Conrad Dobler, 10-year NFL veteran, 3-time Pro Bowler and Author of Pride and Perseverance touts it as "A book which flows and reads quickly. Fictional? Sure it is ... if you don’t believe this can or has happened, then you are living in the dark ages." World Record-Holder and former Harlem Globetrotter Wayne Clark calls it "Fascinating ... I found myself immersed in an incredibly believable world which left me no choice but to seriously consider the unthinkable." 13-year veteran NBA referee Tim Donaghy, Author of Personal Foul, proclaims that it’s "An action-packed thriller whose sinister plot is closer to reality than many would want to believe. An absolute must-read for every sports fan." "Chuck’s work is always spot-on, but this novel is groundbreaking. A gripping story with unforgettable characters that you’ll wish would never end," declares two-time Olympic Medalist John "Louie" Ehrensbeck. Trey Vollmer, a somewhat naïve N.Y.U. grad, works in the Media Relations Department at the International Football League. Born and raised in the Adirondacks, he now shares an apartment on New York’s Upper West Side with his life-long friend Rob Morrow, whose personality is in stark contrast to that of his own. A lady’s man of legendary repute, Rob’s a sports junkie with a gambling problem. The plot unfolds as Trey stumbles upon a document which suggests the possibility of a highly illegal "Executive Office Pool". That night, having informed Rob of his find, the wheels are set in motion. Naturally, Rob wants to get to the bottom of it, albeit with an ulterior motive. Trey, however, worries that pursuing the matter could cost him his job, not to mention the trouble that might be caused for his fiancé, Jessica Abrams, who happens to be the Commissioner’s daughter. Things only get worse when Rob decides to dig deeper and discovers a connection between IFL Corporate Counsel Al Edwards and Frank Pinella, the Tri-State area’s Capo dei Capi. Their lives turned upside-down, a plan is hatched to reveal the League’s sinister inner workings to the world. It won’t be easy, though. The walls are closing in on all sides, and fast. A roller-coaster ride of events unfolds along the way, climaxing at the world’s first international pro football championship, the Ultra Bowl. But in the end, as is the case throughout this mind-bender, nothing is quite what it seems. Incidental Contact combines intrigue, drama, romance, and non-stop action in a way that is sure to appeal. Open to the first chapter, and settle in. You won’t be putting it down anytime soon.

INCIDENTAL CONTACT

By CHUCK WALLEY

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Chuck Walley
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-9821-6

Contents

Chapter 1. The Al Edwards Experience..............................1Chapter 2. A Business Proposal....................................9Chapter 3. The Opening Bet........................................13Chapter 4. It's Elementary, My Dear Watson........................19Chapter 5. IFL Action - The World Is Watching.....................25Chapter 6. Pass The Parmesan, Please..............................28Chapter 7. Good Times, Bad Times..................................33Chapter 8. Some Guys Have All The Luck............................38Chapter 9. Until We Meet Again....................................42Chapter 10. "Last Roundup At Mama's"..............................47Chapter 11. PIN's and Needles.....................................50Chapter 12. Avril In Paris........................................53Chapter 13. The Dinner Hour.......................................55Chapter 14. Countdown To Jessica..................................58Chapter 15. Be Careful What You Wish For..........................65Chapter 16. The Bonus Round.......................................69Chapter 17. Inquiring Minds.......................................71Chapter 18. The Game Room.........................................76Chapter 19. Mine Eyes Have Seen The Gory..........................82Chapter 20. Overcoming A False Start..............................85Chapter 21. Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch..........................90Chapter 22. Easy Does It..........................................101Chapter 23. Young Love............................................106Chapter 24. The Awful Truth.......................................109Chapter 25. Go West, Young Man....................................127Chapter 26. Ronnie's Got A Gun....................................129Chapter 27. The Great Escape......................................143Chapter 28. Hell Week.............................................153Chapter 29. Of Mice and Men.......................................169Chapter 30. An Unlikely Tag Team..................................173Chapter 31. Simon Says - Hands In The Air.........................187Chapter 32. Business As Usual.....................................230

Chapter One

The Al Edwards Experience

Friday, September 8 1:52 P.M.

