The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (121 page)

Brenda muttered, “Strutting peacock.”

“That’s totally unfair,” Myron said. “Maybe he’s a Fulbright scholar.”

“I’ve worked with him before. If God gave him a second brain, it would die of loneliness.” Her eyes veered toward Myron. “I don’t get something.”

“What?”

“Why you? You’re a sports agent. Why would Norm ask you to be my bodyguard?”

“I used to work”—he stopped, waved a vague hand—“for the government.”

“I never heard about that.”

“It’s another secret. Shh.”

“Secrets don’t stay secret much around you, Myron.”

“You can trust me.”

She thought about it. “Well, you were a white man who could jump,” she said. “Guess if you can be that, you could be a trustworthy sports agent.”

Myron laughed, and they fell into an uneasy silence. He broke it by trying again. “So do you want to tell me about the threats?”

“Nothing much to tell.”

“This is all in Norm’s head?”

Brenda did not reply. One of the assistants applied oil to Ted’s hairless chest. Ted was still giving the crowd his tough guy squint. Too many Clint Eastwood movies. Ted made two fists and continuously flexed his pecs. Myron decided that he might as well beat the rush and start hating Ted right now.

Brenda remained silent. Myron decided to try another approach. “Where are you living now?” he asked.

“In a dorm at Reston University.”

“You’re still in school?”

“Medical school. Fourth year. I just got a deferment to play pro ball.”

Myron nodded. “Got a specialty in mind?”

“Pediatrics.”

He nodded again and decided to wade in a bit deeper. “Your dad must be very proud of you.”

A flicker crossed her face. “Yeah, I guess.” She started to rise. “I better get dressed for this shoot.”

“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on first?”

She stayed in her seat. “Dad is missing.”

“Since when?”

“A week ago.”

“Is that when the threats started?”

She avoided the question. “You want to help? Find my father.”

“Is he the one threatening you?”

“Don’t worry about the threats. Dad likes control, Myron. Intimidation is just another tool.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to understand. He’s your friend, right?”

“Your father? I haven’t seen Horace in more than ten years.”

“Whose fault is that?” she asked.

The words, not to mention the bitter tone, surprised him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you still care about him?” she asked.

Myron didn’t have to think about it. “You know I do.”

She nodded and jumped down from the chair. “He’s in trouble,” she said. “Find him.”

Brenda reappeared in Lycra Zoom shorts and what was commonly called a sports bra. She was limbs and shoulders and muscles and substance, and while the professional models glared at her size (not her height—most of them were six-footers too), Myron thought that she stood out like a bursting supernova next to, well, gaseous entities.

The poses were risque, and Brenda was clearly embarrassed by them. Not so Ted. He undulated and squinted at her in what was supposed to be a look of smoldering sexuality. Twice Brenda broke out and laughed in his face. Myron still hated Ted, but Brenda was starting to grow on him.

Myron picked up his cellular phone and dialed Win’s private line. Win was a big-time financial consultant at Lock-Horne Securities, an old-money financial firm that first sold equities on the
Mayflower
. His office was
in the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue and Forty-seventh Street in midtown Manhattan. Myron rented space there from Win. A sports agent on Park Avenue—now that was class.

After three rings the machine picked up. Win’s annoyingly superior accent said, “Hang up without leaving a message and die.” Beep. Myron shook his head, smiled, and, as always, left a message.

He hit the switch and dialed his office. Esperanza answered. “MB SportsReps.”

The
M
was for Myron, the
B
for Bolitar, and the
SportsReps
because they Represented people in the world of Sports. Myron had come up with the name with no help from professional marketing personnel. Despite the obvious accolades, Myron remained humble.

“Any messages?” he asked.

“About a million.”

“Anything crucial?”

“Greenspan wanted your take on interest rate hikes. Outside of that, no.” Esperanza, ever the wiseass. “So what did Norm want?”

Esperanza Diaz—the “Spanish shiksa,” in Norm’s words—had been at MB SportsReps since its inception. Before that, she had wrestled professionally under the moniker Little Pocahontas; put simply, she wore a bikini reminiscent of Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C
. and groped other women in front of a drooling horde. Esperanza considered her career shift to representing athletes as something of a step down.

“It involves Brenda Slaughter,” he began.

“The basketball player?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen her play a couple of times,” Esperanza said. “On TV she looks hot.”

“In person too.”

There was a pause. Then Esperanza said, “Think she participates in the love that dare not speaketh its name?”

“Huh?”

“Does she swing the way of the woman?”

“Gee,” Myron said, “I forgot to check for the tattoo.”

Esperanza’s sexual preference flip-flopped like a politician in a nonelection year. Currently she seemed to be on a man kick, but Myron guessed that was one of the advantages of bisexuality: love everyone. Myron had no problem with it. In high school he had dated almost exclusively bisexual girls—he’d mention sex, the girls would say “bye.” Okay, old joke, but the point remained.

“Doesn’t matter,” Esperanza said. “I really like David.” Her current beau. It wouldn’t last. “But you got to admit, Brenda Slaughter is steaming.”

“So admitted.”

“It might be fun for a night or two.”

