Drop Shot
Page 10
“Pardon me,” he said. His voice was smooth—part Romanian, part American, part Ricardo Montalban discussing Corinthian leather. “You are Myron Bolitar, are you not?”
“I am.”
He dismissed Jack Lord with a nod. Big Jack was not happy about it, but he moved out of the way. His body swung to the side like a metal gate, allowing only Myron to enter. Pavel Menansi held out a hand. For a moment Myron thought he wanted him to kiss it, but it ended in a brief handshake.
“Please,” Pavel said. “Sit here. Next to me.”
Whoever was in the seat quickly made himself scarce. Myron sat. Pavel did likewise. “I apologize for my guard’s zeal, but you must understand. People, they want autographs. Parents, they want to discuss their child’s play. But here”—he spread his hands—“this is not the time or place.”
“I understand,” Myron said.
“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Please call me Myron.”
Pavel had the smile of a lifelong smoker, sans proper dental hygiene. “Only if you call me Pavel.”
“Deal.”
“Fine then. You discovered Duane Richwood, did you not?”
“Somebody pointed him out to me.”
“But you saw the potential first,” Pavel insisted. “He never played in the juniors, never went to college. That’s why all the big agencies missed him, am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“So now you have a top tennis contender. You are now competing with the big boys, yes?”
Myron knew that Pavel Menansi worked with TruPro, one of the country’s largest sports agencies. Working with TruPro didn’t automatically make you a sleazeball, but it brought you awfully close. Pavel was worth millions to them—not because of what he made as much as the young talent he brought in. Pavel got a Svengali-like hold on prodigies at the age of eight or ten, giving TruPro a hell of an advantage in getting them signed. TruPro had never been a reputable agency—almost a contradiction in terms anyway—but over the last year it had become mob-controlled, run by the appropriately named Ache brothers of New York City. The Ache brothers were into all the top mob favorites: drugs, numbers, prostitution, extortion, gambling. Sweethearts, those Aches.
“Your Duane Richwood,” Pavel continued. “He played a fine match today. Fine match indeed. His potential is quite limitless. You agree?”
“He works very hard,” Myron said.
“I’m sure he does. Tell me, Myron, who is Duane’s present coach?” He said present, but it came out more like former.
“Henry Hobson.”
“Ah.” Pavel nodded with vigor, as though this response explained something very complex. He, of course, already knew who coached Duane. Pavel probably knew who coached every player on the circuit. “Henry Hobson is a fine man. A competent coach.” He said competent, but it came out more like crappy.
“But I believe I can help him, Myron.”
“I’m not here to talk about Duane,” Myron said.
A shadow crossed his face. “Oh?”
“I want to discuss another client. Or should I say a once-potential client.”
“And who would that be?”
“Valerie Simpson.”
Myron looked for a reaction. He got one. Pavel lowered his head into his hands. “Oh, my God.”
The box rumbled with overwrought concern. Comforting hands found their way to Pavel’s shoulders, uttering his name in low voices. But Pavel pushed them away. Very brave.
“Valerie came to me a few days ago,” Myron continued. “She wanted to make a comeback.”
Pavel took a deep breath. He made a show of putting himself together a piece at a time. When he was able to continue, he said, “The poor child. I can’t believe it. I just can’t.…” He stopped. Overwhelmed again. Then: “I was her coach, you know. During her glory years.”
Myron nodded.
“To be shot down like that. Like a dog.” He shook his head dramatically.
“When was the last time you saw Valerie?”
“Several years ago,” he said.
“Have you seen her since the breakdown?”
“No. Not since she went into the hospital.”
“Spoken to her? On the phone maybe?”
Pavel shook his head again. Then he lowered it. “I blame myself for what happened to her. I should have looked out for her better.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you coach one so young, you have responsibilities that go beyond her life on the court. She was a child—a child growing up in the spotlight. The media, they are savages, no? They don’t understand what they do to sell papers. I tried to cushion some of their blows. I tried to protect her, to not let it eat her up inside. In the end, I failed.”
He sounded genuine, but Myron knew that meant nothing. People were amazing liars. The more sincere they sounded—the more they held your gaze and looked truthful—the more sociopathic they were. “Do you have any idea who would have wanted her dead?”
He looked puzzled by the question. “Why are you asking these questions, Myron?”
“I’m looking into something.”
“Into what? If I may ask.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
He studied Myron for a few seconds. The stench of tobacco was heavy on his breath. Myron was forced to inhale through his mouth. “I will tell you the same thing I told the police,” Pavel said. “In my opinion Valerie’s breakdown was not just from the usual tennis pressures.”
Myron nodded, encouraging him to continue.
Pavel turned his palms toward the sky, as though seeking divine intervention. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I want to believe that to—how do you say?—soothe my own guilt. I don’t know anymore. But I’ve had a lot of young people in my camp and never have I experienced anything like what happened to Valerie. No, Myron, her problems were caused by more than the pressures of big-time tennis.”
“What then?”
“I’m not a medical doctor, you understand. I cannot say for sure. But you must remember that Valerie was being menaced.”
Myron waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Myron said, “Menaced?” Probing interrogatories—one of Myron’s strong suits.
