by Harlan Coben
“It’ll keep. You need inner energy. You need focus. You need balance.”
“I hate it when you talk like that.”
Win smiled, pulling into the parking lot. “Come along now. I’d hate to kick your ass right here in the car.”
The sign read MASTER KWAN’S TAE KWON DO SCHOOL. Kwan was nearing seventy now and rarely conducted classes any longer, choosing instead to hire well-tutored underlings to handle that work. Master Kwan stayed in his high-tech office, surrounded by four television screens so he could monitor the classes. Occasionally he leaned forward and barked something into a microphone, scaring some poor student into attention. Like something out of The Wizard of Oz.
If Master Kwan’s English improved a bit, it might reach the level of pidgin. Win had brought him over from Korea fourteen years ago, when Win was only seventeen. It seemed to Myron that Master Kwan had spoken better English back then.
Win and Myron changed into their white uniforms called dobok. Both men wrapped black belts around their stomachs. Win was a sixth-degree black belt, about as high a ranking as anybody in the United States. He had been studying tae kwon do since the age of seven. Myron had picked it up in college, giving him a dozen years of studying and a third-degree black belt.
They approached Master Kwan’s door, paused in the doorway until he acknowledged their presence, then bowed at the waist. “Good afternoon, Master Kwan,” they said in unison.
Kwan smiled toothlessly. “You here early.”
“Yes, sir,” Win replied.
“Need help?”
“No, sir.”
Kwan dismissed them by spinning back to his television screens. Myron and Win bowed once more and moved into the private dojang for the upper-ranked black belts. They began with meditation, something Myron had never quite gotten the full grasp of. Win loved it. He did it for at least an hour a day. Win folded himself into a lotus position. Myron settled for sitting Indian style. Both men closed their eyes, placed their thumbs on the palm directly below the pinkie, and tilted their palms toward the ceiling. They rested their hands on their knees. Instructions echoed through Myron’s mind like a mantra. Back straight. Bottom of tongue curled up against the back of the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose for six seconds, concentrating on pushing the air down into the pit of his gut, making sure that his chest did not move, that only his abdomen expanded. Then he held the air down deep, counting to himself to prevent his mind from wandering. After seven seconds he slowly released the air through the mouth for a ten count, making sure to empty completely his contracting gut. Then he waited four seconds before breathing in again.
Win did this painlessly. He did not count. His mind went blank. Myron always counted, needing it to keep his mind from wandering back to the problems of the day—especially on a day like today. But in spite of himself he began to relax, to feel the tension leave his body with every long exhalation. It almost tingled.
They meditated for ten minutes before Win opened his eyes and said, “Barro.” Korean for stop.
They performed deep stretching exercises for the next twenty minutes. Win had the flexibility of a ballet dancer, performing full splits effortlessly. Myron had gained a lot of flexibility since taking up tae kwon do. He believed it had helped him gain six inches on his vertical leap in college. He could almost do a full split, but he couldn’t hold it long.
In short Myron was flexible; Win was Gumby.
They went through their forms or poomse next, a complicated set of moves not unlike a violent dance step. What many exercised-crazed junkies never realized is that the martial arts are the ultimate aerobic workout. You are in constant motion—jumping, turning, spinning—propelling both arms and both legs nonstop for a half hour at a time. Low block and front kick, high block and punch, middle block and roundhouse kick. Inside blocks, outside blocks, knife-hand, fists, palm strikes, knees and elbows. It was an exhausting and exhilarating workout.
Win moved through his routine flawlessly—ever the contradiction and deception. See Win on the street, and people said arrogant Waspy wimp who couldn’t bruise a peach with his best punch. See him in a dojang, and he struck fear and awe. Tae kwon do is considered a martial art. Art. The word was not used by accident. Win was an artist, the best Myron had ever seen.
Myron remembered the first time he’d seen Win demonstrate his talent. They were freshmen in college. A group of large football players decided to shave Win’s blond locks because they didn’t like the way he looked. Five of them sneaked into Win’s room late at night—four to hold down his arms and legs and one to carry the razor and shaving cream.
Simply put, the football team had a poor season that year. Too many guys on the injured list.
Myron and Win finished up with light free sparring. Then they dropped to the mat and performed one hundred push-ups on their fists—Win counting out loud in Korean. That done, they sat again for meditation, this time lasting fifteen minutes.
“Barro,” Win said.
Both men opened their eyes.
“Feeling more focused?” Win asked. “Feeling the flow of energy? The balance?”
“Yes, Grasshopper. You want me to snatch the pebble from your hand now?”
Win moved from his lotus position into a full stance in one graceful, effortless move. “So,” he said, “have you reached any decisions?”
“Yes.” Myron struggled to stand in one motion, tipping from side to side as he ascended. “I’m going to tell Jessica everything.”
Chapter 7
Yellow stick-on phone messages swarmed Myron’s phone like locusts on a carcass. Myron peeled them away and shuffled through them. Nothing from Otto Burke or Larry Hanson or anyone in the Titans organization.
