Jason threw his napkin on the table, jumped to his feet, and rounded on Dan. “I thought we were friends! What the hell is going on here?”

Dan concealed his elation with a shrug. “It’s front office business. I don’t get involved.”

“Not even when your football team may end up wearing fucking mouse ears on their helmets!”

Dan set down his coffee cup and deliberately wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Considering her past history, I think Baltimore’s more likely. It’s closer to Manhattan.”

Jason turned his anger on Ron. “This is all your doing, McDermitt. You’ve manipulated that fucking birdbrain! My God, you’re leading her around by the fucking nose!”

Ron’s smile revealed the teeth of a baby shark. “I’ve done what I had to, Keane. You’ve been screwing us over for years, and I finally found a way to stop you. Bert would never consider moving the team, but Phoebe doesn’t have his sense of tradition, and it was quite easy to persuade her to look elsewhere. She has wonderful connections, you know, and I don’t inquire too closely into how she’s made them. One day she’s on the phone with Trump. The next day with Disney. They’ve promised low rents, hefty concession percentages. They’ll pick up the tab for security. I realize this will leave you with an empty stadium, but perhaps the Bears—”

“Fuck the Bears!” Keane shouted. “Do you think I want McCaskey breathing down my ass?” His eyes traveled from Ron to Dan and back again. And then they narrowed suspiciously. He turned to his attorney. “Stand outside the door and keep Phoebe occupied if she comes back. O’Brian, get Trump on the phone.”

Dan could see the flicker of alarm in Ron’s eyes, and he couldn’t suppress his own dismay. You gave it your best shot, Phoebe, he thought. Unfortunately, Keane wasn’t as easily suckered in as he had been.

A heavy silence descended on the room as the men waited for the call to go through. After several moments of muted conversation, O’Brian passed the phone over to his employer.

Keane spoke into the receiver with false heartiness. “Donald, it’s Jason Keane. Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I’m tracing down an interesting rumor.” He walked over toward the fireplace. “The word here is that you’re thinking about building a stadium on that West Side land you own. If it’s true, I might be interested in getting in on the action. Provided you have a team lined up.”

He gripped the receiver tighter in his hand as he listened. “Is that so? No, I understand. I thought maybe the Jets . . . Really? Well, those things happen. Yes, indeed. Oh, certainly.”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll do that. Of course. Good speaking with you, too.”

His face was gray as he slammed the phone to the cradle. “The son of a bitch wants the Stars. He told me he’s promised Phoebe a pink marble skybox. The bastard actually had the gall to laugh.”