The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (67 page)

“No,” TC said. “I knew you’d say no.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Just a feeling. But don’t let her fool you. Thumper’s good people. She’s probably the closest thing I got to a friend.”

“What about all those guys you were hanging out with?”

TC sort of smiled. “You mean the white boys?”

“Yeah.”

“Not friends,” he said. “If tomorrow I stopped playing ball, they’d all look at me like I’m pinching a loaf on their sofa.”

“Poetically put, TC.”

“Just the truth, man. You in my position, you don’t have no friends. Facts of life. White or black, it don’t matter. People hang around me because I’m a rich superstar. They figure they can get something for free. That’s all.”

“And that’s okay with you?”

“Don’t matter if it’s okay,” TC said. “It’s the way it is. I ain’t complaining.”

“Do you get lonely?” Myron asked.

“Too many people around to get lonely.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” TC sort of jerked his head from side to side, like he was trying to loosen up his neck before a game. “Folks always talking about the price of fame, but you wanna know the real price? Forget that privacy shit. So I don’t go out to the movies as much. Big fucking deal—where I come from you can’t afford to go anyway. The real price is you ain’t a person anymore. You’re just a thing, a shiny thing like one of those Benzes out there. The poor brothers think I’m a golden ladder with goodies at every step up. The rich white boys think I’m a fancy pet. Like with OJ. Remember those guys who hung out in OJ’s trophy room?”

Myron nodded.

“Look, I ain’t complaining. Don’t get me wrong. This is a whole lot better than pumping gas or working in a coal mine or something. But I always got to remember the truth: the only thing that separates me from any nigger on the street is a game. That’s it. A knee going pop, like with what happened to you, and I’m back down there. I always remember that. Always.” He gave Myron hard eyes, letting his words hang in the crisp air. “So when some hot babe acts like I’m something special, it ain’t me she’s after. You see what I’m saying? She’s blinded by all that money and fame. Everyone is, male or female.”

“So you and I could never be friends?” Myron asked.

“Would you be asking me that if I was just some ignorant fool pumping gas?”

“Maybe.”

“Bullshit,” he said with a smile. “People bitch about my attitude, you know. They say I act like everybody owes me. Like I’m a prima donna. But they just mad because I see through them. I know the truth. They all think I’m some ignorant nigger—the owners, the coaches, whatever—so why should I respect them? Only reason they even talk to me is because I can slam the ball through the hoop. I’m just a monkey making them money. Once I stop, that’s it. I’m just another dumb slice of ghetto shit not fit to sit my black ass on their toilet.” He stopped then, as though out of breath. He looked back at the skyline. The sight seemed to rejuvenate him. “You ever meet Isiah Thomas?” he asked.

“The Detroit Piston? Yeah, once.”

“I heard him doing this interview one time, must have been when the Pistons won those championships. Some guy asked him what he’d be doing if he wasn’t a basketball player. You know what Isiah said?”

Myron shook his head.

“He said he’d be a United States senator.” TC laughed hard and high-pitched. The sound echoed in the still night. “I mean, is the brother crazy or what? Isiah really believe that shit. A United States senator—who the fuck is he kidding?” He laughed again, but the sound seemed more forced now. “Me, I know what I’d be. I’d be working in a steel mill, the midnight to ten
A.M
. shift, or maybe I’d be in jail or dead, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “United States senator. Shit.”

“What about the game?” Myron asked.

“What about it?”

“Do you love playing basketball?”

He looked amused. “You do, don’t you? You buy all that ‘for the love of the game’ bullshit.”

“You don’t?”

TC shook his head. The moon reflected off his shaved pate, giving his head an almost mystical glow. “It was never about that for me,” he said. “Basketball was just a means to an end. It’s about making money. It’s about setting me up for life.”

“Did you ever love the game?”

“Sure, I guess I must have. It was a good place to go, you know? But I don’t think it was the game—I mean, not the running and jumping and shit. Basketball was just what I was all about. Everywhere else I was just another dumb black boy, but on the basketball court, I was, well, the man. A hero. It’s an incredible high, everyone treating you like that. You know what I mean?”

