Myron knew. Juvenile, sexist, homophobic bantering—that was the stuff of locker-room popularity.

“I gotta go, man. Win will be wondering where I am.”

“Okay. I’ll see you around.”

Ricky had almost turned away when Myron thought of something else. “What can you tell me about Kathy Culver?”

Ricky’s face blanched. “What about her?”

“Did you know her?”

“A little, I guess. I mean, she was a cheerleader and dated the quarterback. But we never hung out or anything.” He looked very unhappy now. “Why you asking?”

“Was she popular? Or was she hated too?”

Ricky’s eyes darted about like birds trying to find a safe place to land. “Look, Myron, you always been straight with me, I always been straight with you, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t want to say nothing else. She’s dead. Might as well let her be.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I just don’t like talking about her, okay. It’s kinda creepy. I’ll see you later.”

Ricky hurried down the corridor as if Reggie White were chasing him. Myron watched him. He debated following him but decided against it. Ricky would say no more today.

Chapter 12

Esperanza stuck her head in the door. “Someone—or something—is here to see you.”

Myron held up a silencing hand. The headset had been on since his return to his office. “Look, I have to go,” he said. “See if you can get him upgraded to first class. He’s a big guy. Thanks.” He took off the headset. “Who is it?”

She made a face. “Aaron. He didn’t give a last name.”

He didn’t have to. “Send him in.”

Seeing Aaron was like falling into a time warp. He was as big as Myron remembered, as big as the lummox in the garage. He was dressed in a freshly pressed white suit, but he wore no shirt with it, displaying plenty of tan pectoral cleavage. He wasn’t wearing socks either. Nifty haircut, the swept-back look à la Pat Riley. A saunter for a walk. Designer sunglasses. Designer cologne that smelled suspiciously like insect repellent. Aaron was the pure definition of “supersmooth”—just ask him, he’d tell you.

He smiled widely. “Nice to see you, Myron.”

They shook hands. Myron did not squeeze. He was far too mature. That, and Aaron could probably squeeze harder. “Have a seat.”

“Wonderful.” Aaron made a production of it, spreading out his arms as if he were wearing a cloak. He removed his sunglasses with an audible snap. “I like your office. It’s really great.”

“Thank you.”

“Great address. Great view.”

The password is great. “You looking to rent space?”

Aaron laughed as if that were the gem of gems. “No,” he said. “I don’t like being cooped in an office. It’s not my style. I like my freedom. I like being out on my own, on the road. I wouldn’t do well chained to a desk.”

“Wow, that’s fascinating, Aaron. Really.”

He laughed again. “Ah, Myron, you haven’t changed a bit. I’m glad to see it.”

They hadn’t seen each other since high school. Myron had gone to Livingston High School in New Jersey. Aaron had gone to his archenemy, West Orange High. The teams played each other twice a year, and it was rarely a pleasant encounter.

In those days Myron’s best friend was a huge ox named Todd Midron. Todd was a big, softhearted, simple kid with a lisp. He played Lenny to Myron’s George. He was also the toughest kid Myron had ever met.

Todd never lost a fight. Never. No one ever came close to him. He was just too powerful. During a game their senior year, Aaron undercut and nearly injured Myron. Todd took exception. He went after Aaron. Aaron destroyed him. Myron tried to help his friend, but Aaron shrugged Myron off like a dandruff flake. He continued to pulverize Todd, steadily, methodically, glaring at Myron the whole time, not even glancing at his limp victim. The beating was ferocious. By the time it ended, Todd’s face was an unrecognizable pulpy mess. Todd spent four months in a hospital. His jaw was wired shut for nearly a year.

“Hey,” Aaron said. He pointed to a movie still on the wall. “That’s Woody Allen and what’s-her-name.”

“Diane Keaton.”

“Right, Diane Keaton.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Myron asked.

Aaron turned his whole body toward Myron. The glare from his shaved chest was nearly blinding. “I think there is, Myron. In fact, I think there’s something we can do for each other.”

“Oh?”

“I represent a competitor of yours. A certain dispute has arisen between the two of you. My client wishes to settle it peacefully.”

“Are you an attorney now, Aaron?”

He smiled. “Not likely.”

“Oh.”

“I am referring to a young man named Chaz Landreaux. He recently signed a contract with your company, MB SportReps.”

“I thought of the name myself.”

“Pardon me.”

“MB SportReps. I came up with the name by myself.”

Aaron renewed his smile. It was a good smile. Lots of teeth. “There is a problem with the contract.”

“Do tell.”

“You see, Mr. Landreaux has also signed a contract with Roy O’Connor at TruPro Enterprises, Incorporated. The contract predates yours. So you see the problem: Your contract is invalid.”

“Why don’t we let a court of law decide that?”

He sighed deeply. “My client feels it is in everyone’s best interest to avoid litigation.”

“Gee, what a surprise. So what does your client suggest?”

“Mr. O’Connor would be willing to pay you for your time.”

“Very generous of him.”

“Yes.”

“And if I say no?”

“We hope it won’t come to that.”

“But if it does?”

Aaron sighed, stood, leaned on Myron’s desk. “I’ll be forced to make you disappear.”

“Like in a magic trick?”

“Like in dead.”

Myron put his hand to his chest. “Gasp. Oh. Gasp.”

Aaron laughed again, this time without humor. “I know all about your tae kwon do display in the garage. But that guy was a stupid musclehead. I am not. I boxed professionally. I’m a black belt in jujitsu and a grand master in aikido. I’ve killed people.”

Tags: Harlan Coben Myron Bolitar Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net