Fade Away (1996) (5 page)

Her costume was a suede bikini, and she was always cast as the good guy in the morality play that was professional wrestling. She was young, petite, tight-bodied, gorgeous, and though of Latin origin, she was dark enough to pass for Native American. Racial backgrounds were irrelevant to FLOW. The real name of Mrs Saddam Hussein, the evil harem girl in the black veil, was Shari Weinberg.

The phone rang. Esperanza picked it up. 'MB SportsReps. Hold on a moment, he's right here.' She flashed the eyes at him. 'Perry McKinley. It's his third call today.'

'What does he want?'

She shrugged. 'Some people don't like dealing with underlings.'

'You're not an underling.'

She looked at him blankly. 'You going to take it or not?'

Being a sports agent was - to use computer terminology - a multitasking environment with the capability of performing a variety of services with but a click of a button. It was more than simple negotiating. Agents were expected to be accountants, financial planners, real estate agents, hand holders, personal shoppers, travel agents, family counselors, marriage counselors, chauffeurs, errand boys, parental liaisons, lackeys, butt-kissers, you name it. If you weren't willing to do all that for a client - to be what is known as a 'full service agency' - the next guy would be.

The only way to compete was to have a team, and Myron felt he had assembled a small yet extremely effective one. Win, for example, handled all the finances for Myron's clients. He set up a special portfolio for each player, met with them at least five times a year, made sure they understood what their money was doing and why. Having Win gave Myron a big leg up on the competition. Win was a near-legend in the financial world. His reputation was impeccable (at least in the financial world) and his track record unmatched. He gave Myron an instant 'in,' instant credibility in a business where credibility was a rare and heady concoction.

Myron was the JD. Win was the MBA. Esperanza was the all-purpose player, the unflappable chameleon who held it all together. It worked.

'We need to talk,' he said again.

'So we'll talk,' she said in a dismissing tone. 'First take this call.'

Myron entered his office. He overlooked Park Avenue in midtown. Great View. On one wall he had posters of Broadway musicals. On another there were movie stills from some of Myron's favorites: the Marx Brothers, Woody Allen, Alfred Hitchcock, and a potpourri of other classics. On a third wall were photographs of Myron's clients. The client wall was a bit sparser than Myron would have liked. He imagined what it would look like with an NBA first rounder in the middle.

Good, he decided. Very good.

He strapped on his headset.

'Hey, Perry.'

'Jesus Christ, Myron, I've been trying to reach you all day.'

'Good, Perry. And you.'

'Hey, I don't mean to be impatient but this is important. You get anything on my boat?'

Perry McKinley was a golfer on the fringe, no pun intended. He was a pro. He made some money, but he wasn't a name anyone but big golf fans would recognize. Perry loved to sail and was in need of a new vessel.

'Yeah, I got something,' Myron said.

'What company?'

'Prince.'

Perry did not sound thrilled. 'Their boats are just okay,' he whined.

'Nothing great.'

'They'll let you trade in your old boat for a new one. You have to do five personal appearances.'

'Five?'

'Yep.'

'For a Prince eighteen-footer? That's too many.'

'They originally wanted ten. But it's up to you.'

Perry thought about it a moment. 'Ah, shit, okay the deal. But first I want to make sure I like the boat. A full eighteen-footer, right?'

'That's what they said.'

'Yeah, all right. Thanks, Myron. You're the best.'

They hung up. Bartering - an important component in the agent's multitasking environment. No one ever paid for anything in this business.

Favors were exchanged. Trading products for some form of endorsement.

Want a free shirt? Wear it in public. Want a free car? Shake hands at a few car shows. The big stars could demand serious payments in exchange for their endorsements. The lesser-known athletes happily seized the freebies.

Myron stared at the pile of messages and shook his head. Playing for the Dragons and keeping MB SportsReps afloat - how the hell was he going to Pull it off?

He buzzed Esperanza. 'Come on in here please,' he said.

'I'm in the middle--'

'Now.'

Silence.

'Gosh,' she said, 'you're so macho.'

'Give me a break, huh?'

'No, really, I'm very frightened. I better drop everything and immediately do your bidding.'

Her phone fell. She sprinted in, feigning fear and breathlessness. 'Fast enough?'

'Yes.'

'So what is it?'

He told her. When he came to the part where he'd be playing for the Dragons, he was once again surprised to see no reaction. This was strange.

First Win, now Esperanza. The two of them were his closest friends. They both lived for ridiculing him. Yet neither one of them had taken advantage of the obvious opening. Their silence on the subject of his 'comeback' was a tad unnerving.

'Your clients aren't going to like this,' she said.

'Our clients,' he corrected.

She made a face. 'Does it make you feel better to be patronizing?'

Myron ignored the comment. 'We have to turn this into a positive,' he said.

'How?'

'I'm not sure,' he said slowly. He leaned back in his chair. 'We can say that the publicity of all this will help them.'

'How?'

'I can make new contacts,' he said, the ideas coming to him even as he spoke. 'I can get closer to sponsors, learn more about them. More people will hear about me and indirectly my clients.'

Esperanza made a scoffing sound. 'And you think that's going to fly?'

'Why not?'

'Because it's bullshit. "Indirectly my clients." Sounds like trickle-down economics.'

She had a point. 'What's the big deal really?' he asked, palms to the ceiling. 'Basketball will only be a couple of hours a day. I'll be here the rest of the time. I'll have the cellular phone with me all the time. We just have to emphasize that I won't be there long.'

Esperanza looked at him skeptically.

'What?' he asked.

She shook her head.

'No, I want to know. What?'

'Nothing,' she said. She looked him straight in the eye, her hands resting on her lap. 'What does the bitch say about all this?' she asked sweetly.

