One False Move
Page 4
Brenda did not reply. One of the assistants applied oil to Ted’s hairless chest. Ted was still giving the crowd his tough guy squint. Too many Clint Eastwood movies. Ted made two fists and continuously flexed his pecs. Myron decided that he might as well beat the rush and start hating Ted right now.
Brenda remained silent. Myron decided to try another approach. “Where are you living now?” he asked.
“In a dorm at Reston University.”
“You’re still in school?”
“Medical school. Fourth year. I just got a deferment to play pro ball.”
Myron nodded. “Got a specialty in mind?”
“Pediatrics.”
He nodded again and decided to wade in a bit deeper. “Your dad must be very proud of you.”
A flicker crossed her face. “Yeah, I guess.” She started to rise. “I better get dressed for this shoot.”
“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on first?”
She stayed in her seat. “Dad is missing.”
“Since when?”
“A week ago.”
“Is that when the threats started?”
She avoided the question. “You want to help? Find my father.”
“Is he the one threatening you?”
“Don’t worry about the threats. Dad likes control, Myron. Intimidation is just another tool.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand. He’s your friend, right?”
“Your father? I haven’t seen Horace in more than ten years.”
“Whose fault is that?” she asked.
The words, not to mention the bitter tone, surprised him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you still care about him?” she asked.
Myron didn’t have to think about it. “You know I do.”
She nodded and jumped down from the chair. “He’s in trouble,” she said. “Find him.”
Brenda reappeared in Lycra Zoom shorts and what was commonly called a sports bra. She was limbs and shoulders and muscles and substance, and while the professional models glared at her size (not her height—most of them were six-footers too), Myron thought that she stood out like a bursting supernova next to, well, gaseous entities.
The poses were risque, and Brenda was clearly embarrassed by them. Not so Ted. He undulated and squinted at her in what was supposed to be a look of smoldering sexuality. Twice Brenda broke out and laughed in his face. Myron still hated Ted, but Brenda was starting to grow on him.
Myron picked up his cellular phone and dialed Win’s private line. Win was a big-time financial consultant at Lock-Horne Securities, an old-money financial firm that first sold equities on the Mayflower. His office was in the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue and Forty-seventh Street in midtown Manhattan. Myron rented space there from Win. A sports agent on Park Avenue—now that was class.
After three rings the machine picked up. Win’s annoyingly superior accent said, “Hang up without leaving a message and die.” Beep. Myron shook his head, smiled, and, as always, left a message.
He hit the switch and dialed his office. Esperanza answered. “MB SportsReps.”
The M was for Myron, the B for Bolitar, and the SportsReps because they Represented people in the world of Sports. Myron had come up with the name with no help from professional marketing personnel. Despite the obvious accolades, Myron remained humble.
“Any messages?” he asked.
“About a million.”
“Anything crucial?”
“Greenspan wanted your take on interest rate hikes. Outside of that, no.” Esperanza, ever the wiseass. “So what did Norm want?”
Esperanza Diaz—the “Spanish shiksa,” in Norm’s words—had been at MB SportsReps since its inception. Before that, she had wrestled professionally under the moniker Little Pocahontas; put simply, she wore a bikini reminiscent of Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. and groped other women in front of a drooling horde. Esperanza considered her career shift to representing athletes as something of a step down.
“It involves Brenda Slaughter,” he began.
“The basketball player?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen her play a couple of times,” Esperanza said. “On TV she looks hot.”
“In person too.”
There was a pause. Then Esperanza said, “Think she participates in the love that dare not speaketh its name?”
“Huh?”
“Does she swing the way of the woman?”
“Gee,” Myron said, “I forgot to check for the tattoo.”
Esperanza’s sexual preference flip-flopped like a politician in a nonelection year. Currently she seemed to be on a man kick, but Myron guessed that was one of the advantages of bisexuality: love everyone. Myron had no problem with it. In high school he had dated almost exclusively bisexual girls—he’d mention sex, the girls would say “bye.” Okay, old joke, but the point remained.
“Doesn’t matter,” Esperanza said. “I really like David.” Her current beau. It wouldn’t last. “But you got to admit, Brenda Slaughter is steaming.”
“So admitted.”
“It might be fun for a night or two.”
Myron nodded into the phone. A lesser man might mentally conjure up a few choice images of the lithe, petite Hispanic beauty in the throes of passion with the ravishing black Amazon in the sports bra. But not Myron. Too worldly.
“Norm wants us to watch her,” Myron said. He filled her in. When he finished, he heard her sigh.
“What?” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Myron, are we a sports agency or Pinkertons?”
“It’s to get clients.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. So what do you need me to do?”
“Her father is missing. His name is Horace Slaughter. See what you can dig up on him.”
“I’ll need help here,” she said.
Myron rubbed his eyes. “I thought we were going to hire someone on a permanent basis.”
“Who has the time?”
Silence.
“Fine,” Myron said. He sighed. “Call Big Cyndi. But make sure she knows it’s just on a trial basis.”
