Dillon had already made plans to come to Cleveland for an app-development workshop being held at The Renaissance Hotel, which was adjacent to the downtown basketball arena, where the other big event in town happened to be going on — the AAU basketball game. It would be no big deal for him to sneak over for at least an hour or two. Ryan faced a bigger challenge making it downtown, but he was confident he could pull it off, and they both liked the idea of a crowded arena as the meeting place.
But there was another, stronger motivation for choosing an over-hyped high school basketball game as their rendezvous point. If they were going to stand any chance of chiseling away at the overwhelming positive public perception of Avillage, Ryan and Dillon knew their cause would need a face — someone relevant and recognizable, with mass public appeal. J’Quarius Jones was really the only choice. But at this point they had no idea if he’d be a willing participant. And it wouldn’t be easy to get to him. After he left for Russia, it would probably be impossible.
So far their improbable plan was running right on schedule. Ryan boarded the downtown-bound train right at 3:00, taking the seat directly behind the driver with his head resting against the window facing the inside track, his backpack occupying the seat next to him, and his heart racing 120 beats a minute.
Aaron Bradford gazed up at the arrivals board hanging above baggage carousel five at Cleveland-Hopkins International airport, then impatiently looked back down at his watch for a twentieth time in as many minutes. Their flight landed thirty minutes ago, and they’d already cleared customs in New York! The game started in half an hour. Where were they?
Finally at 3:30, three expressionless businessmen with eerily similar steel blue eyes, close-cropped brown hair and square jaws marched off the elevator in unison.
Bradford tried to produce a cordial smile that fell even flatter than usual. It was not returned. And no apologies or explanations were offered for their mysteriously late arrival, but the overpowering stench of cigarette smoke on the men suggested their tardiness could have been prevented.
They strode over as a unit to claim their CSKA Moscow-embroidered suitcases, which were the only parcels left on the now dormant conveyer belt, and then stared in synchrony at Bradford, as if they’d been the ones waiting all along.
With crimson cheeks darkening toward violet, Bradford struggled to maintain his smile. The fact that he would be screwing them to the tune of 23 million dollars with damaged goods was the only thing that kept him from absolutely losing it.
Bradford waved the Russians outside where his driver, having been parked in a loading zone for half an hour, was locked in a heated argument with a homeland security officer. Unless someone was pointing a gun or a taser at him with real intent, he wasn’t about to take a chance on not being at the curb when Bradford walked out.
Noticing his boss’s arrival, he left the low-level officer screaming into thin air and scurried over to the Russians to collect their bags and help them into the back of the limousine.
“Please tell me you have the tickets…” Bradford sneered with one leg in the car, glaring at his driver. The color ran out of the poor driver’s face as he struggled to find words, while Bradford’s sneer slowly morphed into a grin. He held the tickets up and fanned them out to show that he had all four. Although he did take some degree of pleasure in pulling one over on his driver, what really delighted him was the power he wielded over his pathetic minion’s emotions.
“I do have the parking pass, boss,” his driver stuttered, taking a deep breath to collect himself as he shut the car door.
“Gentlemen,” Bradford started, leaning in toward his guests who sat stoically in the rear-facing seats closest to the driver in the passenger cabin of the limo. “It’s a pleasure to have you here in the States. Welcome to Cleveland. You are in for an absolute treat tonight. Have you seen J’Quarius play before?”
“No,” answered one of the triumvirate emotionlessly. “Not in person.”
“He is something to behold. YouTube doesn’t do him justice,” Bradford continued. “He’s a solid 6’10” — maybe not even done growing, but he plays a small forward. Now, I know he’s only considering a one-year contract right now, but keep in mind, you guys aren’t encumbered by a salary cap like teams in the NBA are, so if things go well next year… who knows beyond that? I’m sure you’ll want to make a strong first impression with your offer.”
“Our offer is firm,” another of the stone-faced Russian retorted, unimpressed by Bradford’s sales pitch. “Tell us what happened at his last game.”
“Sorry?” Bradford asked, feigning ignorance and not about to volunteer anything.
“We heard he was taken to the hospital.”
“Oh that? That was nothing. A little dehydration. Maybe a touch too much Stolichnaya the night before? Eh?” Bradford said with a hopeful grin but getting nothing from his guests. “No. Of course he doesn’t drink any alcohol.” When was this ride going to be over?
“When were you going to mention this to us?” one of the Russians asked, studying his facial expressions like a KGB interrogator.
“I’m not sure I was, to be honest with you. He’s starting today’s game. It really isn’t an issue,” Bradford said casually.
“It is an issue!” the Russian in the middle snapped, for the first time demonstrating some form of emotion.
“Gentlemen, let’s just relax,” Bradford said, leaning back in his seat, fully aware that his telling them to relax would have the exact opposite effect. The outburst actually put him more at ease. Emotion loosened inhibitions.
“We haven’t signed anything…” one of the Muscovites started angrily.
“Neither have we, gentlemen,” Bradford interrupted smoothly but decisively, sensing the opportunity to seize the upper hand. “Neither. Have. We. I can see you appreciate directness. So I’ll do my best to accommodate you. You are my guests here, and I plan to take good care of you, but don’t forget, I’m not asking you for any favors. You aren’t helping me out by signing J’Quarius Jones. The demand for this kind of talent far outweighs the supply — especially in Europe. It’s 250 bucks a ticket to get into tonight’s game! A high school game!”
The Russians silently conceded the point, the obstinance fading from their faces as the anger still smoldered underneath.
“Scouts from the top teams in Turkey, Greece, and Spain will all be in the gym tonight. Now, to this point, your offer has been the best, but those other teams weren’t too far off. And some are a little closer to home for him geographically.
“A bidding war would be one way to go I suppose, but I’d like to get this signed and done,” Bradford concluded. “How about you?”
“You will allow us to watch the game first?” the man in the middle asked with his first attempt at a smile.
“Of course,” Bradford answered, mirroring the Russian’s disingenuous expression, as the limo pulled up to the arena.
CHAPTER 8
“Alright guys, bring it in. Let’s go!” Coach Wright barked at his players, as they slowly congregated in a rough circle around him in the middle of the locker room.
“This is the last time we’re going to play together as a team,” the coach said. “Let’s finish the season the way we’ve played all year — as winners! And as a team!”
“TEAM!” the boys shouted in unison, their emotions running higher than usual for their final game.
An abrupt silence followed as they all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in anticipation of the coach’s pre-game prayer.