Incidental Contact
by
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(I’m In.) This was gonna’ be easy. Ronnie Clark had been doing “crash ‘n carry” since he was a kid. He’d started out when he was seven or eight, lifting booze and jewelry from apartments in his building, usually sneaking in from the fire escape while people were at work. By the time he was twenty, he had put together a crew. Good jobs. Decent money. He’d become a competent wheel man, but was bored as hell. (Subject number one: asleep at his girlfriend’s.) Then, in what he considered to be a turning point in his life, he and one of his boys stole a brand new, charcoal-black Ferrari Testarossa, right off the lot. On a lark. In a drug and alcohol-induced stupor. And in full view of three security cameras. Four days had passed, with the abandoned car no more than a hazy memory, when three extremely large, intimidating men introduced themselves at four-thirty in the morning. Ronnie didn’t get any of their names, however, as he was only conscious long enough to realize that he was being bagged in his own bed-linens. Then, after his very first ride in the trunk of a Lincoln, he had the rather ironic pleasure of meeting someone who was a true legend and role model to him. It seems that the Testarossa, along with every car on the lot, was owned by Mr. Frank Pinella, who was a “silent partner” in the dealership and took Ronnie’s little prank quite personally. (Subject number two: under surveillance, across town.) Frank’s goons worked Ronnie like pizza dough for more than four hours. Still, he wouldn’t give up the name. His face had been seen. His partners hadn’t. Luck of the draw. (Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it.) He figured they were gonna’ kill him anyway. No sense going out a punk. So he kept his mouth shut and welcomed the respite of those all-too-brief stretches when the pain caused him to pass out. (It was fate.) He couldn’t know it at the time, but his criminally chivalrous act would save his life. Frank was still basically a kid himself, only five years older than Ronnie. He’d seen a lot of bigger, tougher guys break, and with a lot less mess. That kind of loyalty was invaluable in their business. Just before he went under for the last time, his brain no longer able to cope with the incomprehensible agony, he heard Frank’s voice. (You got balls, ya’ little bastard.) From that day forward, Ronnie credited that turn of events for every good thing that happened in his life. Frank had spared him. Something “the family” had given him grief for ever since. “Anyone else, you woulda’ just wasted ‘em.” “Maybe ya’ think he’s kinda’ cute, huh Frank?” “Yeah, with that curly brown hair, he’s a doll!” “Frankie Pinella, a mezza fanook. Who’da thunk it?” Once back on his feet, albeit with a cane, he was made to work off his debt for the stolen car. Every penny. Even though the dealership had been reimbursed full invoice value under its blanket insurance policy. There was a lot one could learn from a guy like Frank, and Ronnie saw his opportunity. (Wireless Remote Camera One - Living Room.) (Functional.) Now, some eight years later, he had skills. Over time, he learned from the best in every field. After all, the Pinella family used only proven, first-rate contractors. Video and Mobile Surveillance. Wiretapping. Explosives. He’d watched carefully and, despite his humble beginnings, had far surpassed his youthful status as a lowly street thug. And, while not a made man, he was Frank’s favorite “tecnico matrise”, or master technician. (Wireless Remote Camera Two - Vollmer’s Bedroom.) (Functional.) More money than he had ever dreamed of. Treated like one of the family by his employer. And he never carried a weapon, which meant low-risk, well planned jobs with little chance of hard time. No guns. That was the deal. (Wireless Remote Camera Three - Morrow’s bedroom.) (Functional.)
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About the Book
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.
About the Author
Imagine Commissioner David Stern’s response if someone were to suggest that improprieties could exist within the hallowed halls of the NBA.
What if the question were being posed by a little-known journalist from Old Forge,
“Probably something like ‘Who’, followed by ‘From where?’, coupled with a dismissive look of amusement,” proposes Chuck Walley, Author of Incidental Contact.
With a wealth of experience belying the backwoods facade, however, he’s not to be underestimated.
Professional endeavors have included relationships with elite health care companies such as Starkey Labs along with the Boys and Girls Clubs of America and the NFLPA.
He’s also enjoyed the company of Jim Boeheim, Stan Musial, Gene Upshaw, Tom Landry, and Emmitt Smith, to name a few, while the creation of Muhammad Ali’s Fists of Greatness and time spent with The Champ ranks as a lifelong highlight.
As for the “small-market journalist” tag, he makes no apologies. “Purity in sport exists only at the amateur level. The rest of it is big business. I’m very comfortable with, and confident in, my perspective.”
Combining rich, real-world savoir faire with the type of no-holds-barred approach only possible from an independent writer, he sheds light on his subject in a way very few can.
AuthorHouse Senior Marketing Consultant Ron Bowles calls him “The Tom Clancy of the sports world,” adding that, “he ventures where the mainstream media either can’t, or won’t”.
So sit back and enjoy. As the author himself says, “Make no mistake, it’s a work of fiction, but written from an insider’s, or ‘fraternal’, point of view. Fraternal fiction, so to speak. Maybe they should call it ‘friction’ ”.
Perhaps, as Incidental Contact is likely to cause a great deal of hand-wringing among the powers that be in pro sports. Still wearing that amused look, Big Brother?