Myron nodded into the phone. A lesser man might mentally conjure up a few choice images of the lithe, petite Hispanic beauty in the throes of passion with the ravishing black Amazon in the sports bra. But not Myron. Too worldly.

“Norm wants us to watch her,” Myron said. He filled her in. When he finished, he heard her sigh.

“What?” he said.

“Jesus Christ, Myron, are we a sports agency or Pinkertons?”

“It’s to get clients.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing. So what do you need me to do?”

“Her father is missing. His name is Horace Slaughter. See what you can dig up on him.”

“I’ll need help here,” she said.

Myron rubbed his eyes. “I thought we were going to hire someone on a permanent basis.”

“Who has the time?”

Silence.

“Fine,” Myron said. He sighed. “Call Big Cyndi. But make sure she knows it’s just on a trial basis.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“And if any client comes in, I want Cyndi to hide in my office.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

She hung up the phone.

When the photo shoot ended, Brenda Slaughter approached him.

“Where does your father live now?” Myron asked.

“Same place.”

“Have you been there since he disappeared?”

“No.”

“Then let’s start there,” Myron said.

Newark, New Jersey. The bad part. Almost a redundancy.

Decay was the first word that came to mind. The buildings were more than falling apart—they actually seemed to be breaking down, melting from some sort of acid onslaught. Here urban renewal was about as familiar a concept as time travel. The surroundings looked more like a war newsreel—Frankfurt after the Allies’ bombing—than a habitable dwelling.

The neighborhood was even worse than he remembered. When Myron was a teenager, he and his dad had driven down this very street, the car doors suddenly locking as though even they sensed oncoming danger. His father’s face would tighten up. “Toilet,” he would mutter. Dad had grown up not far from here, but that had been a long time ago. His father, the man Myron loved and worshiped like no other, the most gentle soul
he had ever known, would barely contain his rage. “Look what they did to the old neighborhood,” he would say.

Look what they did.

They.

Myron’s Ford Taurus slowly cruised by the old playground. Black faces glared at him. A five-on-five was going on with plenty of kids sprawled on the sidelines waiting to take on the winners. The cheap sneakers of Myron’s day—Thom McAn or Keds or Kmart—had been replaced with the hundred-dollar-plus variety these kids could ill afford. Myron felt a twinge. He would have liked to take a noble stand on the issue—the corruption of values and materialism and such—but as a sports agent who made money off sneaker deals, such perceptions paid his freight. He didn’t feel good about that, but he didn’t want to be a hypocrite either.

Nobody wore shorts anymore either. Every kid was dressed in blue or black jeans that journeyed far south of baggy, like something a circus clown might sport for an extra laugh. The waist drooped below the butt, revealing designer boxer shorts. Myron did not want to sound like an old man, grousing over the younger generation’s fashion sense, but these made bell-bottoms and platforms seem practical. How do you play your best when you’re constantly pausing to pull up your pants?

But the biggest change was in those glares. Myron had been scared when he first came down here as a fifteen-year-old high school student, but he had known that if he wanted to rise to the next level, he had to face down the best competition. That meant playing here.
He had not been welcomed at first. Not even close. But the looks of curious animosity he received back then were nothing compared with the dagger-death glares of these kids. Their hatred was naked, up front, filled with cold resignation. Corny to say, but back then—less than twenty years ago—there had been something different here. More hope maybe. Hard to say.

As though reading his thoughts, Brenda said, “I wouldn’t even play down here anymore.”

Myron nodded.

“It wasn’t easy on you, was it? Coming down here to play.”

“Your father made it easy,” he said.

She smiled. “I never understood why he took such a liking to you. He usually hated white people.”

Myron feigned a gasp. “I’m white?”

“As Pat Buchanan.”

They both forced out a laugh. Myron tried again. “Tell me about the threats.”

Brenda stared out the window. They passed a place that sold hubcaps. Hundreds, if not thousands, of hubcaps gleamed in the sun. Weird business when you thought about it. The only time people need a new hubcap is when one of theirs is stolen. The stolen ones end up in a place like this. A mini fiscal cycle.

“I get calls,” she began. “At night mostly. One time they said they were going to hurt me if they didn’t find my father. Another time they told me I better keep Dad as my manager or else.” She stopped.

“Any idea who they are?”

“No.”

“Any idea why someone would want to find your father?”

“No.”

“Or why your father would disappear?”

She shook her head.

“Norm said something about a car following you.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

“The voice on the phone,” Myron said. “Is it the same one every time?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Male, female?”

“Male. And white. Or at least, he sounds white.”

Myron nodded. “Does Horace gamble?”

“Never. My grandfather gambled. Lost everything he had, which wasn’t much. Dad would never go near it.”

“Did he borrow money?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Even with financial aid, your schooling had to cost.”

“I’ve been on scholarship since I was twelve.”

Myron nodded. Up ahead a man stumbled about the sidewalk. He was wearing Calvin Klein underwear, two different ski boots, and one of those big Russian hats like Dr. Zhivago. Nothing else. No shirt, no pants. His fist gripped the top of a brown paper bag like he was helping it cross the street.

“When did the calls start?” Myron asked.