Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

A possibility. Myron tried it on and walked around a bit, but it just didn’t feel right.

“Oh, one other thing,” Win replied.

“What?”

“Aaron is in town.”

Myron felt a quick chill. “What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably just a coincidence,” Myron said.

“Probably.”

Silence.

Win sat back and steepled his fingers. The match began. Duane’s play was nothing short of spectacular. He cruised through the first set 6–2. He stumbled a bit in the second, but came on to win it 7–5. Jacques Potiline had had enough. Duane whipped him in the final set 6–1.

Another impressive victory.

As the players left the court, Henry Hobman stood. His face remained locked on grim. He chewed at the inside of his mouth. “Better,” he said tightly. “But not great.”

“Stop gushing, Henry. It’s embarrassing.”

Ned Tunwell sprinted down the steps toward Myron. His arms were flapping like a kid making windmills in the snow. Several other Nike execs followed him. There were tears in Ned’s eyes.

“I knew it!” Ned shouted in glee. He shook Myron’s hand, hugged him, turned to Win, pumped his hand too. Win pulled his hand back and wiped it on his pants. “I just knew it!”

Myron simply nodded.

“Soon! So soon!” Ned cried. “The promo of the year begins! Everyone is going to know the name Duane Richwood! He was fantastic, utterly fantastic! I can’t believe it. I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited before!”

“You’re not going to come again, are you, Ned?”

“Oh, Myron!” He nudged Win playfully with his elbow. “Is he a kidder or what?”

“A gifted comedian,” Win agreed.

Ned slapped Win’s shoulder. Win visibly winced but did not break the offending hand. Amazing restraint for Win.

“Look, guys,” Ned said, “I’d love to stand here and chat all day. But I gotta run.”

Win managed to hide his disappointment.

“Ciao for now. Myron, we’ll talk, okay?”

Myron nodded.

“Bye, guys.” Ned skipped—actually skipped—back up the stairs.

Win watched him depart with something approaching horror. “What,” he asked, “was that?”

“A bad dream. I’ll meet you back at the office.”

“Where are you going?” Win asked.

“To talk to Duane. I have to ask him about Valerie’s call.”

“Let it go until after the tournament.”

Myron shook his head. “Can’t.”

15

Myron waited for the press conference to end. It took some time. Duane was holding court, firmly in his element. The media had a new darling. Duane Richwood. Cocky but not obnoxious. Confident yet gracious. Handsome. American.

When the hordes of press finally ran out of questions, Myron accompanied Duane back to the dressing room. He sat on a chair next to Duane’s locker. Duane took off his sunglasses and put them on the top shelf.

“Some match, huh?” Duane said.

Myron nodded.

“Hey, this win oughta make Nike happy.”

“Orgasmic,” Myron agreed.

“They going to air the ad during my next match, right?”

“Yep.”

Duane shook his head. “Quarterfinal, at the U.S. Open,” he said in awe. “I can’t believe it, Myron. We’re on our way.”

“Duane?”

“Yeah?”

“I know Valerie called you,” Myron said.

Duane stopped. “What?”

“She called your apartment twice. From a pay phone near her hotel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Duane quickly reached for the sunglasses, fumbled them, put them on.

“I want to help you, Duane.”

“Nothing to help me with.”

“Duane …”

“Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Look, Myron, I don’t need distractions right now. Just drop it.”

“She’s dead, Duane. That just won’t go away.”

Duane took off his shirt and began toweling off his chest. “Some stalker killed her,” he said. “I saw it on the news. Got nothing to do with me.”

“Why did she call you, Duane?”

His hands were clenching and unclenching. “You work for me, right?”

“Right.”

“Then drop it or you’re fired.”

Myron looked at him. “No,” he said.

Duane sunk into a chair, his head in his hands. “Shit, I’m sorry, Myron. I didn’t mean that. It’s just the pressure. What with this tournament and that Dimonte cop accusing me and all. Look, just forget I said anything, okay? Just forget this whole conversation happened.”

“No.”

“What?”

“Why did she call you, Duane?”

“Man, don’t you listen?”

“Not well.”

“Just stay out of it.”

“No.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the murder.”

“Then you admit she called you?”

Duane stood, turned his back toward Myron, leaned against his locker.

“Duane?”

His words were soft. “Yeah, she called me. So what?”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say we were acquainted. Intimately, if you get my drift.”

“You and Valerie …?” Myron made futile hand gestures.

Duane nodded slowly. “It was no big thing. Just a few times.”

“When did this start?”

“Couple of months ago.”

“Where did you meet?”

He looked at Myron, confused. “At a tournament.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember. New Haven, I think. But it was over quick.”

“So why did you lie to the police?”

“Why do you think?” he countered. “Wanda was standing right there. I love her, man. I made a mistake. I didn’t want to hurt her. Is that so wrong?”

“So why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“What?”

“When I asked you just now. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Same reason.”

“But Wanda isn’t here.”

“I was ashamed, okay?”

“Ashamed?”

“I’m not proud of what I did.”