Authors: Harlan Coben
Simply put, the football team had a poor season that year. Too many guys on the injured list.
Myron and Win finished up with light free sparring. Then they dropped to the mat and performed one hundred push-ups on their fists—Win counting out loud in Korean. That done, they sat again for meditation, this time lasting fifteen minutes.
“Barro,”
Win said.
Both men opened their eyes.
“Feeling more focused?” Win asked. “Feeling the flow of energy? The balance?”
“Yes, Grasshopper. You want me to snatch the pebble from your hand now?”
Win moved from his lotus position into a full stance in one graceful, effortless move. “So,” he said, “have you reached any decisions?”
“Yes.” Myron struggled to stand in one motion, tipping from side to side as he ascended. “I’m going to tell Jessica everything.”
Yellow stick-on phone messages swarmed Myron’s phone like locusts on a carcass. Myron peeled them away and shuffled through them. Nothing from Otto Burke or Larry Hanson or anyone in the Titans organization.
Not good.
He strapped on his headset telephone. He had resisted using one for a long time, figuring they were more suited for air traffic controllers than agents, but he quickly learned that an agent is but a fetus, his office a womb, his telephone an umbilical cord. It was easier with the headset. He could walk around; he could keep his hands
free; he could forgo neck cramps from cradling a phone against his shoulder.
His first call was to the advertising director for BurgerCity, a new fast-food chain. They wanted to sign up Christian and were offering pretty good money, but Myron wasn’t sure about it. BurgerCity was only regional. A national chain might come up with a better offer. Sometimes the hardest part of the job was saying no. He’d discuss the pros and cons with Christian, let him make the final decision. In the end it was his name. His money.
Myron had already signed Christian to several very lucrative endorsement deals. Wheaties would have Christian’s likeness on cereal boxes starting in October. Diet Pepsi was coming up with some promotion involving Christian throwing a two-liter bottle on a perfect spiral to nubile women. Nike was developing a sweatsuit line and cleats known as the Steele Trap.
Christian stood to earn millions from endorsements, far more than he would make playing for the Titans, no matter how reasonable Otto Burke wanted to be. It was strange in a way. Fans grew agitated at the idea of a player trying to get the most out of his playing contract. They called him boorish, selfish, and egomaniacal when he demanded a great deal of money from a wealthy team owner—but they had no problem when he grabbed vault-loads from Pepsi or Nike or Wheaties for promoting products he’d probably never used or even liked. It made no sense. Christian would make more money for spending three days shooting a thirty-second hypocritical spot than he would for spending the season getting blindsided by drooling men with overactive pituitary glands—and that was how the fans wanted it.
No agent minded that setup. Most agents got between three and five percent of their players’ total negotiated
salary (Myron took four percent), compared with twenty or twenty-five percent for all endorsement money. (Myron took fifteen percent—hey, he was new.) In other words, sign a million-dollar deal with a team, and the agent gets around forty grand. Sign him for a million-dollar commercial, and the agent can nab as much as a quarter mil.
Myron’s second call was to Ricky Lane, a running back for the New York Jets and a former college teammate of Christian’s. Ricky was one of his most important clients, and Myron was fairly certain it had been Ricky who’d convinced Christian to hire him in the first place.
“I have a kids’ camp appearance for you,” Myron began. “They’re paying five grand.”
“Sounds good,” Ricky said. “How long do I have to be there?”
“Couple hours. Do a little talk, sign a few autographs, that kind of thing.”
“When?”
“A week from Saturday.”
“What about that mall appearance?”
“That’s Sunday,” Myron said. “Livingston Mall. Morley’s Sporting Goods.” Ricky would get paid another five thousand dollars for sitting at a table for two hours and signing autographs.
“Cool.”
“You want me to send a limo to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll drive. You hear anything about next year’s contract yet?”
“We’re getting there, Ricky. Another week at the most. Listen, I want you to come in and see Win soon, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You in shape?”
“The best of my life,” Ricky said. “I want that starting job.”
“Keep working. And don’t forget to make that appointment with Win.”
“Will do. Later, Myron.”
“Yeah, later.”
The calls continued, one blurring into another. He returned calls from the press. They all wanted to know about a pending deal between the Titans and Christian. Myron politely no-commented. Occasionally it was good to use the media as leverage in negotiating, but not with Otto Burke. Matters were proceeding, he told them. An agreement could be expected at any time.
He then called Joe Norris, an old-time Yankee who appeared almost every weekend at a baseball card show. Joe made more in a month now than he had in an entire season in his heyday.