Myron nodded. He knew. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s with all the tattoos and rings?”

He smiled. “They bother you?”

“Not really. I’m just curious.”

“Suppose I just like wearing them,” TC said. “That enough?”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“But you don’t believe it, do you?”

Myron shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Truth is, I do like them a little. The bigger truth is, it’s business.”

“Business?”

“Basketball business. Making money. Lots of it. You know how much money I make in endorsements? A shit load. Why? Because outrageousness sells. Look at Deon. Look at Rodman. The more crazy shit I do, the more they pay me.”

“So it’s just an act?”

“A lot of it, yeah. I like to shock, too, just my way. But mostly I do it for the press.”

“But the press is always ripping you apart,” Myron said.

“Don’t matter. They write about me, they make me more money. Simple as that.” He smiled. “Let me clue you in on something, Myron. The press is the dumbest animal on God’s green earth. You know what I’m gonna do one day?”

Myron shook his head.

“One day I’ll get rid of the rings and shit, and I’ll start dressing nice. Then I’ll start talking polite, you know, giving them all yes-sirs and yes-ma’ams and start spitting out all that team-effort bullshit they like to hear. You know what’ll happen? These same fucks that say I’m destroying the integrity of the game will be kissing my black ass like it’s the Blarney Stone. They be talking about how I went through some sort of miraculous transformation. How now I’m a hero. But only thing that’s really changed is my act.” TC gave him a big smile.

Myron said, “You’re a piece of work, TC.”

TC turned back to the water. Myron watched him in silence. He hadn’t bought all of TC’s rationalizations. There was more at work here. TC wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t exactly telling the truth either—or maybe he couldn’t admit the truth even to himself. He hurt. He truly believed no one could love him, and no matter who you are, that hurts. It made you insecure. It made you want to hide and build fences. The sad thing was, TC was at least partially right. Who’d care about him if he wasn’t playing professional basketball? If not for his ability to play a child’s game, where would he be right now? TC was like the beautiful girl who wanted you to look down deep to find the soul within—but the only reason you’d bother trying was because she was beautiful. Get rid of that physical beauty—become the ugly girl—and nobody gives a damn about scratching the surface to find the beauty within. Get rid of TC’s physical prowess and the same thing happens.

In the end, TC was not as off-the-wall as he appeared in public nor was he as put-together as he wanted Myron to think. Myron was no psychologist, but he was sure that there was more to the tattoos and body piercing than making money. They were too physically destructive for so pat an explanation. With TC, there were a lot of factors at work. Being a former basketball star himself, Myron understood some of them; being that Myron and TC came from completely different worlds, there were others he could not so readily grasp.

TC interrupted their joint solitude. “Now I got a question for you,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Why you really here?” TC asked.

“Here? As in your house—”

“On the team. Look, man, I saw you play when I was in junior high. In the NCAAs. You were great, okay? But that was a long time ago. You got to know you can’t do it anymore. You had to see that at practice today.”

Myron tried not to look stunned. Had he and TC been at the same practice? But of course they had, and of course, TC was right. Didn’t Myron remember the days when he was the team’s superstar? Didn’t he remember scrimmaging against the last five guys who would play their butt off while the starting five screwed around and played with no incentive? Didn’t he remember how disillusioned those last five became, fooling themselves into believing they were just as good as the first five when the first five were tired from real games and were just slacking off? And back then, Myron was in college. He played maybe twenty-five games a season—these guys played almost a hundred against vastly superior competition.

Good enough to play with these guys? Who had he been kidding?

“I’m just giving it a shot,” Myron said softly.

“Can’t let go, huh?”

Myron said nothing. They fell back into a brief silence.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” TC said. “I hear you’re good friends with a big hotshot at Lock-Horne Securities. That true?”

“Yes.”

“Was he that slice of white bread you talking with after the game?”

