by Harlan Coben
"Well, I'm going," Myron said. "Sitting front row center. I want to see it all."
Silence.
Esperanza broke it. "Is this the part where I choke back tears because someone cares?"
Myron shook his head. "Forget I said anything."
"No, really, I want to get it right. Should I break down in loud sobs or just sniffle a little? Or better yet, I could get a little teary, like Michael Landon on Little House on the Prairie."
"You're such a wiseass."
"Only when you're being patronizing."
"I'm not being patronizing. I care. Sue me."
"Whatever," she said.
"Any messages?"
"About a million, but nothing that I can't handle until Monday," she said. "Oh, one thing."
"What?"
"The bitch asked me out to lunch."
"The bitch" was Jessica, the love of Myron's life. Putting it kindly, Esperanza did not like Jessica. Many assumed that this had something to do with jealousy, with some sort of latent attraction between Esperanza and Myron. Nope. For one thing, Esperanza liked, er, flexibility in her love life. For a while she had dated a guy named Max, then a woman named Lucy, and now another woman named Hester. "How many times have I asked you not to call her that?" Myron said.
"About a million."
"So are you going?"
"Probably," she said. "I mean, it's a free meal. Even if I do have to look at her face."
They hung up. Myron smiled. He was a bit surprised. While Jessica did not reciprocate Esperanza's animosity, a lunch date to thaw out their personal cold war was not something Myron would have anticipated. Perhaps now that they were living together, Jess figured it was time to offer an olive branch. What the hell. Myron dialed Jessica.
The machine picked up. He heard her voice. When the beep came on, he said, "Jess? Pick up."
She did. "God, I wish you were here right now." Jessica had a way with openings.
"Oh?" He could see her lying on the couch, the phone cord twisted in her fingers. "Why's that?"
"I'm about to take a ten-minute break."
"A full ten minutes?"
"Yup."
"Then you'd be expecting extended foreplay?"
She laughed. "Up for it, big guy?"
"I will be," he said, "if you don't stop talking about it."
"Maybe we should change the subject," she said.
Myron had moved into Jessica's Soho loft a few months ago. For most people, this would be a somewhat dramatic change--moving from a suburb in New Jersey to a trendy section of New York, moving in with a woman you love, etc.--but for Myron, the change rivaled puberty. He had spent his entire life living with his mom and dad in the classic suburban town of Livingston, New Jersey. Entire life. Age zero to six in the upstairs bedroom on the right. Age six to thirteen in the upstairs bedroom on the left. Age thirteen to thirty-something in the basement.
After that long, the apron strings become steel bands.
"I hear you're taking Esperanza out for lunch," he said.
"Yup."
"How come?"
"No reason."
"No reason?"
"I think she's cool. I want to go to lunch. Stop being so nosy."
"You realize, of course, that she hates you."
"I can handle it," Jessica said. "So how's the golf tournament?"
"Very strange," he said.
"How so?"
"Too long a story to tell now, sweetcakes. Can I call you later?" "Sure." Then: "Did you say 'sweetcakes'?"
When they hung up, Myron frowned. Something was amiss. He and Jessica had never been closer, their relationship never stronger. Moving in together had been the right move, and a lot of their past demons had been exorcised away of late. They were loving toward each other, considerate of each other's feelings and needs, and almost never fought.
So why did Myron feel like they were standing on the cusp of some deep abyss?
He shook it off. All of this was just the by-product of an over-stimulated imagination. Just because a ship is sailing upon smooth waters, he surmised, does not mean it is heading for an iceberg.
Wow, that was deep.
By the time he got back to the table, Tad Crispin was sipping an iced tea too. Win made the introductions. Crispin was dressed in yellows, lots of yellows, kind of like the man with the yellow hat from the Curious George books. Everything was yellow. Even his golf shoes. Myron tried not to make a face.
As if reading his mind, Norm Zuckerman said, "This isn't our line."
"Good to hear," Myron said.
