“That supposed to be funny?”
Myron tilted his head. “You didn’t think so?”
“I’ll ask one more time: Who the hell are you?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
The coach’s scowl did not change. “Am I supposed to know you?”
It was a hot summer day, the campus was practically empty, and here sat the school’s legendary football coach wearing a suit and tie, watching videotapes of high school prospects. A suit and tie and no air conditioning. If the heat bothered Danny Clarke, it didn’t show. Everything about him was well groomed and tidy. He was shelling and eating peanuts, but no mess was visible. His jaw muscles bunched as he chewed, making little knobs appear and disappear near his ears. He had a prominent vein in his forehead.
“I’m a sports agent.”
He flicked his eyes away like a ruler dismissing an underling. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”
“We need to talk.”
“Out of here, asshole. Now.”
“I just—”
“Listen up, shithead.” He pointed a coach finger at Myron. “I don’t talk to bottom-feeders. Ever. I run a clean program with clean players. I don’t take payoffs from so-called agents or any of that bullshit. So if you got an envelope stuffed with green, you can go shove it up your ass.”
Myron clapped. “Beautiful. I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.”
Danny Clarke looked up sharply. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, but part of him seemed almost amused by it. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled, but more gently now. He turned back to the television. On the screen a young quarterback threw a long, tight spiral. Caught. Touchdown.
Myron decided to disarm him with tact. “The kid looks pretty good,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you’re a scum-sucking leech and not a scout. The kid can’t play a lick. Now take a hike.”
“I want to talk to you about Christian Steele.”
That got his attention. “What about him?”
“I’m his agent.”
“Oh,” Danny Clarke said. “Now I remember. You’re the old basketball player. The one who hurt his knee.”
“At your service,” Myron said.
“Is Christian okay?”
Myron tried to look noncommittal. “I understand he didn’t get along with his teammates.”
“So? You his social coordinator?”
“What was the problem?”
“I can’t see how it matters now,” he said.
“Then humor me.”
It took the coach some time to relax his glare. “It was a lot of things,” he said. “But I guess Horty was the main problem.”
“Horty?” Clever interrogation techniques. Pay attention.
“Junior Horton,” he explained. “A defensive lineman. Good speed, good size, good talent. The brains of a citrus beverage.”
“So what does this Horty have to do with Christian?”
“They didn’t see eye to eye.”
“How come?”
Danny Clarke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Something to do with that girl who disappeared.”
“Kathy Culver?”
“Right. Her.”
“What about her?”
He turned back to the VCR and changed tapes. Then he typed something on his computer. “I think maybe she dated Horty before Christian. Something like that.”
“So what happened?”
“Horty was a bad apple from the get-go. In his senior year I found out he was pushing drugs to my players: cocaine, dope, Lord knows what else. So I bounced him. Later, I heard he’d been supplying the guys with steroids for three years.”
Later my ass, Myron thought. But for once he kept the thought to himself. “So what does this have to do with Christian?”
“Rumors started circulating that Christian had gotten Horty thrown off the team. Horty fueled them, you know, telling the guys that Christian was turning them all in for using steroids, stuff like that.”
“Was that true?”
“Nope. Two of my best players showed up game day so stoned, they could barely see. That’s when I took action. Christian had nothing to do with it. But you know how it is. They all figured Christian was the star. If he wanted his ass wiped, the coaches asked Charmin or Downy.”
“Did you tell your guys Christian had nothing to do with it?”
He made a face. “You think that would have helped? They would have thought I was covering for him, protecting him. They would have hated him even more. As long as it didn’t affect their play—and it didn’t—it was not my concern. I just let it be.”
“You’re a real character developer, Coach.”
He gave Myron his best intimidate-the-freshman glare. The forehead vein started pulsing. “You’re out of line, Bolitar.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I care about my boys.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You let Horty stay as long as he pumped your boys with dangerous albeit play-enhancing drugs. When he graduated to the big leagues—to the stuff that had a negative on-the-field impact—all of a sudden you became a righteous drug czar.”
“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” Danny Clarke ranted. “Especially from a no-good, bloodsucking vampire. Get the hell out of my office. Now.”
Myron said, “You want to catch a movie together sometime? Maybe a Broadway show?”
“Out!”
Myron left. Another day, another friend. Charm was the key.
He had plenty of time to kill before he visited Sheriff Jake, so he decided to take a stroll. The campus was like a ghost town, except no tumbleweeds were skittering along the ground. The students were gone for summer break. The buildings stood lifeless and sad. In the distance a stereo was playing Elvis Costello. Two girls appeared. Co-ed types wearing crotch-riding shorts and halter tops. They were walking a hairy, little dog—a Shih Tzu. It looked like Cousin It after one too many spins in the dryer. Myron smiled and nodded as the girls passed him. Neither one fainted or disrobed. Astonishing. The little dog, however, snarled at him. Cujo.
He was nearly at his car when he spotted the sign:
CAMPUS POST OFFICE
He stopped, looked around the grounds, saw nobody. Hmm. It was worth a try.
The inside of the post office was painted institutional green, the same color as the school bathroom. A long V-shaped corridor was wallpapered with p.o. boxes. He heard the distant sound of a radio. He couldn’t make out the song, just a strong, monotonous bass beat.