The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (66 page)

Chapter 15

TC lived in a turn-of-the-century red brick mansion encircled by a six-foot, matching brick fence on one of the better streets of Englewood, New Jersey. Eddie Murphy lived down the block. So did three Forbes 500 CEOs and several major Japanese bankers. There was a security post by the driveway entrance. Myron gave the security guard his name. The guard checked his clipboard.

“Please park along the drive. The party is out back.” He raised the yellow-and-black striped gate and waved him through. Myron parked next to a black BMW. There were maybe a dozen other cars, all glistening from fresh washes and waxes or perhaps they were all new. Mostly Mercedes Benzes. A few BMWs. A Bentley. A Jag. A Rolls. Myron’s Taurus stood out like a zit in a Revlon commercial.

The front lawn was immaculately manicured. Perfectly pruned shrubs guarded and clung to the brick facade. In stark contrast to this majestic setting was the rap music blaring from the speakers. Awful. The shrubs looked pained by the sound. Myron didn’t necessarily hate all rap. He knew there was worse music out there—John Tesh and Yanni proved it every day. Some rap songs Myron found engaging and even profound. He also recognized that rap music had not been written for him; he didn’t get it all, but he suspected that he wasn’t supposed to.

The party was held in the well-lit pool area. The crowd of about thirty mingled about in a fairly subdued fashion. Myron was wearing a blue blazer, a button-down pinstripe shirt, a flower tie, J. Murphy casual loafers. Bolitar the Prep. Win would be so proud. But Myron felt frighteningly underdressed next to his teammates. At the risk of sounding racist, the black guys on the team—there were only two other white players on the Dragons right now—knew how to dress with style. Not Myron’s style (or lack thereof), but definitely with style. The group looked like they were readying themselves for a Milan runway walk. Perfectly tailored suits. Silk shirts buttoned to the neck. No ties. Shoes polished like twin mirrors.

TC reclined in a lounge chair by the shallow end of the pool. He was surrounded by a bunch of white guys who looked like college students. They were laughing at his every word. Myron also spotted Audrey in her customary reporter’s garb. She had added pearls for the occasion. Really dressing up. He barely had a chance to step toward them when a woman in her late thirties/maybe forty approached him. “Hello,” the woman said.

“Hi.” The Wordsmith Strikes Again.

“You must be Myron Bolitar. My name is Maggie Mason.”

“Hi, Maggie.” They shook hands. Firm grip, nice smile.

She was dressed conservatively in a white blouse, charcoal-gray blazer, red skirt, and black pumps. Her hair was down and slightly mussed, as if she’d just released her bun. She was slim and attractive and would have been the perfect choice to play the opposing attorney on
L.A. Law
.

She smiled at him. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“They call me Thumper.”

Myron waited. When she didn’t add anything, he said, “Uh huh.”

“Didn’t TC tell you about this?”

“He mentioned something about getting thump …” He stopped midword. She just smiled at him and spread her arms. After some time had passed, he said, “I don’t get it.”

“Nothing to get,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have sex with all the guys on the team. You’re new to the team. It’s your turn.”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “You don’t look like a groupie.”

“Groupie.” She shook her head. “God, I hate that word.”

Myron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me see if I’m getting this.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’ve slept with every guy on the Dragons?”

“Yes.”

“Even the married ones?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Anyone who has been on the team since 1993. That’s when I started with the Dragons. I started with the Giants in 1991.”

“Wait a second. You’re a groupie for the Giants too? The football Giants?”

“I told you. I don’t like the term groupie.”

“What word would you be more comfortable with?”

She tilted her head a little and kept the smile. “Look, Myron, I’m an investment banker on Wall Street. I work very hard. I like taking cooking classes and I’m a step-aerobics nut. All in all I am pretty normal by this world’s standards. I don’t hurt anybody. I don’t want to get married or have a relationship. But I have this one little fetish.”

“You have sex with professional athletes.”

She held up her index finger. “Only with the guys on the Giants and Dragons.”

“Nice to see team loyalty,” Myron said, “in this era of free agency.”

Thumper laughed. “That’s pretty funny.”

“Are you telling me you’ve slept with every player on the Giants?”

“Just about. I have tickets on the fifty-yard line. After every game, I have sex with two players—one from the defense, and one from the offense.”

“Sort of like the game MVPs?”

“Exactly.”

Myron shrugged. “Beats getting the game ball, I guess.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “It definitely beats getting a game ball.”

Myron rubbed his eyes.
Ground control to Major Tom.
He studied her for a moment. She seemed to be doing the same thing to him. “So how did you get the nickname Thumper?” he asked.

“It’s not what you think.”

“What’s not what I think?”

“How I got the nickname. Everyone assumes it has something to do with screwing like a rabbit.”

“And it doesn’t?”

“No, it doesn’t.” She looked up in the air. “How do I explain this delicately?”

“You’re worried about delicacy?”

She gave him a mildly disapproving look. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like some right-wing, narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan–type Neanderthal. I have feelings.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“No, but you’re acting like it. I don’t hurt anyone. I’m honest. I’m forward. I’m direct. I control what I do and to whom. And I’m happy.”

“Not to mention disease-ridden,” he heard himself say and immediately regretted it. The words had just slipped out; that happened to him sometimes.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”

But he had hit a nerve. “The men I have sex with always wear condoms,” she snapped. “I get tested frequently. I’m clean.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She didn’t stop. “And I don’t sleep with anyone I think might be infected with something. I’m careful that way.”

Myron bit his lip this time. No point. “My mistake,” he said. “I didn’t mean it; I’m sorry. Please accept my apology.”