Tad Crispin stood. "Nice to meet you, sir."
Myron offered up a great big smile. "It's a true honor to meet you, Tad." His voice reeked with the sincerity of, say, a chain-store appliance salesman. The two men shook hands. Myron kept on smiling. Crispin began to look wary.
Zuckerman pointed a thumb at Myron and leaned toward Win. "Is he always this smooth?"
Win nodded. "You should see him with the ladies."
Everyone sat.
"I can't stay long," Crispin said.
"We understand, Tad," Zuckerman said, doing the shooing thing again with both hands. "You're tired, you need to concentrate on tomorrow. Go already, get some sleep."
Crispin sort of smiled a little and looked at Win. "I want you to have my account," he said.
"I don't 'have' accounts," Win corrected. "I advise on them."
"There's a difference?"
"Most definitely," Win said. "You are in control of your money at all times. I will make recommendations. I will make them to you directly. No one else. We will discuss them. You will then make a final decision. I will not buy or sell or trade anything without you being fully aware of what is going on."
Crispin nodded. "That sounds good."
"I thought it might," Win said. "From what I see, you plan on watching your money carefully."
"Yes."
"Savvy," Win said with a nod. "You've read about too many athletes retiring broke. Of being taken advantage of by unscrupulous money managers and the like."
"Yes."
"And it will be my job to help you maximize your return, correct?"
Crispin leaned forward a bit. "Correct."
"Very well, then. It will be my task to help maximize your investment opportunities after you earn it. But I would not be serving your best interests if I did not also tell you how to make more."
Crispin's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I follow."
Zuckerman said, "Win."
Win ignored him. "As your financial consultant, I would be remiss if I did not make the following recommendation: You need a good agent."
Crispin's line of vision slid toward Myron. Myron remained still, looking back at him steadily. He turned back to Win. "I know you work with Mr. Bolitar," Crispin said.
"Yes and no," Win said. "If you decide to use his services I do not make one penny more. Well, that's not exactly true. If you choose to use Myron's services, you will make more money and subsequently I will have more of your money to invest. So in that way, I will make more."
"Thanks," Crispin said, "but I'm not interested."
"That's up to you," Win said, "but let me just explain a little further what I meant by yes and no. I manage assets worth approximately four hundred million dollars. Myron's clients represent less than three percent of that total. I am not employed by MB SportsReps. Myron Bolitar is not employed by Lock-Horne Securities. We do not have a partnership. I have not invested in his enterprise and he is not invested in mine. Myron has never looked at, asked about, or in any way discussed the financial situation of any of my clients. We are totally separate. Except for one thing."
All eyes were on Win. Myron, not famous for knowing when to keep his mouth shut, knew now.
"I am the financial consultant for every one of his clients," Win said. "Do you know why?"
Crispin shook his head.
"Because Myron insists upon it."
Crispin looked confused. "I
don't understand. If he gets nothing out of it--"
"I didn't say that. He gets plenty out of it."
"But you said--"
"He, too, was an athlete; did you know that?"
"I heard something about it."
"He knows what happens to athletes. How they get cheated. How they squander their earnings, never fully accepting the fact that their careers can be over in a heartbeat. So he insists--insists, mind you--that he does not handle their finances. I've seen him refuse clients because of this. He further insists that I handle them. Why? For the same reason you sought me out. He knows I am the best. Immodest but true. Myron further insists that they see me in person at least once every quarter. Not just phone calls. Not just faxes or E-mails or letters. He insists that I go over every item in the account personally with them."
Win leaned farther back and steepled his fingers. The man loved to steeple his fingers. It looked good on him. Gave him an air of wisdom. "Myron Bolitar is my best friend. I know he'd give his life for me and I for him. But if he ever thought that I was not doing what was in a client's best interest, he would take away their portfolios without a second thought."
Norm said, "Beautiful speech, Win. Got me right there." He pointed to his stomach.
Win gave him the look. Norm stopped smiling.
