by Harlan Coben
"I went through rehab for a long while," Myron said. "I thought I could beat the odds, defy the doctors, come back. When I was able to face reality, I went to law school."
"Where?"
"At Harvard."
"Very impressive."
Myron tried to look humble. He almost batted his eyes.
"Did you make Law Review?"
"No."
"Do you have an MBA?"
"No."
"What did you do upon graduation?"
"I became an agent."
Mr. Crane frowned. "How long did it take you to graduate?"
"Five years."
"Why so long?"
"I was working at the same time."
"Doing what?"
"I worked for the government." Nice and vague. He hoped Crane didn't push it.
"I see." Crane frowned again. Every part of him frowned. His mouth, his forehead, even his ears frowned. "Why did you enter the field of sports representation?"
"Because I thought I'd like it. And I thought I'd be good at it."
"Your agency is small."
"True."
"You don't have the connections of some larger agencies."
"True."
"You certainly don't wield the power of ICM or TruPro or Advantage."
"True."
"You don't have too many successful tennis players."
"True."
Crane gave a disapproving scowl. "Then tell me, Mr. Bolitar, why should we choose you?"
"I'm a lot of fun at parties."
Mr. Crane did not break a smile. Eddie did. He caught himself, smothered the smile behind his hand.
"Is that supposed to be funny?" Crane said.
"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Crane. You live in Florida, right?"
"St. Petersburg."
"How did you get up to New York?"
"We flew."
"No. I mean, who paid for the tickets?"
The Cranes shared a wary glance.
"TruPro bought your tickets, right?"
Mr. Crane nodded tentatively.
"They had a limo meet you at the airport?" Myron continued.
Another nod.
"Your jacket, ma'am. It's new?"
"Yes." First time Mrs. Crane had spoken.
"Did one of the big agencies buy it for you?"
"Yes."
"The big agencies, they have wives or female associates who take you around town, show you the sights, do a little shopping, that sort of thing?"
"Yes."
"What's your point?" Crane interrupted.
"That kind of thing is not my bag," Myron said.
"What kind of thing?"
"Ass-kissing. I'm not very good at ass-kissing a client. And I'm terrible at ass-kissing the parents. Eddie?"
"Yes?"
"Did the big agencies promise to have someone at every match?"
He nodded.
"I won't do that," Myron said. "If you need me I'm available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But I'm not physically there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If you want your hand held at every match because Agassi's or Chang's is, go with one of the big agencies. They're better at it than I am. If you need someone to run errands or do your laundry, I'm not the guy either."
The Cranes shared another family glance. "Well," Mr. Crane said. "I heard you speak your mind, Mr. Bolitar. It appears you are living up to your reputation."
"You asked for a contrast between me and the others."
"So I did."
Myron focused his attention on Eddie. "My agency is small and simple. I will do all your negotiations--tournament guarantees, appearances, exhibitions, endorsements, whatever. But I won't sign anything you don't want to. Nothing is final until you look it over, understand it, and approve it yourself. Okay so far?"
Eddie nodded.
"As your father pointed out I am not an MBA. But I work with one. His name is Win Lockwood. He's considered one of the best financial consultants in the country. Win's theory is similar to mine: he wants you to understand and approve every investment he makes. I will insist that you meet with him at least five times a year, preferably more, so that you can set up solid, long-term financial and tax plans. I want you to know what your money is doing at all times. Too many athletes get taken advantage of--bad investments, trusting the wrong people, that sort of thing. That won't happen here because you--not just me, not just Win, not just your parents, but you--won't let it."
Francois came by with the appetizers. He smiled brightly while the underlings served. Then he pointed and ordered them about in impatient French, like they couldn't possibly know how to put a plate down in front of a human being without his fretting.
"Is that everything?" Francois asked.
"I think so."
Francois sort of lowered his head. "If there is any way I can make your dining experience more pleasurable, Mr. Bolitar, please do not hesitate to ask."
Myron looked down at his salmon. "How about some ketchup?"
