Rough Trade

number out of the air. I figured that at the end of the day the only thing that bankers understand is money. “I’ll write you a personal check for $1 million right now as a good-faith payment against the team’s obligation.” I pulled my checkbook out of my briefcase. “Not only that, but should the team not make good on its obligation after ten days, I’m prepared to default the million. You give us ten days and if we don’t come through, you get to keep the million. I’ll even make it out to you personally if you’d like.”
    “The bank will be fine,” replied Wallenberg, too stunned to be insulted by the implication.
    I handed Wallenberg the check and got to my feet, offering up my winningest smile, and was out the door before I had the chance to even absorb the full impact of what I’d done. While it had been at least a couple of months since I’d had time to sit down and balance my checkbook, I could say one thing with certainty. There was nothing even close to a million dollars in that account.
     

CHAPTER 26
     
     
    Mader’s is a Milwaukee institution, a downtown German restaurant that looks like it was airlifted out of Bavaria. The main dining room is enormous and paneled in carved wood depicting alpine scenes. There is lots of stained glass, and wooden trolls peer down from every available vantage point. Before I went off in search of Jake Palmer, I stopped at the pay phone by the coatroom and, to the astonishment of the coat-check girl, made arrangements to have my check covered.
    That done, I called Chrissy’s house to tell her the good news. I was alarmed when no one answered until I remembered that we’d deliberately turned all the ringers off. I left her a message saying that I hoped to be back inside of an hour and went off in search of my personal Goliath.
    Even though the place was still crammed with the lunchtime crowd, Jake was easy enough to pick out. Not only did he not blend in with the suits, but also there was a line of fans stretching respectfully for his autograph.
    “Hey there,” he said, rising to his feet and explaining with a big grin to his fans that his lawyer had arrived. He hopped over to the other side of the table and chivalrously pulled out my chair.
    “What a great place,” I declared, breathing in the sauerkraut-scented air. “I confess I wouldn’t have thought that you’d be a big fan of German food.” At this a buxom, dirndl-skirted waitress appeared bearing a stein of beer at least a foot high. He licked his lips. “I take it back.”
    “May I take your order?” inquired the waitress reverentially.
    “Two sampler platters,” announced Jake.
    “Oh, good,” I remarked, handing back the menu unread. “I’m starved.”
    “Then you’d better make that three sampler platters,” Jake grinned.
    The waitress disappeared, and a busboy took her place, materializing with a basket of hot rolls. Jake tore one in half like it was some hapless running back and popped it in his mouth like a doughnut hole.
    “I’m so glad you called me,” I said. “But I hope you aren’t missing practice on my account.” I remembered vaguely something I’d read somewhere about there being fines for missed practices.
    “Nah, Coach let me out so I could speak at some booster luncheon across the street. I do about a dozen of them a season. I’m the Monarchs’ dancing bear. The suits are always so-o-o impressed by how articulate I am. You want to know why?”
    “Because you’re black and they’re racists?” I offered.
    “Racists? Those motherfuckers expect that when I open my mouth, I’m going to grunt like a fucking chimpanzee.”
    “Are you telling me you already had lunch?” I asked, feeling a bit slow on the uptake.
    “Yeah, sure, if you can call it lunch—a circle of weird fish and two grains of rice. Now this place here, they serve up some real food. A big man’s got to eat big to play in the NFL.”
    As if to illustrate his point the waitress appeared with our sampler platters. She had to move the bread basket and shift the water glasses around to make room. I couldn’t believe it. It was like six meals crammed onto one plate. There was pork loin, schnitzel, goulash, beef roulade, an enormous potato dumpling, and two kinds of kraut.
    Jake the Giant dug in with relish. I took a tentative bite of the potato dumpling and felt it instantly expanding in my stomach.
    “So tell me about Darius Fredericks,” I said. “My secretary said you had things