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“A team I own,” Gallo said without the slightest change of inflection or tone. “The way I will eventually own the Wolves.”
“We understand that, John,” Spooner said. “We’ve understood that from the start.”
“The way we understand that the current mission remains destroying Jack’s sister,” Gallo said, “as a way of arriving at our ultimate goal.”
“I’m frankly not sure we can totally accomplish that in the media,” Jack said. “And I’minthe media.”
John Gallo said, “Oh, yes, we can.”
“So far, so good,” Jack said.
“Just not quite good enough, you cocky bastard,” Gallo said.
Something about him had changed, but neither one of the men with him at the table noticed.
Jack Wolf said, “Relax, John.”
Gallo’s fury was sudden then. He slammed his hand down on the table, making their bowls jump, causing Charlie Spooner’s wineglass to fall and shatter on the floor, the sound like a gun going off.
“Don’t you tell me to relax.”
Jack Wolf and Charlie Spooner stared at him.
“Pretty goodisn’tgood enough!”Gallo snapped at Jack.“Do better!”
The waiter appeared then, Charlie directing him to the shattered glass. The waiter cleaned it up, went away, and came back with a new one. He poured Charlie a fresh glass of wine and left.
When he was gone, Gallo turned to Jack, his voice not much above a whisper, and said, “If I don’t get everything I want, and I mean everything, remember that you end up with nothing. Not even your newspaper.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jack said. “I was just trying to say that we’ve still got time to beat her up a little more before the vote.”
“I don’t want you to just beat her up. I want you to finish the bitch.”
He smiled, as if the last couple of minutes hadn’t happened.
“Is that understood?”
“Understood,” Jack said.
Then John Gallo slapped his palms together and said, “What about some dessert?”
Thirty-Eight
DANNY HAD JUST GOTTENoff the phone—again—with the commissioner, explaining to Joel Abrams that because he was no longer calling the shots with the Wolves, there was nothing he could do to prevent Billy McGee from suiting up on Sunday, and to keep suiting up.
“First she brings in an ultimate fighter to be her coach,” Joel Abrams screamed at him. “Now she hires this skid-row bum to be one of her quarterbacks. What’s next—she tries to find out if O.J.’s got any life left in his legs?”
“There’re three weeks or so until the league meetings,” Danny said. “Her signing McGee actually helps us. She just drove one more nail into her own coffin.”
There was a pause then. When Abrams started speaking again, he seemed to have calmed down.
“When does your brother drop the story about the tox screen?” Abrams said. “He’s got to do it before the medical examiner releases it.”
“He says soon. Right now, he just wants to ride Money McGee’s rap sheet for a couple more days.”
“And what about Thomas being in the trainer’s room with Harmon that day? Is that true?”
“It is.”