Not good.
He strapped on his headset telephone. He had resisted using one for a long time, figuring they were more suited for air traffic controllers than agents, but he quickly learned that an agent is but a fetus, his office a womb, his telephone an umbilical cord. It was easier with the headset. He could walk around; he could keep his hands free; he could forgo neck cramps from cradling a phone against his shoulder.
His first call was to the advertising director for BurgerCity, a new fast-food chain. They wanted to sign up Christian and were offering pretty good money, but Myron wasn’t sure about it. BurgerCity was only regional. A national chain might come up with a better offer. Sometimes the hardest part of the job was saying no. He’d discuss the pros and cons with Christian, let him make the final decision. In the end it was his name. His money.
Myron had already signed Christian to several very lucrative endorsement deals. Wheaties would have Christian’s likeness on cereal boxes starting in October. Diet Pepsi was coming up with some promotion involving Christian throwing a two-liter bottle on a perfect spiral to nubile women. Nike was developing a sweatsuit line and cleats known as the Steele Trap.
Christian stood to earn millions from endorsements, far more than he would make playing for the Titans, no matter how reasonable Otto Burke wanted to be. It was strange in a way. Fans grew agitated at the idea of a player trying to get the most out of his playing contract. They called him boorish, selfish, and egomaniacal when he demanded a great deal of money from a wealthy team owner—but they had no problem when he grabbed vault-loads from Pepsi or Nike or Wheaties for promoting products he’d probably never used or even liked. It made no sense. Christian would make more money for spending three days shooting a thirty-second hypocritical spot than he would for spending the season getting blindsided by drooling men with overactive pituitary glands—and that was how the fans wanted it.
No agent minded that setup. Most agents got between three and five percent of their players’ total negotiated salary (Myron took four percent), compared with twenty or twenty-five percent for all endorsement money. (Myron took fifteen percent—hey, he was new.) In other words, sign a million-dollar deal with a team, and the agent gets around forty grand. Sign him for a million-dollar commercial, and th
e agent can nab as much as a quarter mil.
Myron’s second call was to Ricky Lane, a running back for the New York Jets and a former college teammate of Christian’s. Ricky was one of his most important clients, and Myron was fairly certain it had been Ricky who’d convinced Christian to hire him in the first place.
“I have a kids’ camp appearance for you,” Myron began. “They’re paying five grand.”
“Sounds good,” Ricky said. “How long do I have to be there?”
“Couple hours. Do a little talk, sign a few autographs, that kind of thing.”
“When?”
“A week from Saturday.”
“What about that mall appearance?”
“That’s Sunday,” Myron said. “Livingston Mall. Morley’s Sporting Goods.” Ricky would get paid another five thousand dollars for sitting at a table for two hours and signing autographs.
“Cool.”
“You want me to send a limo to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll drive. You hear anything about next year’s contract yet?”
“We’re getting there, Ricky. Another week at the most. Listen, I want you to come in and see Win soon, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You in shape?”
“The best of my life,” Ricky said. “I want that starting job.”
“Keep working. And don’t forget to make that appointment with Win.”
“Will do. Later, Myron.”
“Yeah, later.”
The calls continued, one blurring into another. He returned calls from the press. They all wanted to know about a pending deal between the Titans and Christian. Myron politely no-commented. Occasionally it was good to use the media as leverage in negotiating, but not with Otto Burke. Matters were proceeding, he told them. An agreement could be expected at any time.
He then called Joe Norris, an old-time Yankee who appeared almost every weekend at a baseball card show. Joe made more in a month now than he had in an entire season in his heyday.
Next up was Linda Regal, a tennis pro who had just cracked the top ten. Linda was worried about aging, offended because a broadcaster had referred to her as a “familiar veteran.” Linda was almost twenty.
Eric Kramer, a UCLA senior and probable second round NFL draft pick, was in town. Myron managed to arrange a dinner with him. That meant Myron was a finalist—he and a zillion other agents. The competition was incredible. Example: There are twelve hundred NFL-authorized agents who court the two hundred college players who will be drafted in April. Something has to give. It’s usually ethics.
Myron called the New York Jets general manager, Sam Logan, to discuss Ricky Lane’s contract.
“The kid is in the best shape of his career,” Myron raved. He stood and paced. Myron had a large, fairly gorgeous office on Park Avenue between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It impressed people, and appearance was important in a business dominated by sleazeballs “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m telling you, Sam, the kid is Gayle Sayers all over again. It’s amazing, really.”
“He’s too small,” Logan said.
“What are you talking about? Is Barry Sanders too small? Is Emmitt Smith too small? Ricky’s bigger than both of them. And he’s been lifting. I’m telling you, he’s going to be a great one.”
“Uh-huh. Look, Myron, he’s a nice kid. He works hard. But I can’t go any higher than …”
The number was still too low. But it was better.
The calls continued without a break. Sometime during the day Esperanza brought him a sandwich, which he inhaled.
At eight o’clock Myron placed his final office call of the day.
