Homecourt Advantage (22 page)

Lorraine worked only minutes away, had grown up a mere two blocks away, but this was the first time she had revisited the site in many years.

Her mind had been on automatic pilot when she left the hospital over an hour ago. Instead of heading uptown toward the George Washington Bridge, Lorraine had made a detour south. Now she stood before the scene that had recently returned in her mind along with the phone calls that tormented her.

She flinched at the sudden brightness of the lightning. She could have sworn moments before that a stream of blood oozed its way out the door onto the slick concrete. The puddles of water circled Lorraine’s soaked loafers, which had taken on a deep burgundy color. Lorraine blinked her unreliable eyes and frantically wiped the rain away, certain that she was seeing things or going crazy. Grabbing the sides of her head as a shot of pain sliced through her right temple, she cursed as the images returned.

“Get up, Raino! We’re gonna leave your sorry ass here if you don’t get back in the car! You can’t do shit about it now; come on!” Roy hollered out of the back window of the black low rider that the Disciples regularly used to cruise the neighborhood.

Lorraine’s heart was beating like a jackhammer. The child on the ground before her could not have been more than eight years old. How had she gotten in the line of fire? Lorraine hadn’t even known that Tommy and Roy planned on doing a drive-by. She knew they had beef with the local Jamaican gang, the Posse, but the plan to shoot up their hangout had been kept from the Disciples’ girl members.

“Somebody call 911! Somebody has to call an ambulance!” Lorraine cried as she leaned over the young girl’s limp body.

“Just get in the car, Raino; they gonna be here in a few minutes anyway,” Roy shouted over the distant sound of sirens.

“Go! Just go! I’m not leaving her here. She’s gonna bleed to death. We have to stop the bleeding,” Lorraine said, taking off her coat to put under the child’s head.

“Raino, get the fuck in the car!” yelled Tommy from the driver’s seat. Tommy was the gang’s leader.

“I’m not going anywhere … Can you hear me? You’re going to be okay. What’s your name?” Lorraine asked the wounded little girl.

“Raino, when the cops get here, you weren’t with us and you don’t know shit or you gonna find your ass bleeding on the concrete too … next to your mama! I promise you that,” Tommy said before he skidded off down the street.

Lorraine grasped the girl’s tiny hand. “What’s your name? Can you hear me? If you can, squeeze my hand.”

“Cri … Criss … Crissy,” the little girl gasped.

Lorraine felt relief wash over her entire body as a sob caught in her throat.

“Ohh, good, honey. Oh, that’s so good. Your name is Crissy? Oh, that’s a pretty name.”

“Mommy … Mommy calls me that,” Crissy said as her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Crissy. Crissy! Talk to me. Squeeze my hand.” Lorraine felt panic rise within her.

“I … I … want Mommy,” Crissy quietly sobbed.

Lorraine watched helplessly as Crissy’s eyes closed and her legs began to convulse.

“Come on, Crissy, come on! Please say something! Say something! Please, honey. You’ve got to speak to me,” Lorraine cried, rocking back and forth as the tears streamed down her face.

When the police arrived, Lorraine was still hunched over the lifeless child in a state of utter despair.

“Ma’am. Ma’am?” a male voice said, interrupting Lorraine’s thoughts.

“Yes?” Lorraine said, turning toward a young man in a neon green rain cover-up.

“Is that your car over there?” he said, pointing toward the red Range Rover.

“Yeah,” Lorraine answered, still in a daze.

“I think it’s about to be towed.”

Lorraine glanced over in the direction of her car and saw the tow truck backing in for the steal.

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much.”

“You’re drenched. You’re gonna catch your death out here.” The young man stared at Lorraine. “Well, take care of yourself.”

I think my death has already caught me,
Lorraine thought as she ran through the thick rivulets of rain.

“Liza. Liza. You’re not listening to me. How many
times do I have to tell you, I’m not going? After my mini tour, try and reschedule it, or maybe I can do it when I perform in Chicago,” Remy said in exasperation to Liza Anderson, her talent agent of seven years.

