Deal Breaker
Page 4
But not Roy O’Connor. Roy O’Connor was using muscle. Myron was surprised.
“I want you out of town for a little while,” Myron continued. “You got someplace to lay low?”
“Yeah, I’ll crash with a friend in Washington. But what we going to do?”
“I’ll take care of it. Just stay out of sight.”
“Okay, yeah, I hear ya.” Then: “Oh, Myron, one other thing.”
“What?”
“One of the dudes who held me down said he knew you. A monster, man. I mean, huge. Slick-looking motherfucker.”
“Did he say his name?”
“Aaron. He said to tell you Aaron said hi.”
Myron’s shoulders slumped. Aaron. A name from his past. Not a good name either. Roy O’Connor not only had muscle behind him—he had serious muscle.
Three hours after leaving his office, Myron shook off all thoughts about the garage incident and knocked on Christian’s door. Despite the fact that he’d graduated two months earlier, Christian still lived in the same campus dorm he had occupied throughout his senior year, working as a counselor at Reston U’s football summer camp. The Titans minicamp, however, started in two days, and Christian would be there. Myron had no intention of having Christian hold out.
Christian opened the door immediately. Before Myron had a chance to explain his tardiness, Christian said, “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
“Uh, sure. No problem.”
Christian’s face was completely devoid of its usual healthy color. Gone were the rosy cheeks that dimpled when Christian smiled. Gone was the wide-open, aw-shucks smile that made the co-eds swoon. Even the famed steady hands were noticeably quaking.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Christian’s room looked more like a 1950s sitcom set than a modern-day campus dorm room. For one thing, the place was neat. The bed was made, the shoes in a row beneath it. There were no socks on the floor, no underwear, no jock straps. On the walls were pennants. Actual pennants. Myron couldn’t believe it. No posters, no calendars with Claudia Schiffer or Cindy Crawford or the Barbi twins. Just old-fashioned pennants. Myron felt as if he’d just stepped into Wally Cleaver’s dormitory.
Christian didn’t say anything at first. They both stood there uncomfortably, like two strangers stuck together at some cocktail party with no drinks in their hands. Christian kept his eyes lowered to the floor like a scolded child. He hadn’t commented on the blood on Myron’s suit. He probably hadn’t noticed it.
Myron decided to try one of his patented silver-tongued ice-breakers. “What’s up?”
Christian began to pace—no easy accomplishment in a room slightly larger than the average armoire. Myron could see that Christian’s eyes were red. He’d been crying, his cheeks still showing small traces of the tear tracks.
“Did Mr. Burke get mad about canceling the meeting?” Christian asked.
Myron shrugged. “He had a major conniption, but he’ll survive. Means nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“Minicamp starts Thursday?”
Myron nodded. “Are you nervous?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
Christian shook his head. He hesitated and then said, “I—I don’t understand it, Mr. Bolitar.”
Every time he called him mister, Myron looked for his father.
“Don’t understand what, Christian? What’s this all about?”
He hesitated again. “It’s …” He stopped, took a deep breath, started again. “It’s about Kathy.”
Myron thought he’d heard wrong. “Kathy Culver?”
“You knew her,” Christian said. Myron couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.
“A long time ago,” Myron replied.
“When you were with Jessica.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe you’ll understand. I miss Kathy. More than anyone can ever know. She was very special.”
Myron nodded, encouraging. Very Phil Donahue.
Christian took a step back, nearly banging his head into a bookshelf. “Everybody sensationalized what happened to her,” he began. “They put it in tabloids, had stories about the disappearance on A Current Affair. It was like a game to everyone. A TV show. They kept calling us ‘idyllic,’ the ‘idyllic couple.’ ” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “As if idyllic meant unreal. Unfeeling. Everyone kept saying I was young, I’d get over it quickly. Kathy was just a pretty blonde, millions more like her for a guy like me. I was expected to get on with my life. She was gone. It was over and done with.”
Christian’s boyish quality—something that Myron thought would help make him the future endorsement king—had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Instead of the shy, gee-whiz, modest little Kansas boy, Myron saw reality: a scared child huddled in a corner, a child whose parents were dead, who had no real family, probably no real friends, just hero-worshipers and those who wanted a piece of him (like Myron himself?).
Myron shook his head. No way. Other agents, yes, but not him. Myron wasn’t like that. But still something akin to guilt stayed there, poking a sharp finger into his ribs.
“I never really believed Kathy was dead,” Christian continued. “That was part of the problem, I guess. The not-knowing gets to you after a while. Part of me—part of me almost hoped they’d find her body already, anything to end it. Is that an awful thing to say, Mr. Bolitar?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Christian looked at him solemnly. “I kept thinking about the panties. You know about that?”
Myron nodded. The lone clue in the mystery was Kathy’s ripped panties, found on top of a campus Dumpster. Rumor had it that they were covered with semen and blood. To the world at large, the panties had confirmed what had long been suspected: Kathy Culver was dead. It was a sad though not uncommon story. She had been raped and murdered by a random psychopath. Her body would probably never be found—or maybe some hunters would stumble across the skeletal remains in the woods one day, giving the press a great eleven o’clock commercial teaser, bringing the cameras back into the story with undying hopes of catching a grief-stricken relative on film.
“They made it seem like it was a dirty thing,” Christian continued. “ ‘Pink,’ they said. ‘Silk,’ they said. They never called them underwear or undergarments or even just plain panties. It was always pink silk panties. Like that was important. One TV station even interviewed a Victoria’s Secret model for her comment on them. Pink silk panties. Like that meant she was asking for it. Trashing Kathy like that …”
“I want you out of town for a little while,” Myron continued. “You got someplace to lay low?”
