FOURTEEN
An hour later, a sleek young receptionist wearing tight black Capris, high heels, and an intoxicating perfume escorted Scott down corridors adorned with images of famous athletes sporting product logos. She stopped at an open door and motioned Scott into an expansive corner office. At the far end, a young man stood facing the floor- to-ceiling window with an earpiece and microphone fixed to his skull.
'Give me a fucking break, Stu. Half a million a year to endorse your clubs? That's an insult. I won't take any deal to Pete for less than two million.'
'That's Nick,' the receptionist said. Then she left.
'Yes, Stu, I know Pete hasn't won since Reagan was in the White House… Yes, I know he's forty-nine and heading to the senior tour next year… Yes, I know he's not ranked in the top hundred… or five hundred…'
Nick Madden could have been Jerry Maguire's little brother. His black hair was slicked back and looked wet, he was wearing a blue golf shirt and khaki pants, and he was gesturing at a laptop perched on a table against the window; on the screensaver was a formula: WM ^ 2.
'WM squared, Stu, that's the only ranking that matters when it comes to endorsement money, and you know it. And our last poll numbers put Pete's WM squared ranking at eighty-eight percent. That's off the freakin' charts, Stu.'
Sports Score International's offices were located on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper in downtown Houston. The windows offered big views of the city and the walls big blow-ups of more famous athletes in action: Kobe Bryant dunking a basketball, A-Rod batting a baseball, David Beckham kicking a soccer ball, Tom Brady throwing a football, Roger Federer hitting a tennis ball, Trey Rawlins swinging a golf club. One corner of the office looked like a golf pro shop with clubs propped against the wall and boxes of balls and shoes stacked on the floor. The rest of the office resembled a sports bar with air hockey and foosball tables, a pinball machine, and a bar with a flat-screen television on the wall above. The TV was broadcasting a golf tournament; the sound was muted but the byline read 'Houston Classic.'
'A million?' Nick sighed loudly. 'Tell you what, Stu-I'll take a million less for Pete if you pay a million more for Paul. He's younger and ranked higher than Pete and he might actually win a tournament this year… What?… Of course I get twenty percent of his, too. Hell, Stu, I'd charge God twenty percent.' He laughed. 'That's right, we are robbing Pete to pay Paul.' Another hearty laugh. 'All right, one million for Pete, three million for Paul. Email the contracts, we'll set up a press conference.'
Nick disconnected then pumped a fist at the world outside the window.
'Yes! Eight hundred grand in commissions and it's not even noon!'
He had a big grin on his face when he turned and saw Scott standing there. Scott recognized him from the golf broadcast Monday.
'Nick, I'm Scott Fenney.'
The grin dropped off Nick's face; his expression turned somber.
'Rebecca's husband.'
'Her lawyer.'
He came around the desk, and they shook. Nick Madden did not have big hands.
'I can't believe Trey's dead.' He sat on the edge of his desk. 'A butcher knife… Jesus. Terrible way to go.' Nick shook his head, as if he were still in shock. 'How can life be so fragile? One day he's here and everything's perfect, and the next'-he snapped his fingers-'gone like that. A hundred million dollars.'
'A hundred million dollars?'
Nick nodded. 'In lost commissions.'
Nick Madden wasn't mourning his dearly departed client but his dearly departed commissions.
'It's been six days since he died, Nick-don't take it so hard.'
Nick took offense.
'Hey, I got him deals for clubs, balls, apparel, a sports drink, and chocolate milk. And I had deals in the works for credit cards, candy bars, cell phones, and cars… Japanese, the Americans are owned by the government now. Over his career, I was looking at maybe five hundred million dollars in endorsements-twenty percent of which would've been mine. So excuse me for being a little upset.'
'On TV, you said he was your best friend.'
Nick offered a lame shrug. 'More like I was his best friend… and brother, father, mother, and minister. Athletes are high-maintenance clients, Scott. But bottom line, this is big business'-he pointed out the window; in the distance, dark smoke spewing from the refineries lining the Houston Ship Channel was visible against the blue sky-'just like the oil business. And I just hit a dry hole.'
Scott gestured at the phone. 'You have other clients-Pete and Paul.'
'They're fillers. Trey was gonna be my Tiger.'
Nick stood and walked over to the bar.
'You want something to drink? Beer, bourbon'-Nick held up a bottle-'Gatorade?'
Scott shook his head.
'Tiger signed with Gatorade for a hundred million bucks,' Nick said. 'If Trey had won the Open, I could've gotten ten, maybe twenty million for his next sports drink deal. You win a major, it's a gold mine-the endorsements.'
The look on his face was that of a man recalling the great love that got away. He exhaled heavily.
'So what do you want from me?'
'Information. I need to know about Trey's life on tour.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm trying to find his killer.'
'I thought Rebecca killed him? The Guilty Groupie.'
'She's innocent.'
'Is the grand jury gonna indict her? You think they've got probable cause?'
'You sound like a lawyer.'
'Agent for pro athletes these days, you learn a lot about criminal law.'
'Friday. Unless I find the killer first.'
'Two days? Good luck with that.'
Nick stepped over to the pro shop in the corner and shuffled through boxes.
'You want some golf shoes? What size do you wear?'
'No thanks.'
'Balls, putter, a driver…?' He picked up a club. 'Longest driver on tour.'
Scott shook his head. 'How long were you Trey's agent?'
Nick practiced his swing and posed as if watching the flight of his ball.
'Since he got on tour, two years ago. I rep our golfers. I played in high school, couldn't get a scholarship, so I majored in business. Hooked up with SSI straight out of college, been here eight years now.'
'Tell me about SSI.'
'Our motto is, 'We score for our clients.' We represent three hundred athletes worldwide, closed over six hundred million dollars in endorsement deals last fiscal year.'
'Offices like this don't come cheap.'
'You like it?' Nick put the club down, walked over to the games, and played a pin ball. 'Athletes have the attention span of kindergartners, so I got these to keep them occupied while I deal with their lawyers and wives. Especially the football players.' He shook his head and smiled like an old aunt pinching her nephew's cheek. 'They're just big kids… really big kids.'
'You represent football players, too?'
'No choice. They're pain-in-the-ass prima donnas and functional illiterates, but this is Texas.' He chuckled. 'Still, no better place to be a sports agent. Up in the Northeast, out in California, they spend their education money on math and science. We spend our education money on football. Which is why Texas produces the best football players in the country.'
