Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)
It hit Myron like a shot to the solar plexus. “Oh no,” he said.
“What?” Jessica asked.
Myron stood. “I’ve got to go.”
“Now?”
“I’ll be back. Make my excuses.”
28
The match was on the car radio. WFAN, 66 AM. From the sound of it Duane was not playing well. He had just dropped the first set 6–3 when Myron pulled into a lot off Central Park West in Manhattan.
Dr. Julie Abramson lived in a town house half a block down from her office. Myron rang the bell. There was a buzzing noise and then her voice came over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Myron Bolitar. It’s urgent.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then: “Second floor.” The buzzer sounded again. Myron pushed the door open. Julie Abramson was waiting for him on the stairwell.
“Did you call and hang up on me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see if you were home.”
He arrived at her door. They stood and faced each other. With their height difference—she well under five feet, he six-four—the sight was almost comical.
She looked up. Way up. “I still can’t deny or confirm that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine,” she said.
“That’s okay. I want to ask you about a hypothetical situation.”
“A hypothetical situation?”
He nodded.
“And that couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“No.”
Dr. Abramson sighed. “Come on in.”
She had the television turned on to the match. “I should have known,” she said. “The TV keeps flashing to Jessica Culver in the players’ box, but never you.”
“With her there they wouldn’t show me anyway.”
“The sportscaster says you two are an item. Is that true?”
Myron shrugged. Noncommittal. “What’s the score now?” he asked.
“Your client lost the first set 6–3,” she said. “He’s down 2–0 in this set.” She switched off the television with the remote and signaled to a chair. They both sat. “So tell me about your hypothetical situation, Myron.”
“I want to start off with a young girl. Fifteen years old. Pretty. From a well-to-do family, parents divorced, the father absent. She dates a boy from a prominent family. She’s also a tennis protégée.”
“This isn’t sounding too hypothetical,” Dr. Abramson said.
“Just bear with me a second. The young girl is such a great tennis player that her mother ships her off to an academy run by a world-famous tennis coach. When this young girl arrives at the academy she finds the competition cutthroat. Tennis is the most individual of sports. There is no team spirit here. There is no camaraderie. Everybody is vying for the approval of the world-famous coach. Tennis is not conducive to making friends.” Echoing Eddie’s words. “It isolates. Would you say that’s true, Doctor?”
“On the level you’re talking about, yes.”
“So when this young girl is uprooted from the life she has known and tossed into this rather hostile environment, she is not made to feel welcome. Far from it. The other girls see this new tennis protégée as a threat and when they realize what a magnificent player she is, the threat becomes reality. The other girls shun her all the more. She grows even more isolated.”
“Okay.”
“Now, this world-famous coach, he’s a bit Darwinian. Survival of the fittest and all that. He sort of plays a dual role here. On the one hand this isolation will force the girl to search for an escape, a place where she can thrive.”
“The tennis court?” Abramson said.
“Exactly. The young girl begins to practice even harder than before. But at the same time the world-famous coach is nice to her. While everyone else is cruel, the world-famous coach praises her. He spends time with her. He gets the most out of her.”
“Which in turn,” Dr. Abramson interjected, “isolates her from the other girls all the more.”
“Right. The young girl becomes dependent on the coach. She thinks he cares and like any eager student she wants—needs—his approval. She begins to play even harder. She also knows that pleasing the world-famous coach will also please her mother. She tries even harder. The cycle continues.”
Dr. Abramson had to see where Myron was going with this, but her face remained blank. “Go on,” she said.
“The tennis academy is not the real world. It’s a secluded domain ruled by the world-famous coach. But he acts like he cares for the young girl. He treats her like she’s something special. The young girl plays even harder, pushing herself more than she could ever imagine—not for herself, but to please him. Maybe he offers her a pat on the back after practice. Maybe he rubs her sore shoulders. Maybe they have dinner one night to discuss her tennis. Who knows how it started?”
“How what started?” Abramson asked.
Myron chose to ignore the question. For now. “The young girl and world-famous coach start touring together,” he continued. “She starts playing competitive tennis against women who again treat her as a feared rival. But now the young girl and the world-famous coach are alone. On the road. Staying in hotels.”
“More isolation,” Abramson offered.
“She plays well. She’s beautiful, she’s young, she’s American. The press begins to swarm. The sudden attention frightens her. But the world-famous coach is there to protect her.”
“She becomes more dependent on him.”
Myron nodded. “Now let’s remember that the world-famous coach is a former world-famous player himself. He is accustomed to the narcissistic lifestyle that goes along with being a professional athlete. He is used to doing as he pleases. And that’s exactly what he does with this girl.”
Silence.
“Could this happen, Doc? In theory?”
Dr. Abramson cleared her throat. “In theory, yes. Whenever a man wields power and authority over a woman the potential for abuse is high. But in your scenario the potential for abuse is maximized. The man is older, the woman no more than a child. A teacher or a boss might control their victim for a few hours a day, but in your scenario the coach is both omnipotent and omnipresent.”
They looked at each other.
“The girl in my scenario,” Myron said softly. “Her play would deteriorate if he abused her?”