Myron nodded. “His name is Win.”

“You know Thumper works on Wall Street, right?”

“She told me,” Myron said.

“Thumper wants to change jobs. Think your friend could talk to her?”

Myron shrugged. “I could ask him.” Win would certainly appreciate her outlook on the role of sex in ancient civilizations. “Who does she work for now?”

“Small outfit. Called Kimmel Brothers. But she needs to move on, you know? They won’t make her a partner, even though she busts her butt for them.”

TC said something else but Myron was no longer listening. Kimmel Brothers. Myron remembered the name immediately. When he’d hit the redial button on the phone at Greg’s house, a woman had answered and said, “Kimmel Brothers.” Yet Thumper had just told Myron she hadn’t spoken to Greg in a month or two.

Coincidence? Myron thought not.

Chapter 16

Thumper was gone.

“She came for you,” TC said. “When it didn’t happen she split. She got work tomorrow morning.”

Myron checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Long day. Time for a little shut-eye. He made his good nights and headed for his car. Audrey was leaning against the hood, her arms folded across her chest, her ankles crossed. Pure casual.

“You going back to Jessica’s?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Mind giving me a lift?”

“Hop in.”

Audrey gave him the same smile he had seen back at practice. He had thought at the time she had been impressed with his play; now it was clearer that the amusement was more akin to ridicule than appreciation. He unlocked the doors in silence. She took off her blue blazer and laid it on the backseat; he did likewise. She wore a forest green turtleneck underneath it. She adjusted the neck part, folding it back an extra time. She took off the pearls and jammed them in the front pocket of her jeans. Myron started the car.

“I’m starting to put this thing together,” Audrey said.

Myron did not like the way she said it. Too much authority in her voice. Audrey hadn’t needed a lift home, he was sure of that. She wanted to talk to him alone. That worried him. He gave her the good-natured smile and said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with my ass, does it?”

“What?”

“Jessica told me you two were discussing my ass.”

She laughed. “Well, I hate to admit this,” she said, “but it did look pretty scrumptious.”

Myron tried not to look too pleased. “So you doing a story on it?”

“On your ass?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” she said. “I was thinking we could give it a big spread.”

Myron groaned.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” she said.

“There was a subject?”

“I was telling you how I was putting this thing together.”

“That’s a subject?”

He glanced at her. She was sitting with her left knee on the seat and her left ankle tucked under her so her entire body could face him. Audrey had a wide face and a few freckles, though he bet she had a lot more when she was a kid. Remember that tomboy who was kinda cute in your sixth grade class? Here she was all grown up. No beauty certainly. Not in the classic sense. But there was an earthy appeal to Audrey that made you want to reach out and hug her and roll in leaves on a crisp autumn day.

“It shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure out,” she continued. “It’s pretty obvious in hindsight.”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

“No,” she replied. “You’re supposed to continue to play dumb for a few more minutes.”

“My specialty.”

“Good, then just drive and listen.” Her hands were in constant gesturing motion, peaking and valleying along with her voice. “See, I was waylaid by the whole poetic irony stuff. That’s what I concentrated on. But your backgrounds as rivals is secondary in all this. It’s not nearly as important as, say, your past relationship with Emily.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t play AAU. You didn’t play in any summer league. You play in pickup games at the Y maybe once a week. Your major workout revolves around Master Kwon’s place with Win—and they don’t have a basketball court.”

“Is there a point?”

Her hands spread in disbelief. “You haven’t been honing your skills. You haven’t played anyplace where Clip or Calvin or Donny would have seen you play. So why would the Dragons sign you? It doesn’t make sense. Was the move strictly P.R.? Unlikely. The positive bump will be minimum, and if you fail—which, let’s face it, is very likely—that good publicity will probably be nullified. Ticket sales are good. The team is doing well. They don’t need a publicity stunt right now. So there has to be another reason.” She stopped and readjusted herself on the car seat. “Enter the timing.”