"I've got a secret," thought Trey Vollmer, checking his jacket pocket to confirm that its treasure was still there. He was usually a dress-down kind of guy, at least by corporate standards, so the Brooks Brothers look was a bit of a reach. It was by necessity, though, as his hidden prize came in a box just a tad too big for pants pockets. Plus, he had to be at his very best tonight.

He'd been struggling since early this morning to contain the adrenaline rush that was digging at the pit of his stomach. After all, if the exhilaration and anticipation he was feeling could be seen in his expression, his co-workers would know something was up.

Not that he was your typical brooding-artist type. To the contrary, he was easily the most carefree of the twelve writers, editors, and graphic designers here on the Fourth Floor of the IFL Tower.

But even "Trey Heureux", an affectionate play on his name meaning "very happy" in French, couldn't be this giddy without there being special news. And nearly everyone was aware that he was eagerly anticipating word from the Schomburg Museum regarding the Assistant Curator position he coveted so dearly. Well, he wasn't going to be sharing this bulletin with anyone. Not yet, at least.

Giving the proof for a poster he'd just completed a final once-over, he prepared it for delivery and headed for the elevator.

Normally, any work that Trey approved was presumed ready for print. This particular item, however, was part of a pet project being overseen by Al Edwards, the International Football League's Corporate Counsel and Special Events Coordinator. Al was a notorious pain in the ass and insisted on flaunting his status at every opportunity. That included micro-managing everything within his designated scope of influence and, in all likelihood, a great deal more.

His final words to Trey after their last meeting were, "Remember, the job's not done until it's been on my desk." That was Al's catch-phrase, one which had become part of a running joke.

Whenever Al pink-slipped one of his very temporary Executive Assistants, whose primary qualifications were apparently tall, blonde, and well-endowed, the allusion would once again make the rounds.

(Rumor is, she made it onto Al's desk.)

(Yup. She's done.)

So legendary was his persona, those meeting him for the first time were said to have survived the Al Edwards Experience, tomfoolery originally intended to evoke images of some particularly mind-numbing theme park ride.

Trey, on the other hand, found amusement in the reference for other reasons, some one-hit-wonder rock band from the sixties whose members were all exceedingly short, balding and slightly psychotic coming to mind.

"What's that, a Special Delivery?" beckoned a voice that Trey immediately recognized as that of his boss, Jessica Abrams, Director of Media Relations.

"Yeah, I'm on my way upstairs to see how the other half lives," he responded, poking his head into her office. "Of course," he added, surveying the room, "you don't have to travel to Fifty-Six to bask in such lavish surroundings."

Jessica's father was Warren Abrams, the IFL Commissioner, and he had insisted on moving her into the newly decorated suite against her wishes back in July. It really wasn't that extravagant for someone in her position, but it looked like the Taj Majal compared to the spartan cubicles everyone else in the department packed themselves into.

Ever since, she had been a little defensive about her new digs, presuming that the upgrade would be perceived by her staff as an act of nepotism. Any insecurity she suffered from was unfounded, however. There wasn't a more qualified or down-to-earth person in the building to work for, and she was admired and appreciated beyond her own comprehension.

"Maybe we'll both have corner offices in the near future," she offered with a slight blush, which served to accent her jewel-like green eyes. "Have you heard anything yet?"

Despite the fact that she would be losing a great asset, she was genuinely rooting for him to land the job with the Schomberg. Having hired him right out of school, she knew that he had loftier goals than being the IFL's Graphic Design Coordinator and was more than capable of achieving them.

"Nada. Zip. Bupkis. Must be they don't see me as Assistant Curator material," he suggested with a wry smile, trying to play off his disappointment.

With a mock look of concern, she yanked the telephone receiver from its cradle and whispered, "Hello, Security? I think there may be an imposter in my office." Then, growing more alarmed, she demanded, "Who are you? And what have you done with my favorite eternal optimist?"

"It's just that I was supposed to hear something by the end of the week, and it's Friday, so ..."

"Well, first off, it's barely two o'clock," she interrupted. "And, if I remember correctly, didn't you have to wait a few extra days to hear about this job while I was convincing HR that you weren't totally overqualified? Anyway, I'm heading upstairs in a bit. Why don't you let me drop that off for you? You wanna' be here if that phone rings, don't ya'?"

