The Final Detail
Page 19
lot of clients are calling too. They're concerned."
"Patch them through. Get rid of everybody else."
"Yes, Mr. Bolitar." Like she wanted to salute. Big Cyndi handed him a pile of blue slips. "These are this morning's calls from clients."
He started thumbing through the stack.
"For your information," Big Cyndi continued, "we told everyone you were just gone for a day or two at first. Then a week or two. Then we started faking emergencies for you: family illnesses, helping a sick client, that sort of thing. But some clients got tired of the excuses."
He nodded. "You have a list of who left us?"
It was already in her hand. She handed it to him, and he started toward his office.
"Mr. Bolitar?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Will Esperanza be okay?"
Again the tiny, distant voice belied her bulk, as though the looming form in front of him had swallowed a small child and the small child were now calling for help. "Yes, Big Cyndi. She'll be fine."
"You'll help her, won't you? Even though she doesn't want you to?"
Myron gave her a half nod. That didn't seem to satisfy her. So he said, "Yes."
"Good, Mr. Bolitar. That's the right thing to do."
He had nothing to add to that so he entered his inner office. Myron had not been to MB in six weeks. Strange. He had worked so hard and so long to build up MB SportsReps-M for Myron, B for Bolitar, snappy name, no?-and he had just abandoned her. Just like that. Abandoned his business. And his clients. And Esperanza.
The renovations had been completed-they'd sliced a bit of space out of the conference room and reception area so that Esperanza could have an office of her own-but the new room remained unfurnished. So Esperanza had been using his office. He sat at his desk and immediately the phone started ringing. He ignored it for a few seconds, his eyes latched on the client wall, the one with action photos of all the athletes MB represented. He zeroed in on Clu Haid's image. Clu was on the pitcher's mound, leaning forward, about to go into a stretch, his cheek bulging with tobacco chaw, his eyes squinting at a sign he would undoubtedly shake off.
"What did you do this time, Clu?" he said out loud.
The photo didn't reply, which was probably a good thing. But Myron continued to stare. He had pulled Clu out of so many jams over the years that he had to wonder: If he had not run off to the Caribbean, would he have been able to pull Clu out of this one too?
Useless introspection-one of Myron's many talents.
Big Cyndi buzzed him. "Mr. Bolitar?"
"Yes."
"I know you told me to only patch through clients, but Sophie Mayor is on the line."
Sophie Mayor was the new owner of the Yankees.
"Put her through." He heard a click and said hello.
"Myron, my God. What the hell is going on here?" Sophie Mayor wasn't big on chitchat.
"I'm still trying to sort it out myself."
"They think your secretary killed Clu."
"Esperanza is my partner," he corrected, though he was not sure why. "And she didn't kill anyone."
"I'm sitting here with Jared." Jared was her son and the "co-general manager" of the Yankees-co meaning shares the title with someone who knows what he's doing because he got the job through nepotism. Jared meaning born after 1973. "We need to tell the press something."
"I'm not sure how I can help, Ms. Mayor."
"You told me Clu was past all this, Myron."
He said nothing.
"The drugs, the drinking, the partying, the trouble," Sophie Mayor continued. "You said it was in the past."
He was about to defend himself but thought better of it. "I think it's better if we talk about all this in person," Myron said.
"Jared and I are on the road with the team. We're in Cleveland right now. We're flying home tonight."
"How about tomorrow morning then?"
"We'll be at the stadium," she said. "Eleven o'clock."
"I'll be there."
He hung up the phone. Big Cyndi immediately put through a client call.
"Myron here."
"Where the hell have you been?"
It was Marty Towey, a defensive tackle for the Vikings. Myron took a deep breath and let loose his semiprepared oration: he was back, things were great, don't worry, the financials are terrific, got the new contract right here, busy securing new endorsements, blah, blah, soothe, soothe.
Marty was a tough sell. "Dammit, Myron, I chose MB because I didn't want underlings handling me. I wanted to deal with the big boss. You know what I'm saying?"
"Sure, Marty."
