Darkest Fear
Page 33
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“Did you see what I wore in Sports Illustrated? I might as well have been naked.”
“That isn’t the same thing either.”
“This is Rack, Myron, not some sleazoid place like Buddy’s. It’s upscale topless.”
“Saying ‘upscale topless’ is like saying ‘good toupee,’ ” Myron said.
“Huh?”
“It might be good,” he said, “but it’s still a toupee.”
She cocked her head. “Myron, I’m twenty-four years old.”
“I know that.”
“That’s like 107 in women-tennis years. I’m ranked thirty-one in the world right now. I haven’t made two hundred grand over the past two years on tour. This is a big score, Myron. And man, will it change my image.”
“Exactly my point.”
“No, listen up, tennis is looking for draws. I’ll be controversial. I’ll get tons of attention. I’ll suddenly be a big name. Admit it, my appearance fees will quadruple.”
Appearance fees are the money paid to the big names just to show up, win or lose. Most name players make far more in appearance fees than prize money. It’s where the potential major dinero is, especially for a player ranked thirty-first.
“Probably,” Myron said.
She stopped and grabbed his arm. “I love playing tennis.”
“I know that,” he said softly.
“Doing this will extend my career. That means a lot to me, okay?”
Christ, she looked so young.
“All of what you’re saying may be true,” Myron said. “But at the end of the day, you’re still appearing at a topless bar. And once it’s done, it’s done. You will always be remembered as the tennis player who appeared topless.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yes. But I didn’t become an agent to get in the stripping business. I’ll do what you want. You’re my client. I want what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t think this is best for me?”
“I have trouble advising a young woman to appear topless.”
“Even if it makes sense?”
“Even if it makes sense.”
She smiled at him. “You know something, Myron? You’re cute when you’re being a prude.”
“Yeah, adorable.”
“Tell them yes.”
“Think about it for a few days, okay?”
“It’s a no-brainer, Myron. Just do what you do best.”
“What’s that?”
“Get the number up. And tell them yes.”
18
Cross River Condos was one of those complexes that looked like a movie façade, like whole buildings might topple over if you pushed against any one wall. The development was sprawlingly cramped, with every building looking exactly the same. Walking through it was like something out of Alice in Wonderland, all avenues mirroring the others, until you got dizzy. Have too much drink and you’re bound to stick your key in the wrong lock.
Myron parked near the complex pool. The place was nice but too close to Route 80, the major artery that ran from, well, here in New Jersey to California. The traffic sounds sloshed over the fence. Myron located the door to 24 Acre Drive and then tried to figure out which windows belonged to it. If he had it right, the lights were on. So was the television. He knocked on the door. Myron saw a face peer through the window next to the door. The face did not speak.
“Mr. Gibbs?”
Through the glass, the face said, “Who are you?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
A brief pause. “The basketball player?”
“At one time, yes.”
The face looked through the window for a few more seconds before opening the door. The odor of too many cigarettes wafted through the opening and happily nested inside Myron’s nostrils. Not surprisingly, Stan Gibbs had a cigarette in his mouth. He had a gray stubble-to-beard going, too far gone for retro Miami Vice. He wore a yellow Bart Simpson sweatshirt, dark green sweatpants, socks, sneakers, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap—the standard fashion fare shared with equal fervor by joggers and couch potatoes. Myron suspected the latter here.
“How did you find me?” Stan Gibbs asked.
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Myron shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stan said. “I have no comment.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“So what are you?”
“A sports agent.”
Stan took a puff of the cigarette, didn’t remove it from his mouth. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t played competitive football since high school.”
“May I come in?”
“No, I don’t think so. What do you want?”
“I need to find the kidnapper you wrote about in your article,” Myron said.
Stan smiled with very white teeth, especially when you considered the smoking. His skin was sort of clumpy and winter-colorless, his hair thin and tired, but he had those bright eyes, superbright eyes, the kind that look like supernatural beacons are shining out from within. “Don’t you read the papers?” he asked. “I made the whole thing up.”
“Made it up or copied it from a book?”
“I stand corrected.”
“Or maybe you were telling the truth. In fact, maybe the subject of your articles called me on the phone last night.”
Stan shook his head, the growing ash on the cigarette holding on like a kid on an amusement park ride. “This is not something I want to revisit.”
“Did you plagiarize the story?”
“I already said I wouldn’t comment—”
“This isn’t for public consumption. If you did—if the story was a fake—just tell me now and I’ll go away. I don’t have time to waste on false leads.”
“Nothing personal,” Stan said, “but you’re not making a whole lot of sense here.”
“Does the name Davis Taylor mean anything to you?”
“No comment.”
“How about Dennis Lex?”
That threw him. The dangling cigarette started to slip from Stan’s lips, but he caught it with his right hand. He dropped it on the walkway and watched it sizzle for a moment.
“Maybe you better come in.”
The condo was a duplex centered with that staple of new American contruction, the cathedral ceiling. Plenty of light came in from the big windows, splashing down on a decor straight out of a Sunday circular. A blond-wood entertainment center took up one wall, a matching coffee table not far from it. There was also a white-and-blue-striped couch—Myron would bet his lunch money it was a Serta Sleeper—and matching love seat. The carpeting was the same neutral as the exterior, a sort of inoffensive tan, and the place was clean yet disorderly in a divorcé way, newspapers and magazines and books piled here and there, nothing really put in a specific place.
