Drop Shot
Page 13
Myron gave her an understanding, encouraging smile—the Phil Donahue smile. Caller, are you there?
“Duane likes you,” she said. “A lot.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“The other agents, they call Duane all the time. All the big ones. They keep saying how you’re too small-time to represent Duane. They keep saying they can help him make a lot more money.”
“They might be right,” Myron said.
She shook her head. “Duane doesn’t think so. I don’t think so either.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“You know why Duane won’t meet with those other agents?”
“Because he doesn’t want to see me weep?”
She smiled at that one. The Master of Levity strikes again. Señor Self-Deprecation. “No,” she said. “Duane trusts you.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’re not just in it for the money.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Wanda, but Duane is making me a lot of money. There’s no denying that.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t want to sound naive here, but you put him first. Before the money. You look out for Duane Richwood the human being. You care about him.”
Myron said nothing.
“Duane doesn’t have many people,” she continued. “He doesn’t have any family. He lived on the streets since he was fifteen, scraping by. He wasn’t an angel that whole time. He did some things he’d rather forget. But he never hurt anybody, never did anything serious. His whole life he never had anyone he could rely on. He had to take care of himself.”
Silence.
“Does Duane know you’re here?” Myron asked.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He just took off. He does that sometimes.”
More silence.
“So anyway, like I said, Duane doesn’t have anybody else. He trusts you. He trusts Win, too, but only because he’s your best friend.”
“Wanda, what you’re saying is very nice, but I’m hardly driven by altruism. I’m well paid for what I do.”
“But you care.”
“Henry Hobson cares.”
“Maybe. But his wagon is hitched to Duane’s star. Duane is his ticket back to the bigs.”
“Many would say the same for me,” Myron countered. “Except that part about ‘back,’ since I’ve never been to the bigs. Duane’s my only big tennis player. In fact Duane is the only player I’ve got in the U.S. Open.”
She considered this for a moment, nodding. “Maybe that’s all true,” she said. “But when push came to shove—when trouble hit today—Duane came to you. And when push came to shove for me tonight, I came to you too. That’s the bottom line.”
The basement door opened.
“Would you kids like something to drink?”
“Got any Kool-Aid, Mom?”
Wanda laughed.
“Listen, smart-mouth, maybe your company is hungry.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Bolitar,” Wanda shouted up.
“You sure, hon? Coffee maybe? A Coke?”
“Nothing, really, thank you.”
“How about some Danish? I just bought some fresh at the Swiss House. Myron’s favorite.”
“Mom …”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.”
Right. The Mistress of the Subtle Signal. The basement door closed.
“She’s sweet,” Wanda said.
“Yeah, adorable.” Myron leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
She started wringing her hands again. “I’m worried about Duane.”
“If it’s about Dimonte’s visit, don’t let him get to you. Being a horse’s ass is part of his job.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “Duane wouldn’t hurt anybody. I know that. But something isn’t right with him. He’s tense all the time. He paces around the apartment. He flies off the handle at the littlest things.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure right now. It could just be nerves.”
She shook her head. “Duane thrives on pressure. He loves competing, you know that. But the last day or two it’s different. Something is really bothering him.”
“Any idea what?”
“No.”
Myron leaned forward. “Let me ask you the obvious question: Did Duane get a call from Valerie Simpson?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Does he know her?”
“I don’t know that either. But I know Duane. We’ve been together for three years, since we were both eighteen. He was still on the streets when we met. My father freaked out when he heard. He’s a chiropractor. He makes a good living, worked hard to keep the bad element away from us. And here I was, dating a street kid, a runaway.”
She chuckled at the memory. Myron sat and waited.
“No one thought it would last,” she continued. “I left college and got a job so he could pursue tennis. Now he’s putting me through NYU. We love each other. We loved each other before all this tennis stuff started and we’ll love each other long after he puts down the racket for good. But for the first time he’s shutting me out.”
“And you think Valerie Simpson is somehow connected?”
She hesitated. “I guess I do.”
“How?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She stood, paced in the small room. “I heard those policemen talking. They said you used to be a big deal with the government. You and Win. Something secretive with the FBI—after you recovered from the knee injury. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe you could, I don’t know, look into it?”
“You want me to investigate Duane?”
“He’s hiding something, Myron. It has to come out.”
“You might not like what I find,” he said, echoing Win’s earlier words.
“I’m more afraid of going on like this.” Wanda looked up at him. “Will you help him?”
He nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”
7
The phone rang.
Myron reached out blindly, swimming back to consciousness. He grabbed the receiver and croaked, “Hello?”
“Is this the Rent-a-Stud hotline?”