Her pet name for Jessica. 'Will you please stop calling her that?'

She made a suit-yourself face, for once not arguing. There had been a time - long, long ago - when Jessica and Esperanza had at least tolerated each other. But then Jessica left, and Esperanza saw what it did to Myron.

Some people held grudges. Esperanza internalized them. It didn't matter that Jessica had come back.

'So what does she think?' Esperanza asked again.

'About what?'

'About the prospects for peace in the Middle East,' she snapped. 'What do you think I mean? Your playing again.'

'I don't know. We haven't had a chance to talk about it much.

Why?'

Esperanza shook her head again. 'We're going to need help in here,' she said, closing the subject. 'Someone to answer the phones, do some typing, that kind of thing.'

'You have someone in mind?'

She nodded. 'Cyndi.'

Myron blanched. 'Big Cyndi?'

'She could answer the phone, do some odd jobs. She's a good worker.'

'I didn't even know she could talk,' Myron said. Big Cyndi had been Esperanza's tag-team wrestling partner, fighting under the name of Big Chief Mama.

'She'll take orders. She'll do shit work. She's not ambitious.'

Myron tried not to wince at the thought. 'Isn't she still working at the strip joint as a bouncer?'

'It's not a strip joint. It's a leather bar.'

'My mistake,' Myron said.

'And she's a bartender now.'

'Cyndi's been promoted?' Myron said.

'Yes.'

'Well, I'd hate to sidetrack her burgeoning career by asking her to work here.'

'Don't be an ass,' Esperanza said. 'She works there nights.'

'What,' Myron said, 'Leather and Lust doesn't do a big lunch crowd?'

'I know Cyndi. She'll be perfect.'

'She scares people,' Myron said. 'She scares me.'

'She'll stay in the conference room. No one will see her.'

'I don't know.'

Esperanza rose smoothly. 'Fine, you find somebody. I mean, you're the boss. You know best. Me, I'm just a pissant secretary. I wouldn't dare question how you handle our clients.'

Myron shook his head. 'Low blow,' he said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands holding up his head. 'All right,' he said finally, releasing a deep breath. 'We'll give her a try.'

Myron waited. Esperanza stared back at him. After several seconds Passed, she said, 'Is this the part where I jump up and down and say thank you, thank you?'

'No, this is the part where I leave.' He checked his watch. 'I got to talk to r^i * i -up about those bloodstains before the press conference.'

'Have fun.' She headed for the door.

'Hold up,' he called out. She turned and faced him. 'Do you have class tonight?' Esperanza took night classes at NYU Law school.

'No.'

'You want to go to the game?' He cleared his throat. 'You can, uh, bring Lucy, if you'd like.'

Lucy was Esperanza's latest love. Before Lucy she had dated a man named Max. Her sexual preference seemed to vacillate. 'We broke up,' she said.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Myron said, not knowing what else to say. 'When?'

'Last week.'

'You didn't say anything.'

'Maybe because it's none of your business.'

He nodded. True enough. 'Well, you can bring a new, uh, friend, if you'd like. Or you can go yourself. We're playing the Celtics.'

'I'll pass,' she said.

'You sure?'

She nodded again, left the room. Myron grabbed his jacket and headed back to the lot. Mario tossed him his keys without looking up. He took the Lincoln Tunnel and hopped onto Route 3. He passed a huge and fairly famous appliance and electronics store called Tops. The billboard featured a giant nose jutted out over Route 3. The caption: Tops Is Right Under Your Nose. Very lifelike. The only thing missing were the giant nose hairs. He was only a mile or so from the Meadowlands when the car phone rang.

'I have some preliminaries,' Win said.

'Go ahead.'

'None of Greg Downing's accounts or credit cards have been accessed in the past five days.'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

'Any cash withdrawals from his bank?'

'Not in the past five days.'

'How about earlier? Maybe he grabbed out a lot of money before he vanished.'

'It's being worked on. I don't know yet.'

Myron took the Meadowlands exit. He considered what this all meant. So far, not much, but it wasn't really good news. The blood in the basement.

No sign of Greg. No financial activity. It wasn't really promising. 'Anything else?' Myron asked.

Win hesitated. 'I may soon have an idea where dearest Greg had that drink with fair Carla.'

'Where?'

'After the game,' Win said. 'I'll know more then.'

'Sports is folklore,' Clip Arnstein told the room full of reporters. 'What captures our imagination is not simply the winning and losing. It's the stories. The stories of perseverance. The stories of sheer will. The stories of hard work. The stories of heartbreak. The stories of miracles. The stories of triumph and tragedy. The stories of comebacks.'

Clip looked down at Myron from the podium, his eyes properly moist, his smile his most grandfatherly. Myron cringed. He fought back an intense desire to duck under the conference table and hide.

After a proper pause Clip turned back to the front. The reporters were silent. An occasional flashbulb burst forth. Clip swallowed several times as though summoning some inner resolve he'd need to continue. His throat slid up and down. He raised his moist eyes to the audience.

A little hammy, Myron thought, but all in all a fine performance.

The press conference was more crowded than Myron would've thought.

Not a free seat and many reporters standing. Must have been a slow news day. Clip took his time, regaining his seemingly lost composure. 'A little over a decade ago, I drafted an exceptional young man, a player I believed was destined for greatness. He had a great jumper, a well-honed court sense, mental tenacity, and on top of all that was a fine human being. But the gods had other plans for that young man. We all know what happened to Myron Bolitar on that fateful night in Landover, Maryland. There is no reason to dredge up the past. But as I said when I opened this press conference, sports is folklore. Today the Dragons are giving that young man a chance to weave his own legend into the lush tapestry of sports. Today the Dragons are allowing that young man to try and recapture what was so cruelly snatched away from him all those years ago.'