“Why didn’t Gene Mannion split his shares with all of his partners? Why did he give them all to Franklin Jones?”
Julian shook his head. “After a couple of seasons, Quinton and Cedrick lost interest in the Monarchs. Gene and Franklin were the only ones who still cared what happened to the team.”
DeMarcus frowned. “Why?”
Julian seemed to collect his memories. “Cedrick used his profits from the franchise to build a department store.”
“Tipton’s Fashionwear.”
“Quinton’s story was different. He seemed to be jealous of all the attention Gene and Franklin were getting for the Monarchs’ success. He started drinking more. Alcoholism eventually ruined his marriage. It also killed him.”
DeMarcus lifted his right ankle to his left knee. “I feel sorry for Jackie having to deal with Quinton and Cedrick’s descendants when she’s trying to save her team.”
Julian angled his head. A light danced in his dark eyes. “Have you ever seen Jackie Jones play basketball?”
“A few times.”
Julian winked. “My money’s on her. She’ll find a way to keep the team in Brooklyn.”
“She’ll be devastated if she doesn’t.”
Julian sobered. “She’s not the only one. If the Monarchs leave Brooklyn, the whole community will be devastated.”
Jaclyn sat forward in the backseat of the Bentley as Herbert Trasker stopped the automobile in front of the Guinns’ residence. “This is the address. Thank you, Herb.”
Herbert turned sideways in the driver’s seat and ducked his head to study the four-story, single-family mansion through the front passenger window. “I’ll park here and wait for you.”
Jaclyn gave the driver a wry smile. “This will probably take a while.”
He gave her an ironic look. “Or it may not.”
Her cream midcalf skirt rose slightly as Jaclyn scooted forward on the backseat. She laid her hand on Herbert’s shoulder. “It’s almost six o’clock. Go home to your family. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”
Herbert climbed out of the car and opened the back passenger door for her. He watched her step onto the sidewalk. “Are you sure?”
Jaclyn let Herbert’s concern help steady her nerves. He worried over her like a parent. “Positive. I’m not going to be tossed out of the game that easily.”
“All right, Ms. Jones.” Herbert touched the brim of his black leather cap. “I’ll wait for your call. Good luck.”
Jaclyn mounted the steps to the Guinns’ house and pressed the bell. She looked over her shoulder to see Herbert leaning against the Bentley, waiting with her. Moments later, the locks turned and the door opened. She faced an older version of the Mighty Guinn.
Jaclyn waved to Herbert to let him know someone had answered. Then she turned back to the gentleman. “Good evening. I’m Jaclyn Jones from—”
The stranger opened the door farther. “I know who you are, Ms. Jones. I’m Julian Guinn, Marc’s father. Please come in.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Guinn.” Jaclyn extended her hand as she entered the residence. “May I speak with Marc, please?”
“Of course.” DeMarcus’s father led her down the polished mahogany hallway. A staircase wound upward on her right. A cozy den beckoned her to the left. “He’s cooking dinner.”
Jaclyn stumbled over her feet. Julian reacted, his right arm shooting out to steady her. Jaclyn gave him a tentative smile. “Now I know where Marc got his catlike reflexes.”
His startled expression replaced his concerned frown. The twinkle in Julian’s coal black, almond-shaped eyes—so like his son’s—invited her to smile with him. “The idea of the Mighty Guinn wearing an apron knocked you off your feet, didn’t it?”
Jaclyn’s face warmed. “No, I didn’t—”
Julian laughed, a warm rumbling sound that swept away her unease and coaxed a chuckle from her. “You should see your face.” He kept his hand cupped around her elbow. “He’s a very good cook. You should stay for dinner.”
The elder Guinn escorted her across a formal dining room to the kitchen doorway. The scene stopped Jaclyn’s mushrooming embarrassment. DeMarcus stood in profile to them at a large, rectangular ash wood island. A salad bowl perched in front of him. A tomato, cucumber, celery and two types of peppers surrounded the chop block on which DeMarcus was slicing a fat red pepper.