Francois's face lost color. "Pardon?"
"It's a joke, Francois."
"And a funny one at that, Mr. Bolitar."
Francois slithered away. Myron the Card strikes again.
"How about the young lady who set up this dinner?" Mr. Crane asked. "Miss Diaz. What's her function at your agency?"
"Esperanza is my associate. My right hand."
"What's her work background?"
"She's currently goes to law school nights. That's why she couldn't join us tonight. She was also a professional wrestler."
That piqued Eddie's interest. "Really? Which one?"
"Little Pocahontas."
"The Indian Princess? She and Big Chief Mama used to be the tag team champs."
"Right."
"Man, she is hot!"
"Yup."
Mrs. Crane nibbled at her salmon. Mr. Crane ignored his onion soup for the moment. "So tell me," Mr. Crane said, "what strategy would you employ for Eddie's career?"
"Depends," Myron said. "There's no set formula. You have two conflicting factors pulling at your son. On the one hand Eddie is only seventeen. He's a kid. Tennis shouldn't consume him to the point where he hates it. He should still have fun, try to do the things seventeen-year-olds do. On the other hand it's naive to think that tennis will still be just a game to him. Or that he'll be a 'normal' kid. This is about money. Big money. If Eddie does it right, if he makes some sacrifices now and works with Win, he can be financially set for life. It's a delicate balance--how many tournaments and exhibitions to play in, how many appearances, how many endorsements."
Crane's eyebrows nodded. They seemed to agree.
Myron turned his attention to Eddie. "You want to score a lot of money early, because you never know what can happen. I'm proof of that. But I don't want you sucked dry. Sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to say no to staggering amounts of money. But in the end it's your decision, not mine. It's your money. If you want to play in every tournament and every exhibition match, it's not my place to stop you. But you can't do it, Eddie. No one can. You're a good kid. You have your head on straight. You were raised right. But if you try to bend too far, you'll break. I've seen it happen too often.
"I want you to make a lot of money. But not every cent out there. I don't want to turn you into a money machine. I want you to have some fun. I want you to enjoy all of this. I want you to realize how lucky you are."
The Cranes listened in rapt silence.
"That's my theory, Eddie, for what it's worth. You may make more money with the big agencies. I can't deny that. But in the long run, with a long and healthy career, with careful planning, I think you'll be wealthier and better off with MB SportsReps."
Myron looked at Mr. Crane. "Anything else you care to know?"
Crane sipped his wine, studied its color, put the glass down. He did the eyebrow mambo again. "You came highly recommended to us, Mr. Bolitar. Or should I say to Eddie."
"Oh?"
Myron said. "By whom?"
Eddie looked away. Mrs. Crane put her hand on his arm. Mr. Crane provided the answer. "Valerie Simpson."
Myron was surprised. "Valerie recommended me?"
"She thought you'd be good for Eddie."
"She said that?"
"Yes."
Myron turned to Eddie. He wasn't crying, but he looked on the verge. "What else did she say, Eddie?"
Shrug. "She thought you were honest. That you'd treat me right."
"How did you know Valerie?"
"They met at Pavel's camp in Florida," Crane answered. "She was sixteen when Eddie arrived. He was only nine. I think she looked after him a little."
"They were quite close," Mrs. Crane added. "Such a tragedy."
"Did she say anything else, Eddie?"
Another shrug. Eddie finally looked up. Myron met his gaze, held it steady.
"It's important," Myron said.
"She told me not to work with TruPro," he said.
"Why?"
"She didn't say."
"My theory," Crane added, "is that she blamed them for her downfall."
"What do you think, Eddie?" Myron asked.
Yet another shrug. "Could be. I don't know."
"But you don't think so."
Nothing.
Mrs. Crane said, "I think that's enough for now. Valerie's murder has been very hard on Eddie."
The conversation slowly drifted back to business. But Eddie was silent now. Every once in a while he would open his mouth, then close it again. When they rose to leave, Eddie leaned toward Myron and whispered, "Why do you want to know so much about Valerie?"
