The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  With a nod, Boris gestured to the countertop. Next to a bowl of fruit was a Smith and Wesson handgun. Jay started to laugh.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Hopefully, nothing.”

  “Get it out of here.”

  “No.”

  “Boris—”

  “Just keep it in the house. You’re here alone sometimes. Can’t hurt to have it.”

  Although it was painful to admit, Jay knew his cousin was correct. Who knew from what direction harm might come? No one could predict anything. Jay put the gun in an upstairs safe behind a picture of him and Nicole at the Parthenon in Athens. Something else would have to go there. He did not want to be reminded of Aristotle when reaching for his gun. Nor did he want to be reminded of Nicole.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  On the ride to the game, Jay sat in the back and scrolled through his phone as Boris drove with Dequan next to him in the passenger seat. Coverage had expanded exponentially, and the story was now the lead item on every sports, news, and entertainment website he visited. Whatever the demographic, the gist was identical. From the Wall Street Journal (Team Owner Caught Up In Scandal) to ESPN.com (Gladstone a Racist?) to TMZ (Blue Stones: Owner Watches Wife Have Sex With Star), all of it was ghastly. Boris kept a first-aid kit in the car and Jay popped antacid pills for the entire ride. Stupified and infuriated, Jay nonetheless knew enough to take the long view. For the first time, he was happy that Herman Doomer had insisted on a public relations consultant. Scandals erupted with clocklike regularity, their intensity amplified by the hothouse of the Internet; and soon enough they were replaced by other scandals in an ever-shifting pattern of outrage. Now was his turn to bear the coruscating effect, and as the lights of Sanitary Solutions Arena blazed in the distance just east of the New Jersey Turnpike he heard Bingo’s voice telling him there was nothing to do but “march forth.”

  The game was sold out and the organization planned to give free T-shirts with Dag’s picture on them to every fan in attendance. Jay’s phone had been blowing up all day, and there were so many texts that he stopped reading them. Now he could talk to the sportswriters, greet the fans, and show he wasn’t cowering in a cave. Yes, Tackman had wanted him to keep a low profile at the game, but Jay knew he could draw on the energy of the high rollers in the expensive seats before repairing to his skybox.

  The ritual Jay followed before each home game consisted of a visit with Church Scott in the coach’s office adjacent to the locker room where they would discuss team business, then the customary scotch and a pregame nosh with whomever his guests were that night in the Executive Club on the loge level, and few minutes before tip-off the group would head to the owner’s seats, Jay glad-handing season ticket holders along the way. But tonight, the usual routine allowed for too many variables. To permit the contact Jay typically enjoyed before a game seemed unwise.

  The first indication that this would not be an ordinary night was the scene in front of the arena. It was an hour before game time when the SUV swung into the parking lot. The first detail Jay noticed was that next to the usual line of fans streaming into the building was a multiracial cluster of protesters chanting and waving placards: SELL THE TEAM, JAY, NEW OWNER WANTED: BIGOTS NEED NOT APPLY, and (oddly) ZIONISM IS RACISM. Demonstrators brandished large posters of Dag wearing the team uniform, his body lithe and unbroken. Jay repressed the urge to tell Boris to make a U-turn and take him to Canada.

  The leader of the protests was Imam Ibrahim Muhammad, who stood on a crate and held a bullhorn to his mouth as he chanted, Hey, hey, ho, ho, Jay Gladstone has to go, a call echoed volubly by the protestors, who shook their signs and pumped their fists. There was someone who looked familiar standing next to him. Trey Maxwell. What was he doing with that troublemaker? Television crews recorded the action; fans filmed it on their phones. Jay considered getting out right there and talking to the crowd, confronting that rabble-rousing imam in full view of the media and directly making his case, but that felt excessively risky, not to say physically dangerous. Tackman had advised against unmediated personal contact with the public.

  He had another idea.