Jessica answered. “Hello?”
“I’ll be at your house in an hour,” Myron said. “We need to talk.”
Myron watched Jessica’s face for a reaction. She kept looking at the magazine as if it were just another issue of Newsweek, her expression frighteningly passive. Every once in a while she nodded, looked over the rest of the page, and glanced at the front and back covers of the magazine, always returning to the picture of Kathy. She was so nonchalant, Myron almost expected her to whistle.
Only her knuckles gave her away. They were bloodless white, the pages crinkling in her death grip.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice calm, almost soothing. “You said Christian got this in the mail?”
“Yes.”
“And you and Win spoke to the man who publishes this”—she hesitated, her face finally showing some signs of disgust—“this thing?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Did he give you the address of whoever put this ad in?”
“Just a p.o. box. I’m going to scout it out tomorrow, see who picks up the mail.”
She looked up for the first time. “I’ll go with you.”
He almost protested but stopped himself. He didn’t stand a chance. “Okay.”
“When did Christian give this to you?”
“Yesterday.”
That got her attention. “You knew about this yesterday?”
He nodded.
“And you didn’t tell me?” she snapped. “I was pouring my heart out to you, feeling like some paranoid schizophrenic, and you knew about this the whole time?”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”
“Anything else you haven’t told me?”
“Christian got a phone call last night. He thinks it was from Kathy.”
“What?”
He quickly told her about it. When he reached the part about Christian hearing Kathy’s voice, her face drained of all color.
“Has your friend at the phone company learned anything?” she asked.
“No. But we know Return Call only works for specific towns within the 201 area codes.”
“How many towns?”
“About three-quarters of them.”
“So you’re talking about three-quarters of the northern part of New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the U.S.? That limits it down to what, two, three million people?”
“It’s not a big help,” he admitted, “but it’s something.”
Her eyes settled back on the magazine. “I didn’t mean to jump all over you. It’s just—”
“Forget it.”
“You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” she said. “I mean that.”
“And you’re the biggest pain in the ass.”
“Tough to argue that one,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile.
“Do you want to tell the police about this?” he asked. “Or Paul Duncan?”
She thought a moment. “I’m not sure.”
“The press will eat it up,” he said. “They’ll drag Kathy through the mud.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what the press does.”
“I’m just telling you,” Myron said.
“They can call her a slut a million different ways. I don’t care.”
“What about your mom?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she wants either. I just want Kathy found.”
“So you want to tell them,” Myron said.
“No.”
He looked at her, confused. “Care to elaborate?”
Her words came slow, measured, the ideas coming to her even as she spoke. “Kathy has been gone for more than a year now,” she began. “In all that time the cops and the press have come up with zip. Not one thing. She’s just vanished without a trace.”
“So?”
“But now we get this magazine. Someone sent it to Christian, which means someone—maybe Kathy, maybe not—is trying to make contact. Think about it. For the first time in over a year there is some form of communication. I don’t want that taken away. I don’t want a lot of attention scaring away whoever is out there. Kathy might disappear again. This”—she held up the magazine—“this thing is disgusting, but it’s also encouraging. It’s something. Don’t get me wrong. I’m shocked by this. But
it’s a solid thread—a thread as confusing as all hell, but nonetheless a thread of hope. If the cops and the press are called in, whoever did this might get scared and vanish again. Permanently this time. I can’t risk that. We have to keep this to ourselves.”
Myron nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“We go to the post office in Hoboken. I’ll pick you up early. Say six.”
Chapter 8
Jessica smelled great.
They were at Uptown Station in Hoboken. She stood very close to him. Her hair had that freshly washed smell he had tried for four years to forget. Inhaling made him feel light-headed.
“So this is playing detective,” she said.
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
They had been trying to look inconspicuous—no easy task when a man is six-four and a woman is a total knee-knocker—for the better part of an hour, having arrived at the post office at six-thirty in the morning. No one had touched Box 785 yet.
Boredom set in quickly. Jessica looked over the prices of different mailing containers. Not very interesting. She read the wanted ads, all of them, found them a bit more interesting. Wanted posters in a post office. Like they wanted you to write the guy a letter.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she said.
“That’s why they call me Captain Fun.”
She laughed. The melodic sound twisted his stomach.
“Do you like being an agent, Captain Fun?”
“Very much.”
“I always thought of agents as a bunch of sleazeballs.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean. Leeches. Vipers. Greedy, money-hungry, bloodsucking parasites, swindling naïve jocks, doing lunch at Le Cirque, destroying everything that’s good about sports—”
“The problems in the Middle East,” he interrupted. “That’s our fault too. And the budget deficit.”
“Right. But you’re not any of those things.”
“Not a leech, viper, or parasite. That’s quite a rave.”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged. “There are plenty of sleazy agents. There are also plenty of sleazy doctors, lawyers—” He stopped, the words sounding familiar. Hadn’t Fred Nickler used the same argument in justifying his magazines? “Agents are a necessary evil,” he continued. “Without them, athletes get taken advantage of.”