“Stalked,” he said with a finger snap. “That’s the word they use nowadays. Valerie was being stalked.”
“I am.”
He dismissed Jack Lord with a nod. Big Jack was not happy about it, but he moved out of the way. His body swung to the side like a metal gate, allowing only Myron to enter. Pavel Menansi held out a hand. For a moment Myron thought he wanted him to kiss it, but it ended in a brief handshake.
“Please,” Pavel said. “Sit here. Next to me.”
Whoever was in the seat quickly made himself scarce. Myron sat. Pavel did likewise. “I apologize for my guard’s zeal, but you must understand. People, they want autographs. Parents, they want to discuss their child’s play. But here”—he spread his hands—“this is not the time or place.”
“I understand,” Myron said.
“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Please call me Myron.”
Pavel had the smile of a lifelong smoker, sans proper dental hygiene. “Only if you call me Pavel.”
“Deal.”
“Fine then. You discovered Duane Richwood, did you not?”
“Somebody pointed him out to me.”
“But you saw the potential first,” Pavel insisted. “He never played in the juniors, never went to college. That’s why all the big agencies missed him, am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“So now you have a top tennis contender. You are now competing with the big boys, yes?”
Myron knew that Pavel Menansi worked with TruPro, one of the country’s largest sports agencies. Working with TruPro didn’t automatically make you a sleazeball, but it brought you awfully close. Pavel was worth millions to them—not because of what he made as much as the young talent he brought in. Pavel got a Svengali-like hold on prodigies at the age of eight or ten, giving TruPro a hell of an advantage in getting them signed. TruPro had never been a reputable agency—almost a contradiction in terms anyway—but over the last year it had become mob-controlled, run by the appropriately named Ache brothers of New York City. The Ache brothers were into all the top mob favorites: drugs, numbers, prostitution, extortion, gambling. Sweethearts, those Aches.
“Your Duane Richwood,” Pavel continued. “He played a fine match today. Fine match indeed. His potential is quite limitless. You agree?”
“He works very hard,” Myron said.
“I’m sure he does. Tell me, Myron, who is Duane’s present coach?” He said present, but it came out more like former.
“Henry Hobson.”
“Ah.” Pavel nodded with vigor, as though this response explained something very complex. He, of course, already knew who coached Duane. Pavel probably knew who coached every player on the circuit. “Henry Hobson is a fine man. A competent coach.” He said competent, but it came out more like crappy.
“But I believe I can help him, Myron.”
“I’m not here to talk about Duane,” Myron said.
A shadow crossed his face. “Oh?”
“I want to discuss another client. Or should I say a once-potential client.”
“And who would that be?”
“Valerie Simpson.”
Myron looked for a reaction. He got one. Pavel lowered his head into his hands. “Oh, my God.”
The box rumbled with overwrought concern. Comforting hands found their way to Pavel’s shoulders, uttering his name in low voices. But Pavel pushed them away. Very brave.
“Valerie came to me a few days ago,” Myron continued. “She wanted to make a comeback.”
Pavel took a deep breath. He made a show of putting himself together a piece at a time. When he was able to continue, he said, “The poor child. I can’t believe it. I just can’t.…” He stopped. Overwhelmed again. Then: “I was her coach, you know. During her glory years.”
Myron nodded.
“To be shot down like that. Like a dog.” He shook his head dramatically.
“When was the last time you saw Valerie?”
“Several years ago,” he said.
“Have you seen her since the breakdown?”
“No. Not since she went into the hospital.”
“Spoken to her? On the phone maybe?”
Pavel shook his head again. Then he lowered it. “I blame myself for what happened to her. I should have looked out for her better.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you coach one so young, you have responsibilities that go beyond her life on the court. She was a child—a child growing up in the spotlight. The media, they are savages, no? They don’t understand what they do to sell papers. I tried to cushion some of their blows. I tried to protect her, to not let it eat her up inside. In the end, I failed.”
He sounded genuine, but Myron knew that meant nothing. People were amazing liars. The more sincere they sounded—the more they held your gaze and looked truthful—the more sociopathic they were. “Do you have any idea who would have wanted her dead?”
He looked puzzled by the question. “Why are you asking these questions, Myron?”
“I’m looking into something.”
“Into what? If I may ask.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
He studied Myron for a few seconds. The stench of tobacco was heavy on his breath. Myron was forced to inhale through his mouth. “I will tell you the same thing I told the police,” Pavel said. “In my opinion Valerie’s breakdown was not just from the usual tennis pressures.”
Myron nodded, encouraging him to continue.
Pavel turned his palms toward the sky, as though seeking divine intervention. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I want to believe that to—how do you say?—soothe my own guilt. I don’t know anymore. But I’ve had a lot of young people in my camp and never have I experienced anything like what happened to Valerie. No, Myron, her problems were caused by more than the pressures of big-time tennis.”
“What then?”
“I’m not a medical doctor, you understand. I cannot say for sure. But you must remember that Valerie was being menaced.”
Myron waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Myron said, “Menaced?” Probing interrogatories—one of Myron’s strong suits.
“Stalked,” he said with a finger snap. “That’s the word they use nowadays. Valerie was being stalked.”
