by Harlan Coben
“No,” Myron said softly, still holding Erin’s gaze. “Not even close to the worst.”
A voice at the top of the stairs shouted down, “Myron?”
“I’m coming.”
He almost left then. The next big what-if. But the words he’d overheard at the top of the stairs—Randy drove—kept rattling in his head. Beer and shots. He couldn’t let that go, could he?
“I want to tell you a story,” Myron began. And then he stopped. What he wanted to do was tell them about an incident from his high school days. There had been a party at Barry Brenner’s house. That was what he wanted to tell them. He’d been a senior in high school—like them. There had been a lot of drinking. His team, the Livingston Lancers, had just won the state basketball tournament, led by All-American Myron Bolitar’s forty-three points. Everyone was drunk. He remembered Debbie Frankel, a brilliant girl, a live wire, that sparkplug who was always animated, always raising her hand to contradict the teacher, always arguing and taking the other side and you loved her for it. At midnight Debbie came over and said good-bye to him. Her glasses were low on her nose. That was what he remembered most—the way her glasses had slipped down. Myron could see that Debbie was wasted. So were the other two girls who would pile into that car.
You can guess how the story ends. They took the hill on South Orange Avenue too fast. Debbie died in the crash. The smashed-up car was put on display in front of the high school for six years. Myron wondered where it was now, what they’d eventually done to that wreck.
“What?” Aimee said.
But Myron didn’t tell them about Debbie Frankel. Erin and Aimee had undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn’t work. He knew that. So he tried something else.
“I need you to promise me something,” Myron said.
Erin and Aimee looked at him.
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked. “Here are all my numbers—home, business, mobile, my place in New York City.”
Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They took the cards without saying a word.
“Please listen to me, okay? If you’re ever in a bind. If you’re ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you’re high or stoned or I don’t care what. Promise me. Promise me you’ll call me. I’ll come get you wherever you are. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t tell your parents. That’s my promise to you. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I don’t care how late. I don’t care how far away you are. I don’t care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”
The girls said nothing.
Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Just please . . . please don’t ever drive with someone who’s been drinking.”
They just stared at him.
“Promise me,” he said.
And a moment later—the final what-if?—they did.
CHAPTER 3
Two hours later, Aimee’s family—the Biels—were the first to leave. Myron walked them to the door. Claire leaned close to his ear. “I heard the girls were down in your old room.”
“Yep.”
She gave him a wicked grin. “Did you tell them—?”
“God, no.”
Claire shook her head. “You’re such a prude.”
He and Claire had been good friends in high school. He’d loved her free spirit. She acted like—for lack of a more appropriate term—a guy. When they’d go to parties, she’d try to pick someone up, usually with more success because, hey, she was an attractive girl. She’d liked muscle-heads. She’d go with them once, maybe twice, and then move on.
Claire was a lawyer now. She and Myron had messed around once, down in that very basement, on a holiday break senior year. Myron had been much more uptight about it. The next day, there had been no awkwardness for Claire. No discomfort, no silent treatment, no “maybe we should discuss what happened.”
No encore either.
In law school Claire had met her husband, “Erik with a K.” That was how he always introduced himself. Erik was thin and tightly wound. He rarely smiled. He almost never laughed. His tie was always wonderfully Windsored. Erik with a K was not the man Myron had figured Claire would end up with, but they seemed to work. Something about opposites attract, he guessed.
Erik gave him a firm handshake, made sure that there was eye contact. “Will I see you on Sunday?”
They used to play in a pickup basketball game on Sunday mornings, but Myron had stopped going months ago. “I won’t be there this week, no.”
Erik nodded as though Myron had said something profound and started out the door. Aimee smothered a laugh and waved. “Nice talking to you, Myron.”
“Same here, Aimee.”
Myron tried to give her a look that said, “Remember the promise.” He didn’t know if it worked, but Aimee did give him a small nod before heading down the path.
Claire kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear again. “You look happy.”
“I am,” he said.
Claire beamed. “Ali’s great, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“Am I the greatest matchmaker ever?”
“Like something out of a bad road production of Fiddler,” he said.
“I’m not rushing things. But I am the greatest, aren’t I? It’s okay, I can take it. I’m the best ever.”
“We’re still talking about matchmaking, right?”
“Fresh. I know I’m the best at the other.”
Myron said, “Eh.”
She punched his arm and left. He watched her walk away, shook his head, smiled. In a sense, you are always seventeen years old and waiting for your life to begin.
Ten minutes later, Ali Wilder, Myron’s new lady love, called for her children. Myron walked them all to the car. Jack, the nine-year-old boy, proudly wore a Celtics uniform with Myron’s old number on it. It was the next step in hip-hop fashion. First there had been the retro uniforms of your favorite greats. Now, at a Web site called Big-Time-Losahs.com or something like that, they sold uniforms for players who became has-beens or never-weres, players who went bust.
Like Myron.
Jack, being only nine years old, didn’t get the irony.
