The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (100 page)

“So there’d be no insurance,” Myron said.

“Right. And assuming everything was held jointly between Rennart and his wife, then there would be no need for her to press it.”

Myron nodded. It made sense. Still it was yet another nagging hangnail that needed to be clipped. “You want something to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I’ll be right back.” Myron grabbed a Yoo-Hoo. Win had made sure the Lock-Horne tent stocked them. What a pal. A television monitor in the upper corner had a scoreboard. Jack had just finished the fifteenth hole. Both he and Crispin had parred it. Barring a sudden collapse, Jack was going to take a huge lead into tomorrow’s final round.

When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s about my graduating law school.”

“Okay,” Myron said, dragging out the word.

“You’ve been avoiding the subject,” she said.

“What are you talking about? I’m the one who wants to go to your graduation, remember?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Her fingers found and began to fiddle with a straw wrapper. “I’m talking about what happens
after
I
graduate. I’m going to be a full-fledged attorney soon. My role in the company should change.”

Myron nodded. “Agreed.”

“For one thing, I’d like an office.”

“We don’t have the space.”

“The conference room is too large,” she countered. “You can slice a little out of there and a little out of the waiting room. It won’t be a huge office, but it’ll be good enough.”

Myron nodded slowly. “We can look into that.”

“It’s important to me, Myron.”

“Okay, it sounds possible.”

“Second, I don’t want a raise.”

“Don’t?”

“That’s right.”

“Odd negotiating technique, Esperanza, but you convinced me. Much as I might like to give you a raise, you will not receive one penny more. I surrender.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Joking around when I’m serious. You don’t like change, Myron. I know that. It’s why you lived with your parents until a few months ago. It’s why you still keep Jessica around when you should have forgotten about her years ago.”

“Do me a favor,” he said wearily. “Spare me the amateur analysis, okay?”

“Just stating the facts. You don’t like change.”

“Who does? And I love Jessica. You know that.”

“Fine, you love her,” Esperanza said dismissively. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Good. Are we done?”

“No.” Esperanza stopped playing with the straw wrapper. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “This isn’t easy for me to talk about,” she said.

“Do you want to do it another time?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t want to do it another time. I want you to listen to me. Really listen.”

Myron stayed silent, leaned forward a little.

“The reason I don’t want a raise is because I don’t want to work for someone. My father worked his whole life doing menial jobs for a variety of assholes. My mother spent hers cleaning other people’s houses.” Esperanza stopped, swallowed, took a breath. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to spend my life working for anyone.”

“Including me?”

“I said
anyone
, didn’t I?” She shook her head. “Jesus, you just don’t listen sometimes.”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it. “Then I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“I want to be a part owner,” she said.

He made a face. “Of MB SportsReps?”

“No, of AT&T. Of course MB.”

“But the name is MB,” Myron said. “The M is for Myron. B for Bolitar. Your name is Esperanza Diaz. I can’t make it MBED. What kind of name is that?”

She just looked at him. “You’re doing it again. I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“Now? You pick now when I just got hit over the head with a tire iron—”

“Shoulder.”

“Whatever. Look, you know how much you mean to me—”

“This isn’t about our friendship,” she interrupted. “I don’t care what I mean to you right now. I care about what I mean to MB SportsReps.”

“You mean a lot to MB. A hell of a lot.” He stopped.

“But?”

“But nothing. You just caught me a little off balance, that’s all. I was just jumped by a group of neo-Nazis. That does funny things to the psyche of people of my persuasion. I’m also trying to solve a possible kidnapping. I know things have to change. I planned on giving you more to do, letting you handle more negotiations, hiring someone new. But a partnership … that’s a different kettle of gefilte.”

Her voice was unyielding. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I’d like to think about it, okay? How do you plan on
becoming a partner? What percentage do you want? Do you want to buy in or work your way in or what? These are things we’ll have to go over, and I don’t think now is the time.”

“Fine.” She stood up. “I’m going to hang around the players’ lounge. See if I can strike up a conversation with one of the wives.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll see you later.” She turned to leave.

Esperanza? She looked at him.

“You’re not mad, right?”

“Not mad,” she repeated.

“We’ll work something out,” he said.

She nodded. “Right.”

“Don’t forget. We’re meeting with Tad Crispin an hour after they finish. By the pro shop.”

“You want me there?”

“Yes.”

She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she left.

Myron leaned back and watched her go. Great. Just what he needed. His best friend in the world as a business partner. It never worked. Money screwed up relationships; it was simply one of life’s givens. His father and his uncle—two closer brothers you never saw—had tried it. The outcome had been disastrous. Dad finally bought Uncle Morris out, but the two men didn’t speak to each other for four years. Myron and Win had labored painstakingly to keep their businesses separate while maintaining the same interests and goals. It worked because there was no cross-interference or money to divide up. With Esperanza things had been great, but that was because the relationship had always been boss and employee. Their roles were well defined. But at the same time, he understood. Esperanza deserved this chance. She had earned it. She was more than an important employee to MB. She was a part of it.

So what to do?

He sat back and chugged the Yoo-Hoo, waiting for an idea. Fortunately, his thoughts were waylaid when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hello.”

Myron turned around. It was Linda Coldren. Her head was wrapped in a semi-babushka and she wore dark sunglasses. Greta Garbo circa 1984. She opened her purse. “I forwarded the home phone here,” she whispered, pointing to a cellular phone in the purse. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Please do,” Myron said.

She sat facing him. The sunglasses were big, but Myron could still see a hint of redness around the rims of her eyes. Her nose, too, looked like it had been rubbed raw by a Kleenex overdose. “Anything new?” she asked.

