Drop Shot
Page 7
He handed Myron a photocopy. Yesterday’s entry was fairly simple. Sprawled across the entire page it read:
D.R. 555-8705. Call!
555-8705. Duane’s phone number. D.R. Duane Richwood.
Dimonte appeared gleeful.
“I’d like to talk to my client,” Myron said. “Alone.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes.”
“I’m his attorney—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs.”
“You don’t have anything,” Myron said. “His phone number is in her book. Means nothing.”
Dimonte nodded. “But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis’s newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors.”
“Are you threatening us?”
Dimonte put his hand to his chest. “Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?”
The Pad did not look up. “Nope.”
“There. You see?”
“I’ll sue your ass for wrongful arrest,” Myron said.
“And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that’s going to do you.”
Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.
Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray•Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. “Look, man, I don’t know why my number is in her book. I don’t know her. I never spoke to her on the phone.”
“Your phone is unlisted. Is that correct, Mr. Richwood?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just moved in. Your phone’s only been hooked up, what, two weeks?”
Wanda said, “Three.” She was hugging herself now, as though she were cold.
“Three,” Roland Dimonte repeated. “So how did Valerie get your number, Duane? How come some woman you don’t know has your brand-new, unlisted number in her date book?”
“I don’t know.”
Roland skipped skeptical and moved directly to absolute disbelief. For the next hour he continued to hammer Duane, but Duane stuck to his story. He never met her, he said. He didn’t know her. He never spoke to her. He had no idea how she could have gotten his phone number. Myron watched in silence. The sunglasses made it harder to read Duane, but his body language was all wrong. So was Wanda’s.
With an angry sigh Roland Dimonte finally stood up. “Krinsky?”
The Pad looked up.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The Pad closed the pad, joined his partner.
“I’ll be back,” Dimonte barked. Then pointing at no one in particular he added, “You hear me, Bolitar?”
“You’ll be back,” Myron said.
“Count on it, asshole.”
“Aren’t you going to warn us not to leave town? I love it when you cops do that.”
Dimonte made a gun with his hand. He pointed it at Myron and lowered the thumb/hammer. Then he and the Pad disappeared out the door.
For several minutes no one said anything. Myron was about to break the silence when Duane started laughing. “You sure showed him, Myron. Tore him a whole new asshole—”
“Duane, we need—”
“I’m tired, Myron.” He feigned a yawn. “I really need to get some sleep.”
“We need to talk about this.”
“About what?”
Myron looked at him.
Duane said, “Pretty weird coincidence, huh?”
Myron turned toward Wanda. She looked away, still hugging herself. “Duane, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”
“Hey, tell me about the commercial,” Duane interrupted. “How did it come out?”
“Good.”
Duane smiled. “How did I look?”
“Too handsome. I’ll be fighting off the movie offers.”
Duane laughed too hard. Much too hard. Wanda did not laugh. Neither did Myron. Then Duane feigned another yawn, stretched and stood. “I really need to get some rest,” he said. “Big match coming up. Hate to let all this bullshit distract me.”
He showed Myron to the door. Wanda still had not moved from her spot by the kitchen door. She finally met Myron’s eye.
“Good-bye, Myron,” Wanda said.
The door closed. Myron took the elevator back down and walked to his car. A ticket was nestled between the windshield and the wiper. He grabbed it and started the car.
Three blocks away Myron spotted the same powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top.
4
Yuppieville.
The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall—the big producers’ offices—safeguarding the perimeter. The open area housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed and replaced, a seemingly endless sea of them, bobbing and blending into the corporate-gray carpet, the identical desks, the identical rolling chairs, the computer terminals, the telephones, the fax machines. Like soldiers they wore uniforms—white button-down shirts, suspenders, bright ties strangling carotid arteries, suit jackets draped across the backs of the identical rolling chairs. There were loud noises, screams, rings, even something that sounded like death cries. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was scattering, panicked, under constant attack.
Yes, for here was one of the final strongholds of true yuppieism, a place where man was free to practice the religion of eighties greed, greed at all costs, without pretense of doing otherwise. No hypocrisy here. Investment houses were not about helping the world. They were not about providing a service to mankind or doing what was best for all. This haven had a simple, clear-cut, basic goal. Making money. Period.
Win had a spacious corner office overlooking Park and Fifty-second Street. A prime-time view for the company’s number one producer. Myron knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Win called out.
He was sitting in a full lotus on the floor, his expression serene, his thumbs and forefingers forming circles in each hand. Meditation. Win did it every day without fail. Usually more than once.
But as with most things with Win, his moments of inner solitude were a tad unconventional. For one, he liked to keep his eyes open when meditating, while most practitioners kept them closed. For another, he didn’t imagine idyllic scenes of waterfalls or does in the forest; rather, Win opted for watching home videotapes—videos of himself and an interesting potpourri of lady friends in assorted throes of passion.
D.R. 555-8705. Call!
555-8705. Duane’s phone number. D.R. Duane Richwood.
Dimonte appeared gleeful.