  Boris let Jay and his bodyguard out at the players’ entrance. Jay was not comfortable with the proximity to the players and staff that a locker room visit would entail, so he arranged for Church Scott to meet him in the security office. Boris had alerted the staff that the boss would be attending the game and additional precautions had been taken. In a cinderblock room, deep in the bowels of the arena, the black chief of security waited. A chesty ex-Marine named Bo McCants, he was matter-of-fact by nature, so Jay did not read into the flatness of his greeting. Skipping any pleasantries, he briefed Jay on the arrangement for the game. McCants reported that he had mustered an additional thirty men, ten of whom were to be stationed directly behind the owner’s seats, the rest to be deployed around the court. Jay informed McCants he would be seated in a skybox once the game started and the security chief assured him the necessary adjustments would be made. If McCants was judging him, Jay could not tell; the security chief had bloodlessly imparted the information. Jay had the disconcerting sensation that he should apologize. But for what?

  As McCants finished his briefing, Church Scott swept in. He seemed harried and did not offer his usual handshake. The affability with which he glazed every off-court encounter was absent. Again, Jay felt like apologizing. Was every encounter with a black person going to make him feel this way? They discussed Dag’s condition (unchanged) and the night’s opponent before Jay dropped the following bombshell:

  “I’m going to say a few words from center court before the game.”

  He knew Tackman would have ordered him not to but the P.R. maven surely was unaware of the deep connection Jay had with the team’s fans.

  “You sure?”

  “Just a few remarks,” he said, ignoring the surprise on Church Scott’s face. “In light of recent events, I’d like to show the flag, talk about D’Angelo”—not Dag, the entire name more respectful—“let the fans know there’s a steady hand on the tiller.”

  Church’s brow furrowed. During his years as a point guard in the league, a cerebral style of play was his signature. With a safecracker’s patience, he probed a defense until he uncovered a weakness and would rarely execute an ill-considered move. Church asked Jay if he was entirely certain he wanted to get in front of eighteen thousand people tonight.

  “There’s a lot of residual goodwill toward me in this building.”

  “Well, the fans are one thing,” the coach said. “But listen, I have to tell you something.” Jay readied himself to absorb whatever blow was in the offing. “We’ve got a situation brewing in the locker room.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “The players are talking about boycotting the game.”

  The news flabbergasted Jay. His relationship with the roster had always been terrific, from the stars to the scrubs on the end of the bench. He was never less than polite, encouraging, and concerned when it came to the players. Boycotting the game would be bad for the league and a disaster for Jay. It felt personal. Dequan was standing several feet away with his back to them, his frame filling the doorway. Jay wondered if he was listening to the conversation.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The guys all heard those words,” the coach said. He was tactful enough not to say: And saw the tape. “They didn’t like it.”

  This response seemed like an overreaction. The players knew him. Perhaps not well, but he believed they sensed the man he was. “Should I talk to them?”

  “Nooooooo,” Church said. The feeble laugh that issued from his lips revealed discomfort with that notion. “I think I moved them off the idea for one night.” The relief Jay felt caused oxygen to rush from his lungs. “You want to make a speech to the folks out there tonight, hey, you’re the boss. I’m just a dumb ex-ballplay
er. Maybe you know something I don’t.”

  Jay had idolized men like Church Scott since boyhood. He still retained a fan’s respect for the greatest of them and the coach was championship caliber. Jay was not above being flattered by Church’s assessment and this reinvigorated him.

  “I want you to introduce me,” Jay said.

  “I can’t do that,” Church said.

  “Yes, you can. Everyone respects you.”

  “I’ll lose the locker room.”

  It had never occurred to Jay that the coach would turn down a request like this. Theirs was a collegial relationship, one of mutual respect. Church routinely sought Jay’s counsel in business matters and reciprocated by tutoring Jay in the intricacies of elite basketball. He considered Church a friend.

  “You need to set an example for them,” Jay said. Them. Players, coaches, fans who might sit in judgment. “You’re the leader.”

  “I’m a black man, Jay,” he said, unnecessarily. “Most of the guys on the team are, too. They’re wondering what’s in your heart right now.”

  “You can tell them what’s in my heart.”

  “I can’t tell them because I don’t know.”