"I appreciate it, but I really need to hand this off to Al myself in case there are any final changes he wants to discuss."

"Yeah, and knowing him, there will be at least one vital alteration just so he can tell everyone how he had to do our job," she said, eyes rolling.

Seeing that he was still a little down in the mouth, she changed the subject. "You didn't forget about the Staff Meeting tonight, did you?"

Cocking his head, he stood there for several seconds, making sure to appear totally confused.

"Eight o'clock? Mama Alfredo's???" she reminded him.

"G-O-T-C-H-A," he exclaimed, grinning widely as he spun away from the door before she could respond.

As Trey rushed upward in one of the eight cars that made up the main elevator bank in the center of the Tower, a much different feeling rose from his belly. Nobody here knew it, but he had never really gotten used to riding in the claustrophobic deathtraps, as he thought of them. There hadn't been one within fifty miles of where he grew up, unless you counted the hydraulic lift that carried stock between the first and second floors at the Old Forge Hardware Store where he'd spent his summers working as a teen.

Out of nowhere, the building's Scenic Outdoor Elevator came to mind, adding to his discomfort. He'd often watched it slowly ascend the northwest corner of the building as he lunched in the front courtyard, and was not impressed.

Thankfully, he was under no obligation to make that voyage, as it was reserved exclusively for the top brass, stopping only at the Executive Suites and the underground Parking Garage.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief as the car slowed, signaling his arrival, he eagerly waited for the doors to open. When they did, he found himself face to face with Al Edwards and his ever-present titanium briefcase.

"Is that the proof for the Ultra Bowl promo poster?" he asked in an annoyed tone, pressing down on the triangular call button to hold the elevator.

Knowing that the man was incapable of behaving in a civil manner, Trey wasn't expecting any gratitude for a job delivered ahead of schedule.

"I thought you'd want it on your desk as soon as possible, sir."

(I cannot believe I said that.)

Thankful that he hadn't emphasized the words "on your desk" in a way that might be perceived as sarcastic, he quickly added, "I think you'll like what we did with it."

"Well, I can't take it now," he snarled, glancing back towards his office. "I have to put out a fire in Accounting. As usual, they don't know what the hell they're doing down there."

"If you'd prefer, I'll bring it back up at a time that's more convenient, and we can look it over together."

"No, I'm pretty sure I can manage reviewing your work without any assistance. Leave it on my desk, and I'll get back to you on Monday."

Just then, the elevator doors shuddered, announcing their intent to override the call button, and Al boarded the empty car as if there had been no conversation at all.

Before starting for Al's suite, he raised the cardboard tube that housed the proof skyward, indicating to the receptionist that he had a delivery.

"I heard," she said sympathetically. "He's between Assistants right now, so you can go right on in."

(Unbelievable.)

He had that same thought every time he passed through the vault-like double doors that guarded Al's office. Constructed of stainless steel, they were polished to a mirror finish and gave the impression of being impenetrable when closed. The suite was clearly an extension of his ego, and was designed to send an emphatic message - this is where the real boss can be found.

To begin, it was the largest suite in the building, claiming more than triple the square footage of the Commissioner's, a statistic that its inhabitant was only too willing to share. Trey had met with Al in his main office many times but had never ventured beyond. It was common knowledge, though, that the oak door at the south end of the room led to a multi-media theatre with seating for eighteen. Not to mention a recreation room that included a twenty-foot long, football-shaped hot tub. There was also a fully appointed kitchen and formal dining room, routinely snubbed for New York's toniest bistros. And, finally, a ludicrously ostentatious lavatory that was approximately the same size as the apartment Trey shared with his roommate on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

Contrastingly, the main office was both stark and primitive, although the floor to ceiling glass did offer a breathtaking view of the city. Not at all functional, it contained little in the way of business-related accoutrements. The focal point was a massive, roughhewn granite desk which vaguely resembled an altar. It was complemented by an equally colossal leather and rosewood chair that reminded Trey of Captain Kirk's perch on the Starship Enterprise. He had never seen Al climb into that seat, and rather enjoyed the idea that the diminutive, stocky fellow must have had it designed with retractable steps in order to board it.