Myron opted for the truth. "I'm trying to find out who killed her."
That widened his eyes. He looked behind him. His parents were busy saying good-bye to Francois. Francois kissed Mrs. Crane's hand.
"I think you might be able to help," Myron said.
"Me?" Eddie said. "I don't know anything."
"She was your friend. You were close to her."
"Eddie?"
Mr. Crane's voice.
"I have to go, Mr. Bolitar. Thank you for everything."
"Yes, thank you," Crane added. "We have a few more agencies to see, but we'll be in touch."
After they left, Francois came by with the bill. "Your tie is very becoming, Mr. Bolitar."
The man knew how to kiss ass. "You should have been an agent, Francois."
"Thank you, sir."
Myron gave him a Visa card and waited. He turned his cell phone back on. A message from Win. Myron called him back.
"Where are you?" Myron asked.
"On Twenty-sixth Street, near Eighth," Win said. "There were two gentlemen--and I use that term in its absolute loosest sense--in the Cadillac. They followed you to La Reserve, sat outside for a while, and left about half an hour ago. They've just entered a drinking establishment of rather questionable repute."
"Questionable repute?"
"It's called the Beaver Hunt. Enough said?"
"Stay on them. I'm on my way down."
12
Win was waiting across the street from the Beaver Hunt. The block was quiet, the only sound was the faint beat of music coming from inside the bar. A large neon sign said TOPLESS!
"Two of them," Win said. "The driver was a white man, approximately six-three. Overweight but powerfully built. I think you'll like his fashion sense."
"Meaning?"
"You'll see. He is with a black man. Six foot. Big scar on his right cheek. I guess you might describe him as thin and wiry."
Myron looked down the street. "Where did they park?"
"A lot on Eighth Avenue."
"Why not on the street? Plenty of spots."
"I believe our man is quite attached to his charming chariot." Win smiled. "If anything happened to it, I bet he'd be very upset."
"How difficult will it be to break in?"
Win looked insulted. "I'll pretend you didn't ask that."
"Fine, you check the car. I'll go inside."
Win snapped a salute. "Roger, Wilco."
They split up. Win headed for the lot, Myron for the bar. Myron would have preferred it the other way around, especially since the two men obviously knew what Myron looked like, but they needed to play their strengths. Win was far better at breaking into cars or handling anything mechanical. Myron was better at, well, this.
He entered the bar with his head lowered, just in case. No need. No one paid him any attention. There was no cover charge here. Myron looked around. Two words came to mind: major dive. The decor's theme was Early American Beer. The walls were ornamented with neon beer signs. The bar and table were crusted with beer rings. Behind the bar were pyramids of beer bottles from all over the land.
Of course, there were topless dancers. They lazily pranced atop small stages that looked like old stage props from Wonderama. Most of the dancers were not attractive. Far from it. The exercise craze had not yet hit the Beaver Hunt. Flesh jiggled. The place looked more like a cellulite test center than a male-fantasy cantina.
Myron moved to a corner table and sat by himself. There were a few suits, but for the most part the clientele was blue-collar. The well-to-do usually got their topless kicks at Goldfingers or Score, where the women were far more aesthetically pleasing, though their body parts were about as real as their inflatable brethren's.
Two men were laughing it up by center stage. One black, one white. They fit Win's description. When the dancers rotated stages, the one in front of them stepped off. Her downtime. The boys began to negotiate with her. In places like Goldfingers and Score, you paid about twenty or twenty-five dollars for a table dance. It was basically just what it sounded like. The girl took off her top and danced at your table for maybe five minutes. No touchy, no feely. At the Beaver Hunt, the order of the day was a recent craze known as the Lap Dance, which took place in discreet corners of the bar. The Lap Dance, known to young adolescents as the Dry Hump, consisted of a dancer gyrating on a man's crotch until he, well, orgasmed. Moral repugnancy aside, Myron had several questions about the technical aspects of such an act. Like after the act, how does a guy go around the rest of the night? Does he bring a change of underwear with him?