“I’d like to talk to my client,” Myron said. “Alone.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not going to duck away now that I have you on the ropes.”
“I’m his attorney—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. You take him away, I take him downtown in cuffs.”
“You don’t have anything,” Myron said. “His phone number is in her book. Means nothing.”
Dimonte nodded. “But how would it look? To the press, for example. Or the fans. Duane Richwood, tennis’s newest hero, being dragged into the station with handcuffs on. Bet that would be hard to explain to the sponsors.”
“Are you threatening us?”
Dimonte put his hand to his chest. “Heavens no. Would I do something like that, Krinsky?”
The Pad did not look up. “Nope.”
“There. You see?”
“I’ll sue your ass for wrongful arrest,” Myron said.
“And you might even win, Bolitar. Years from now, when the courts actually hear the case. Lot of good that’s going to do you.”
Dimonte looked a lot less stupid now.
Duane quickly stood and crossed the room. He snapped off the Ray•Bans, then, thinking better of it, put them back on. “Look, man, I don’t know why my number is in her book. I don’t know her. I never spoke to her on the phone.”
“Your phone is unlisted. Is that correct, Mr. Richwood?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just moved in. Your phone’s only been hooked up, what, two weeks?”
Wanda said, “Three.” She was hugging herself now, as though she were cold.
“Three,” Roland Dimonte repeated. “So how did Valerie get your number, Duane? How come some woman you don’t know has your brand-new, unlisted number in her date book?”
“I don’t know.”
Roland skipped skeptical and moved directly to absolute disbelief. For the next hour he continued to hammer Duane, but Duane stuck to his story. He never met her, he said. He didn’t know her. He never spoke to her. He had no idea how she could have gotten his phone number. Myron watched in silence. The sunglasses made it harder to read Duane, but his body language was all wrong. So was Wanda’s.
With an angry sigh Roland Dimonte finally stood up. “Krinsky?”
The Pad looked up.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The Pad closed the pad, joined his partner.
“I’ll be back,” Dimonte barked. Then pointing at no one in particular he added, “You hear me, Bolitar?”
“You’ll be back,” Myron said.
“Count on it, asshole.”
“Aren’t you going to warn us not to leave town? I love it when you cops do that.”
Dimonte made a gun with his hand. He pointed it at Myron and lowered the thumb/hammer. Then he and the Pad disappeared out the door.
For several minutes no one said anything. Myron was about to break the silence when Duane started laughing. “You sure showed him, Myron. Tore him a whole new asshole—”
“Duane, we need—”
“I’m tired, Myron.” He feigned a yawn. “I really need to get some sleep.”
“We need to talk about this.”
“About what?”
Myron looked at him.
Duane said, “Pretty weird coincidence, huh?”
Myron turned toward Wanda. She looked away, still hugging herself. “Duane, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”
“Hey, tell me about the commercial,” Duane interrupted. “How did it come out?”
“Good.”
Duane smiled. “How did I look?”
“Too handsome. I’ll be fighting off the movie offers.”
Duane laughed too hard. Much too hard. Wanda did not laugh. Neither did Myron. Then Duane feigned another yawn, stretched and stood. “I really need to get some rest,” he said. “Big match coming up. Hate to let all this bullshit distract me.”
He showed Myron to the door. Wanda still had not moved from her spot by the kitchen door. She finally met Myron’s eye.
“Good-bye, Myron,” Wanda said.
The door closed. Myron took the elevator back down and walked to his car. A ticket was nestled between the windshield and the wiper. He grabbed it and started the car.
Three blocks away Myron spotted the same powder-blue Cadillac with the canary-yellow top.
4
Yuppieville.
The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall—the big producers’ offices—safeguarding the perimeter. The open area housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed and replaced, a seemingly endless sea of them, bobbing and blending into the corporate-gray carpet, the identical desks, the identical rolling chairs, the computer terminals, the telephones, the fax machines. Like soldiers they wore uniforms—white button-down shirts, suspenders, bright ties strangling carotid arteries, suit jackets draped across the backs of the identical rolling chairs. There were loud noises, screams, rings, even something that sounded like death cries. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was scattering, panicked, under constant attack.
Yes, for here was one of the final strongholds of true yuppieism, a place where man was free to practice the religion of eighties greed, greed at all costs, without pretense of doing otherwise. No hypocrisy here. Investment houses were not about helping the world. They were not about providing a service to mankind or doing what was best for all. This haven had a simple, clear-cut, basic goal. Making money. Period.
Win had a spacious corner office overlooking Park and Fifty-second Street. A prime-time view for the company’s number one producer. Myron knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Win called out.
He was sitting in a full lotus on the floor, his expression serene, his thumbs and forefingers forming circles in each hand. Meditation. Win did it every day without fail. Usually more than once.
But as with most things with Win, his moments of inner solitude were a tad unconventional. For one, he liked to keep his eyes open when meditating, while most practitioners kept them closed. For another, he didn’t imagine idyllic scenes of waterfalls or does in the forest; rather, Win opted for watching home videotapes—videos of himself and an interesting potpourri of lady friends in assorted throes of passion.