  Church’s words were hurtful and Jay was unsure how to respond. They had worked together for five years and if Church Scott could say something like that, to his face no less, what was the wider world going to think? Was what he had done so bad? The man had walked in on his wife in flagrante and in his understandable disorientation he had asked a question. It was not as if he had used an epithet. Was he to be drawn and quartered for a single ambiguous sentence?

  Jay whispered: “I’m telling you what’s in my heart, Church. You know me.”

  He couldn’t say I’m not a racist to a black man. That meant it was already too late.

  Church nodded. “Okay,” he said. “All right.” What he did not say was I believe you. He patted Jay on the shoulder and told him, “I’m praying on this,” and then was gone with an encouraging clap on the back from Dequan as he left. Was the bodyguard endorsing the coach’s position? Did the back clap portend some further palace revolt? Jay could not be bothered with that right now. Wherever Dequan’s sympathy lay, there was enough security in the arena tonight.

  He pondered his encounter with Church.

  Praying on this?

  In his most dire hour, he requested a simple favor, a small gesture of friendship, and Church denied it. Stabbed in the back by his most trusted basketball lieutenant, Jay’s first inclination was to fire him immediately and order the lead assistant to take over, but his business success did not derive from acting impulsively, and he instantly recognized the kind of reactive, negative thinking he abhorred. He would wait until the end of the season before relieving Church Scott of his duties.

  Boris had been biding his time nearby and now approached.

  “Are you sure you want put yourself in front of eighteen thousand people?”

  “Goddammit, Boris,” Jay growled. “Don’t second guess me.” From Boris’s alarmed expression, he knew he needed to get his emotions under control. Jay glanced toward Dequan and McCants, and was pleased to see both of them peering at a bank of security monitors, neither paying attention to him. He didn’t want anyone to think he was agitated. He asked Boris to please notify the appropriate people that he intended to say a few words after the national anthem.

  Rather than go out before the game, Jay thought it best to remain in the tunnel that led to the court until right before the announcer introduced him. The fans focused on the players doing their warm-ups, whomever the team had arranged to warble the night’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and their phones.

  With Dequan next to him surveying the arena—however much sympathy the bodyguard may have harbored for Church Scott, at least he had not abandoned his post—Jay watched from the shadows as “We Takin’ Over” by DJ Khaled blared while a co-ed group of bouncy team employees buzzed around the court wielding bazookas that blasted tightly rolled T-shirts emblazoned with Dag’s face into the outstretched hands of the jacked-up fans. The squads finished their pregame stretching and shooting and lined up along opposite foul lines facing one another for the national anthem. A Navy color guard marched out bearing the flag. And then—

  The home team stripped off their warm-up jackets and were revealed to be wearing black T-shirts over their regulation league-approved jerseys. The sight of the T-shirts, their symbolism unmistakable, elicited whoops of approval from several fans and a smattering of applause. This display on the part of the players was a violation of league rules and a direct rebuke to Jay, who was dismayed when he saw it. Did Church know this was going to happen and choose not to warn him? At least they’re out there and prepared to play the game, he told himself. The boycott bullet dodged.

  An obscure female R&B singer belted the national anthem. As she sang, “Land of the freeeeeeeeee,” extending the note in the glass-shattering manner those tapped to sing this song will often do, and the fans began to cheer and applaud in anticipation of its end, Jay felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked over and saw the nervously smiling face of Major House, who greeted him in a voice several decibels too loud. They had arranged to meet in the skybox. Why was he in the tunnel right before Jay was going out on the court?

  “I bought a pair of tickets for the game,” the Mayor said. “It’s better that way right now.”

  “Why?” He instantly knew why.

  “I don’t have a problem with you, Jay. You know that. But Newark’s a black city.”

  “Newark was a black city when you were my guest last time.”

  “I can’t be sitting next to you at a game right now.”

  “Now is when I could use you.”

  “Hey, you know I’m your friend,” he said and clapped Jay on the back. “We’ll talk on the phone Monday. I’ll even come to the office if you want. But not tonight.”

  Mayor House lingered as if he wanted to make sure that Jay was all right with being abandoned like this by a putative ally just before tip-off, because who would understand the consideration of practical matters if not Jay Gladstone.