Sometimes Remy wondered why she even bothered to explain anything to Liza. Liza’s only concern was Remy being the biggest star in the Western Hemisphere, whether that was a realistic goal or not.

Liza’s philosophy was to sacrifice anyone and anything for success.

Remy pulled the phone away from her ear. She could not believe that Liza was complaining about the air play on “Happiness Is Divine.” It was number two on the
Billboard
chart and number one according to the majority of other music industry polls.

“What about what I need? What about that? I’m tired. I just finished shooting three videos in less than two months. It’ll be my oneday off in L.A. and I don’t feel like crisscrossing the country just to do a talk show,” said Remy adamantly.

Liza had a point, Remy knew. People didn’t just turn down “Oprah.”

“Liza, if I did the show, I’d have to fly back here for a two-hour concert, four hours after landing back in L.A. No, thanks.”

“It’s the perfect opportunity to plug the tour,” Liza was saying, pleading in Remy’s ear.

Remy did not respond. The few select shows she was doing had sold out months before. She was exhausted talking to Liza and she had more pressing issues to worry about than going on a television show, even if it was “Oprah.”

“Look, maybe I’m just burnt-out Liza; I am human, you know,” Remy said, walking with the telephone to the ten-foot window in her loft.

Remy knew Liza wouldn’t buy it. Liza had known her too long and too well.

Liza hit Remy’s hot button, saying, “If I told you the Flyers were going to be in Chicago, would it make a difference? You’d probably be gone in a flash.”

“Collin has nothing to do with this,” Remy said a little too defensively.

“You’d be on that plane in a hot second. You’d conjure up the energy to see him, but not for your career. Is that it now?”

Remy sat down on the ledge of her window feeling utterly defeated. Truthfully, if Collin had asked her to meet him someplace, she would have traveled the world to see him. But the fact of the matter was, every time she had asked Collin if something was wrong, he claimed that it was just a stressful time for him and that it had nothing to do with their relationship. He had promised Remy that his feelings for her had not changed. But what were those feelings?

“Liza, I’m not doing it. Now, please stop pressuring me about this,” Remy said, fighting back the tears as she stared out her window, envying the anonymous pedestrians who could amble their way down Spring Street, families and loved ones having time and space for each other.

“All right, all right, don’t worry about it,” Liza was saying on the other end of the line. “I’ll figure something out to tell them. We’ll get you on ‘Oprah’ another time. You okay now, kiddo?”

“I’m fine,” Remy said in a childlike voice.

“I just hope you don’t regret it later,” Liza said, and hung up the phone in Remy’s ear.

Remy was used to Liza hanging up without saying good-bye. It was her trademark. She was one of the most aggressive, astute, and powerful agents at Talent Management International. Liza was also a big softy but she would die if she ever thought her cover as the toughest agent in town was blown.

The dial tone buzzing in Remy’s ear pulled her out of her deep thoughts and she replaced the phone in its cradle. Remy walked toward the treadmill in the corner of her living room and jumped on it in hopes of clearing her mind. As she turned the mechanism on high incline, Remy’s legs began to churn. Closing her eyes, she picked up speed and tried to pinpoint how and exactly when the distance had crept between her and Collin.

Running faster on the treadmill, Remy was determined to find a way to bridge the gap.

And she wondered about the link between Hightower and the team.

Even though Rick was in Miami in the middle of a
game, Trina still found herself tiptoeing through his office. Unless Rick was sitting at his desk, the room was strictly off-limits to her and the kids. His word was so intimidating that it was not even necessary for him to put a lock on the door.

Trina felt a bit ashamed of herself as she sat down in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk. Unlike most of the wives Trina knew, she did not regularly snoop into her husband’s private matters, but she had been forced into action. The small-business loan Trina had applied for from their bank had been rejected. When she had received the letter in the mail, she had assumed there must have been a mistake. With Rick’s annual income being over two million dollars, she should have been eligible for the paltry twenty-five thousand dollars she was applying for to back her venture.

