Drop Shot
Page 3
“So much,” Win said, “for her comeback.”
2
“Maybe you should just let it go,” Win said.
He whipped his Jaguar XJR onto the FDR Drive and headed south. The radio was tuned to WMXV, 105.1 FM. They played something called “Soft Rock.” Michael Bolton was on. He was doing a remake of an old Four Tops classic. Painful. Like Bea Arthur doing a remake of a Marilyn Monroe film.
Maybe Soft Rock meant Really Bad Rock.
“Mind if I put on a cassette?” Myron said.
“Please.”
Win swerved into a lane change. Win’s driving could most kindly be described as creative. Myron tried not to look. He pushed in a cassette from the original production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Like Myron, Win had a huge collection of old Broadway musicals. Robert Morse sang about a girl named Rosemary. But Myron’s mind remained fixed on a girl named Valerie Simpson.
Valerie was dead. One bullet to the chest. Someone had shot her in the Food Court of the United States Tennis Association National Tennis Center during the opening round of America’s sole Grand Slam event. Yet no one had seen a thing. Or at least no one was talking.
“You’re making that face,” Win said.
“What face?”
“The I-want-to-help-the-world face,” Win said. “She wasn’t a client.”
“She was going to be.”
“A large distinction. Her fate does not concern you.”
“She called me three times today,” Myron said. “When she couldn’t reach me, she showed up at the tennis center. And then she was gunned down.”
“A sad tale,” Win said. “But one that does not concern you.”
The speedometer hovered about eighty. “Uh, Win?”
“Yes.”
“The left side of the road. It’s for oncoming traffic.”
Win spun the wheel, cut across two lanes, and swerved onto a ramp. Minutes later the Jag veered into the Kinney lot on Fifty-second Street. They gave the keys to Mario, the parking attendant. Manhattan was hot. City hot. The sidewalk scorched your feet right through your shoes. Exhaust fumes got stuck in the humidity, hanging in the air like fruit on a tree. Breathing was a chore. Sweating was not. The secret was to keep the sweat to a minimum while walking, hoping that the air-conditioning would dry off your clothes without giving you pneumonia.
Myron and Win walked south down Park Avenue toward the high-rise of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities. Win’s family owned the building. The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Myron stepped out. Win stayed inside. His office at Lock-Horne was two floors up.
Before the elevator closed Win said, “I knew her.”
“Who?”
“Valerie Simpson. I sent her to you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“No reason to.”
“Were you close?”
“Depends on your definition. She’s old money Philadelphia. Like my family. We were members of the same clubs, the same charities, that sort of thing. Our families occasionally summered together when we were kids. But I hadn’t heard from her in years.”
“She just called you out of the blue?” Myron asked.
“You could say that.”
“What would you say?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“No. Do you have any thoughts on who killed her?”
Win stood perfectly still. “We’ll chat later,” he said. “I have some business matters I must attend to first.”
The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.
Esperanza looked up from her desk. “Jesus, you look like hell.”
“You heard about Valerie?”
She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn’t show it. “You have blood on your jacket.”
“I know.”
“Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room.”
“I guess I’ll see him,” Myron said. “No use moping around.”
Esperanza looked at him. No expression.
“Don’t get so upset,” he continued. “I’m okay.”
“I’m putting on a brave front,” she said.
Ms. Compassion.
When Myron opened the conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.
Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron’s age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed—or worse, a Family Feud contestant. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.
Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. “Wait till you see this!” he raved. “Myron, you are going to love it. It’s fantastic.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“I’m telling you, Myron, it’s fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You’re gonna love it. It’s fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you.”
The key word here: fantastic.
Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson’s corpse. He needed to concentrate. This—Duane’s first national television commercial—was crucial. Truth was, an athlete’s image was made more by these commercials than anything else—including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn’t tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grandmama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.
“When is it going to air?” Myron asked.
“During the quarter finals. We’re gonna blitz the networks in a very big way.”
