Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“No, I think I’ll take it now.” Wiseass. He hit the speakerphone. “Bob?”

“Goddamn it, Bolitar, take me off the speaker. You’re not that goddamn important.”

Myron picked up the receiver. “That better?”

“Yeah, great. What do you want?”

“I got the contract today.”

“Well, yippee for you. Now, here’s what you do next. Step one: Sign it where the X is. You know how to do that, don’t you? I had your name typed under the X in case you’re unsure of the spelling. And use a pen, Myron. Blue or black ink, please. No crayons. Step two: Put the contract in the enclosed self-addressed envelope. Moisten the flap. With me so far?”

Good ol’ Bob. Funny as a case of head lice. “There’s a problem,” Myron said.

“A what?”

“A problem.”

“Look, Bolitar, if you’re trying to squeeze me for more dough, you can fuck yourself from behind.”

“Point thirty-seven. Paragraph C.”

“What about it?”

Myron read it out loud. “ ‘The player agrees that he will not engage in sports endangering his health or safety including, but not limited to, professional boxing or wrestling, motorcycling, moped riding, auto racing, skydiving, hang gliding, hunting, et cetera, et cetera.’ ”

“Yeah, so? It’s a prohibited activities clause. We got it from the NBA.”

“The NBA’s contract says nothing about hunting.”

“What?”

“Please, Bob, let’s try to pretend I don’t have a learning disability. You threw in the word hunting. Sneaked it in, if you will.”

“So what’s the big deal? Your boy hunts. He hurt himself in a hunting incident two years ago and missed half his junior year. We want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Then you have to compensate him for it,” Myron said.

“What? Don’t bust my balls, Bolitar. You want us to pay the kid if he gets hurt, right?”

“Right.”

“So we don’t want him hunting. Suppose he shoots himself. Or suppose some other asshole mistakes him for a deer and shoots him. You know what that’s going to cost us?”

“Your concern,” Myron said, “is touching.”

“Oh excuse me. A thousand pardons. I guess I should care more and pay less.”

“Good point. Strike my last statement.”

“So stricken. Can I go now?”

“My client enjoys hunting. It means a great deal to him.”

“And his left arm means a lot to us.”

“So I suggest a fair compromise.”

“What?”

“A bonus. If Sandy doesn’t hunt, you agree to pay him twenty thousand dollars at the end of the year.”

Laughter. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Then take that clause out. It’s not standard and we don’t want it.”

Pause. “Five grand. Not a penny more.”

“Fifteen.”

“Up yours, Myron. Eight.”

“Fifteen,” Myron said.

“I think you’re forgetting how this is played,” Bob said. “I say a number a little higher. You say a number a little lower. Then we meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Fifteen, Bob. Take it or leave it.”

Win opened the door and came in. He sat down silently, crossed his right ankle over his left thigh, and studied his manicured nails.

“Ten,” Bob said.

“Fifteen.”

The negotiation continued. Win stood, checked his reflection in the mirror behind the door. He was still fixing his hair five minutes later when Myron hung up. Not a blond lock was out of place, but that never seemed to deter Win.

“What was the final number?” Win asked.

“Thirteen five.”

Win nodded. He smiled at his reflection. “You know what I was just thinking?”

“What?”

“It must suck to be ugly.”

“Uh-huh. Think you can tear yourself away for a second?”

Win sighed. “It won’t be easy.”

“Try to be brave.”

“I guess I can always look again later.”

“Right. It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

With one last hair pat, Win turned away and sat down. “So what’s up?”

“The powder-blue Caddy is still following me.”

Win looked pleased. “And you want me to find out who they are?”

“Something like that,” Myron said.

“Excellent.”

“But I don’t want you to move in on them without me there.”

“You don’t trust my judgment?”

“Just don’t, okay?”

Win shrugged. “So how was your visit to the Van Slykes’ estate?”

“I met Kenneth. The two of us really hit it off.”

“I can imagine.”

“You know him?” Myron asked.

“Oh yes.”

“Is he as big an asshole as I think?”

Win spread his hands wide. “Of biblical proportions.”

“You know anything else about him?”

“Nothing significant.”

“Can you check him out?”

“But of course. What else did you find out?”

Myron told him about his visits to both the Van Slykes and Jake.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Win said when he finished.

“Yes.”

“So what’s the next step?” Win asked.

“I want to attack this from several directions.”

“Those being?”

“Valerie’s psychiatrist, for one.”

“Who will throw all kinds of terms like ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ at you,” Win said with a dismissive wave. “A waste of time. Who else?”

“Curtis Yeller’s mother witnessed her son’s shooting. She’s also Errol Swade’s aunt. Maybe she has some thoughts on all this.”

“For example?”

“Maybe she knows what happened to Errol.”

“And you—what?—expect her to tell you?”

“You never know.”

Win made a face. “So basically your plan is to flail about helplessly.”

“Pretty much. I will also need to talk to Senator Cross. Do you think you can arrange it?”

“I can try,” Win said. “But you’re not going to learn anything from him either.”