“Okey-dokey.”
“And if any client comes in, I want Cyndi to hide in my office.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
She hung up the phone.
Brenda remained silent. Myron decided to try another approach. “Where are you living now?” he asked.
“In a dorm at Reston University.”
“You’re still in school?”
“Medical school. Fourth year. I just got a deferment to play pro ball.”
Myron nodded. “Got a specialty in mind?”
“Pediatrics.”
He nodded again and decided to wade in a bit deeper. “Your dad must be very proud of you.”
A flicker crossed her face. “Yeah, I guess.” She started to rise. “I better get dressed for this shoot.”
“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on first?”
She stayed in her seat. “Dad is missing.”
“Since when?”
“A week ago.”
“Is that when the threats started?”
She avoided the question. “You want to help? Find my father.”
“Is he the one threatening you?”
“Don’t worry about the threats. Dad likes control, Myron. Intimidation is just another tool.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand. He’s your friend, right?”
“Your father? I haven’t seen Horace in more than ten years.”
“Whose fault is that?” she asked.
The words, not to mention the bitter tone, surprised him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you still care about him?” she asked.
Myron didn’t have to think about it. “You know I do.”
She nodded and jumped down from the chair. “He’s in trouble,” she said. “Find him.”
Brenda reappeared in Lycra Zoom shorts and what was commonly called a sports bra. She was limbs and shoulders and muscles and substance, and while the professional models glared at her size (not her height—most of them were six-footers too), Myron thought that she stood out like a bursting supernova next to, well, gaseous entities.
The poses were risque, and Brenda was clearly embarrassed by them. Not so Ted. He undulated and squinted at her in what was supposed to be a look of smoldering sexuality. Twice Brenda broke out and laughed in his face. Myron still hated Ted, but Brenda was starting to grow on him.
Myron picked up his cellular phone and dialed Win’s private line. Win was a big-time financial consultant at Lock-Horne Securities, an old-money financial firm that first sold equities on the Mayflower. His office was in the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue and Forty-seventh Street in midtown Manhattan. Myron rented space there from Win. A sports agent on Park Avenue—now that was class.
After three rings the machine picked up. Win’s annoyingly superior accent said, “Hang up without leaving a message and die.” Beep. Myron shook his head, smiled, and, as always, left a message.
He hit the switch and dialed his office. Esperanza answered. “MB SportsReps.”
The M was for Myron, the B for Bolitar, and the SportsReps because they Represented people in the world of Sports. Myron had come up with the name with no help from professional marketing personnel. Despite the obvious accolades, Myron remained humble.
“Any messages?” he asked.
“About a million.”
“Anything crucial?”
“Greenspan wanted your take on interest rate hikes. Outside of that, no.” Esperanza, ever the wiseass. “So what did Norm want?”
Esperanza Diaz—the “Spanish shiksa,” in Norm’s words—had been at MB SportsReps since its inception. Before that, she had wrestled professionally under the moniker Little Pocahontas; put simply, she wore a bikini reminiscent of Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C. and groped other women in front of a drooling horde. Esperanza considered her career shift to representing athletes as something of a step down.
“It involves Brenda Slaughter,” he began.
“The basketball player?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen her play a couple of times,” Esperanza said. “On TV she looks hot.”
“In person too.”
There was a pause. Then Esperanza said, “Think she participates in the love that dare not speaketh its name?”
“Huh?”
“Does she swing the way of the woman?”
“Gee,” Myron said, “I forgot to check for the tattoo.”
Esperanza’s sexual preference flip-flopped like a politician in a nonelection year. Currently she seemed to be on a man kick, but Myron guessed that was one of the advantages of bisexuality: love everyone. Myron had no problem with it. In high school he had dated almost exclusively bisexual girls—he’d mention sex, the girls would say “bye.” Okay, old joke, but the point remained.
“Doesn’t matter,” Esperanza said. “I really like David.” Her current beau. It wouldn’t last. “But you got to admit, Brenda Slaughter is steaming.”
“So admitted.”
“It might be fun for a night or two.”
Myron nodded into the phone. A lesser man might mentally conjure up a few choice images of the lithe, petite Hispanic beauty in the throes of passion with the ravishing black Amazon in the sports bra. But not Myron. Too worldly.
“Norm wants us to watch her,” Myron said. He filled her in. When he finished, he heard her sigh.
“What?” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Myron, are we a sports agency or Pinkertons?”
“It’s to get clients.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. So what do you need me to do?”
“Her father is missing. His name is Horace Slaughter. See what you can dig up on him.”
“I’ll need help here,” she said.
Myron rubbed his eyes. “I thought we were going to hire someone on a permanent basis.”
“Who has the time?”
Silence.
“Fine,” Myron said. He sighed. “Call Big Cyndi. But make sure she knows it’s just on a trial basis.”
“Okey-dokey.”
“And if any client comes in, I want Cyndi to hide in my office.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
She hung up the phone.