“The timing?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why now? Why sign you so late in the season? The answer is obvious really. There is only one thing about the timing that stands out.”

“And that is?”

“Downing’s sudden disappearance.”

“He didn’t disappear,” Myron corrected. “He’s injured. That’s your precious timing. Greg got hurt. A spot opened up. I filled it.”

Audrey smiled and shook her head. “Still want to play dumb, huh? Fine, go ahead. You’re right. Downing is supposed to be injured and in seclusion. Now I’m good, Myron, and for the life of me I can’t find this secluded spot of his. I’ve called in all my best contacts and I can’t get anything. Don’t you find that a bit odd?”

Myron shrugged.

“Maybe,” she went on, “if Downing really craved seclusion to fix his injured ankle—an injury which doesn’t show up on any game tape, by the way—he could find a way. But if all he’s doing is working on an injury, why work so hard at it?”

“So pain in the asses like you don’t bother him,” Myron said.

Audrey almost laughed at that one. “Said with such conviction, Myron. It’s almost like you believe it.”

Myron said nothing.

“But let me just add a few more points and then you can stop playing dumb.” Audrey counted them off on ringless, slightly callused fingers. “One, I know you used to work for the feds. That gives you some background in investigative work. Two, I know Downing has a habit of vanishing. He’s done it before. Three, I know Clip’s situation with the other owners. The big vote is coming up. Four, I know you visited Emily yesterday and I doubt you were there to restoke the flames.”

“How did you know about that?” Myron asked.

She just smiled and put her hand down. “Add them up and there’s only one conclusion: you are looking for Greg Downing. He’s missing again. This time however the timing is much more critical; Clip’s ownership vote and the playoffs are coming up. Your job is to find him.”

“You got a hell of an imagination, Audrey.”

“I do at that,” she agreed, “but we both know I got this right so let’s end playing dumb and cut to the heart of it: I want in.”

“Want in.” Myron shook his head. “You reporters and your lingo.”

“I don’t want to give you up,” she continued. Her knee was still up on the seat. Her face was as bright and expectant as a school kid’s waiting for the final bell in May. “I think we should team up. I can help. I got great sources. I can ask questions without worrying about blowing my cover. I know this team inside and out.”

“And what exactly do you want for this help?”

“The full story. I’m the first reporter to know where he is, why he vanished, whatever. You promise to tell only me; I get the full exclusive.”

They passed several sleazy motels and a potpourri of gas stations on Route 4. No-tell motels in New Jersey always gave themselves lofty names that belied their social station. Right now, for example, they were driving past the “Courtesy Inn.” This fine establishment not only gave you courteous attention, but they gave it to you by the hour at a rate, according to the sign, of $19.82. Not twenty dollars, mind you, but $19.82—so priced, Myron guessed, because it was also the year they last changed sheets. The
CHEAP BEER DEPOT
, according to another sign, was the next building on Myron’s right. Truth in advertising. Nice to see. The Courtesy Inn could learn a lesson from them.

“We both know I could report it now,” she said. “It’d still be a pretty good scoop—reporting that Downing wasn’t really injured and you’re just here to find him. But I’d be willing to trade it in for a larger story.”

Myron thought it over as he paid the toll. He glanced at her expectant face. She looked wild-eyed and wild-haired, kind of like the refugee women coming off the boat in Palestine in the movie
Exodus
. Ready to do battle to claim her homeland.

“You have to make me a promise,” he said.

“What?”

“No matter what—no matter how incredible the story seems—you won’t jump the gun. You won’t report any of it until he’s found.”

Audrey nearly leapt from her seat. “What do you mean? How incredible?”

“Forget it, Audrey. Report whatever you want.”

“All right, all right, you have a deal,” she said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “You had to know saying something like that would pique my interest.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. So what’s up?”

Myron shook his head. “You first,” he said. “Why would Greg vanish?”

“Who knows?” she replied. “The man is a professional flake.”

“What can you tell me about his divorce?”

