by Harlan Coben
“Yeah, so? It’s a prohibited activities clause. We got it from the NBA.”
“The NBA’s contract says nothing about hunting.”
“What?”
“Please, Bob, let’s try to pretend I don’t have a learning disability. You threw in the word hunting. Sneaked it in, if you will.”
“So what’s the big deal? Your boy hunts. He hurt himself in a hunting incident two years ago and missed half his junior year. We want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
“Then you have to compensate him for it,” Myron said.
“What? Don’t bust my balls, Bolitar. You want us to pay the kid if he gets hurt, right?”
“Right.”
“So we don’t want him hunting. Suppose he shoots himself. Or suppose some other asshole mistakes him for a deer and shoots him. You know what that’s going to cost us?”
“Your concern,” Myron said, “is touching.”
“Oh excuse me. A thousand pardons. I guess I should care more and pay less.”
“Good point. Strike my last statement.”
“So stricken. Can I go now?”
“My client enjoys hunting. It means a great deal to him.”
“And his left arm means a lot to us.”
“So I suggest a fair compromise.”
“What?”
“A bonus. If Sandy doesn’t hunt, you agree to pay him twenty thousand dollars at the end of the year.”
Laughter. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Then take that clause out. It’s not standard and we don’t want it.”
Pause. “Five grand. Not a penny more.”
“Fifteen.”
“Up yours, Myron. Eight.”
“Fifteen,” Myron said.
“I think you’re forgetting how this is played,” Bob said. “I say a number a little higher. You say a number a little lower. Then we meet somewhere in the middle.”
“Fifteen, Bob. Take it or leave it.”
Win opened the door and came in. He sat down silently, crossed his right ankle over his left thigh, and studied his manicured nails.
“Ten,” Bob said.
“Fifteen.”
The negotiation continued. Win stood, checked his reflection in the mirror behind the door. He was still fixing his hair five minutes later when Myron hung up. Not a blond lock was out of place, but that never seemed to deter Win.
“What was the final number?” Win asked.
“Thirteen five.”
Win nodded. He smiled at his reflection. “You know what I was just thinking?”
“What?”
“It must suck to be ugly.”
“Uh-huh. Think you can tear yourself away for a second?”
Win sighed. “It won’t be easy.”
“Try to be brave.”
“I guess I can always look again later.”
“Right. It’ll give you something to look forward to.”
With one last hair pat, Win turned away and sat down. “So what’s up?”
“The powder-blue Caddy is still following me.”
Win looked pleased. “And you want me to find out who they are?”
“Something like that,” Myron said.
“Excellent.”
“But I don’t want you to move in on them without me there.”
“You don’t trust my judgment?”
“Just don’t, okay?”
Win shrugged. “So how was your visit to the Van Slykes’ estate?”
“I met Kenneth. The two of us really hit it off.”
“I can imagine.”
“You know him?” Myron asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Is he as big an asshole as I think?”
Win spread his hands wide. “Of biblical proportions.”
“You know anything else about him?”
“Nothing significant.”
“Can you check him out?”
“But of course. What else did you find out?”
Myron told him about his visits to both the Van Slykes and Jake.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Win said when he finished.
“Yes.”
“So what’s the next step?” Win asked.
“I want to attack this from several directions.”
“Those being?”
“Valerie’s psychiatrist, for one.”
“Who will throw all kinds of terms like ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ at you,” Win said with a dismissive wave. “A waste of time. Who else?”
“Curtis Yeller’s mother witnessed her son’s shooting. She’s also Errol Swade’s aunt. Maybe she has some thoughts on all this.”
“For example?”
“Maybe she knows what happened to Errol.”
“And you—what?—expect her to tell you?”
“You never know.”
Win made a face. “So basically your plan is to flail about helplessly.”
“Pretty much. I will also need to talk to Senator Cross. Do you think you can arrange it?”
“I can try,” Win said. “But you’re not going to learn anything from him either.”
