by Harlan Coben
“I’m a sports agent, Norm. I try to represent athletes. Golfers are athletes. Sort of.”
“Okay, but what’s up with the Coldrens?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Jack and Linda are lovely people. Connected, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“LBA represents Linda Coldren. Nobody leaves LBA. You know that. They’re too big. Jack, well, Jack hasn’t done anything in so long, he hasn’t even bothered with an agent. So what I’m trying to figure out is, why are the Coldrens suddenly hot to trot with you?”
“Why do you want to figure that out?”
Norm put his hand on his chest. “Why?”
“Yeah, why would you care?”
“Why?” Norm repeated, incredulous now. “I’ll tell you why. Because of you, Myron. I love you, you know that. We’re brothers. Tribe members. I want nothing but the best for you. Hand to God, I mean that. You ever need a recommendation, I’ll give it to you, you know that.”
“Uh-huh.” Myron was less than convinced. “So what’s the problem?”
Norm threw up both hands. “Who said there’s a problem? Did I say there was a problem? Did I even use the word problem? I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s part of my nature. I’m a curious guy. A modern-day yenta. I ask a lot of questions. I stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. It’s part of my makeup.”
“Uh-huh,” Myron said again. He looked over at Esme Fong, who was now comfortably out of earshot. She shrugged at him. Working for Norm Zuckerman probably meant you did a lot of shrugging. But that was part of Norm’s technique, his own version of good-cop, bad-cop. He came across as erratic, if not totally irrational, while his assistant—always young, bright, attractive—was the calming influence you grabbed on to like a life preserver.
Norm elbowed him and nodded toward Esme. “She’s a looker, huh? Especially for a broad from Yale. You ever see what that school matriculates? No wonder they’re known as the Bulldogs.”
“You’re so progressive, Norm.”
“Ah, screw progressive. I’m an old man, Myron. I’m allowed to be insensitive. On an old man, insensitive is cute. A cute curmudgeon, that’s what they call it. By the way, I think Esme is only half.”
“Half?”
“Chinese,” Norm said. “Or Japanese. Or whatever. I think she’s half white too. What do you think?”
“Good-bye, Norm.”
“Fine, be that way. See if I care. So tell me, Myron, how did you hook up with the Coldrens? Win introduce you?”
“Good-bye, Norm.”
Myron walked off a bit, stopping for a moment to watch a golfer hit a drive. He tried to follow the ball’s route. No go. He lost sight of it almost immediately. This shouldn’t be a surprise really—it is, after all, a tiny white sphere traveling at a rate of over one hundred miles per hour for a distance of several hundred yards—except that Myron was the only person in attendance who couldn’t achieve this ophthalmic feat of hawklike proportions. Golfers. Most of them can’t read an exit sign on an interstate, but they can follow the trajectory of a golf ball through several solar systems.
No question about it. Golf is a weird sport.
The course was packed with silent fans, though fan didn’t exactly feel like the right word to Myron. Parishioners was a hell of a lot closer. There was a constant reverie on a golf course, a hushed, wide-eyed respect. Every time the ball was hit, the crowd release was nearly orgasmic. People cried sweet bliss and urged the ball with the ardor of Price Is Right contestants: Run! Sit! Bite! Grab! Grow teeth! Roll! Hurry! Get down! Get up!—almost like an aggressive mambo instructor. They lamented over a snap hook and a wicked slice and a babied putt and goofy greens and soft greens and waxed greens and the rub of the green and the pursuit of a snowman and being stymied and when the ball traveled off the fairway and on the fringe and in the rough and deep lies and rough lies and bad lies and good lies. They showed admiration when a player got all of that one or ripped a drive or banged it home and gave dirty looks when someone loudly suggested that a certain tee-shot made a certain player “da man.” They accused a putter who did not reach the hole of hitting the ball “with your purse, Alice.” Players were constantly playing shots that were “unplayable.”
Myron shook his head. All sports have their own lexicons, but speaking golfese was tantamount to mastering Swahili. It was like rich people’s rap.
But on a day like today—the sun shining, the blue sky unblemished, the summer air smelling like a lover’s hair—Myron felt closer to the chalice of golf. He could imagine the course free of spectators, the peace and tranquillity, the same aura that drew Buddhist monks to mountaintop retreats, the double-cut grass so rich and green that God Himself would want to run barefoot. This did not mean Myron got it—he was still a nonbeliever of heretic proportions—but for a brief moment he could at least envision what it was about this game that ensnared and swallowed so many whole.
When he reached the fourteenth green, Jack Coldren was lining up for a fifteen-foot putt. Diane Hoffman took the pin out of the hole. At almost every course in the world, the “pin” had a flag on the top. But that would just not do at Merion. Instead, the pole was topped with a wicker basket. No one seemed to know why. Win came up with this story about how the old Scots who invented golf used to carry their lunch in baskets on sticks, which could then double as hole markers, but Myron smelled the pungent odor of lore in Win’s rationale rather than fact. Either way, Merion’s members made a big fuss over these wicker baskets on the end of a big stick. Golfers.
