Back Spin (Myron Bolitar 4)

“Indeed I do,” Win said.

“You know what I’ve gone through to get her back.”

“Indeed I do.”

“I still don’t get it,” Myron said. “That’s why Jess called you? Because my voice sounded strained?”

“Not entirely, no. She’d heard about Jack Coldren’s murder. Naturally, she was upset. She asked me to watch your back.”

“What did you tell her?”

“No.”

Silence.

Win lifted the snifter in the air. He swirled around the liquid and inhaled deeply. “So what did you wish to discuss with me?”

“I met your mother today.”

Win took a slow sip. He let the liquid roll over his tongue, his eyes studying the bottom of the glass. After he swallowed, he said, “Pretend I just gasped in surprise.”

“She wanted me to give you a message.”

A small smile came to Win’s lips. “I assume that dear ma-ma told you what happened.”

“Yes.”

A bigger smile now. “So now you know it all, eh, Myron?”

“No.”

“Oh come, come, don’t make it so easy. Give me some of that pop psychology you’re so fond of expounding. An eight-year-old boy witnessing his grunting mother on all fours with another man—surely that scarred me emotionally. Can we not trace back everything I’ve become to that one dastardly moment? Isn’t this episode the reason why I treat women the way I do, why I build an emotional fortress around myself, why I choose fists where others choose words? Come now, Myron. You must have considered all this. Tell me all. I am sure it will all be oh-so-insightful.”

Myron waited a beat. “I’m not here to analyze you, Win.”

“No?”

“No.”

Win’s eyes hardened. “Then wipe that pity off your face.”

“It’s not pity,” Myron said. “It’s concern.”

“Oh please.”

“It may have happened twenty-five years ago, but it had to hurt. Maybe it didn’t shape you. Maybe you would have ended up the exact same person you are today. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

Win relaxed his jaw. He picked up the snifter. It was empty. He poured himself more. “I no longer wish to discuss this,” he said. “You know now why I want nothing to do with Jack Coldren or my mother. Let us move on.”

“There’s still the matter of her message.”

“Ah, yes, the message,” Win repeated. “You are aware, are you not, that dear ma-ma still sends me presents on my birthday and assorted holidays?”

Myron nodded. They had never discussed it. But he knew.

“I return them unopened,” Win said. He took another sip. “I think I will do the same with this message.”

“She’s dying, Win. Cancer. She has maybe a week or two.”

“I know.”

Myron sat back. His throat felt dry.

“Is that the entire message?”

“She wanted you to know that it’s your last chance to talk to her,” Myron said.

“Well, yes, that’s true. It would be very difficult for us to chat after she’s dead.”

Myron was flailing now. “She’s not expecting any kind of big reconciliation. But if there are any issues you want to resolve …” Myron stopped. He was being redundant and obvious now. Win hated that.

“That’s it?” Win asked. “That’s your big message?”

Myron nodded.

“Fine, then. I’m going to order some Chinese. I hope that will be suitable with you.”

Win rose from his seat and strolled toward the kitchen.

“You claim it didn’t change you,” Myron said. “But before that day, did you love her?”

Win’s face was a stone. “Who says I don’t love her now?”

34

The driver brought Tad Crispin in through the back entrance.

Win and Myron had been watching television. A commercial came on for Scope. A married couple in bed woke up and turned their heads in disgust. Morning breath, the voice-over informed them. You need Scope. Scope cures morning breath.

Myron said, “So would, say, brushing your teeth?”

Win nodded.

Myron opened the door and led Tad into the living room. Tad sat on a couch across from Myron and Win. He glanced about, his eyes searching for a spot to settle on but not having any luck. He smiled weakly.

“Would you care for a beverage?” Win asked. “A croissant or a Pop Tart perhaps?” The Host with the Most.

“No, thank you.” Another weak smile.

Myron leaned forward. “Tad, tell us about Learner Shelton’s call.”

The kid dove right in. “He said that he wanted to congratulate me on my victory. That the USGA had officially declared me the U.S. Open champion.” For a moment, Tad stopped. His eyes hazed over, the words hitting him anew. Tad Crispin, U.S. Open champion. The stuff of dreams.

“What else did he say?”

Crispin’s eyes slowly cleared. “He’s holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon. At Merion. They’ll give me the trophy and a check for $360,000.”

Myron did not waste time. “First of all, we tell the media that you do not consider yourself the U.S. Open champion. If they want to call you that, fine. If the USGA wants to call you that, fine. You, however, believe that the tournament ended in a tie. Death should not rob Jack Coldren of his magnificent accomplishment or his claim to the title. A tie it ended. A tie it is. From your vantage point, you two are co-winners. Do you understand?”

Tad was hesitant. “I think so.”

“Now, about that check.” Myron strummed the end table with his fingers. “If they insist on giving you the full winner’s purse, you’ll have to donate Jack’s portion to charity.”

“Victims’ rights,” Win said.

Myron nodded. “That would be good. Something against violence—”

“Wait a second,” Tad interrupted. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs. “You want me to give away $180,000?”

“It’ll be a tax write-off,” Win said. “That knocks the value down to half that.”

“And it’ll be chicken feed compared to the positive press you’ll get,” Myron added.

“But I was charging back,” Tad insisted. “I had the momentum. I would have won.”

Myron leaned in a little closer. “You’re an athlete, Tad. You’re competitive and confident. That’s good—heck, that’s great. But not in this situation. This murder story is huge. It transcends sports. For most of the world’s population, this will be their first look at Tad Crispin. We want them to see someone likable. Someone decent and trustworthy and modest. If we brag now about what a great golfer you are—if we dwell on your comeback rather than this tragedy—people are going to see you as cold, as another example of what’s wrong with today’s athletes. Do you see what I’m saying?”