  “Et tu, Major?” Jay said.

  “Et tu? Come on, man, I’m up for re-election in the fall.”

  Jay wondered if the mayor had conferred with Church Scott. They were friendly, and he would not have been surprised to hear the two of them had coordinated their response. A voice on the P.A. system crackled, and in his rapidly spinning mind, Jay heard every third word: Tonight. Team. Special. Before Jay could ask the mayor if he was colluding with the coach, the public-address announcer intoned, “Please welcome Jay Gladstone,” and he squared his shoulders and propelled himself past the politician—Why am I doing this? Don’t do this. Let’s do this!—out of the shadows, and on to the blindingly bright basketball court.

  The powerful lights bounced off the polished hardwood and into Jay’s retinas. Multiple levels of yellow, orange, green, and blue seats extending several hundred feet up blurred into one pulsating organism that gave forth scattered boos, several catcalls he could not make out, and some anemic cheering. None of it was encouraging. The brilliant illumination created a bell jar effect and what lay outside the lighted area was not readily discernible.

  Like something from a dream, Jay absorbed thousands of smiling D’Angelo Maxwells observing him from the T-shirts sported by every fan. Although the picture appeared hallucinatory, it was not a trick of perception. There were over eighteen thousand images of Dag’s face, and an ocean of Dag’s eyes locked in on him.

  The teams had repaired to their benches to await the buzzer that would summon the starters to the court for the opening tip. The color guard had retreated. The bazooka-wielding T-shirt crew kneeled under one of the baskets. At the center of the court, a team lackey handed a cordless microphone to Jay. The sounds died down, and Jay gazed up to the nosebleed seats. He had a
brief and comforting memory of the Knicks-Bullets playoff game he had seen from that vantage point as a teenager nearly forty years earlier.

  In a steady voice, he began, “Thank you all for coming tonight.”

  From near the rafters, someone yelled, “WHERE’S YOUR WIFE?”

  Scattered laughter. The outburst could have been worse, and Jay was relieved to hear someone else shout, “LET HIM TALK, ASSHOLE!” followed by more laughs. Should he have listened to Tackman’s advice? Not tonight. Jay knew what he was doing, had addressed unpredictable groups before. Were his knees trembling? He steadied himself. While he waited for the murmur to die down, he glanced over to the bench and saw Church in his seat, elbows on knees, looking at the floor. His gaze shifted to the Miami bench where every player was staring at him, waiting to see what he would say. Were they staring or scowling? It was hard to tell.

  “As you all know,” Jay continued, his voice steady as it resonated to the upper deck, “D’Angelo Maxwell is in the hospital so I’d like to begin with a moment of silent prayer for him.” As Jay said this, he again looked over at Church Scott, who was shaking his head, in either disdain or admiration. Which was it? It didn’t matter. Jay congratulated himself on the courage of the move. It had come to him spontaneously, and he had acted on it in front of the crowd, all of whom must know what had occurred between Dag and Nicole. No one could miss the magnanimity of the gesture. Certainly, Bobby Tackman would approve.

  As the arena quieted, Jay waited, every receptor quivering, the warmth of the lights on his face, the pungent smell of sweat on the court, the lingering taste of the antacid tablets, the otherworldly stillness. He would have prayed if he had not been considering what to say next. Jay remembered his appearance in front of the Planning Commission. He did not compose a word of it beforehand and had delivered a first-rate soliloquy. He knew how to wing it.

  After what seemed like a respectable amount of time had passed (five seconds), he resumed, “I wanted to talk to you tonight so that I could apologize. The accident was a dreadful thing, but I want to say here in public in front of the team’s fans that it was an accident. An accident for which I take full responsibility.” That was the key point to hit, he knew. Americans want to hear that whoever caused a scandal took “responsibility” for it. They dispensed a public lashing and then everyone could “move on.” Jay knew the Stations of the Contrition Cross, had seen them traversed by countless others that the shame machine trained its sights on. He would not say anything about moving on tonight, though. The contract was implied.