Myron tried to move in closer to Jack Coldren, looking for Win’s “eye of the tiger.” Despite his protestations, Myron knew very well what Win had meant the previous night, the intangibles that separated raw talent from on-field greatness. Desire. Heart. Perseverance. Win spoke about these things as though they were evil. They were not. Quite the opposite, in fact. Win, of all people, should know better. To paraphrase and completely abuse a famous political quote: Extremism in the pursuit of excellence is no vice.
Jack Coldren’s expression was smooth and unworried and distant. Only one explanation for that: the zone. Jack had managed to squeeze his way into the hallowed zone, that tranquil room in which no crowd or big payday or famous course or next hole or knee-bending pressure or hostile opponent or successful wife or kidnapped son may reside. Jack’s zone was a small place, comprising only his club, a small dimpled ball, and a hole. All else faded away now like the dream sequence in a movie.
This, Myron knew, was Jack Coldren stripped to his purest state. He was a golfer. A man who wanted to win. Needed to. Myron understood. He had been there—his zone consisting of a large orange ball and a metallic cylinder—and a part of him would always be enmeshed in that world. It was a fine place to be—in many ways, the best place to be. Win was wrong. Winning was not a worthless goal. It was noble. Jack had taken life’s hits. He had striven and battled. He had been battered and bloodied. Yet here he stood, head high, on the road to redemption. How many people are awarded this opportunity? How many people truly get the chance to feel this vibrant, to reside for even a short time on such a plateau, to have their hearts and dreams stirred with such unquenchable inner passion?
Jack Coldren stroked the putt. Myron found himself watching the ball slowly arc toward the hole, lost in that vicarious rush that so fiercely drew spectators to sports. He held his breath and felt something like a tear well up in his eye when the ball dropped in. A birdie. Diane Hoffman made a fist and pumped it. The lead was back up to nine strokes.
Jack looked up at the applauding galley. He acknowledged them with a tip of his hat, but he saw nothing. Still in the zone. Fighting to stay there. For a moment, his eyes locked on Myron’s. Myron nodded back, not wanting to nudge him back to reality. Stay in that zone, Myron thought. In that zone, a man can win a tournament. In that zone, a son does not purposely sabotage a father’s lifelong dream.
Myron walked past the many
portable toilets—they’d been provided by a company with the semiaccurate name Royal Flush—and headed toward Corporate Row. Golf matches had an unprecedented hierarchy for ticket holders. True, at most sporting arenas there was a grading of one sort or another—some had better seats, obviously, while some had access to skyboxes or even courtside seats. But in those cases, you handed a ticket to an usher or ticket collector and took your place. In golf, you displayed your entrance pass all day. The general-admission folk (read: serfs) usually had a sticker plastered on their shirt, not unlike, say, a scarlet letter. Others wore a plastic card that dangled from a metal chain wrapped around their neck. Sponsors (read: feudal lords) wore either red, silver, or gold cards, depending on how much money they spent. There were also different passes for players’ family and friends, Merion club members, Merion club officers, even steady sports agents. And the different cards gave you different access to different places. For example, you had to have a colored card to enter Corporate Row. Or you needed a gold card if you wanted to enter one of those exclusive tents—the ones strategically perched on hills like generals’ quarters in an old war movie.
Corporate Row was merely a row of tents, each sponsored by one enormous company or another. The theoretical intention of spending at least one hundred grand for a four-day tent rental was to impress corporate clients and gain exposure. The truth, however, was that the tents were a way for the corporate bigwigs to go to the tournament for free. Yes, a few important clients were invited, but Myron also noticed that the company’s major officers always managed to show too. And the hundred grand rental fee was just a start. It didn’t include the food, the drinks, the employees—not to mention the first-class flights, the deluxe hotel suites, the stretch limos, et cetera, for the bigwigs and their guests.
Boys and girls, can you say, “Chu-ching goes the cash register”? I thought you could.
Myron gave his name to the pretty young woman at the Lock-Horne tent. Win was not there yet, but Esperanza was sitting at a table in the corner.
“You look like shit,” Esperanza said.
“Maybe. But at least I feel awful.”
“So what happened?”
“Three crackheads adorned with Nazi memorabilia and crowbars jumped me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Only three?”
The woman was constant chuckles. He told her about his run-in and narrow escape. When he was finished, Esperanza shook her head and said, “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
“Don’t get all dewy-eyed on me. I’ll be fine.”
“I found Lloyd Rennart’s wife. She’s an artist of some kind, lives on the Jersey shore.”
“Any word on Lloyd Rennart’s body?”
Esperanza shook her head. “I checked the NVI and Treemaker Web sites. No death certificate has been issued.”
Myron looked at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. But it might not be on the Web yet. The other offices are closed until Monday. And even if one hasn’t been issued, it might not mean anything.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“A body is supposed to be missing for a certain amount of time before the person can be declared dead,” Esperanza explained. “I don’t know—five years or something. But what often happens is that the next of kin files a motion in order to settle insurance claims and the estate. But Lloyd Rennart committed suicide.”