Her chest heaved, but she was calm now. “Okay,” she said with an exhale. “Apology accepted.”

Her eyes met his again. They smiled at each other for far too long. Myron felt like a game-show contestant. A thought thankfully interrupted the semitrance. “Did you sleep with Greg Downing?” he asked.

“In 1993,” she said. “He was one of the first Dragons.”

How that must swell his bosom with pride. “You still see him?”

“Sure. We’re good friends. I’m friends with most of the guys afterwards. Not all, but most.”

“Do you two talk a lot?”

“Sometimes.”

“Recently?”

“Not the past month or two.”

“Do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

Thumper gave him a curious look. “Why would you want to know about that?”

Myron shrugged. “Just making conversation.” The Return of Mr. Lame.

“It’s an odd topic,” she said.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about him a lot. All this talk about my being on Greg’s team and our history together. It just got me thinking.”

“It got you thinking about Greg’s love life?” She wasn’t buying it.

Myron sort of shrugged and mumbled something even he didn’t understand. A laugh broke out from the other side of the pool. A group of his new teammates were enjoying a joke. Leon White was one of them. He met Myron’s eye and nodded a hello. Myron nodded back. Myron realized that while no one seemed to be staring at them, all of his teammates had to know why Thumper had approached him. Again he felt like he was back in college, but this time the feeling didn’t bring on the same happy nostalgia.

Thumper was busy studying him again, her eyes narrowed and focused. Myron tried to look neutral, but he felt like a doofus. Being so openly inspected did that to him. He tried to meet her gaze.

Thumper suddenly smiled widely and folded her arms. “I get it now,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s obvious.”

“What’s obvious?”

“You want revenge,” she said.

“Revenge for what?”

The smile grew a bit, then relaxed. “Greg stole Emily from you. Now you want to steal someone back.”

“He didn’t steal her from me,” Myron said quickly. He heard the defensive tone in his voice and didn’t like it. “Emily and I broke up before they started dating.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.” Mr. Snappy Retort.

She let loose a throaty laugh and put a hand on his arm. “Relax, Myron. I’m only teasing you.” She looked at him again. All of this eye contact was beginning to give Myron a headache. He stared at her nose instead. “So are we going to do this?” she asked.

“No,” Myron said.

“If it’s the fear of disease—”

“It’s not. I’m involved with someone.”

“So?”

“So I don’t cheat on her.”

“Who wants you to cheat? I just want to have sex with you.”

“And you think those two things are mutually exclusive?”

“Of course they are,” Thumper said. “Our having sex should have absolutely no effect on your relationship. I don’t want you to stop caring about your girlfriend. I don’t want to be a part of your life. I don’t even want to be intimate.”

“Gee, you make it sound so romantic,” Myron said.

“But that’s just the point. It’s not romantic. It’s just a physical act. Sure, it feels great, but in the end it’s just a physical act. Like shaking hands.”

“Shaking hands,” Myron repeated. “You should write greeting cards.”

“I’m just telling you how it is. Past civilizations—ones far more intellectually advanced than us—understood that pleasure of the flesh was no sin. Associating sex with guilt is a modern, absurd hang-up. This whole concept of tying sex to possession is something we got from uptight Puritans who wanted to maintain control over their major possession: their wife.”

A history scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see.

“Where is it written,” she continued, “that two people can’t reach heights of physical ecstasy without being in love? I mean, think about how ridiculous that is. It’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Myron said. “But I’ll still pass, thank you.”

She shrugged a suit-yourself. “TC will be very disappointed.”

“He’ll get over it,” he said.

Silence.

“Well,” she said, clasping her hands together, “I think I’ll mingle. It was nice chatting with you, Myron.”

“A true experience,” Myron agreed.

Myron mingled a bit too. He hooked up with Leon for a while. Leon introduced him to his wife, a blond sexpot named Fiona. Very Playmate-like. She had a breathy voice and was one of those women who made even the most casual conversation one long double entendre—so accustomed to using her physical charms that she did not know when to turn them off. Myron chatted with them both briefly and excused himself.

The bartender informed him that they were not stocking any Yoo-Hoo. He took an Orangina instead. Not just orange soda, but Orangina. How European. He took a sip. Pretty good.

A hand slapped Myron’s back. It was TC. He had foregone the
GQ
-suit look, opting for white leather pants and a white leather vest. No shirt. He wore dark sunglasses.

“Having a good time?” he asked.

“It’s been interesting,” Myron said.

“Come on. I’ll show you something.”

They walked in silence up a grassy hill away from the party. The incline grew steadily steeper, the music fainter. The rap had been replaced with an alternative group called the Cranberries. Myron liked their music. “Zombie” was on right now. Dolores O’Riordan was repeatedly singing, “In your head, in your head,” until she got tired and moved to repeating the word, “Zombie, zombie” several hundred times. Okay, the Cranberries could work on their chorus lyrics, but the song still worked. Good stuff.

There were no lights now, but a glow from the ones by the pool provided enough illumination. When they reached the plateau, TC motioned in front of them. “There.”

Myron looked out, and the sight nearly took his breath away. They were up high enough to get an unimpeded, spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. The sea of lights seemed to shimmer like beads of water. The George Washington Bridge looked close enough to touch. They both stood in silence for several moments.

“Nice, huh?” TC said.

“Very.”

He took off his sunglasses. “I come up here a lot. By myself. It’s a good place to think.”

“I would think so.”

They looked off again.

“Thumper talk to you yet?” Myron asked.

TC nodded.

“Were you disappointed?”