Next up was Linda Regal, a tennis pro who had just cracked the top ten. Linda was worried about aging, offended because a broadcaster had referred to her as a “familiar veteran.” Linda was almost twenty.
Eric Kramer, a UCLA senior and probable second round NFL draft pick, was in town. Myron managed to arrange a dinner with him. That meant Myron was a finalist—he and a zillion other agents. The competition was incredible. Example: There are twelve hundred NFL-authorized agents who court the two hundred college players who will be drafted in April. Something has to give. It’s usually ethics.
Myron called the New York Jets general manager, Sam Logan, to discuss Ricky Lane’s contract.
“The kid is in the best shape of his career,” Myron raved. He stood and paced. Myron had a large, fairly gorgeous office on Park Avenue between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh streets. It impressed people, and appearance
was important in a business dominated by sleazeballs “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m telling you, Sam, the kid is Gayle Sayers all over again. It’s amazing, really.”
“He’s too small,” Logan said.
“What are you talking about? Is Barry Sanders too small? Is Emmitt Smith too small? Ricky’s bigger than both of them. And he’s been lifting. I’m telling you, he’s going to be a great one.”
“Uh-huh. Look, Myron, he’s a nice kid. He works hard. But I can’t go any higher than …”
The number was still too low. But it was better.
The calls continued without a break. Sometime during the day Esperanza brought him a sandwich, which he inhaled.
At eight o’clock Myron placed his final office call of the day.
Jessica answered. “Hello?”
“I’ll be at your house in an hour,” Myron said. “We need to talk.”
Myron watched Jessica’s face for a reaction. She kept looking at the magazine as if it were just another issue of
Newsweek
, her expression frighteningly passive. Every once in a while she nodded, looked over the rest of the page, and glanced at the front and back covers of the magazine, always returning to the picture of Kathy. She was so nonchalant, Myron almost expected her to whistle.
Only her knuckles gave her away. They were bloodless white, the pages crinkling in her death grip.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice calm, almost soothing. “You said Christian got this in the mail?”
“Yes.”
“And you and Win spoke to the man who publishes this”—she hesitated, her face finally showing some signs of disgust—“this thing?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Did he give you the address of whoever put this ad in?”
“Just a p.o. box. I’m going to scout it out tomorrow, see who picks up the mail.”
She looked up for the first time. “I’ll go with you.”
He almost protested but stopped himself. He didn’t stand a chance. “Okay.”
“When did Christian give this to you?”
“Yesterday.”
That got her attention. “You knew about this yesterday?”
He nodded.
“And you didn’t tell me?” she snapped. “I was pouring my heart out to you, feeling like some paranoid schizophrenic, and you knew about this the whole time?”
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”
“Anything else you haven’t told me?”
“Christian got a phone call last night. He thinks it was from Kathy.”
“What?”
He quickly told her about it. When he reached the part about Christian hearing Kathy’s voice, her face drained of all color.
“Has your friend at the phone company learned anything?” she asked.
“No. But we know Return Call only works for specific towns within the 201 area codes.”
“How many towns?”
“About three-quarters of them.”
“So you’re talking about three-quarters of the northern
part of New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the U.S.? That limits it down to what, two, three million people?”
“It’s not a big help,” he admitted, “but it’s something.”
Her eyes settled back on the magazine. “I didn’t mean to jump all over you. It’s just—”
“Forget it.”
“You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” she said. “I mean that.”
“And you’re the biggest pain in the ass.”
“Tough to argue that one,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile.
“Do you want to tell the police about this?” he asked. “Or Paul Duncan?”
She thought a moment. “I’m not sure.”
“The press will eat it up,” he said. “They’ll drag Kathy through the mud.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what the press does.”
“I’m just telling you,” Myron said.
“They can call her a slut a million different ways. I don’t care.”
“What about your mom?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she wants either. I just want Kathy found.”
“So you want to tell them,” Myron said.
“No.”
He looked at her, confused. “Care to elaborate?”
Her words came slow, measured, the ideas coming to her even as she spoke. “Kathy has been gone for more than a year now,” she began. “In all that time the cops and the press have come up with zip. Not one thing. She’s just vanished without a trace.”
“So?”
“But now we get this magazine. Someone sent it to
Christian, which means someone—maybe Kathy, maybe not—is trying to make contact. Think about it. For the first time in over a year there is some form of communication. I don’t want that taken away. I don’t want a lot of attention scaring away whoever is out there. Kathy might disappear again. This”—she held up the magazine—“this thing is disgusting, but it’s also encouraging. It’s something. Don’t get me wrong. I’m shocked by this. But it’s a solid thread—a thread as confusing as all hell, but nonetheless a thread of hope. If the cops and the press are called in, whoever did this might get scared and vanish again. Permanently this time. I can’t risk that. We have to keep this to ourselves.”
