone crying. The street, in half-light for a brief period, was now entirely shrouded.
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 19