He told her about the Crusty Nazis jumping him. Linda asked several follow-up questions. Again the internal paradox tore at her: She wanted her son to be safe, yet she did not want it all to be a hoax. Myron finished by saying, “I still think we should get in touch with the feds. I can do it quietly.”

She shook her head. “Too risky.”

“So is going on like this.”

Linda Coldren shook her head again and leaned back. For several moments they sat in silence. Her gaze was cast somewhere
over his shoulder. Then she said, “When Chad was born, I took off nearly two years. Did you know that?”

“No,” Myron said.

“Women’s golf,” she muttered. “I was at the height of my game, the top female golfer in the world, and yet you never read about it.”

“I don’t follow golf much,” Myron said.

“Yeah, right,” she snorted. “If Jack Nicklaus took two years off, you would have heard about it.”

Myron nodded. She had a point. “Was it tough coming back?” he asked.

“You mean in terms of playing or leaving my son?”

“Both.”

She took a breath and considered the question. “I missed playing,” she said. “You have no idea how much. I regained the number one spot in a couple of months. As for Chad, well, he was still an infant. I hired a nanny to travel with us.”

“How long did that last?”

“Until Chad was three. That’s when I realized that I couldn’t drag him around anymore. It wasn’t fair to him. A child needs some sort of stability. So I had to make a choice.”

They fell into silence.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m not into the self-pity thing and I’m glad women are given choices. But what they don’t tell you is that when you have choices, you have guilt.”

“What kind of guilt?”

“A mother’s guilt, the worst kind there is. The pangs are constant and ceaseless. They haunt your sleep. They point accusatory fingers. Every joyous swing of the golf club made me feel like I was forsaking my own child. I flew home as often as I could. I missed some tournaments that I really wanted to play in. I tried damn hard to balance career and motherhood. And every step of the way, I felt like a selfish louse.” She looked at him. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“But you don’t really sympathize,” she added.

“Of course I do.”

Linda Coldren gave him a skeptical glance. “If I had been a stay-at-home mother, would you have been so quick to suspect that Chad was behind this? Didn’t the fact that I was an absent mother sway your thinking?”

“Not an absent mother,” Myron corrected. “Absent parents.”

“Same thing.”

“No. You were making more money. You were by far the more successful parent business-wise. If anyone should have stayed home, it was Jack.”

She smiled. “Aren’t we politically correct?”

“Nope. Just practical.”

“But it’s not that simple, Myron. Jack loves his son. And during the years he didn’t qualify for the tour, he did stay home with him. But let’s face facts: Like it or not, it’s the mother who bears that burden.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Nor does it let me off the hook. Like I said, I made my choices. If I had to do it all over again, I still would have toured.”

“And you still would have felt guilty.”

She nodded. “With choice comes guilt. No escaping it.”

Myron took a sip of his Yoo-Hoo. “You said that Jack stayed home some of the time.”

“Yes,” she said. “When he failed Q school.”

“Q school?”

“Qualifying school,” she said. “Every year the top 125 moneymakers get their PGA Tour card automatically. A couple of other players get sponsor exemptions. The rest are forced to go to Q school. Qualifying school. If you don’t do well there, you don’t play for the year.”

“One tournament decides all that?”

She tilted the glass at him as though making a toast. “That’s right.”

Talk about pressure. “So when Jack failed Q school, he’d stay home for the year?”

She nodded.

“How did Jack and Chad get along?”

“Chad used to worship his father,” Linda said.

“And now?”

She looked off, her face vaguely pained. “Now Chad is old enough to wonder why his father keeps losing. I don’t know what he thinks anymore. But Jack is a good man. He tries very hard. You have to understand what happened to him. Losing the Open that way—it might sound overly melodramatic, but it killed something inside him. Not even having a son could make him whole.”

“It shouldn’t matter so much,” Myron said, hearing the echo of Win in his words. “It was just one tournament.”

“You were involved in a lot of big games,” she said. “Ever choke away a victory like Jack did?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

Two gray-haired men sporting matching green ascots made their way down the buffet table. They leaned over each food selection and frowned like it had ants. Their plates were still piled high enough to cause the occasional avalanche.

“There’s something else,” Linda said.

Myron waited.

She adjusted the sunglasses and put her hands on the table palms down. “Jack and I are not close. We haven’t been close in many years.”

When she didn’t continue, Myron said, “But you’ve stayed married.”

“Yes.”

He wanted to ask why, but the question was so obvious, just hanging out there within easy view, that to voice it would be redundant.

“I am a constant reminder of his failures,” she continued. “It’s not easy for a man to live with that. We’re supposed to be life partners, but I have what Jack longs for most.” Linda tilted her head. “It’s funny.”

“What?”

“I never allow mediocrity on the golf course. Yet I allowed it to dominate my personal life. Don’t you find that odd?”

Myron made a noncommittal motion with his head. He could
feel Linda’s unhappiness radiating off her like a breaking fever. She looked up now and smiled at him. The smile was intoxicating, nearly breaking his heart. He found himself wanting to lean over and hold Linda Coldren. He felt this almost uncontrollable urge to press her against him and feel the sheen of her hair in his face. He tried to remember the last time he had held such a thought for any woman but Jessica; no answer came to him.

“Tell me about you,” Linda suddenly said.

The change of subject caught him off guard. He sort of shook his head. “Boring stuff.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, almost playfully. “Come on now. It’ll distract me.”

Myron shook his head again.

“I know you almost played pro basketball. I know you hurt your knee. I know you went to law school at Harvard. And I know you tried to make a comeback a few months ago. Want to fill in the blanks?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“No, I don’t think so, Myron. Aunt Cissy didn’t say that you could help us because you were good at basketball.”

“I worked a bit for the government.”

“With Win?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

Again he shook his head.

“Top secret, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“And you date Jessica Culver?”