Myron nodded. “Makes sense.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“We go to the post office in Hoboken. I’ll pick you up early. Say six.”
Jessica smelled great.
They were at Uptown Station in Hoboken. She stood very close to him. Her hair had that freshly washed smell he had tried for four years to forget. Inhaling made him feel light-headed.
“So this is playing detective,” she said.
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
They had been trying to look inconspicuous—no easy
task when a man is six-four and a woman is a total knee-knocker—for the better part of an hour, having arrived at the post office at six-thirty in the morning. No one had touched Box 785 yet.
Boredom set in quickly. Jessica looked over the prices of different mailing containers. Not very interesting. She read the wanted ads, all of them, found them a bit more interesting. Wanted posters in a post office. Like they wanted you to write the guy a letter.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she said.
“That’s why they call me Captain Fun.”
She laughed. The melodic sound twisted his stomach.
“Do you like being an agent, Captain Fun?”
“Very much.”
“I always thought of agents as a bunch of sleazeballs.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean. Leeches. Vipers. Greedy, money-hungry, bloodsucking parasites, swindling naïve jocks, doing lunch at Le Cirque, destroying everything that’s good about sports—”
“The problems in the Middle East,” he interrupted. “That’s our fault too. And the budget deficit.”
“Right. But you’re not any of those things.”
“Not a leech, viper, or parasite. That’s quite a rave.”
“You know what I mean.”
He shrugged. “There are plenty of sleazy agents. There are also plenty of sleazy doctors, lawyers—” He stopped, the words sounding familiar. Hadn’t Fred Nickler used the same argument in justifying his magazines? “Agents are a necessary evil,” he continued. “Without them, athletes get taken advantage of.”
“By whom?”
“Owners, management. Agents have done some good
for the athletes. They’ve helped raise their salaries, assure free agency, get them endorsement money.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Myron thought a moment. “Two things,” he said. “First of all, some agents are crooks. Plain and simple. They see a young, rich kid, and they take advantage. But as the athletes get more sophisticated, as more stories like what happened to Kareem Abdul-Jabar become known, most of the crooks will be weeded out.”
“And second?”
“Agents have to wear too many hats,” he said. “We’re negotiators, accountants, financial planners, hand-holders, travel agents, family counselors, marriage counselors, errand boys, lackeys—whatever it takes to get the business.”
“So how do you do it all?”
“I give two of the biggest hats to Win—accountant and financial planner. I’m the lawyer. He’s the MBA. Plus we have Esperanza, who can do almost anything. It works well. We all check and balance one another.”
“Just like the branches of the federal government.”
He nodded. “Jefferson and Madison would be proud.”
A hand reached out and opened Box 785.
“Show time,” Myron said.
Jessica snapped her head around to look. The man was slim. Everything about him was too long, eerily elongated, as if he had spent time on a medieval rack. Even his face seemed stretched like a cartoon imprint on Silly Putty.
“Recognize him?” Myron asked.
She hesitated. “Something about him … but I don’t think so.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They hurried down the steps and got in the car. Myron
had parked illegally in front of the building, putting a police emergency sign in his front windshield. A gift from a friend on the force. The emergency sign came in handy—especially during sale days at the mall.
The slim man came out two minutes later. He got into a yellow Oldsmobile. New Jersey plates. Myron shifted into drive and followed. Slim took Route 3 to the Garden State Parkway north.
“We’ve been driving almost twenty minutes,” Jessica said. “Why would he go to a mailbox so far from his home?”
“Could be that he’s not going to his house. Maybe he’s going to work.”
“The dial-a-porn office?”
“Maybe,” Myron said. “Or it could be that he travels a long way so no one will see him.”
He got off at Exit 160, jumped on Route 208 heading north, and pulled off at Lincoln Avenue, Ridgewood.
Jessica sat up. “This is my exit,” she said.
“I know.”
“What the hell is going on here?”
The yellow Oldsmobile turned left at the end of the ramp. They were now within three miles of Jessica’s house. If he took Lincoln Avenue all the way to Godwin Road, they’d be …
Nope.
Mr. Slim turned on Kenmore Road, a half-mile before the Ridgewood border. They were still in the heart of suburbia—the suburb in question being Glen Rock, New Jersey. Glen Rock was so named because of a giant rock that sat on Rock Road. The key word here is
rock
.
The yellow Olds pulled into a driveway. 78 Kenmore Drive.