So many questions. So little time.
The two men and the dancer headed toward Myron's corner. Myron could now see clearly what Win had been talking about. The white guy did indeed have big arms, but he also had a protruding gut and flabby chest. Some of these flaws could be hidden with proper fashion sense, but the white guy was wearing a tight fishnet shirt. Fishnet. As in a lot of holes. As in practically no shirt at all. His chest hairs--and there were lots of them--were jutting through the holes. The hairs seemed unusually long, coiling around--and indeed getting enmeshed in--the many gold chains that were draped about his neck. As he walked by, Myron got a full view of his back, thank you very much, which was even hairier and somewhat oilier than the front.
Myron felt a little ill.
"Fifteen dollars for the first ten minutes," the girl said. "I can't do better than that."
"Don't jerk us around, whore," Fishnet said. "There's two of us here. Two for one."
"Yeah," the black guy chimed in. "Two for one."
"I can't do that," the girl said. If she seemed insulted by the name calling, it didn't show. Her voice was tired and matter-of-fact, like a diner waitress on the night shift.
Fishnet was not pleased by this. "Listen, bitch, don't get me angry."
"I'll get the manager," she said.
"The fuck you will. You ain't leaving here till I get my rocks off, slut."
"Yeah," the black guy added. "Me too. Slut."
"Look, I charge more for talking dirty," the girl said.
Fishnet looked at her in disbelief. "What did you say?"
"There's a surcharge for talking dirty."
"A surcharge?" Fishnet shouted. He was enraged now. "This might come as a surprise to a stupid whore, but we live in the U.S. of A. Land of the free,
home of the brave. I can say whatever I want, slut--or haven't you ever heard of freedom of speech?"
A constitutional scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see a man defending the First Amendment.
"Look," the dancer said, "the price is twelve dollars for five minutes, twenty dollars for ten minutes. Plus tip. That's it."
"How about this," Fishnet said. "You dance on both of us at the same time."
"Huh?"
"Like you're dancing on me but stroking him. How's that sound, pig?"
"Yeah," the black guy said. "Pig."
"Look, fellas, there's no two-for-one deals," the dancer said. "Just let me get another girl. We'll take good care of you."
Myron stepped into view. "Will I do?"
No one moved.
"Gee," Myron said, "they're both so attractive. I just can't choose."
Fishnet looked at the black guy. The black guy looked at Fishnet.
Myron turned to the girl. "Do you have a preference?"
She shook her head no.
"Then I'll take him." Myron pointed to Fishnet. "He likes me. I can tell by the erect nipples."
The black guy said, "Hey, what's he doing here?"
Fishnet shot him a look.
"I mean, who is this guy?"
Myron nodded. "Nice recovery. Very smooth."
"What do you want, mister?" Fishnet asked.
"Actually, I was lying."
"What?"
"About how I knew you liked me. It wasn't just the erect nipples, though they were a noticeable--albeit nauseating--tip-off."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Your following me around the past two days, that's what gave it away. Next time try the secret admirer route. Send flowers without signing for them. A nice Hallmark card. That kind of thing."
"Come on, Jim," Fishnet said to the black guy, "this guy's nuts. Let's get out of here."
The girl said, "No lap dance?"
"No. We gotta go."
"Someone's got to pay for this," the girl said. "Otherwise the manager's going to fry my ass."
"Get lost, whore. Or I'll whack you."
"Whoa, big man," Myron said.
"Look, mister, I don't got no beef with you. Just get out of my way."
"No lap dance for me either?"
"You're crazy."
"I can offer you a special discount," Myron said.
Fishnet's hands tightened into fists. He'd been ordered to follow Myron, not to be found out or get involved in a physical altercation. "Come on, Jim."
"Why have you been following me?" Myron asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Is it my hypnotic blue eyes? The strong features? The shapely derriere? By the way what do you think of these pants? They're not too tight, are they?"
