MB SportsReps. Myron's company. Myron Bolitar, ergo MB. Representing sports people, ergo SportsReps. Add it together: MB SportsReps. Myron came up with that name on his own but still no offers came in from major advertising companies to use his services.
"Make it a hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus," Myron said.
Clip smiled. "You've learned well, Myron."
Myron shrugged.
"Seventy-five thousand," Clip said. "And you'll take it so don't bullshit a bullshitter."
The two men shook hands.
"I have a few more questions about the disappearance," Myron said.
Using both armrests Clip rose and stood over Myron. "Calvin will answer all your questions," he said with a nod toward his general manager. "I have to go now."
"So when do you want me to start practicing?"
Clip looked surprised. "Practicing?"
"Yeah. When do you want me to start?"
"We have a game tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Of course," Clip said.
"You want me to suit up tonight?"
"We're playing our old team, the Celtics. Calvin will make sure you have a uniform by game time. Press conference at six to announce your signing. Don't be late." Clip headed toward the door. "And wear that tie. I like it."
"Tonight?" Myron repeated, but Clip was already gone.
Chapter 2
After Clip left the box, Calvin Johnson allowed himself a small smile. "I warned you it would be strange."
"Serious strange," Myron agreed.
"Finished with your nutritious chocolate beverage?"
Myron put down the can. "Yeah."
"Come on. Let's get you ready for the big debut."
Calvin Johnson walked fluidly, back straight. He was black, six-foot-eight, thin but not gawky or disproportionate. He wore an olive Brooks Brothers suit. Perfectly tailored. Perfectly knotted tie. Perfectly shined shoes. His tightly kinked hair was receding, making his forehead overly prominent and shiny. When Myron matriculated at Duke, Calvin had been a senior at North Carolina. That made him around thirty-five years old, though he looked older. Calvin had enjoyed a solid pro career over eleven seasons. When he retired three years ago, everyone knew he'd end up in the front office. He started off as an assistant coach, moved to player personnel, and just recently was promoted to vice president and general manager of the New Jersey Dragons. These however were just titles. Clip ran the show. General managers, vice presidents, player personnel, trainers, even coaches all bent to his will.
"I hope you're all right with this," Calvin said.
"Why wouldn't I be all right?"
Calvin shrugged. "I played against you," he said.
"So?"
"You were the most competitive son of a bitch I ever faced," Calvin said. "You'd stomp on someone's head to win. Now you're going to be a pissant bench-warmer. How's that going to sit with you?"
"I can handle it," Myron said.
"Uh huh."
"I've mellowed over the years."
Calvin shook his head. "I don't think so."
"No?"
"You may think you've mellowed. You may even think you've got basketball out of your system."
"I have."
Calvin stopped, smiled, spread his arms. "Sure you have. Just look at you. You could be the poster child for life after sports. A fine example to your fellow athletes. Your whole career crashed down around your ears, but you rose to the challenge. You went back to school--at Harvard Law nonetheless. You started up your own business--a growing company in the field of sports representation. You still dating that writer?"
He meant Jessica. Their togetherness seemed to always be an iffy thing but Myron said, "Yes."
"So you got the education, the job, and the gorgeous girlfriend. Yep, on the outside you're happy and well adjusted."
"On the inside too."
Calvin shook his head. "I don't think so."
Everyone's Dr. Joyce Brothers. "Hey, I didn't ask to be put on the team."
"No, but you didn't argue much either--except to up your price."
"I'm an agent. That's what I do. I up the price."
Calvin stopped and looked at Myron. "Do you really think you have to be on the team to find Greg?"
"Clip seemed to think so."
"Clip is a great man," Calvin said, "but he often has ulterior motives."
"Like what?"
Calvin did not respond. He started walking again.
They reached the elevator. Calvin pressed the button and the doors immediately slid open. They stepped inside and began to descend. "Look me in the eye," Calvin said. "Look me in the eye and tell me you never think about playing again."
"Who doesn't think about it?" Myron countered.