“Just that it’s been acrimonious as all hell.”

“What have you heard?”

“They’ve been battling over the kids. They’re both trying to prove the other is an unfit parent.”

“Any details on how they’re going about that?”

“No. It’s been kept pretty hush-hush.”

“Emily told me Greg had pulled some sleazy tricks,” Myron said. “Do you know anything about that?”

Audrey chewed on her bottom lip for a few moments. “I heard a rumor—a very unsubstantiated rumor—that Greg hired a private eye to follow her.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“To film her maybe? Catch her with another man?”

She shrugged. “It’s just a rumor. I don’t know.”

“You know the P.I.’s name, or who he works for?”

“Rumor, Myron. Rumor. A pro basketball player’s divorce is hardly earth-shattering sports news. I didn’t follow it that closely.”

Myron made a mental note to check Greg’s files for any payment to an investigation firm. “How was Greg’s relationship with Marty Felder?”

“His agent? Good, I guess.”

“Emily told me Felder had lost Greg millions.”

She shrugged. “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

The Washington bridge was fairly clear. They stayed to the right and took the Henry Hudson Parkway south. On their right, the Hudson River sparkled like a blanket of black sequins; on their left was a billboard with Tom Brokaw displaying his friendly yet firm smile. The caption under his picture read: “NBC News—Now More Than Ever.” Very dramatic. What the hell did it mean?

“How about Greg’s personal life?” Myron continued. “Girlfriends, that kind of thing?”

“You mean a steady?”

“Yes.”

She ran her fingers through the thick, curling locks, then rubbed the back of her own neck. “There was this one girl. He kept it kind of secret, but I think they were living together for a while.”

“What’s her name?”

“He never told me. I saw them together at a restaurant once. A place called the Saddle River Inn. He didn’t look happy to see me.”

“What did she look like?”

“Nothing special from what I remember. She was a brunette. She was sitting so I couldn’t tell you height or weight.”

“Age?”

“I don’t know. Thirty-ish, I guess.”

“What makes you think they were living together?”

It seemed like an easy question, but she stopped and raised her eyes. “Leon let something slip once,” she said.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t remember anymore. Something about the girlfriend. Then he clammed up.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three, four months ago. Maybe more.”

“Leon implied that he and Greg weren’t really that close, that the media made a bigger deal out of it than it was.”

Audrey nodded. “There is a tension there now, but I think it’s just temporary.”

“Why would there be a tension?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long have you noticed the tension?”

“Not long. Within the last two weeks maybe.”

“Anything happen recently between Greg and Leon that you’re aware of?”

“Nope. They’ve been friends for a long time. Friends have disagreements. I didn’t take it too seriously.”

Myron let loose a deep breath. Friends did indeed have disagreements, but the timing was curious. “Do you know Maggie Mason?”

“Thumper? Of course.”

“Were she and Greg close?”

“If you mean did they screw—”

“No, I don’t mean that.”

“Well, they screwed. That I’m sure of. Despite what Thumper claims, not every guy on the team has gotten thumped. Some have turned her down. Not many, I admit. But some. She hit on you yet?”

“Just a few short hours ago.”

She smiled. “I assume you joined the few, the proud, the Unthumped?”

“You assume correctly. But what about her relationship with Greg? Are they close?”

“They’re pretty close, I’d say. But Thumper is closest to TC. Those two are very tight. It’s not purely sexual either. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure TC and Maggie have had sex and probably still do on occasion. But they’re like brother and sister too. It’s weird.”

“How do TC and Greg get along?” Myron asked.

“Not bad for team superstars. Not great either.”

“Care to elaborate?”

She paused, gathered her thoughts. “For five years now, TC and Downing have shared the spotlight. I guess there is a mutual respect for each other on the court, but they don’t talk off it. At least, not very much. I’m not saying they dislike each other, but playing basketball is a job like any other. You might be able to stand one another at work, but you don’t want to see the person socially.” She looked up. “Take the Seventy-ninth Street exit.”