The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(66)

Money on the table.

I always thought Thomas was referring to a let-it-ride bid in poker. But today this felt more like throwing dice to me.

One roll for everything.

When I was back in my room, still an hour to go before the vote, the phone rang.

It was A. J. Frost, the Patriots owner.

“I’m in the penthouse suite,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come up here as soon as you can.”





Seventy-Six



A FEW MINUTES LATER I was sitting in the penthouse suite of the Beverly Wilshire with a group of men I thought of by then as the Hard-liners, like they were a rock band—one even older than the Beach Boys.

A. J. Frost. Carl Paulson, the eighty-two-year-old owner of the Chicago Bears. Rex Cardwell of the Texans. Ed McGrath of the Tennessee Titans. Amos Lester of the Colts.

I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to beg them for their votes, especially since they’d all made it abundantly clear that they’d pretty much made up their minds about me before I’d even left San Francisco.

The living room of the suite made mine downstairs look like a closet in comparison. When I’d taken my seat in one of the antique chairs, A. J. Frost said, “Thank you for coming.”

They had placed my chair so I could face all of them.

I smiled now.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“You don’t take any shit, do you, young lady?” Rex Cardwell said in his booming cowboy voice.

“Not that you’d ever notice.”

“Neither did her father,” Amos Lester said.

“Before we head downstairs to vote,” Frost said, “we need to make clear to you where we’re all coming from, especially in light of all the history we had with your father. And, I might add, in light of where we’re going.”

I kept my smile fixed firmly in place. Not only wasn’t I going to beg to keep my team, I also wasn’t going to lose my temper.

“With all due respect, for all of you to be any more clear, you’d have had to hire a skywriter.”

I thought I might have heard some throat clearing from a couple of members of the firing squad. I just couldn’t tell which ones.

“Before A.J. says what he wants to say,” Ed McGrath said, “I just want you to know that as a parent and a grandparent, that letter Joe sent you really got to me.”

“Yes. It was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?”

“He was an amazing man, your father,” Frost said. “It’s one of the reasons why you’re here with us right now and not downstairs with the others.”

“I’m not sure I understand. I thought everything that needed to be said had been said. Which is why I have sort of an existential question for you gentlemen. Why are we here?”

“We just didn’t want you to leave thinking that we’re just a bunch of stubborn old fools,” Rex Cardwell said.

“As if I’d ever,” I said, unable to stop myself.

At least Rex Cardwell laughed.

“There’s that attitude.”

“A chronic condition, I’m afraid.”

“What did I tell you boys last night when we were sitting here in this same damned room and talking about what’s best for the damned league?” Cardwell said. “We need some fresh blood.”

“I frankly thought I was only here to shed some,” I said to Cardwell.

Cardwell barked out another laugh.

“Nope.”

Nope?

“See, as it turns out we’re not as stubborn as you think we are,” A. J. Frost said.

And smiled himself now.

And stood.

“The reason we called you up here,” he said, “is to tell you to your face that you’ve got our votes.”

I wasn’t sure at first if I had heard him correctly.

“Wait…what?”

“You’re going to pass,” he said.





Seventy-Seven



CLAY ROSEN HAD ASKED me to have a drink with him before I checked out. I told him I had a plane to catch, not to mention two football teams with which I had to catch up.

“You haven’t seen the last of me,” he said.

I asked if that was a threat or a promise.

“Little bit of both.”

Then he asked me what I’d said after Frost told me that the Hard-liners were suddenly behind me.

“I looked at him as solemnly as I could, summoned up all my personal grace, and said, ‘You have got to be shitting me.’”

I was just about to finish my packing when I heard the knock at the door. When I opened it, there was a bellman standing there, holding a single red rose.

He handed me the rose and the card that came with it. I tipped him a twenty, feeling flush today.

I went back into the bedroom and laid the rose on the bed next to my suitcase. Then I sat down and opened the card.

This flower wasn’t from my brother Thomas.

The card said only: “You’re welcome.”





Seventy-Eight



DETECTIVE BEN CANTOR SAT across from Elise Wolf in a living room that brought the word regal to mind, as if he’d somehow been granted an audience with a woman Jenny often referred to as the queen.