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"Although this one has a certain poetic quality."
BOBBY BUSSES BOMBSHELL BOSS
Phoebe groaned. "They've made me look like a fool."
"That's one way to interpret it. On the other hand—"
"It's good for ticket sales." She no longer had any trouble reading his mind.
He took a seat across from her. "Phoebe, I'm not certain you understand how dismal our financial picture is right now. This sort of publicity is going to fill seats, and we need to do everything possible to generate revenue immediately. With that brutal stadium contract we have—"
"You keep mentioning our stadium contract. Maybe you'd better fill me in."
"I suppose I should start at the beginning." He looked thoughtful. "You're aware that the days of the purely family-owned football team have just about disappeared?"
"How many are left?"
"Only two. The Pittsburgh Steelers, owned by the Rooney family, and the Phoenix Cardinals, owned by the Bidwells. Football has simply gotten too expensive for single-family ownership. Tim Mara sold off his half of the Giants in the late eighties, the McCaskeys got rid of a piece of the Bears, and, of course, Bert sold off fifteen percent of the Stars to some of his cronies."
"Those are the men who keep leaving me the phone messages I'm not returning?"
"The same. For now, corporate ownership violates league rules, but that's probably where we're eventually headed. How can the Green Bay Packers, for example, which is a publicly owned team, compete with all the land barons, oil and gas men, and automobile fortunes that are pumping money into the Chiefs and the Cowboys, the Lions, the Saints, all the rest?"
He shook his head. "Teams have astronomical expenses and only limited ways of generating revenue: network television contracts, ticket sales, licensing agreements, and, for some of the teams, their stadium contracts. We don't get a penny from any food or liquor sold at the dome. We don't receive a cut from any of the advertising that's displayed, our rent is astronomical, and we have to pay for our own security as well as our cleanup."
"How could Bert allow something like that to happen?"
"He let his heart rule his head, I'm afraid. In the early eighties when the Stars' franchise became available, Bert wanted to buy it so badly that he didn't hang tough enough with the consortium of businessmen behind the sports dome. He also expected eventually to renegotiate the contract by making some threats and showing a little muscle."
"Apparently he thought wrong."
"The consortium that owns the stadium is headed by Jason Keane. He's a tough businessman."
"I've heard of him. He shows up at a lot of Manhattan clubs."
"Don't let his reputation as a playboy fool you. Keane's smart, and he had no intention of losing his sweetheart deal with the Stars. The contract comes up for renewal this December, and so far we've made no progress at all improving the terms."
Resting her elbow on her desk, she plowed one hand through her hair and swept it back from her cheek. The Stars had lost their final three exhibition games as well as their season opener, so there was little possibility of the team's qualifying for the AFC Championship game. All the sportswriters were predicting that the Portland Sabers would make it to the Super Bowl again this year, and she hadn't failed to note that the Sabers had won their opener against the Buffalo Bills 25-10.
The stadium contract was going to be Reed's problem, and there was no reason for her to waste time thinking about it except for an inescapable need to accomplish something her father hadn't been able to do. But how could she expect to remedy a situation Bert couldn't fix when she knew nothing at all about such things?
Reed had called her several times since the night he'd come to visit her. He'd even sent her flowers before the opener. Each time they'd spoken he'd been unfailingly polite, although he wasn't happy about the two-year contract she'd signed with Ron. She
knew he was afraid that she was going to destroy the team before he could take it over. He would never understand that her need to be more than the figurehead her father had envisioned outweighed any desire she might have to get back at him for his childhood bullying.
She gazed at the computer that sat idly on the corner of her desk. "Could you set me up with someone who can teach me how to use this thing?"
"You want to learn how to operate a computer?"
"Why not? I'm willing to try anything that's nonfattening. Besides, it might be fun to use my brain again."
"I'll send someone over." Ron got up to leave. "Phoebe, are you sure you don't want to move into Bert's office? I feel guilty having all that space to myself."
"You need it more than I do."
After Ron left, she looked around at the blue-gray walls, steel case desk, and football artwork. She'd decided she wasn't going to be here long enough to bother personalizing Ron's former office with her own belongings. The utilitarian furnishings provided a marked contrast to the luxurious condo she and Molly were moving into. One of Bert's mistresses had obviously been blessed with good taste in decorating, if not in men.
Peg Kowalski, Bert's former housekeeper, was spending the day supervising the transfer of Phoebe's and Molly's clothing and personal possessions. Peg, who was in her late fifties and tired of managing a large house, had immediately agreed to help out with cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping as well as staying overnight with Molly if Phoebe needed to be out of town.