"I made the deal with Mr. Zuckerman on my own," Crispin said. "I could make others."
"I won't comment on the Zoom deal," Win said. "But I will tell you this. You are a bright young man. A bright man knows not only his strengths but equally important, he knows his weaknesses. I do not, for example, know how to negotiate an endorsement contract. I may know the basics, but it is not my business. I'm not a plumber. If a pipe in my house broke, I would not be able to fix it. You are a golfer. You are one of the greatest talents I have ever seen. You should concentrate on that."
Tad Crispin took a sip of iced tea. He crossed his ankle on his knee. Even his socks were yellow. "You are making a hard sale for your friend," he said.
"Wrong," Win said. "I would kill for my friend, but financially I owe him nothing. You, on the other hand, are my client, and thus I have a very serious fiscal responsibility with regard to you. Stripping it bare, you have asked me to increase your portfolio. I will suggest several investment sources to you. But this is the best recommendation I can make."
Crispin turned to Myron. He looked him up and down, studying him hard. Myron almost brayed so he could examine his teeth. "He makes you sound awfully good," Crispin said to Myron.
"I am good," Myron said. "But I don't want him to give you the wrong impression. I'm not quite as altruistic as Win might have made me sound. I don't insist clients use him because I'm a swell guy. I know that having him handle my clients is a major plus. He improves the value of my services. He helps keep my clients happy. That's what I get out of it. Yes, I insist on having clients heavily involved in the decision-making on money matters, but that's as much to protect me as them."
"How so?"
"Obviously you know something about managers or agents robbing athletes."
"Yes."
"Do you know why so much of that occurs?"
Crispin shrugged. "Greed, I suppose."
Myron tilted his head in a yes-and-no gesture. "The main culprit is apathy. An athlete's lack of involvement. They get lazy. They decide it's easier to fully trust their agent, and thats bad. Let the agent pay the bills, they say. Let the agent invest the money. That kind of thing. But that won't ever happen at MB SportsReps. Not because I'm watching. Not because Win's watching. But because you are watching."
"I'm watching now," Crispin said.
"You're watching your money, true. I doubt you're watching everything else."
Crispin considered that for a moment. "I appreciate the talk," he said, "but I think I'm okay on my own."
Myron pointed at Tad Crispin's head. "How much are you getting for that hat?" he asked.
Excuse me?
"You're wearing a hat with no company logo on it," Myron explained. "For a player of your ilk, that's a loss of at least a quarter of a million dollars."
Silence.
"But I'm going to be working with Zoom," Crispin said.
"Did they purchase hat rights from you?"
He thought about it. "I don't think so."
"The front of the hat is a quarter million. We can also sell the sides if you want. They'll go for less. Maybe we'll total four hundred grand. Your shirt is another matter."
"Now just wait one minute here," Zuckerman interjected. "He's going to be wearing Zoom shirts."
"Fine, Norm," Myron said. "But he's allowed to wear logos. One on the chest, one on either sleeve."
"Logos?"
"Anything. Coca-Cola maybe. IBM. Even Home Depot."
"Logos on my shirt?"
"Yep. And what do you drink out there?"
"Drink? When I play?"
"Sure. I can probably get you a deal with Powerade or one of the soda companies. How about Poland Spring water? They might be good. And your golf bag. You have to negotiate a deal for your golf bag."
"I don't understand."
"You're a billboard, Tad. You're on television. Lots of fans see you. Your hat, your shirt, your golf bag--those are all places to post ads."
Zuckerman said, "Now hold on a second. He can't just--"
A cell phone began to sound, but it never made it past the first ring. Myron's finger reached the ringer and turned it off with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp retire. Fast reflexes. They came in handy every once in a while.
Still, the brief sound had drawn the ire of nearby club members. Myron looked around. He was on the receiving end of several dagger-glares, including one from Win.
"Hurry around behind the clubhouse," Win said pointedly. "Let no one see you."