"Yeah, but tell me you don't take it one step further. Tell me you never drift off and dream about making a comeback. Even now, when you're watching a game on TV, tell me you don't sit there and do a slow burn. Tell me you never watch Greg and think about all the adulation and fame. Tell me you never say, 'I was better than him,' because it's the truth. Greg is great. One of the top ten players in the league. But you were better, Myron. We both know that."
"Long time ago," Myron said.
Calvin smiled. "Yeah," he said. "Right."
"What's your point?"
"You're here to find Greg. Once he's found, you're gone. The novelty will be over. Clip will be able to say he gave you a chance, but you weren't up to the challenge. He'll still be the good guy with the good press."
"Good press," Myron repeated, remembering the upcoming press conference. "One of his ulterior motives?"
Calvin shrugged. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you understand you don't have a chance. You're only going to play during scrub time and we rarely win or lose by a lot so that doesn't happen and even if it does, even if you play spectacularly, we both know it's scrub time. And you won't play well because you are such a competitive son of a bitch, you need the points to mean something to the outcome of the game or you don't play your best."
"I understand," Myron said.
"I hope you do, my friend." Calvin looked up at the numbered lights. The lights flickered in his brown eyes. "Dreams never die. Sometimes you think they're dead, but they're just hibernating like some big old bear. And if the dream has been hibernating for a long time, that bear is going to wake up grumpy and hungry."
"You should write country songs," Myron said.
Calvin shook his head. "Just giving a friend fair warning."
"Much obliged. Now why don't you tell me what you know about Greg's disappearance?"
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Calvin led the way. "Not much to tell," he said. "We played against the Sixers in Philly. After the game Greg got on the bus with everybody else. When we got here, he got off the bus with everybody else. The last time anyone saw him he was getting into his car. The end."
"How did Greg seem that night?"
"Fine. He played well against Philly. Scored twenty-seven points."
"And his mood?"
Calvin thought about it. "Nothing I noticed," he said.
"Anything new going on in his life?"
"New?"
"Changes, that kind of thing."
"Well, the divorce," Calvin said. "It's been nasty. I understand Emily can be quite difficult." He stopped walking again and smiled at Myron. The Cheshire cat smile. Myron stopped but did not return the smile.
"Something on your mind, Frosty?"
The smile spread a bit farther. "Weren't you and Emily an item at one time?"
"A lifetime ago."
"College sweethearts, if I recall."
"Like I said, a lifetime ago."
"So," Calvin said, starting to walk again, "you were even better with the women than Greg."
Myron ignored the comment. "Does Clip know about my so-called past with Emily?"
"He's very thorough."
"So that explains why you chose me," Myron s
aid.
"It was a consideration, but I don't think it's too important."
"Oh?"
"Greg hates Emily. He'd never confide in her. But since this whole custody battle started there's definitely been a change in Greg."
"How so?"
"For one thing, he signed a deal with Forte sneakers."
Myron was surprised. "Greg? An endorsement deal?"
"It's very hush-hush," Calvin said. "They're supposed to announce it end of the month, right before the playoffs."
Myron whistled. "They must have paid him a bundle."
"A bundle and a half, I hear. Upwards of ten million a year."
"Makes sense," Myron said. "A popular player who has refused to endorse any products for more than a decade--it's an irresistible draw. Forte does well with track and tennis shoes, but they're fairly unknown in the basketball world. Greg gives them instant credibility."
"That he does," Calvin agreed.
"Any idea why he changed his mind after all these years?"
Calvin shrugged. "Maybe Greg realized he wasn't getting any younger and wanted to cash in. Maybe this whole divorce thing. Maybe he got whacked on the head and woke up with an iota of sanity."
"Where's he been living since the divorce?"
"In the house in Ridgewood. It's in Bergen County."
Myron knew it well. He asked for the address. Calvin gave it to him. "What about Emily?" Myron asked. "Where's she staying?"
"She and the kids are with her mother. I think they're in Franklin Lakes or thereabouts."
