Distant Shores Read Free Page A

as the money did. Strip malls gave way to beautiful, themed shopping centers. Trendy restaurants offered alfresco dining on concrete, under umbrellaed tables. Barnes and Noble built a flagship superstore in the old bowling alley.
    At the corner of Main Street and 106th stood an imposing and ornate building, a sleek combination of concrete and glass with a trendy rococo facade at the entrance. It was a perfect representation of the “new” Bellevue—expensive, brash, and trendy, with just enough atrium space to display its northwest roots.
    Jack parked on the street out front. He sat in the quiet car for a minute, gathering his confidence, then he headed into the building. On the seventeenth floor, he quickly adjusted his silk tie—more out of habit than any real fashion sense—and stepped into the expansive brass and glass reception area.
    He thought,
You’re Jumpin’ Jack Flash. They’d be lucky to get you;
then walked up to the desk.
    The receptionist smiled brightly. “May I help you?”
    â€œJackson Shore to see Mark Wilkerson.”
    â€œOne moment, please.” She picked up the phone and announced him. After she hung up, she said, “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
    He sat down on the sleek red leather sofa in the waiting room. A few moments later, a woman walked toward him. She was tall and thin—nice body. The gold jewelry at her throat glittered in the overhead fluorescent lighting. She offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shore. I’m Lori Hansen. My dad always said that you were the best quarterback the NFL ever had. Well, you and Joe, of course.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œThis way, please.”
    Jack followed her down a wide, marble-floored corridor. There were people everywhere, clustered in pods around the copiers and doorways. A few smiled at him as he passed; more ignored him.
    Finally, they reached their destination—a closed door. She knocked softly and opened it.
    Jack closed his eyes for a split second and visualized success—
Jumpin’ Jack Flash
—then smiled confidently.
    The man behind the desk was older than Jack had expected—maybe seventy or more. “Jackson,” he said, rising, extending his hand.
    They shook hands.
    â€œHave a seat,” Mark said, indicating the chair in front of his huge, mahogany desk.
    Jack sat down.
    Mark did not. He stood on the other side of the desk, seeming to take up an inordinate amount of space. In a black Armani suit, Wilkerson was an industry prototype for authority and power, both of which he’d been wielding so long his hands were probably calloused. His was the largest independent production company in the northwest.
    Finally, he sat down. “I’ve seen your tapes. You’re good. I was surprised at how good, actually.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œIt’s been, what, fifteen years since you played for the Jets?”
    â€œYeah. I blew out my knee. As I’m sure you know, I led my team to back-to-back Super Bowl wins.”
    â€œAnd you’re a Heisman winner. Yes,” Mark said, “your past triumphs are quite impressive.”
    Was there the slightest emphasis on
past
, or had Jack imagined that? “Thank you. I’ve paid my dues in local broadcasting, as you can see from my résumé. Ratings in Portland have gone up considerably in the two years I’ve been at the station.” He bent down and reached for his briefcase. “I’ve taken the liberty of outlining some ideas for your show. I think it can be dynamite.”
    â€œWhat about the drugs?”
    Just like that, he knew it was over. “That was a long time ago.” He hoped he didn’t sound defeated. “When I was in the hospital, I got hooked on painkillers. The networks gave me a big chance—
Monday Night Football
—and I blew it. I was young and stupid. But it won’t happen again.