Myron gave a flippant salute and rushed out like a man with a suddenly collapsing bladder. When he reached a safe area near the parking lot, he answered the call.
"Hello."
"Oh, God ..." It was Linda Coldren. Her tone struck the marrow of his bone.
"What's wrong?"
"He called again," she said.
"Do you have it on tape?"
"Yes."
"I'll be right ov--"
"No!" she shouted. "He's watching the house."
"You saw him?"
"No. But ... Don't come here. Please."
"Where are you calling from?"
"The fax line in the basement. Oh God, Myron, you should have heard him."
"Did the number come up on the Caller ID?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me."
She did. Myron took out a pen from his wallet and wrote the number down on an old Visa receipt.
"Are you alone?"
"Jack is right here with me."
"Anybody else? What about Esme Fong?"
"She's upstairs in the living room."
"Okay," Myron said. "I'll need to hear the call."
"Hold on. Jack is plugging the machine in now. I'll put you on the speaker so you can hear."
7
The tape player was snapped on. Myron heard the phone ringing first. The sound was surprisingly clear. Then he heard Jack Coldren: "Hello?"
"Who's the chink bitch?"
The voice was very deep, very menacing, and definitely machine-altered. Male or female, young or old, it was anyone's guess.
"I don't know what--"
"You trying to fuck with me, you dumb son of a bitch? I'll start sending you the fucking brat in little pieces."
Jack Coldren said, "Please--"
"I told you not to contact anyone."
"We haven't."
"Then tell me who that chink bitch is who just walked into your house."
Silence.
"You think we're stupid, Jack?"
"Of course not."
"So who the fuck is she?"
"Her name is Esme Fong," Coldren said quickly. "She works for a clothing company. She's just here to
set up an endorsement deal with my wife, that's all."
"Bullshit."
"It's the truth, I swear."
"I don't know, Jack...."
"I wouldn't lie to you."
"Well, Jack, we'll just see about that. This is gonna cost you."
"What do you mean?"
"One hundred grand. Call it a penalty price."
"For what?"
"Never you fucking mind. You want the kid alive? It's gonna cost you one hundred grand now. That's in--"
"Now hold on a second." Coldren cleared his throat. Trying to gain some footing, some degree of control.
"Jack?"
"Yes?"
"You interrupt me again and I'm going to stick your kid's dick in a vise."
Silence.
"You get the money ready, Jack. One hundred grand. I'll call you back and let you know what to do. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Don't fuck up, Jack. I enjoy hurting people."
The brief silence was shattered by a sharp, sudden scream, a scream that jangled nerve endings and raised hackles. Myron's hand tightened on the receiver.
The phone disconnected. Then a dial tone. Then nothing.
Linda Coldren took him off the speaker. "What are we going to do?"
"Call the FBI," Myron said.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I think it's your best move."
Jack Coldren said something in the background. Linda came back on the line. "Absolutely not. We just want to pay the ransom and get our son back."
No point in arguing with them. "Sit tight. I'll call you back as soon as I can."
Myron disconnected the call and dialed another number. Lisa at New York Bell. She'd been a contact of theirs since the days he and Win had worked for the government.
"A Caller ID came up with a number in Philadelphia," he said. "Can you find an address for me?"
"No problem," Lisa said.
He gave her the number. People who watch too much television think this sort of thing takes a long time. Not anymore. Traces are instantaneous now. No "keep him on a little longer" or any of that stuff. The same is true when it comes to finding the location of a phone number. Any operator almost anywhere can plug the number into her computer or use one of those reverse directories, and whammo. Heck, you don't even need an operator. Computer programs on CD-ROM and Web sites did the same thing.
"It's a pay phone," she said.
Not good news, but not unexpected either. "Do you know where?"
"The Grand Mercado Mall in Bala-Cynwyd."
"A mall?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"That's what it says."
"Where in the mall?"
"I have no idea. You think they list it 'between Sears and Victoria's Secret'?"
