Mark Gimenez - Accused

"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."

"And California and Massachusetts get stuck with all the mathematicians and scientists."

"Exactly."

Nick apparently wasn't trying for irony.

"Nick, you ever been to Trey's beach house in Galveston?"

"Sure. Nice place."

"When was the last time?"

"Right before Doral. Couple months ago."

That ruled Nick out for the unidentified prints on the kitchen counter-and Scott was pretty sure Nick wouldn't have been in Trey's bed or closet.

"Scott, I was gonna make a lot of money off Trey. I didn't kill him."

" 'Show me the money'-is that the deal with sports agents?"

"What? Oh, from that movie. Yeah, Scott, that is the deal-for agents and athletes. You gotta understand something about Trey-about most pro athletes today. Everyone who was part of his life-me, Rebecca, his sponsors-we lived in Trey's world. He didn't live in ours."

Like a lawyer and his richest client.

"He really would've made five hundred million over his career?"

"Tiger's made a billion, and he's only thirty-three."

"I didn't know golfers made that kind of money."

"Most Nicklaus ever made on tour was three hundred twenty thousand-hell, we got caddies making more than that today. The leading money winner this year will make ten million, twenty if he wins the year-end bonus." He gestured at the golf tournament playing on the TV. "Every week on tour, the winner takes home a million, runner-up half a million. Trey had already won twice this year. With endorsements and corporate outings, he stood to make twenty-five million."

"That's a lot of money."

"There's a lot of money in sports today, Scott." Nick pointed at the portraits on the wall. "Tom Brady made thirty million last year, A-Rod made forty, Kobe forty-five… but Tiger made a hundred. That's the advantage of golf. Football, basketball, baseball-those are American sports with American endorsements. Even superstars can't go international. Anyone in Europe give a shit what A-Rod drinks? No. But they care what Tiger drinks… and what clubs he swings and clothes he wears. Golf is a worldwide sport played with the same equipment made by the same manufacturers endorsed by the same players wearing the same clothes. Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Under Armour-you can buy their stuff anywhere in the world in any currency. So star golfers are the most marketable athletes in sports. And Trey could've been a big star."

"I need copies of all his endorsement contracts."

Nick frowned.

"I can subpoena them."

Nick nodded. "I know. Every time one of my athletes gets divorced, the wife's lawyer subpoenas all contracts, correspondence, emails, earning statements… I'll have to clear it with legal, but I'm sure I can get you copies without a subpoena."

"What can you tell me about Trey?"

Nick shrugged. "Like what?"

"Did he have any health problems?"

" Trey? "

Nick picked up a remote control, pointed it at the TV screen, and clicked through a menu. The screen abruptly flashed on to the image of Trey Rawlins.

"His marketing video."

The video featured clips of Trey's long drives and winning putts, his life off the course-running the beach without a shirt on, piloting a sleek boat without a shirt on, driving the BMW bike without a shirt on-

"Healthy as a horse," Nick said. "Look at that body. Six foot, one-eighty, ripped. Check out those abs. Those fat boys on tour take their shirts off, you'd fucking throw up. Trey's numbers among women eighteen to thirty-five were off the charts." He froze the video on Trey's bare chest. "He waxed his chest."

"Why?"

"Manscaping. All the movie stars do it. Shows off the pecs and abs better. Women love that."

"Oh."

— giving interviews-"Yes, sir"… "No, ma'am"… "I'm blessed"… "I love my country"…

"Market research tells us which words and phrases resonate with the buying public. Trey was a natural-programmed without sounding programmed. And he smiled. Most of the guys, they get face time on TV-which is why sponsors pay to put their logos on the players' caps and shirts-they put their game faces on, look like they're passing a goddamned kidney stone instead of playing golf for millions. Trey, he flashed that smile, win or lose. Fans loved that-and that's money in the bank, brother."