The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees—money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.
2
“Maybe you should just let it go,” Win said.
He whipped his Jaguar XJR onto the FDR Drive and headed south. The radio was tuned to WMXV, 105.1 FM. They played something called “Soft Rock.” Michael Bolton was on. He was doing a remake of an old Four Tops classic. Painful. Like Bea Arthur doing a remake of a Marilyn Monroe film.
Maybe Soft Rock meant Really Bad Rock.
“Mind if I put on a cassette?” Myron said.
“Please.”
Win swerved into a lane change. Win’s driving could most kindly be described as creative. Myron tried not to look. He pushed in a cassette from the original production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Like Myron, Win had a huge collection of old Broadway musicals. Robert Morse sang about a girl named Rosemary. But Myron’s mind remained fixed on a girl named Valerie Simpson.
Valerie was dead. One bullet to the chest. Someone had shot her in the Food Court of the United States Tennis Association National Tennis Center during the opening round of America’s sole Grand Slam event. Yet no one had seen a thing. Or at least no one was talking.
“You’re making that face,” Win said.
“What face?”
“The I-want-to-help-the-world face,” Win said. “She wasn’t a client.”
“She was going to be.”
“A large distinction. Her fate does not concern you.”
“She called me three times today,” Myron said. “When she couldn’t reach me, she showed up at the tennis center. And then she was gunned down.”
“A sad tale,” Win said. “But one that does not concern you.”
The speedometer hovered about eighty. “Uh, Win?”
“Yes.”
“The left side of the road. It’s for oncoming traffic.”
Win spun the wheel, cut across two lanes, and swerved onto a ramp. Minutes later the Jag veered into the Kinney lot on Fifty-second Street. They gave the keys to Mario, the parking attendant. Manhattan was hot. City hot. The sidewalk scorched your feet right through your shoes. Exhaust fumes got stuck in the humidity, hanging in the air like fruit on a tree. Breathing was a chore. Sweating was not. The secret was to keep the sweat to a minimum while walking, hoping that the air-conditioning would dry off your clothes without giving you pneumonia.
Myron and Win walked south down Park Avenue toward the high-rise of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities. Win’s family owned the building. The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Myron stepped out. Win stayed inside. His office at Lock-Horne was two floors up.
Before the elevator closed Win said, “I knew her.”
“Who?”
“Valerie Simpson. I sent her to you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“No reason to.”
“Were you close?”
“Depends on your definition. She’s old money Philadelphia. Like my family. We were members of the same clubs, the same charities, that sort of thing. Our families occasionally summered together when we were kids. But I hadn’t heard from her in years.”
“She just called you out of the blue?” Myron asked.
“You could say that.”
“What would you say?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“No. Do you have any thoughts on who killed her?”
Win stood perfectly still. “We’ll chat later,” he said. “I have some business matters I must attend to first.”
The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.
Esperanza looked up from her desk. “Jesus, you look like hell.”
“You heard about Valerie?”
She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn’t show it. “You have blood on your jacket.”
“I know.”
“Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room.”
“I guess I’ll see him,” Myron said. “No use moping around.”
Esperanza looked at him. No expression.
“Don’t get so upset,” he continued. “I’m okay.”
“I’m putting on a brave front,” she said.
Ms. Compassion.
When Myron opened the conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.
Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron’s age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed—or worse, a Family Feud contestant. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.
Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. “Wait till you see this!” he raved. “Myron, you are going to love it. It’s fantastic.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“I’m telling you, Myron, it’s fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You’re gonna love it. It’s fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you.”
The key word here: fantastic.
Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson’s corpse. He needed to concentrate. This—Duane’s first national television commercial—was crucial. Truth was, an athlete’s image was made more by these commercials than anything else—including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn’t tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grandmama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.
“When is it going to air?” Myron asked.
“During the quarter finals. We’re gonna blitz the networks in a very big way.”
The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees—money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.