"Have you done any checking yet--Greg's house, his credit cards, bank accounts?"
Calvin shook his head. "Clip thought this thing was too big to trust to an agency. That's why we called you. I've driven past Greg's house a few times, knocked on the door once. No car in the driveway or garage. No lights on."
"But no one's checked inside the house?"
"No."
"So for all you know he slipped in the bathtub and hit his head."
Calvin looked at him. "I said, no lights on. You think he bathed in the dark?"
"That's a good point," Myron said.
"Some hotshot investigator."
"I'm a slow starter."
They arrived at the team room. "Wait here," Calvin said.
Myron took out his cellular. "Mind if I make a call?"
"Go ahead."
Calvin disappeared behind the door. Myron turned on the power and dialed. Jessica answered on the second ring. "Hello?"
"I'm going to have to cancel dinner tonight," Myron said.
"You better have a good excuse," Jessica said.
"A great one. I'll be playing professional basketball for the New Jersey Dragons."
"That's nice. Have a good game, dear."
"I'm serious. I'm playing for the Dragons. Actually, 'playing' is probably not the right word. Might be more accurate to say I'll be getting fanny sores for the Dragons."
"Are you for real?"
"It's a long story, but yes, I'm now officially a professional basketball player."
Silence.
"I've never boffed a professional basketball player," Jessica said. "I'll be just like Madonna."
"Like a virgin," Myron said.
"Wow. Talk about a dated reference."
"Yeah, well, what can I say. I'm an eighties kinda guy."
"So, Mr. Eighties, you going to tell me what's going on?"
"No time now. Tonight. After the game. I'll leave a ticket at the window."
Calvin stuck his head back in. "What's your waist? Thirty-four?"
"Thirty-six. Maybe thirty-seven."
Calvin nodded and withdrew. Myron dialed the private line of Windsor Horne Lockwood III, president of the prestigious investment firm of Lock-Horne Securities in midtown Manhattan. Win answered on the third ring.
"Articulate," Win said.
Myron shook his head. "Articulate?"
"I said articulate, not repeat."
"We have a case," Myron said.
"Oh yippee," he drawled in that preppy, Philly Main-Line accent of his. "I'm enthralled. I'm elated. But before I completely wet myself, I must ask but one question."
"Shoot."
"Is this case of your customary charity persuasion?"
"Wet away," Myron said. "The answer is no."
"What? No moral crusade for brave Myron?"
"Not this time."
"Heavens be, do tell."
"Greg Downing is missing. It's our job to find him."
"And for services rendered we receive?"
"At least seventy-five grand plus a first round draft pick as a client." Now was not the time to fill Win in on his temporary career change.
"My, my," Win said happily. "Pray tell, what shall we do first?"
Myron gave him the address of Greg's house in Ridgewood. "Meet me there in two hours."
"I'll take the Batmobile," Win said and hung up.
Calvin returned. He held out a purple-and-aqua Dragon uniform. "Try this on."
Myron did not reach for it right away. He stared at it, his stomach twisting and diving. When he spoke his voice was soft. "Number thirty-four?"
"Yeah," Calvin said. "Your old number at Duke. I remembered."
Silence.
Calvin finally broke it. "Go try it on."
Myron felt something well up in his eye. He shook his head. "No need," he said. "I'm sure it's the right size."
Chapter 3
Ridgewood was a primo suburb, one of those old towns that still calls itself a village, where ninety-five percent of the students go on to college and no one lets their kids associate with the other five percent. There were a couple of strips of tract housing, a few examples of the mid-sixties suburban explosion, but for the most part Ridgewood's fine homes dated from an earlier, theoretically more innocent time.
Myron found the Downing house without any problem. Old Victorian. Very big but not unwieldy, three levels with perfectly faded cedar shingles. On the left side there was one of those rounded towers with a pointy top. Lots of outdoor porch space with all the Rockwellian touches: the kind of double swing where Atticus and Scout would share a lemonade on a hot Alabama night; a child's bicycle tipped on its side; a Flexible Flyer snow sled, although it hadn't snowed in six weeks. The required basketball hoop hung slightly rusted over the driveway. Fire Department "Tot Finder" stickers glistened red and silver from two upstairs windows. Old oak trees lined the walk like weathered sentries.