Equidistant from the desk were two comparatively tiny chairs upholstered in standard-issue black fabric, placed at precisely the same angle in relation to each other, designed specifically to make his guests feel subordinate.

While not taken with Al's flair for interior decorating, there was something of real interest to Trey in this room and, unaccompanied for at least the next few minutes, he would have his chance.

Gracing the interior partition walls were six gilt-framed oil paintings - all originals, and each significant from a collector's perspective. With a Degree in Art History complementing his Graphic Design double-major, he'd been fascinated by the rare pieces from the first time he saw them. He wasn't comfortable enough with their owner, however, to request access to them for viewing. This was a perfect opportunity to steal a look at his favorite of the sextet.

As he stood, carefully considering the impact and sheer beauty of the Monet, he momentarily transcended the time and space he was in and, for what seemed an eternity, became lost in the painting.

It suddenly occurred to him that exquisite works of art such as these should be available for the whole world to enjoy, rather than hidden away as a trophy for some arrogant pseudo-intellectual.

Startled completely back to reality by that revelation, he decided that he'd better drop his package and head back downstairs. The idea of a second encounter with Al was not particularly appetizing. Monday would come soon enough.

Being careful not to disturb anything on the desk as he completed his delivery, he happened to notice something familiar sitting atop a small stack of papers.

The IFL Kickoff Weekend Game Schedule had been designed in his department, and Trey had forwarded it for production just last week. If not for that coincidence, coupled with his attention to detail, he likely would have never given it a second look.

(Something's different.)

Removing the schedule from its clear plastic cover, he realized immediately what had drawn his eye. It was a minute change, but one that was readily apparent once seen in direct light.

It was the ink. Not only was it slightly darker than the #52 Blue that was called for in the proof, but it was much thicker, nearly jumping off the page. It also had the appearance of being wet. He had seen dozens of raised inks before, but nothing like this. Passing his right index finger across a portion of the text, he was reminded of Braille.

As he began to place the document back in its protective sheath, he saw something else. Something even more inexplicable.

(What the ...?!?)

Trey Vollmer stood there, mesmerized, as the missing letters slowly reappeared.

With his first thoughts centered on confirming his sanity, rather than the possible significance of what he had just seen, he pressed his thumb against those same letters. Holding it there for no more than two seconds, he removed it and watched as they transformed from non-existent, back to their three-dimensional state.

As if sleepwalking, he returned to his own desk, distractedly working his thumb and finger round and round, feeling for some residue of a clue that refused to reveal itself.

Nearly an hour later, his traditional senses having returned but unable to overcome the nagging hunch that something was amiss, he received a call from the Schomberg.

"Thank you for your interest in the position, Mr. Vollmer. Your resume' is most impressive. And, confidentially, you made our short list. We have, however, decided to go in a different direction."

Chapter Two

A Business Proposal

Friday, September 8 7:40 P.M.

Mama Alfredo's was pretty much like every other tourist-trap eatery on Mulberry Street, right down to the Godfather-inspired decor. And while it was true that most trend-conscious New Yorkers wouldn't be caught dead in Little Italy, it was nothing less than a slice of heaven on earth for Trey and his life-long pal and roommate Rob Morrow.

Rob suggested they try the place when a business associate purchased it a little more than five years ago. Since then, they'd packed in enough pizza, meatball subs, and lasagna to feed a small country. They had also become quite friendly with the staff, making it a sort of home away from home.

Their favorite feature, though, was the second-floor dining room. Very private and rarely used, it allowed he and Rob to "sit back and digest," as Trey's dad would say. Having recommended the restaurant to Jessica for their Staff Meetings, he was thrilled when she insisted on making an institution of it.

Seated at the tiny bar in the rear of the restaurant, Rob raised his glass, which contained the remnants of a double Chivas, and offered a toast.

"Nastrovia!" he proclaimed.

"What are we toasting?" Trey asked, nervously shifting his weight from side to side.

"You name it. Another profitable week on Wall Street. A new IFL season kicking off on Sunday ..."

"Another chance to lose mind-boggling sums of money to your bookie," Trey half-kidded.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from INCIDENTAL CONTACTby CHUCK WALLEY Copyright © 2010 by Chuck Walley. Excerpted by permission.
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