When they reached the car, Jack gave Myron a big hug. Unsure how to play this, Myron hugged back but kept it brief. Erin stayed back. She gave him a half-nod and slipped into the backseat. Jack followed his big sister. Ali and Myron stood and smiled at each other like a pair of newly dating doofs.
“This was fun,” Ali said.
Myron was still smiling. Ali looked up at him with these wonderful green-brown eyes. She had red-blond hair and there were still remnants of childhood freckles. Her face was wide and her smile just held him.
“What?” she said.
“You look beautiful.”
“Man, you are smooth.”
“I don’t want to brag, but yes. Yes, I am.”
Ali looked back at the house. Win—real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III—stood with arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. “Your friend Win,” she said. “He seems nice.”
“He’s not.”
“I know. I just figured him being your best friend and all, I’d say that.”
“Win is complicated.”
“He’s good-looking.”
“He knows.”
“Not my type though. Too pretty. Too rich-preppy-boy.”
“And you prefer macho he-men,” Myron said. “I understand.”
She snickered. “Why does he keep looking at me like that?”
“My guess? He’s probably checking out your ass.”
“Good to know somebody is.”
Myron cleared his throat, glanced away. “So you want to have dinner together tomorrow?”
“That would be nice.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Ali put her hand on his chest. Myro
n felt something electric in the touch. She stood on tiptoes—Myron was six-four—and kissed his cheek. “I’ll cook for you.”
“Really?”
“We’ll stay in.”
“Great. So it’ll be, what, like a family-type thing? Get to know the kids more?”
“The kids will be spending the night at my sister’s.”
“Oh,” Myron said.
Ali gave him a hard look and slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Oh,” Myron said again.
She arched an eyebrow. “And you didn’t want to brag about being smooth.”
Then she drove off. Myron watched the car disappear, the dorky smile still on his face. He turned and walked back to the house. Win had not moved. There had been many changes in Myron’s life—his parents’ moving down south, Esperanza’s new baby, the fate of his business, even Big Cyndi—but Win remained a constant. Some of the ash-blond hair around the temples had grayed a bit, but Win was still the über-WASP. The patrician lockjaw, the perfect nose, the hair parted by the gods—he stank, deservedly so, of privilege and white shoes and golfer’s tan.
“Six-point-eight,” Win said. “Round it up to a seven.”
“Excuse me?”
Win raised his hand, palm down, tilted it back and forth. “Your Ms. Wilder. If I’m being generous, I give her a seven.”
“Gee, that means a lot. Coming from you and all.”
They moved back into the house and sat in the den. Win crossed his legs in that perfect-crease way of his. His expression was permanently set on haughty. He looked pampered and spoiled and soft—in the face anyway. But the body told another story. He was all knotted, coiled muscle, not so much wiry as, if you will, barbed-wiry.
Win steepled his fingers. Steepling looked right on Win. “May I ask a question?”
“No.”
“Why are you with her?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I want to know what precisely you see in Ms. Ali Wilder.”
Myron shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have invited you.”
“Ah, but you did. So let me elaborate.”
“Please don’t.”
“During our years at Duke, well, there was the delectable Emily Downing. Then, of course, your soul mate for the next ten-plus years, the luscious Jessica Culver. There was the brief fling with Brenda Slaughter and alas, most recently, the passion of Terese Collins.”
“Is there a point?”
“There is.” Win opened the steeple, closed it again. “What do all these women, your past loves, have in common?”
“You tell me,” Myron said.
“In a word: bodaciousness.”
“That’s a word?”
“Smoking-hot honeys,” Win continued with the snooty accent. “Each and every one of them. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate Emily a nine. That would be the lowest. Jessica would be a so-hot-she-singes-your-eyeballs eleven. Terese Collins and Brenda Slaughter, both near-tens.”
“And in your expert opinion . . .”
“A seven is being generous,” Win finished for him.
Myron just shook his head.
“So pray tell,” Win said, “what is the big attraction?”
“Are you for real?”
“I am indeed.”
“Well, here’s a news flash, Win. First off, while it’s not really important, I disagree with your awarded score.”
“Oh? So how would rate Ms. Wilder?”
“I’m not getting into that with you. But for one thing, Ali has the kind of looks that grow on you. At first you think she’s attractive enough, and then, as you get to know her—”
“Bah.”
“Bah?”
“Self-rationalization.”
“Well, here’s another news flash for you. It’s not all about looks.”
“Bah.”
“Again with the bah?”
Win re-steepled his fingers. “Let’s play a game. I’m going to say a word. You tell me the first thing that pops in your head.”
Myron closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I discuss matters of the heart with you. It’s like talking about Mozart with a deaf man.”
“Yes, that’s very funny. Here comes the first word. Actually it’s two words. Just tell me what pops in your head: Ali Wilder.”
“Warmth,” Myron said.
“Liar.”
“Okay, I think we’ve discussed this enough.”
“Myron?”
“What?”
“When was the last time you tried to save someone?”