“So there’d be no insurance,” Myron said.
“Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it.”
Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. “You want something to drink?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I’ll be right back.” Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Horne tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just finished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow’s final round.
When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s about my graduating law school.”
“Okay,” Myron said, dragging out the word.
“You’ve been avoiding the subject,” she said.
“What are you talking about? I’m the one who wants to go to your graduation, remember?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her fingers found and began to fiddle with a straw wrapper. “I’m talking about what happens after I graduate. I’m going to be a full-fledged attorney soon. My role in the company should change.”
Myron nodded. “Agreed.”
“For one thing, I’d like an office.”
“We don’t have the space.”
“The conference room is too large,” she countered. “You can slice a little out of there and a little out of the waiting room. It won’t be a huge office, but it’ll be good enough.”
Myron nodded slowly. “We can look into that.”
“It’s important to me, Myron.”
“Okay, it sounds possible.”
“Second, I don’t want a raise.”
“Don’t?”
“That’s right.”
“Odd negotiating technique, Esperanza, but you convinced me. Much as I might like to give you a raise, you will not receive one penny more. I surrender.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Joking around when I’m serious. You don’t like change, Myron. I know that. It’s why you lived with your parents until a few months ago. It’s why you still keep Jessica around when you should have forgotten about her years ago.”
“Do me a favor,” he said wearily. “Spare me the amateur analysis, okay?”
“Just stating the facts. You don’t like change.”
“Who does? And I love Jessica. You know that.”
“Fine, you love her,” Esperanza said dismissively. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Good. Are we done?”
“No.” Esperanza stopped playing with the straw wrapper. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “This isn’t easy for me to talk about,” she said.
“Do you want to do it another time?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t want to do it another time. I want you to listen to me. Really listen.”
Myron stayed silent, leaned forward a little.
“The reason I don’t want a raise is because I don’t want to work for someone. My father worked his whole life doing menial jobs for a variety of assholes. My mother spent hers cleaning other people’s houses.” Esperanza stopped, swallowed, took a breath. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to spend my life working for anyone.”
“Including me?”
“I said anyone, didn’t I?” She shook her head. “Jesus, you just don’t listen sometimes.”
Myron opened his mouth, closed it. “Then I don’t see where you’re going with this.”
“I want to be a part owner,” she said.
He made a face. “Of MB SportsReps?”
“No, of AT&T. Of course MB.”
“But the name is MB,” Myron said. “The M is for Myron. B for Bolitar. Your name is Esperanza Diaz. I can’t make it MBED. What kind of name is that?”
She just looked at him. “You’re doing it again. I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”
“Now? You pick now when I just got hit over the head with a tire iron—”
“Shoulder.”
“Whatever. Look, you know how much you mean to me—”
“This isn’t about our friendship,” she interrupted. “I don’t care what I mean to you right now. I care about what I mean to MB SportsReps.”
“You mean a lot to MB. A hell of a lot.” He stopped.
“But?”
“But nothing. You j
ust caught me a little off balance, that’s all. I was just jumped by a group of neo-Nazis. That does funny things to the psyche of people of my persuasion. I’m also trying to solve a possible kidnapping. I know things have to change. I planned on giving you more to do, letting you handle more negotiations, hiring someone new. But a partnership … that’s a different kettle of gefilte.”
Her voice was unyielding. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’d like to think about it, okay? How do you plan on becoming a partner? What percentage do you want? Do you want to buy in or work your way in or what? These are things we’ll have to go over, and I don’t think now is the time.”
“Fine.” She stood up. “I’m going to hang around the players’ lounge. See if I can strike up a conversation with one of the wives.”
“Good idea.”
“I’ll see you later.” She turned to leave.
Esperanza? She looked at him.
“You’re not mad, right?”
“Not mad,” she repeated.
“We’ll work something out,” he said.
She nodded. “Right.”
“Don’t forget. We’re meeting with Tad Crispin an hour after they finish. By the pro shop.”
“You want me there?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she left.
Myron leaned back and watched her go. Great. Just what he needed. His best friend in the world as a business partner. It never worked. Money screwed up relationships; it was simply one of life’s givens. His father and his uncle—two closer brothers you never saw—had tried it. The outcome had been disastrous. Dad finally bought Uncle Morris out, but the two men didn’t speak to each other for four years. Myron and Win had labored painstakingly to keep their businesses separate while maintaining the same interests and goals. It worked because there was no cross-interference or money to divide up. With Esperanza things had been great, but that was because the relationship had always been boss and employee. Their roles were well defined. But at the same time, he understood. Esperanza deserved this chance. She had earned it. She was more than an important employee to MB. She was a part of it.
So what to do?
He sat back and chugged the Yoo-Hoo, waiting for an idea. Fortunately, his thoughts were waylaid when someone tapped his shoulder.