"Esperanza's nice and all. But she ain't
"Patch them through. Get rid of everybody else."
"Yes, Mr. Bolitar." Like she wanted to salute. Big Cyndi handed him a pile of blue slips. "These are this morning's calls from clients."
He started thumbing through the stack.
"For your information," Big Cyndi continued, "we told everyone you were just gone for a day or two at first. Then a week or two. Then we started faking emergencies for you: family illnesses, helping a sick client, that sort of thing. But some clients got tired of the excuses."
He nodded. "You have a list of who left us?"
It was already in her hand. She handed it to him, and he started toward his office.
"Mr. Bolitar?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Will Esperanza be okay?"
Again the tiny, distant voice belied her bulk, as though the looming form in front of him had swallowed a small child and the small child were now calling for help. "Yes, Big Cyndi. She'll be fine."
"You'll help her, won't you? Even though she doesn't want you to?"
Myron gave her a half nod. That didn't seem to satisfy her. So he said, "Yes."
"Good, Mr. Bolitar. That's the right thing to do."
He had nothing to add to that so he entered his inner office. Myron had not been to MB in six weeks. Strange. He had worked so hard and so long to build up MB SportsReps-M for Myron, B for Bolitar, snappy name, no?-and he had just abandoned her. Just like that. Abandoned his business. And his clients. And Esperanza.
The renovations had been completed-they'd sliced a bit of space out of the conference room and reception area so that Esperanza could have an office of her own-but the new room remained unfurnished. So Esperanza had been using his office. He sat at his desk and immediately the phone started ringing. He ignored it for a few seconds, his eyes latched on the client wall, the one with action photos of all the athletes MB represented. He zeroed in on Clu Haid's image. Clu was on the pitcher's mound, leaning forward, about to go into a stretch, his cheek bulging with tobacco chaw, his eyes squinting at a sign he would undoubtedly shake off.
"What did you do this time, Clu?" he said out loud.
The photo didn't reply, which was probably a good thing. But Myron continued to stare. He had pulled Clu out of so many jams over the years that he had to wonder: If he had not run off to the Caribbean, would he have been able to pull Clu out of this one too?
Useless introspection-one of Myron's many talents.
Big Cyndi buzzed him. "Mr. Bolitar?"
"Yes."
"I know you told me to only patch through clients, but Sophie Mayor is on the line."
Sophie Mayor was the new owner of the Yankees.
"Put her through." He heard a click and said hello.
"Myron, my God. What the hell is going on here?" Sophie Mayor wasn't big on chitchat.
"I'm still trying to sort it out myself."
"They think your secretary killed Clu."
"Esperanza is my partner," he corrected, though he was not sure why. "And she didn't kill anyone."
"I'm sitting here with Jared." Jared was her son and the "co-general manager" of the Yankees-co meaning shares the title with someone who knows what he's doing because he got the job through nepotism. Jared meaning born after 1973. "We need to tell the press something."
"I'm not sure how I can help, Ms. Mayor."
"You told me Clu was past all this, Myron."
He said nothing.
"The drugs, the drinking, the partying, the trouble," Sophie Mayor continued. "You said it was in the past."
He was about to defend himself but thought better of it. "I think it's better if we talk about all this in person," Myron said.
"Jared and I are on the road with the team. We're in Cleveland right now. We're flying home tonight."
"How about tomorrow morning then?"
"We'll be at the stadium," she said. "Eleven o'clock."
"I'll be there."
He hung up the phone. Big Cyndi immediately put through a client call.
"Myron here."
"Where the hell have you been?"
It was Marty Towey, a defensive tackle for the Vikings. Myron took a deep breath and let loose his semiprepared oration: he was back, things were great, don't worry, the financials are terrific, got the new contract right here, busy securing new endorsements, blah, blah, soothe, soothe.
Marty was a tough sell. "Dammit, Myron, I chose MB because I didn't want underlings handling me. I wanted to deal with the big boss. You know what I'm saying?"
"Sure, Marty."
"Esperanza's nice and all. But she ain't