The letter of rejection from the bank had not specified the reason

the loan had been denied, so Trina had gone to the bank to investigate for herself. At first they’d been reluctant to divulge any information to her, but finally the private-accounts manager had advised her to check her TRW credit report.

“Yes! Yes!” Marcus screamed from the kitchen where he was watching the Flyers play the Heat.

Startled by Marcus’s hollering, Trina banged her knee on Rick’s desk.

“Damn, Marcus! What did I tell you about all that yelling, boy? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“But, Mama, the Flyers are about to win the game! They’re gonna play the Bulls in the Eastern Conference finals! I get to see Scottie Pippen!” Marcus hollered back from the kitchen.

“Just keep it down,” Trina said as a wave of nausea washed over her. Even though she was well into her fourth month of pregnancy, she was still sick all day. She had also not told Rick yet. Somehow there never seemed to be a right time to break it to him, especially since she knew he was staunchly opposed to having more children.

Trina began pulling out the side drawers in hopes of finding some documentation of what Rick was spending all his money on. When Trina had received the TRW report, she had been completely baffled. There were five credit cards listed, which were all at the maximum limits, totaling over a half million dollars! Trina had also discovered that he had been bouncing checks for months, regularly dipping into the overdraft protection of their joint account and his personal account. Rick had always been so frugal when it came to spending money; this information was a signal that something serious was going on. Women. Drugs. She didn’t know, but there was something. One thing she was certain of—if Rick was using drugs, her hands were tied. Coach wouldn’t disrupt his team for anyone. Rick would be forced to play until the play-offs were over. Then the league would probably ship her husband off to rehab; a fine way to wind down a career, she thought.

Trina continued to search through all of Rick’s files but was unable to find any receipts, canceled checks, credit-card notices, or anything that could shed some light on where all their money had gone.

Trina sat back in Rick’s chair, feeling frustrated. How could he? During all the years of their marriage, he would get angry at her for spending too much money at the grocery store, and here they were almost bankrupt because of him.

She knew asking Rick where the money was going was pointless. In fact, he’d be angry at her for questioning him about it in the first place. She had to find out some other way. Trina and the children were dependent on Rick for their future financial well-being, especially with baby number three on its way. For all she knew, they may not have a cent.

Trina racked her brain as she pushed herself back from Rick’s desk. There was no one in Rick’s family she felt comfortable enough to call. She would never think of asking Coach Mitchell about this situation, and she didn’t want to talk to any of the other players. Word would be out in a second.

Trina began pacing back and forth with her hands resting on her backside.

“Don Hammond!”

Of course! Rick’s agent. He had always been a kind and fair man, unlike many of the sports agents Trina had heard about over the years.

Trina quickly ran back behind Rick’s desk and began sifting through his business-card Rolodex, when one of the names on file caught her eye. Hightower Enterprises. That was strange. Why would Rick have a business card from someone at Leonard Hightower’s company? From what Trina had overheard of Rick’s conversation with his agent a few weeks ago, if she remembered correctly, it was Hightower Enterprises that was trying to buy the Flyers. She couldn’t understand what Rick would be doing with this business card, but he kept so many secrets from her, especially concerning his business matters.

Well, this family’s financial well-being is my business too, Trina told herself as she worked up the nerve to call Rick’s agent.

When Trina heard Don’s voice on the other end of the receiver, she almost hung up but stopped herself.

“Don?” Trina tentatively began. “This is Trina, Rick Belleville’s—”

“How are you, young lady!” Don said in his usual good-natured manner.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Of course you’re not disturbing me. I’m just watching the game. The Flyers are seconds away from advancing to the Eastern Conference finals.”

“Oh, they are?” Trina asked, feeling totally flat, not caring if they won or lost.

“Yes! And you must be so proud. Rick sure is having a great game. Don’t tell me you’re not watching it?”

“Ahh … no, not right now.”

“You’re missing the best part. Paul Thomas actually shut Brian Grant down in the fourth quarter, and they’ve swarmed Eddie Jones with the defense; he’s barely able to move,” said Don excitedly.