The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(46)

Then he said he’d almost forgotten something and asked if I’d seen the statement from the commissioner.

I told him I had not.

He paraphrased it, saying that the league office was taking both the allegations against Thomas and the ones against Ryan very seriously and that Joel Abrams was authorizing dual investigations involving the Wolves to begin immediately.

“You know who feels as if they’re under water right now?” I asked. “Me.”

The team was leaving for Denver in the morning. I told him I’d try to stop by his office before he left. He asked if it was too soon to start comparing my behavior to Money McGee’s. I laughed and cursed him out like a true Wolf and ended the call.

Jack had won today. I’d taken the bait, and that meant I’d lost. And somehow managed, by being a hothead, to make things worse for myself than they already were, if something like that was even possible at this point.

Less than three weeks from the vote by the other owners.

Jenny Wolf, trending again.

Viral again.

Now being investigated by the league. Such a dream. I was about to finally fall into bed when the phone rang one last time, but only because I’d forgotten to turn it off.

Uncle on the screen.

I’d been expecting this one all night.

He got right to it, even though his voice sounded even more hoarse than usual. It was what he did. Another reason why he was who he was, always had been, and always would be. And why I loved him the way I did, in a way I wished I had loved my father.

“Taglia la merda.”

Because of him, I knew enough Italian to know exactly what that meant. What he was telling me to cut.

I asked him about his voice, if he was feeling all right. He chuckled but didn’t respond. Then he told me to stop talking and listen as he laid out what he thought we had to do going forward—not just at the league meetings in Los Angeles but also even before I got there—if I wanted to hold on to the Wolves.

Finally, he said, “At least there is one good thing to come out of today.”

“What’s that?”

“We seem to have identified who the real enemy is,” he said.

“And who might that be?”

“You, cara.”





Fifty-Four



IT TOOK UNTIL SUNDAY MORNING, a few hours before the Wolves-Broncos game, to set up the meeting my uncle had referenced when we’d spoken on the phone.

Thomas and me and Bobby Erlich, who ran a crisis management firm that was not just the biggest in San Francisco but also one of the biggest anywhere in the country.

As Erlich said, “You don’t say no to your uncle.”

“You knew him before this?” Thomas said.

“He did me a favor once,” Erlich said.

“I believe everyone owes him some kind of favor except Warren Buffett,” I said.

“You sure about Buffett?” Erlich said.

We were on the top floor of the town house at Fisherman’s Wharf that he’d turned into his personal office building. I had suggested that all of us meet for breakfast, but Erlich said that it didn’t help anybody for me to be seen with him in public, at least for now.

Thomas had spent the beginning of the meeting sounding like Bobby Erlich’s advance man. When he finally stopped to take a breath, Erlich smiled.

“I can’t lie. Everything your brother just said about me is true.”

However old Erlich was, he was trying hard to look younger, like an eternal boy. He was on the smallish side, maybe five foot six. He’d given in to his baldness, I had to give him that, somehow making it look cool. White T-shirt, khakis, white tennis shoes.

“Basically,” Thomas said, “Bobby’s specialty is getting people out of big shit.”

Erlich tried to smile modestly. Missed by a lot.

“I like to think of myself as an emergency-room doctor.”

“My situation isn’t quite that bad,” Jenny said.

Erlich said, “You wouldn’t be here if that were true, and neither would I.”

“I just need to ride this out.”

“You’ve been trying to ride it out,” Erlich said. “How’s that working for you so far? The world is starting to think of you as the oldest Kardashian girl when what you really need is for it to see you as a smart, competent female CEO who’s getting constantly attacked by men.”

Thomas said, “It’s like they say in AA, Sis. First step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem.”

“I don’t have a problem! I have older brothers. Big difference.”

Erlich looked at my younger brother and said, “And therein lies the problem.”

“What Bobby is trying to say,” Thomas said, “what we’re both trying to say, is that you need to stop being Front Page Jenny Wolf.”

“Do either of you think that’s what I want to be?”

Erlich smiled and sipped the Dragonwell green tea he said he had delivered from China. He’d offered some to both Thomas and me. We’d settled for coffee.

“Your brother didn’t punch himself into San Francisco Bay,” Erlich said, “whether he deserved it or not.”

Erlich leaned forward and tented his fingers under his chin.

“I can help you get out of this, Jenny,” he said, “but not if you don’t stop acting like you’re on a sugar high.”