“Look casual,” he said. “Don’t stare.”
“What?”
He didn’t answer. He drove past the house without pausing, turned at the next street, and stopped the car behind some shrubs. He picked up the car phone and dialed the office. It was picked up midway through the first ring.
“MB SportReps,” Esperanza said.
“Get me all you can on 78 Kenmore Street, Glen Rock, New Jersey. Owner’s name, credit check, the works.”
“Got it.” Click.
He dialed another number. “My friend at the phone company,” he explained to Jessica. Then: “Lisa? It’s Myron. Look, I need a favor. Seventy-eight Kenmore Road, Glen Rock, New Jersey. I don’t know how many lines the guy has, but I need you to check them all. I want to know every number he calls for the next two hours. Right. Hey, what did you find out about that 900 number? What? Oh, okay, I understand. Thanks.”
He hung up.
“What did she say?”
“The 900 number isn’t operated by the phone company. Some small outfit out of South Carolina takes care of it. She can’t get anything on it.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked. “Just watch his house?”
“No. I go inside. You wait here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You were the one who didn’t want to scare anyone away,” he continued. “If this guy has something to do with your sister, how do you think he’ll react to seeing you?”
She folded her arms across her chest and fumed. She knew he was right, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. “Go,” she said.
He got out of the car. It was one of those no-variety
neighborhoods, each house cookie-cut from the same mold—split-levels on three-quarters of an acre. Sometimes the house was backward, the kitchen on the right instead of the left. Most had aluminum siding. The street reeked of middle class.
Myron knocked. The thin man opened the door.
“Jerry?”
Slim’s face registered confusion. Up close he was better looking, his face more brooding than freakish. Give him a cigarette and a black turtleneck, and he could be reading poetry in a village café. “May I help you?”
“Jerry, I’m—”
“You must have the wrong house. My name isn’t Jerry.”
“You look like Jerry.”
Something dark crossed his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, closing the door. “I really don’t have time right now.”
“Sure about that, Jer?”
“I already told you—”
“Do you know Kathy Culver?”
It was a sneak attack. And it drew blood. “Wha—what’s this all about?” he snapped.
“I think you know.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
“Am I supposed to know you?”
“Well, if you’re a big basketball fan … actually, no. But I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Ace of spades time. Myron pulled out the magazine. “Sure about that, Jerry?”
The whites of Slim’s eyes grew tenfold, looking like Wedgwood china on the elongated face. “You have me mixed up with someone else. Good-bye.”
He slammed the door.
Myron shrugged, headed back to the car.
“Well?” Jessica asked.
“We shook him,” Myron said. “Let’s see what falls out.”
The neighborhood newsstand.
Win remembered a time when the phrase conjured up nostalgia and Rockwellian images of real America. No more. Any street, any corner, any hickville town was the same. Candy, newspapers, greeting cards—and porno mags. Kids could pick up a Snickers bar and get an eyeful, all in one. Porno had become a staple of American life. Hardcore porn. The kind of porn that made
Penthouse
look like
Highlights
magazine.
Win approached the man behind the lottery ticket dispenser. “Pardon me,” Win said.
“Yeah?”
“Would you be able to tell me if you have the most recent issues of
Climaxx, Jiz, Orgasm Today, Licks, Quim, and Nips
?”
An elderly woman gasped and gave him an icy stare. Win smiled at her. “Let me guess,” he said. “Playmate of the Month, June 1926?”
She made a harumph noise and turned away.
“Check over there,” the man said. “Between the comic books and Disney videos.”
“Thank you.”
Win found three of them—
Climaxx, Orgasm Today
, and
Quim
. He tried three other newsstands and was able to pick up
Lick
, but there was no sign of
Jiz
or
Nips.
He finally found copies of them at a hardcore shop on Forty-second Street called King David’s Smut Palace. They had a big sign out front that said
OPEN
24
HOURS
. How very convenient. Win considered himself fairly worldly,
but the items and photographs in the “palace” proved that both his life experiences and his imagination had at best been limited.
It was almost noon when he exited the palace. A productive and quasi-educational morning.
With a total of eight magazines lodged under his arm, Win caught a taxi to midtown. He skimmed through a few in the backseat.
“So far so good,” he said out loud.
The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, shrugged, looked back to the road.
When Win arrived at his office, he spread the magazines across the vast breadth of his desk. He studied them closely, comparing them. Incredible. His suspicion had been sound. It was just as he thought.
Five minutes later, Win put the magazines in his desk drawer. Then he buzzed Esperanza.
“Kindly send Myron to my office as soon as he comes in.”