Win hadn't arrived yet. Myron parked and rolled down a window. The perfect mid-March day. The sky was robin-egg blue. The birds chirped in cliche. He tried to picture Emily here, but the picture would not hold. It was far easier to see her in a New York high rise or one of those nouveau-riche mansions all done in white with Erte sculptures and silver pearls and too many gaudy mirrors. Then again he hadn't spoken to Emily in ten years. She may have changed. Or he may have misjudged her all those years ago. Wouldn't be the first time.
Funny being back in Ridgewood. Jessica had grown up here. She didn't like coming back anymore, but now the two loves of his life--Jessica and Emily--had something else in common: the village of Ridgewood. That could be added to the list of commonalities between the two women--stuff like meeting Myron, being courted by Myron, falling in love with Myron, crushing Myron's heart like a tomato under a stiletto heel. The usual fare.
Emily had been his first. Freshman year of college was late to lose one's virginity, if one were to listen to the boasts of friends. But if there had indeed been a sexual revolution among American teenagers in the late seventies/early eighties, Myron had either missed it or been on the wrong side. Women had always liked him--it wasn't that. But while his friends discoursed in great detail on their various orgylike experiences, Myron seemed to attract the wrong girls, the nice girls, the ones who still said no--or would have had Myron had the courage (or foresight) to try.
That changed in college when he met Emily.
Passion. It's a word band
ied about quite a bit, but Myron thought it might apply here. At a minimum, unconfined lust. Emily was the type of woman a man labels "hot," as opposed to "beautiful." See a truly "beautiful" woman and you want to paint or write a poem. See Emily and you want to engage in mutual fabric-ripping. She was raw sexuality, maybe ten pounds bigger than she should have been but those pounds were exquisitely distributed. The two of them made a potent mix. They were both under twenty, both away from home for the first time, both creative.
In a word: kaboom.
The car phone rang. Myron picked it up.
"I assume," Win said, "that you plan on having us break into the Downing residence."
"Yes."
"Then parking your car in front of said residence would not be a sound decision, would it?"
Myron glanced about. "Where are you?"
"Drive down to the end of the block. Make a left, then your second right. I'm parked behind the office building."
Myron hung up and restarted the car. He followed the directions and pulled into the lot. Win leaned against his Jaguar with his arms crossed. He looked, as he always did, as if he were posing for the cover of WASP Quarterly. His blond hair was perfectly in place. His complexion slightly ruddy, his features porcelain and high and a little too perfect. He wore khaki pants, a blue blazer, Top-Siders sans socks, and a loud Lilly Pulitzer tie. Win looked like what you'd picture a guy named Windsor Horne Lockwood III to look like--elitist, self-absorbed, wimpy.
Well, two out of three ain't bad.
The office building held an eclectic mix. Gynecologist. Electrolysis. Subpoena delivery service. Nutritionist. Women-only health club. Not surprisingly Win was standing near the entrance to the women-only health club. Myron approached.
"How did you know I was parked in front of the house?"
Keeping his eye on the entranceway Win motioned with his head. "Up that hill. You can see everything with a pair of binoculars."
A woman in her early twenties wearing a black Lycra aerobics suit walked out carrying a baby. It hadn't taken her long to get her figure back. Win smiled at her. The woman smiled back.
"I love young mothers," Win said.
"You love women in Lycra," Myron corrected.
Win nodded. "There's that." He snapped on a pair of sunglasses. "Shall we begin?"
"You think breaking into that house will be a problem?"
Win made his I'll-pretend-you-didn't-ask-that face. Another woman exited the health club; sadly, this one did not warrant a Win smile. "Fill me in," Win said. "And move away. I want to make sure they can see the Jag."