Sam Presti took the phone and looked down to read through the dozen or so text messages in his inbox.
After reading it, he showed no sign of panic; instead, he revealed a very professional and indifferent smile.
" Dwyane, did you call or text him back tonight?" Presti asked, looking up.
"Not yet," Wade shook his head. "I saw this text message during halftime after the first half, and my mind is a mess. I haven't figured out how to reply yet."
"Good that he didn't reply," Presti, opening his leather notebook, pulling out a pen, and writing down Marcus's full name, phone number, and the motel mentioned in the text message. "I'm keeping this phone for now. From now until noon tomorrow, don't reply to a single word. I'll answer any calls."
Wade paused for a moment. " Sam, what if they block the entrance to the training center tomorrow morning?"
"The fact that they dared to fly directly to Boston saves us a lot of trouble," Presti said, closing his notebook. "If these guys had been hiding on the streets of Chicago South Side, gossiping everywhere, it would have been a hassle for us to send people over. Now that they've delivered themselves to our doorstep, we can clean them up in one go."
Presti stood up, took Wade's phone, and walked to the purser's cabin in the front of the cabin to borrow the onboard satellite phone to call Boston.
Gary Payton lightly patted Wade on the back of the head. "Did you hear that, kid? In Boston, as long as you run your lanes and play good defense on the court, the club and us old guys will take care of this off-court mess. Relax, go back to your seat and get some sleep. Just watch the show at 10 a. m. tomorrow!"
Looking at Gary Payton, Garnett, and Pierce gathered around the poker table, Wade felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders. He stood up, nodded to his older teammates, and said, "Thanks, guys."
At 2:30 a. m. on November 17, the special plane landed at Boston Logan International Airport.
8:30 a. m., third floor of the Auerbach Training Center, CEO's office.
Lin Qi, holding a cup of hot tea, listened to Presti's report and casually flipped through the documents that the legal department had just printed out on the table.
On the sofa in the office, besides Chief Legal Counsel Arthur Morgan, sat a stocky, middle-aged white man in his fifties with a buzz cut. His name was Jim O'Connor, and everyone in the team called him Old Jim. He had worked for the Boston Police Department's Organized Crime Investigation Division for twenty-two years, retiring as a deputy superintendent. Now he served as the security director for the Celtics Club and the New Garden.
In the NBA, there are countless examples of talented rookies being dragged down by poor relatives and street thugs from their hometowns. Wade comes from the bottom of Chicago and is a very loyal person. If we don't take advantage of his rookie year to build a firewall for him with strong legal measures and iron-fisted security, this kind of mess will never end.
"Old Jim, have you found out anything about those guys from Chicago?" Lin Qi asked, putting down his teacup.
Old Jim stubbed out his cigarette, took out a case record that had just been faxed over from the police station's intranet that morning, and placed it on Lin Qi's desk.
"I received Sam's call at 3 a. m., and I immediately informed a few of my old colleagues at the North End Precinct and the Charles Precinct. By 6:30 a. m., plainclothes officers from the Boston Police Department had already checked the registration records at the motel next to the stadium."
"The ringleader is Marcus Jenkins, 32 years old, a street thug on 59th Street in Chicago South Side, with two prior convictions for assault and extortion. His two accomplices are Darnell and Trey. Interestingly, Darnell was just sentenced to two years of probation in Cook County Illinois, this April for receiving stolen goods. According to probation regulations, he can't even leave Illinois without a parole officer's written approval. His use of a fake driver's license to sneak onto the plane with Marcus to Boston already constitutes a felony of fugitive flight."
Old Jim chuckled coldly and patted the stack of papers, "As for their motel room, at seven in the morning, while they were downstairs for breakfast, the plainclothes officers from the precinct had the motel manager swipe his card to open the door and take a look. They found two switchblades that were longer than legal length and two ounces of unopened leaves hidden in the backpack on the bedside table."
Presti, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Bringing contraband across state lines to Boston to extort money, these guys are exceptionally stupid."
"They're used to being arrogant in Chicago South Side, thinking all the police in United States are as easy to fool as they are in their neighborhood," Lin Qi said, closing the file and looking at old Jim. "When are they arriving?"
"Just past the corner, about five minutes from the training center entrance," Old Jim glanced at his watch. "Detective McDonald and his partner from the Charles precinct are already parked in the arena's backyard in their plainclothes car, lights off. These two detectives were using the courtside tickets you gave them last winter; they're very efficient and won't attract any media attention."
"What about Dwyane?" Lin Qi turned to Presti.
"He's currently doing recovery training with Boyle in the weight room on the first floor, while Gary Payton is waiting in the second-floor hallway, insisting on going in to see what's going on."
Lin Qi stood up and straightened his suit collar. "Then take them to the small, windowless conference room on the second floor. Remember, Dwyane must not show his face at any point today. The club will play the villain."
9:15 AM, in the small conference room on the second floor.
Thirty-two-year-old Marcus, wearing an oversized imitation mink coat and a thick gold-plated chain around his neck, swaggered across the conference table, holding a complimentary hot coffee that had just been poured for him by the receptionist. His two thugs, Darnell and Trey, were looking around and touching the framed picture of the Celtics winning the championship on the wall.
"Boss Marcus, this Boston arena is really impressive, even the carpet in the hallways is so thick," Darnell, with his dreadlocks, swallowed hard and asked in a low voice, "Do you think that kid Dwyane will be willing to hand over the money today? That's $150,000!"
"He wouldn't dare refuse?" Marcus flicked his cigarette ash onto the carpet smugly. "That kid's always been honest and hardworking, and he cares most about his mom and sister's reputation. Besides, he plays for the Boston team now, his shoes are selling like hotcakes, $150,000 is nothing to him. Once we get that check, we'll go to the Atlantic Ocean City casinos tonight and have some fun for a couple of days..."
Before the words were finished, the heavy solid wood door of the conference room was pushed open from the outside.