The usual faces flashed strobelike through Myron’s head. He tried to block them out.
“Myron?”
“Don’t start,” Myron said softly. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Have you?”
He thought now about Ali, about that wonderful smile and the openness of her face. He thought about Aimee and Erin in his old bedroom down in the basement, about the promise he had forced them to make.
“Ali doesn’t need rescuing, Myron.”
“You think that’s what this is about?”
“When I say her name, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
“Warmth,” Myron said again.
But this time, even he knew he was lying.
Six years.
That was how long it had been since Myron had played superhero. In six years he hadn’t thrown a punch. He hadn’t held, much less fired, a gun. He hadn’t threatened or been threatened. He hadn’t cracked wise with steroid-inflated pituitary glands. He hadn’t called Win, still the scariest man he knew, to back him up or get him out of trouble. In the past six years, none of his clients had been murdered—a real positive in his business. None had been shot or arrested—well, except for that prostitution beef out in Las Vegas, but Myron still claimed that was entrapment. None of his clients or friends or loved ones had gone missing.
He had learned his lesson.
Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You’re not Batman, and Win is not a psychotic version of Robin. Yes, Myron had saved some innocents during his quasi-heroic days, including the life of his own son. Jeremy, his boy, was nineteen now—Myron couldn’t believe that either—and was serving in the military in some undisclosed spot in the Middle East.
But Myron had caused damage too. Look what had happened to Duane and Christian and Greg and Linda and Jack. . . . But mostly, Myron could not stop thinking about Brenda. He still visited her grave too frequently. Maybe she would have died anyway, he didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t his fault.
The victories have a tendency to wash off you. The destruction—the dead—stay by your side, tap you on the shoulder, slow your step, haunt your sleep.
Either way, Myron had buried his hero complex. For the past six years, his life had been quiet, normal, average—boring, even.
Myron rinsed off the dishes. He semi-lived in Livingston, New Jersey, in the same town—nay, the same house—where he was raised. His parents, the beloved Ellen and Alan Bolitar, performed aliya, returning to their people’s homeland (south Florida) five years ago. Myron bought the house as both an investment, a good one, in fact, and so that his folks would have a place to return to when they migrated back during the warmer months. Myron spent about a third of his time living in this house in the burbs and two-thirds rooming with Win at the famed Dakota apartment building on Central Park West in New York City.
He thought about tomorrow night and his date with Ali. Win was an idiot, no question about that, but as usual his questions had scored a hit, if not a bull’s-eye. Forget that looks stuff. That was utter nonsense. And forget the hero complex stuff too. That wasn’t what this was about. But something was holding him back and yes, it had to do with Ali’s tragedy. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake it.
As for the hero stuff, making Aimee and Erin promise to call him—that was different. It doesn’t matter who you are—the teenage years are hard. High school is a war zone. Myron had be
en a popular kid. He was a Parade All-American basketball player, one of the top recruits in the country, and, to trot out a favorite cliché, a true scholar-athlete. If anyone should have had it easy in high school, it would be someone like Myron Bolitar. But he hadn’t. In the end, no one gets out of those years unscathed.
You just need to survive adolescence. That’s all. Just get through it.
Maybe that was what he should have said to the girls.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning Myron headed into work.
His office was on the twelfth floor of the Lock-Horne Building—as in Win’s name—on Park Avenue and Fifty-second Street in midtown Manhattan. When the elevator opened, Myron was greeted with a big sign—a new addition to the place—that read
MB REPS
in some funky font. Esperanza had come up with the new logo. The M stood for Myron. The B for Bolitar. The Reps came from the fact that they were in the business of representation. Myron had come up with the name by himself. He would often pause after telling people that and wait for the applause to die down.
Originally, when they just worked in the sports field, the firm was called MB SportsReps instead of MB Reps. Over the past five years the company had diversified, representing actors, authors, and celebrities of various stripes. Ergo the clever shortening of the name. Getting rid of the excess, cutting away the fat. Yep, that was MB Reps right down to the name.
Myron heard the baby cry. Esperanza must be in already. He poked his head into her office.
Esperanza was breast-feeding. He immediately looked down.
“Uh, I’ll come back later.”
“Stop being an ass,” Esperanza said. “You’d think you’ve never seen a breast before.”
“Well, it’s been a while.”
“And certainly not one this spectacular,” she added. “Sit.”
At first, MB SportsReps had just been just Myron the super-agent and Esperanza the receptionist/secretary/Girl Friday. You may remember Esperanza during her years as the sexy, lithe professional wrestler named Little Pocahontas. Every Sunday morning on Channel 11 here in the New York area, Esperanza would take to the ring, donning a feathered headband and drool-inducing bikini of pseudosuede. Along with her partner, Big Chief Mama, known in real life as Big Cyndi, they held the intercontinental tag-team championship belt for FLOW, the Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling. The wrestling organization had originally wanted to call itself the Beautiful Ladies Of Wrestling, but the network had trouble with the ensuing acronym.