“Boy, you’re a bundle of optimism today.”
“Just telling it like it is.”
“Did you learn anything at the Plaza?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Win leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Valerie made only four calls in the past three days. All were to your office.”
“One to make an appointment to see me,” Myron said. “The other three on the day she died.”
Win gave a quick whistle. “Very impressive. First you figure out Kenneth is an asshole and now this.”
“Yeah, sometimes I even scare myself. Is there anything else?”
“A doorman at the Plaza remembered Valerie rather well,” Win continued. “After I tipped him twenty dollars, he recalled that Valerie took a lot of quick walks. He found it curious, since guests normally leave for hours at a time, rather than scant minutes.”
Myron felt a surge. “She was using a pay phone.”
Win nodded. “I called Lisa at NYNEX. By the way, you now owe her two tickets to the Open.”
Great. “What did she find out?”
“On the day before Valerie’s murder, two calls were placed from a nearby pay phone at Fifth and Fifty-ninth to the residence of one Mr. Duane Richwood.”
Myron felt a sinking feeling. “Shit.”
“Indeed.”
“So not only did Valerie call Duane,” Myron said, “but she went out of her way to make sure no one would know.”
“So it appears.”
Silence.
Win said, “You’ll have to talk to him.”
“I know.”
“Let it wait until after the tournament,” Win added. “Between the Open and the big Nike campaign, there’s no reason to distract him now. It will keep.”
Myron shook his head. “I’ll talk to Duane tomorrow. After his match.”
11
François, the maître d’ at La Reserve, flitted about their table like a vulture awaiting death—or worse, a New York maître d’ awaiting a very large tip. Since discovering that Myron was a close friend of Windsor Horne Lockwood III’s, François had befriended Myron in the same way a dog befriends a man with raw meat in his pocket.
He recommended the thinly sliced salmon appetizer and the chef’s special scrod as an entree. Myron took him up on both suggestions. So did the so-far silent Mrs. Crane. Mr. Crane ordered the onion soup and liver. Myron was not going to be kissing him anytime soon. Eddie ordered the escargot and lobster tails. The kid was learning fast.
François said, “May I recommend a wine, Mr. Bolitar?”
“You may.”
Eighty-five bucks down the drain.
Mr. Crane took a sip. Nodded his approval. He had not smiled yet, had barely exchanged a pleasantry. Luckily for Myron, Eddie was a nice kid. Smart. Polite. A pleasure to talk to. But whenever Mr. Crane cleared his throat—as he
did now—Eddie fell silent.
“I remember your basketball days at Duke, Mr. Bolitar,” Crane began.
“Please call me Myron.”
“Fine.” Instead of reciprocating the informality, Crane knitted his eyebrows. The eyebrows were his most prominent feature—unusually thick and angry and constantly undulating above his eyes. They looked like small ferrets furrowing into his forehead. “You were captain of the team at Duke?” he began.
“For three years,” Myron said.
“And you won two NCAA championships?”
“My team did, yes.”
“I saw you play on several occasions. You were quite good.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned forward. The eyebrows grew somehow bushier. “If I recall,” Crane continued, “the Celtics drafted you in the first round.”
Myron nodded.
“How long did you play for them? Not long, as I recall.”
“I hurt my knee during a preseason game my rookie year.”
“You never played again?” It was Eddie. His eyes were young and wide.
“Never,” Myron said steadily. Better lesson than any lecture he could give. Like the funeral of a high school classmate who died because he was D.U.I.
“Then what did you do with yourself?” Mr. Crane asked. “After the injury?”
The interview. Part of the process. It was harder when you were an ex-jock. People naturally assumed you were dumb.
“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.”
François 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?” François asked.
“I think so.”
François 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?”
François’s face lost color. “Pardon?”
“It’s a joke, François.”
“And a funny one at that, Mr. Bolitar.”
François 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 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 t
he 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.”
