One False Move
Page 12
Esperanza waited a beat. “She could be dead.”
“I know.”
“And if she’s managed to stay hidden this long, she could have changed her name. Or left the country.”
“Right.”
“And there’d be few records, if any, from twenty years ago. Certainly nothing on the computer.”
Myron smiled. “Don’t you hate it when I make it too easy?”
“I realize I’m only your lowly assistant—”
“You’re not my lowly assistant.”
She gave him a look. “I’m not your partner either.”
That quieted him.
“I realize that I’m only your lowly assistant,” she said again, “but do we really have time for this bullshit?”
“Just do a standard check. See if we get lucky.”
“Fine.” Her tone was like a door slamming shut. “But we got other things to discuss here.”
“Shoot.”
“Milner’s contract. They won’t renegotiate.”
They dissected the Milner situation, batted it around a bit, developed and fine-tuned a strategy, and then concluded that their strategy would not work. Behind them Myron could hear the construction starting. They were cutting space out of the waiting area and conference room to make a private office for Esperanza.
After a few minutes Esperanza stopped and stared at him.
“What?”
“You’re going to follow through with this,” she said. “You’re going to search for her parents.”
“Her father is an old friend of mine.”
“Oh Christ, please don’t say, ‘I owe him.’ ”
“It’s not just that. It’s good business.”
“It’s not good business. You’re out of the office too much. Clients want to talk to you directly. So do the sponsors.”
“I have my cellular.”
Esperanza shook her head. “We can’t keep going on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Either you make me a partner or I walk.”
“Don’t hit me with that now, Esperanza. Please.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Stalling.”
“I’m not stalling.”
She gave him a look that was half harsh, half pity. “I know how you hate change—”
“I don’t hate change.”
“—but one way or the other, things are going to be different. So get over it.”
Part of him wanted to yell, Why? Things were good the way they were. Hadn’t he been the one who encouraged her to get a law degree in the first place? A change, sure, he expected that after her graduation. He had been slowly giving her new responsibilities. But a partnership?
He pointed behind him. “I’m building you an office,” he said.
“So?”
“So doesn’t that scream commitment? You can’t expect me to rush this. I’m taking baby steps here.”
“You took one baby step, and then you fell on your ass.” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t pushed you on this since we were down at Merion.” The golf U.S. Open in Philadelphia. Myron was in the midst of finding a kidnap victim when she hit him with her partnership demands. Since then, he had been, well, er, stalling.
Esperanza stood. “I want to be a partner. Not full. I understand that. But I want equity.” She walked to the door. “You have a week.”
Myron was not sure what to say. She was his best friend. He loved her. And he needed her here. She was a part of MB. A big part. But things were not that simple.
Esperanza opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You going to see Brenda Slaughter now?”
He nodded. “In a few minutes.”
“I’ll start the search. Call me in a few hours.”
She closed the door behind her. Myron went around to his chair and picked up the phone. He dialed Win’s number.
Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”
“You got plans for tonight?”
“Moi? But of course.”
“Typical evening of demeaning sex?”
“Demeaning sex,” Win repeated. “I told you to stop reading Jessica’s magazines.”
“Can you cancel?”
“I could,” he said, “but the lovely lass will be very disappointed.”
“Do you even know her name?”
“What? Off the top of my head?”
One of the construction workers started hammering. Myron put a hand over his free ear. “Could we meet at your place? I need to bounce a few things off you.”
Win did not hesitate. “I am but a brick wall awaiting your verbal game of squash.”
Myron guessed that meant yes.
Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.
He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. A tired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.
Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.
Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.
“Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,” Myron said.
The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. “This is too weird.”
“I know.”
“And if she’s managed to stay hidden this long, she could have changed her name. Or left the country.”
“Right.”
“And there’d be few records, if any, from twenty years ago. Certainly nothing on the computer.”
Myron smiled. “Don’t you hate it when I make it too easy?”
“I realize I’m only your lowly assistant—”
“You’re not my lowly assistant.”
She gave him a look. “I’m not your partner either.”
That quieted him.
“I realize that I’m only your lowly assistant,” she said again, “but do we really have time for this bullshit?”
“Just do a standard check. See if we get lucky.”
“Fine.” Her tone was like a door slamming shut. “But we got other things to discuss here.”
“Shoot.”
“Milner’s contract. They won’t renegotiate.”
They dissected the Milner situation, batted it around a bit, developed and fine-tuned a strategy, and then concluded that their strategy would not work. Behind them Myron could hear the construction starting. They were cutting space out of the waiting area and conference room to make a private office for Esperanza.
After a few minutes Esperanza stopped and stared at him.
“What?”
“You’re going to follow through with this,” she said. “You’re going to search for her parents.”
“Her father is an old friend of mine.”
“Oh Christ, please don’t say, ‘I owe him.’ ”
“It’s not just that. It’s good business.”
“It’s not good business. You’re out of the office too much. Clients want to talk to you directly. So do the sponsors.”
“I have my cellular.”
Esperanza shook her head. “We can’t keep going on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Either you make me a partner or I walk.”
“Don’t hit me with that now, Esperanza. Please.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Stalling.”
“I’m not stalling.”
She gave him a look that was half harsh, half pity. “I know how you hate change—”
“I don’t hate change.”
“—but one way or the other, things are going to be different. So get over it.”
Part of him wanted to yell, Why? Things were good the way they were. Hadn’t he been the one who encouraged her to get a law degree in the first place? A change, sure, he expected that after her graduation. He had been slowly giving her new responsibilities. But a partnership?
He pointed behind him. “I’m building you an office,” he said.
“So?”
“So doesn’t that scream commitment? You can’t expect me to rush this. I’m taking baby steps here.”
“You took one baby step, and then you fell on your ass.” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t pushed you on this since we were down at Merion.” The golf U.S. Open in Philadelphia. Myron was in the midst of finding a kidnap victim when she hit him with her partnership demands. Since then, he had been, well, er, stalling.
Esperanza stood. “I want to be a partner. Not full. I understand that. But I want equity.” She walked to the door. “You have a week.”
Myron was not sure what to say. She was his best friend. He loved her. And he needed her here. She was a part of MB. A big part. But things were not that simple.
Esperanza opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You going to see Brenda Slaughter now?”
He nodded. “In a few minutes.”
“I’ll start the search. Call me in a few hours.”
She closed the door behind her. Myron went around to his chair and picked up the phone. He dialed Win’s number.
Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”
“You got plans for tonight?”
“Moi? But of course.”
“Typical evening of demeaning sex?”
“Demeaning sex,” Win repeated. “I told you to stop reading Jessica’s magazines.”
“Can you cancel?”
“I could,” he said, “but the lovely lass will be very disappointed.”
“Do you even know her name?”
“What? Off the top of my head?”
One of the construction workers started hammering. Myron put a hand over his free ear. “Could we meet at your place? I need to bounce a few things off you.”
Win did not hesitate. “I am but a brick wall awaiting your verbal game of squash.”
Myron guessed that meant yes.
Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.
He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. A tired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.
Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.
Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.
“Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,” Myron said.
The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. “This is too weird.”