“Did you see what I wore in Sports Illustrated? I might as well have been naked.”
“That isn’t the same thing either.”
“This is Rack, Myron, not some sleazoid place like Buddy’s. It’s upscale topless.”
“Saying ‘upscale topless’ is like saying ‘good toupee,’ ” Myron said.
“Huh?”
“It might be good,” he said, “but it’s still a toupee.”
She cocked her head. “Myron, I’m twenty-four years old.”
“I know that.”
“That’s like 107 in women-tennis years. I’m ranked thirty-one in the world right now. I haven’t made two hundred grand over the past two years on tour. This is a big score, Myron. And man, will it change my image.”
“Exactly my point.”
“No, listen up, tennis is looking for draws. I’ll be controversial. I’ll get tons of attention. I’ll suddenly be a big name. Admit it, my appearance fees will quadruple.”
Appearance fees are the money paid to the big names just to show up, win or lose. Most name players make far more in appearance fees than prize money. It’s where the potential major dinero is, especially for a player ranked thirty-first.
“Probably,” Myron said.
She stopped and grabbed his arm. “I love playing tennis.”
“I know that,” he said softly.
“Doing this will extend my career. That means a lot to me, okay?”
Christ, she looked so young.
“All of what you’re saying may be true,” Myron said. “But at the end of the day, you’re still appearing at a topless bar. And once it’s done, it’s done. You will always be remembered as the tennis player who appeared topless.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yes. But I didn’t become an agent to get in the stripping business. I’ll do what you want. You’re my client. I want what’s best for you.”
“But you don’t think this is best for me?”
“I have trouble advising a young woman to appear topless.”
“Even if it makes sense?”
“Even if it makes sense.”
She smiled at him. “You know something, Myron? You’re cute when you’re being a prude.”
“Yeah, adorable.”
“Tell them yes.”
“Think about it for a few days, okay?”
“It’s a no-brainer, Myron. Just do what you do best.”
“What’s that?”
“Get the number up. And tell them yes.”
18
Cross River Condos was one of those complexes that looked like a movie façade, like whole buildings might topple over if you pushed against any one wall. The development was sprawlingly cramped, with every building looking exactly the same. Walking through it was like something out of Alice in Wonderland, all avenues mirroring the others, until you got dizzy. Have too much drink and you’re bound to stick your key in the wrong lock.
Myron parked near the complex pool. The place was nice but too close to Route 80, the major artery that ran from, well, here in New Jersey to California. The traffic sounds sloshed over the fence. Myron located the door to 24 Acre Drive and then tried to figure out which windows belonged to it. If he had it right, the lights were on. So was the television. He knocked on the door. Myron saw a face peer through the window next to the door. The face did not speak.
“Mr. Gibbs?”
Through the glass, the face said, “Who are you?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
A brief pause. “The basketball player?”
“At one time, yes.”
The face looked through the window for a few more seconds before opening the door. The odor of too many cigarettes wafted through the opening and happily nested inside Myron’s nostrils. Not surprisingly, Stan Gibbs had a cigarette in his mouth. He had a gray stubble-to-beard going, too far gone for retro Miami Vice. He wore a yellow Bart Simpson sweatshirt, dark green sweatpants, socks, sneakers, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap—the standard fashion fare shared with equal fervor by joggers and couch potatoes. Myron suspected the latter here.
“How did you find me?” Stan Gibbs asked.
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Myron shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stan said. “I have no comment.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“So what are you?”
“A sports agent.”
Stan took a puff of the cigarette, didn’t remove it from his mouth. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t played competitive football since high school.”
“May I come in?”
“No, I don’t think so. What do you want?”
“I need to find the kidnapper you wrote about in your article,” Myron said.
Stan smiled with very white teeth, especially when you considered the smoking. His skin was sort of clumpy and winter-colorless, his hair thin and tired, but he had those bright eyes, superbright eyes, the kind that look like supernatural beacons are shining out from within. “Don’t you read the papers?” he asked. “I made the whole thing up.”
“Made it up or copied it from a book?”
“I stand corrected.”
“Or maybe you were telling the truth. In fact, maybe the subject of your articles called me on the phone last night.”
Stan shook his head, the growing ash on the cigarette holding on like a kid on an amusement park ride. “This is not something I want to revisit.”
“Did you plagiarize the story?”
“I already said I wouldn’t comment—”
“This isn’t for public consumption. If you did—if the story was a fake—just tell me now and I’ll go away. I don’t have time to waste on false leads.”
“Nothing personal,” Stan said, “but you’re not making a whole lot of sense here.”
“Does the name Davis Taylor mean anything to you?”
“No comment.”
“How about Dennis Lex?”
That threw him. The dangling cigarette started to slip from Stan’s lips, but he caught it with his right hand. He dropped it on the walkway and watched it sizzle for a moment.
“Maybe you better come in.”
The condo was a duplex centered with that staple of new American contruction, the cathedral ceiling. Plenty of light came in from the big windows, splashing down on a decor straight out of a Sunday circular. A blond-wood entertainment center took up one wall, a matching coffee table not far from it. There was also a white-and-blue-striped couch—Myron would bet his lunch money it was a Serta Sleeper—and matching love seat. The carpeting was the same neutral as the exterior, a sort of inoffensive tan, and the place was clean yet disorderly in a divorcé way, newspapers and magazines and books piled here and there, nothing really put in a specific place.