“Yeah, I’ll crash with a friend in Washington. But what we going to do?”
“I’ll take care of it. Just stay out of sight.”
“Okay, yeah, I hear ya.” Then: “Oh, Myron, one other thing.”
“What?”
“One of the dudes who held me down said he knew you. A monster, man. I mean, huge. Slick-looking motherfucker.”
“Did he say his name?”
“Aaron. He said to tell you Aaron said hi.”
Myron’s shoulders slumped. Aaron. A name from his past. Not a good name either. Roy O’Connor not only had muscle behind him—he had serious muscle.
Three hours after leaving his office, Myron shook off all thoughts about the garage incident and knocked on Christian’s door. Despite the fact that he’d graduated two months earlier, Christian still lived in the same campus dorm he had occupied throughout his senior year, working as a counselor at Reston U’s football summer camp. The Titans minicamp, however, started in two days, and Christian would be there. Myron had no intention of having Christian hold out.
Christian opened the door immediately. Before Myron had a chance to explain his tardiness, Christian said, “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
“Uh, sure. No problem.”
Christian’s face was completely devoid of its usual healthy color. Gone were the rosy cheeks that dimpled when Christian smiled. Gone was the wide-open, aw-shucks smile that made the co-eds swoon. Even the famed steady hands were noticeably quaking.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Christian’s room looked more like a 1950s sitcom set than a modern-day campus dorm room. For one thing, the place was neat. The bed was made, the shoes in a row beneath it. There were no socks on the floor, no underwear, no jock straps. On the walls were pennants. Actual pennants. Myron couldn’t believe it. No posters, no calendars with Claudia Schiffer or Cindy Crawford or the Barbi twins. Just old-fashioned pennants. Myron felt as if he’d just stepped into Wally Cleaver’s dormitory.
Christian didn’t say anything at first. They both stood there uncomfortably, like two strangers stuck together at some cocktail party with no drinks in their hands. Christian kept his eyes lowered to the floor like a scolded child. He hadn’t commented on the blood on Myron’s suit. He probably hadn’t noticed it.
Myron decided to try one of his patented silver-tongued ice-breakers. “What’s up?”
Christian began to pace—no easy accomplishment in a room slightly larger than the average armoire. Myron could see that Christian’s eyes were red. He’d been crying, his cheeks still showing small traces of the tear tracks.
“Did Mr. Burke get mad about canceling the meeting?” Christian asked.
Myron shrugged. “He had a major conniption, but he’ll survive. Means nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“Minicamp starts Thursday?”
Myron nodded. “Are you nervous?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
Christian shook his head. He hesitated and then said, “I—I don’t understand it, Mr. Bolitar.”
Every time he called him mister, Myron looked for his father.
“Don’t understand what, Christian? What’s this all about?”
He hesitated again. “It’s …” He stopped, took a deep breath, started again. “It’s about Kathy.”
Myron thought he’d heard wrong. “Kathy Culver?”
“You knew her,” Christian said. Myron couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.
“A long time ago,” Myron replied.
“When you were with Jessica.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe you’ll understand. I miss Kathy. More than anyone can ever know. She was very special.”
Myron nodded, encouraging. Very Phil Donahue.
Christian took a step back, nearly banging his head into a bookshelf. “Everybody sensationalized what happened to her,” he began. “They put it in tabloids, had stories about the disappearance on A Current Affair. It was like a game to everyone. A TV show. They kept calling us ‘idyllic,’ the ‘idyllic couple.’ ” He made quote marks in the air with his fingers. “As if idyllic meant unreal. Unfeeling. Everyone kept saying I was young, I’d get over it quickly. Kathy was just a pretty blonde, millions more like her for a guy like me. I was expected to get on with my life. She was gone. It was over and done with.”
Christian’s boyish quality—something that Myron thought would help make him the future endorsement king—had suddenly taken on a new dimension. Instead of the shy, gee-whiz, modest little Kansas boy, Myron saw reality: a scared child huddled in a corner, a child whose parents were dead, who had no real family, probably no real friends, just hero-worshipers and those who wanted a piece of him (like Myron himself?).
Myron shook his head. No way. Other agents, yes, but not him. Myron wasn’t like that. But still something akin to guilt stayed there, poking a sharp finger into his ribs.
“I never really believed Kathy was dead,” Christian continued. “That was part of the problem, I guess. The not-knowing gets to you after a while. Part of me—part of me almost hoped they’d find her body already, anything to end it. Is that an awful thing to say, Mr. Bolitar?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Christian looked at him solemnly. “I kept thinking about the panties. You know about that?”
Myron nodded. The lone clue in the mystery was Kathy’s ripped panties, found on top of a campus Dumpster. Rumor had it that they were covered with semen and blood. To the world at large, the panties had confirmed what had long been suspected: Kathy Culver was dead. It was a sad though not uncommon story. She had been raped and murdered by a random psychopath. Her body would probably never be found—or maybe some hunters would stumble across the skeletal remains in the woods one day, giving the press a great eleven o’clock commercial teaser, bringing the cameras back into the story with undying hopes of catching a grief-stricken relative on film.
“They made it seem like it was a dirty thing,” Christian continued. “ ‘Pink,’ they said. ‘Silk,’ they said. They never called them underwear or undergarments or even just plain panties. It was always pink silk panties. Like that was important. One TV station even interviewed a Victoria’s Secret model for her comment on them. Pink silk panties. Like that meant she was asking for it. Trashing Kathy like that …”