Her voice hit him like a jolt. “Jess?”
“Duane likes you,” she said. “A lot.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“The other agents, they call Duane all the time. All the big ones. They keep saying how you’re too small-time to represent Duane. They keep saying they can help him make a lot more money.”
“They might be right,” Myron said.
She shook her head. “Duane doesn’t think so. I don’t think so either.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“You know why Duane won’t meet with those other agents?”
“Because he doesn’t want to see me weep?”
She smiled at that one. The Master of Levity strikes again. Señor Self-Deprecation. “No,” she said. “Duane trusts you.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’re not just in it for the money.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Wanda, but Duane is making me a lot of money. There’s no denying that.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t want to sound naive here, but you put him first. Before the money. You look out for Duane Richwood the human being. You care about him.”
Myron said nothing.
“Duane doesn’t have many people,” she continued. “He doesn’t have any family. He lived on the streets since he was fifteen, scraping by. He wasn’t an angel that whole time. He did some things he’d rather forget. But he never hurt anybody, never did anything serious. His whole life he never had anyone he could rely on. He had to take care of himself.”
Silence.
“Does Duane know you’re here?” Myron asked.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He just took off. He does that sometimes.”
More silence.
“So anyway, like I said, Duane doesn’t have anybody else. He trusts you. He trusts Win, too, but only because he’s your best friend.”
“Wanda, what you’re saying is very nice, but I’m hardly driven by altruism. I’m well paid for what I do.”
“But you care.”
“Henry Hobson cares.”
“Maybe. But his wagon is hitched to Duane’s star. Duane is his ticket back to the bigs.”
“Many would say the same for me,” Myron countered. “Except that part about ‘back,’ since I’ve never been to the bigs. Duane’s my only big tennis player. In fact Duane is the only player I’ve got in the U.S. Open.”
She considered this for a moment, nodding. “Maybe that’s all true,” she said. “But when push came to shove—when trouble hit today—Duane came to you. And when push came to shove for me tonight, I came to you too. That’s the bottom line.”
The basement door opened.
“Would you kids like something to drink?”
“Got any Kool-Aid, Mom?”
Wanda laughed.
“Listen, smart-mouth, maybe your company is hungry.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Bolitar,” Wanda shouted up.
“You sure, hon? Coffee maybe? A Coke?”
“Nothing, really, thank you.”
“How about some Danish? I just bought some fresh at the Swiss House. Myron’s favorite.”
“Mom …”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.”
Right. The Mistress of the Subtle Signal. The basement door closed.
“She’s sweet,” Wanda said.
“Yeah, adorable.” Myron leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
She started wringing her hands again. “I’m worried about Duane.”
“If it’s about Dimonte’s visit, don’t let him get to you. Being a horse’s ass is part of his job.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “Duane wouldn’t hurt anybody. I know that. But something isn’t right with him. He’s tense all the time. He paces around the apartment. He flies off the handle at the littlest things.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure right now. It could just be nerves.”
She shook her head. “Duane thrives on pressure. He loves competing, you know that. But the last day or two it’s different. Something is really bothering him.”
“Any idea what?”
“No.”
Myron leaned forward. “Let me ask you the obvious question: Did Duane get a call from Valerie Simpson?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Does he know her?”
“I don’t know that either. But I know Duane. We’ve been together for three years, since we were both eighteen. He was still on the streets when we met. My father freaked out when he heard. He’s a chiropractor. He makes a good living, worked hard to keep the bad element away from us. And here I was, dating a street kid, a runaway.”
She chuckled at the memory. Myron sat and waited.
“No one thought it would last,” she continued. “I left college and got a job so he could pursue tennis. Now he’s putting me through NYU. We love each other. We loved each other before all this tennis stuff started and we’ll love each other long after he puts down the racket for good. But for the first time he’s shutting me out.”
“And you think Valerie Simpson is somehow connected?”
She hesitated. “I guess I do.”
“How?”
“I have no idea.”
“What do you want me to do?”
She stood, paced in the small room. “I heard those policemen talking. They said you used to be a big deal with the government. You and Win. Something secretive with the FBI—after you recovered from the knee injury. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe you could, I don’t know, look into it?”
“You want me to investigate Duane?”
“He’s hiding something, Myron. It has to come out.”
“You might not like what I find,” he said, echoing Win’s earlier words.
“I’m more afraid of going on like this.” Wanda looked up at him. “Will you help him?”
He nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”
7
The phone rang.
Myron reached out blindly, swimming back to consciousness. He grabbed the receiver and croaked, “Hello?”
“Is this the Rent-a-Stud hotline?”
Her voice hit him like a jolt. “Jess?”
