Michael Balkind - Sudden Death

‘Buck, these are excerpts transcribed from the recording of my meeting with Morgan. I’m sending them to you word for word and, while very crude, they give you an idea of Morgan’s arrogance. I don’t think I could do justice in describing his attitude to you without you reading it exactly as he said it.’ “This excerpt is from the first warning:” Yo, Reid Clark ain’t gonna throw me outta here. Ain’t no one gonna throw me outta here! I’m the best fuckin’ hoops player this place ever seen. AllSport needs me. When I make my millions in the NBA, I’ll donate lots to AllSport. You’ll see. ‘Two months later, we caught him doing crack again. He was brought in this time kicking and screaming. Security had to restrain him with handcuffs and leg irons. They held him until he came down from his high. Once he was calm enough, they brought him to my office.” “This is the transcript of that meeting,” said Buck.

Morgan:

Fornham: Morgan: Fornham:

Fornham: Well John, I guess you know what happens now, right? Morgan: Yeah, I know. You yell at me and tell me to stay straight and not do it again. Then I go back to practice and stay clean.

Fornham: No John, you’re finished at AllSport. You’re going home today. If you desire, we will take you directly to a rehab clinic and the foundation will cover the bill, but as far as continuing your training at AllSport, no chance. Sorry. That’s bullshit; I want to talk to Reid. He knows what I can do on the court. He’ll let me stay. I’m afraid not, John. I spoke with him an hour ago. He said that’s it, the rules are the rules; you’re done. It was Reid who offered to pick up the rehab bills, though. So where are we taking you, the clinic or home? Fuck you! Fuck all of you, including Reid. This sucks! I’m not goin to any fuckin’ rehab clinic. I don’t got no fuckin’ drug problem. I do crack to calm my nerves. I can stop whenever the fuck I want. Maybe you should have thought of that after the first time you were caught. Did you think we were kidding? Oh, forget it. Don’t even answer that. This meeting is over. Where are we taking you, home or rehab? Morgan: Take me home, but we’re not done. Buck continued reading, “Buck, after Morgan was gone, I called Reid to let him know how it had gone and told him about the last comment. If I can be of any more help, please call. I’ve tried to stay out of Reid’s way during this troublesome time. I hope he’s doing OK. Please let him know that I’m concerned about him. Thanks, Art’” When Buck finished reading, Jay turned to Reid and asked, “How could you have forgotten about this? You have to think hard, man. This is just the kind of stuff I need to do my job and hopefully save your life. Please, think back. Try to remember if there are more situations like this in your past.”

“I don’t know, Jay, I guess when it happened, I didn’t take it seriously. Obviously now I see it in a different light. Give me some time; if I think hard enough, I’ll probably come up with more. I realize now how important it is.” “It’s not just important, Reid, it’s vital.” “You’ve made your point, Jay. I promise.” “Good…okay,” Jay shook his head and sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me, just as I think we’re narrowing it down, the list grows. Happens all the time… Oh well, I’ll follow it up, thanks Buck. Good job on the temporary press room downstairs. It’ll save us a great deal of time.”

The room was packed, wall to wall. Jay handled the meeting without any bickering between Reid and the press. They finished in about 15 minutes and Jay promised another 15 the next day. The press appreciated that he was openly communicating with them.

A reporter from the Post approached them as they left the room. “Gentlemen, I think we need to talk. Can we go somewhere private?” “What’s so important that you can’t say it here?” Jay asked. “I received an anonymous tip.” “Let’s go to my office,” Buck said. The reporter introduced himself as Eric Fisher, a sportswriter from the

Post . In the elevator, he started to say, “I received a…” Jay cut him off, “Not yet, Eric, the walls have ears.” They all remained quiet until they entered Buck’s office. Eric began immediately. “As I was saying, I received an anonymous call this morning. The caller had a deep voice, probably male, and was anything but educated. He sounded like he was from the hood, as they say. Anyway, he told me that the threat to Reid should be taken very seriously. Reid can play golf in any tournament, but he cannot win. Second place is fine, but he can’t win. If he wins, he’s dead.” Eric looked at Jay. “That’s almost word for word what he said. Then he hung up before I could ask any questions.” “Did you get a chance to record any of the call?” asked Jay. “No, my phone tap was in my car.” “We need to call the phone company for a trace,” Jay said. “I already called them; they’re working on it,” Eric said. “You know the red tape there.” “Thank you for informing us,” Jay said. “Do you have a business card?

I may need to contact you.” Eric and Jay traded business cards. As he stood up to leave, Eric turned to Reid and said, “Good luck.” Once he was gone, Jay said, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. We had a breakthrough on the source of the note paper. The blue dye in the paper is only used by one manufacturer, and they sell it exclusively to The Office Warehouse. Lucky for us they only have four stores, two in LA and two in NY. We’re checking to see which ones recently sold any of the blue paper. Gentlemen, I think we are getting close.”

“That’s excellent,” Buck said. “I hate to break up the party, but we need to get downtown to Tri-Beca. Carl and the advertising team are meeting us at the studio. Jay, you’re welcome to come, if you want.”

“Thanks, I think I will. I’ve got a feeling this clown is close by. The more eyes we have watching, the better. Let me call my office. I want them to start researching that phone call. We also need to check out Rogers, Turner and those basketball players. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Buck’s car and driver were outside, waiting. When they arrived at the stu dio, Tom Davis met them at the car and brought them in. They entered a nondescript building through an unmarked black metal door. Without Davis, they never would have found it.

They rode a freight elevator to the third floor. “What a dump,” Reid commented on the way up. Tom smiled, but said nothing. As the elevator door opened, they all realized how wrong he was.

They entered a lobby that could best be described as futuristic: clean, bright and stark. White walls surrounded chrome and glass tables and counters; oversized white leather couches formed a big U in the waiting area. The eye was immediately drawn to the only source of color in the room: a huge, blue neon ‘One’ on the wall. As they approached the receptionist, she said, “Welcome to Studio One. Mr. Freedman and Mr. Hyman are waiting for you in back. I’ll buzz you in, then just follow the hallway. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

They walked through a long, white, tunnel-shaped hallway lit by a mixture of fluorescent lights and blue neon. As Reid reached for the knob on the huge door at the end of the tunnel, the door slowly swung away from them, opening automatically. What they saw blew them away. They were in a cavernous, seven-story room that spanned almost the entire floor of the building. From across the room, Carl was waving them to a table in front of a massive object. The structure behind him was shrouded in haze. As they got closer, they saw the set. It was amazing. It looked like a tee box, fairway and green in the middle of a glacier. The flag on the pin was embroidered with a picture of a frozen golf ball with the word FREEZE underneath. Next to the tee box was another huge ice golf-ball, similar to the sculpture at the party in Augusta. This one, however, had big blue letters frozen inside, spelling FREEZE. Carl walked over to them, and Buck introduced him to Jay. Carl, in turn, introduced them to David Freedman, the owner and creative mind behind Studio One. David was tall and thin with dark curly hair, a goatee and an earring. He was dressed surprisingly conservative for a creative guy, wearing freshly pressed khakis and a button-down Polo shirt. They also met Aimee, the creative director from the advertising company, who had developed the whole campaign. Aimee was a pretty girl with a big smile. Her outfit was professional yet provocative, revealing enough to stir Reid’s imagination without being too seductive. She wore a revealing, clingy, azure blue blouse and low-slung tight jeans. Her four-inch stiletto heels, while elegant, resembled lethal weapons.