One False Move

  "Did you call the police?"

  "No. But not because I was afraid. Cowards like that don't scare me. But Horace told me not to."

  "Mrs. Edwards," Myron said, "where is Horace?"

  "I've already said too much, Myron. I just want you to understand. These people are dangerous. For all I know, you're working for them. For all I know, your coming here is just a trick to find Horace."

  Myron was not sure what to say. To protest his innocence would do little to assuage her fears. He decided to switch tracks and head in a completely different direction. "What can you tell me about Brenda's mother?"

  Mabel Edwards stiffened. She dropped the knitting into her lap, the half-moon glasses falling back to her bosom. "Why on earth would you ask about that?"

  "A few minutes ago I told you that somebody broke into your brother's apartment."

  "I remember."

  "Brenda's letters from her mother were missing. And Brenda has been receiving threatening phone calls. One of them told her to call her mother."

  Mabel Edwards's face went slack. Her eyes began to glisten.

  After some time had passed, Myron tried again. "Do you remember when she ran away?"

  Her eyes regained focus. "You don't forget the day your brother dies." Her voice was barely a whisper. She shook her head. "I can't see how any of this matters. Anita's been gone for twenty years."

  "Please, Mrs. Edwards, tell me what you remember."

  "Not much to tell," Mabel said. "She left my brother a note and ran away."

  "Do you remember what the note said?"

  "Something about how she didn't love him anymore, how she wanted a new life." Mabel Edwards stopped, waved her hand as though making space for herself. She took a handkerchief out of her bag and just held it in a tight ball.

  "Could you tell me what she was like?"

  "Anita?" She smiled now, but the handkerchief remained at the ready. "I introduced them, you know. Anita and I worked together."

  "Where?"

  "The Bradford estate. We were maids. We were young girls then, barely in our twenties. I only worked there for six months. But Anita, she stayed on for six years, slaving for those people."

  "When you say the Bradford estate--"

  "I mean, the Bradfords. Anita was a servant really. For the old lady mostly. That woman must be eighty by now. But they all lived there. Children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters. Like on Dallas. I don't think that's healthy, do you?"

  Myron had no comment on that.

  "Anyway, when I met Anita, I thought she was a fine young woman except"--she looked in the air as though searching for the right words, then shook her head because they weren't there--"well, she was just too beautiful. I don't know how else to say it. Beauty like that warps a man's brain, Myron. Now Brenda, she's attractive, I guess. Exotic, I think they call it. But Anita...hold on. I'll find you a picture."

  She stood fluidly and semiglided out of the room. Despite her size, Mabel moved with the unlabored grace of a natural athlete. Horace too moved like that, blending bulk with finesse in an almost poetic way. She was gone for less than a minute, and when she returned, she handed him a photograph. Myron looked down.

  A knockout. A pure, undiluted, knee-knocking, breath-stealing knockout. Myron understood the power a woman like that had over a man. Jessica had that kind of beauty. It was intoxicating and more than a little scary.

  He studied the photograph. A young Brenda--no more than four or five years old--held her mother's hand and smiled brightly. Myron tried to imagine Brenda smiling like that now, but the image would not form. There was a resemblance between mother and daughter, but as Mabel had pointed out, Anita Slaughter was certainly more beautiful--at least in the conventional sense--her features sharper and more defined where Brenda's seemed large and almost mismatched.

  "Anita put a dagger through Horace when she ran off," Mabel Edwards continued. "He never recovered. Brenda neither. She was only a little girl when her mama left. She cried every night for three years. Even when she was in high school, Horace said she'd call out for her mama in her sleep."

  Myron finally looked up from the picture. "Maybe she didn't run away," he said.

  Mabel's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "Maybe she met up with foul play."

  A sad smile crossed Mabel Edwards's face. "I understand," she said gently. "You look at that picture and you can't accept it. You can't believe a mother would abandon that sweet little child. I know. It's hard. But she did it."

  "The note could have been a forgery," Myron tried. "To throw Horace off the track."

  She shook her head. "No."

  "You can't be sure--"

  "Anita calls me."

  Myron froze. "What?"

  "Not often. Maybe once every two years. She'd ask about Brenda. I'd beg her to come back. She'd hang up."

  "Do you have any idea where she was calling from?"

  Mabel shook her head. "In the beginning it sounded like long distance. There'd be static. I always figured she was overseas."

  "When was the last time she called you?"

  There was no hesitation. "Three years ago. I told her about Brenda getting accepted to medical school."

  "Nothing since?"

  "Not a word."

  "And you're sure it was her?" Myron realized that he was reaching.

  "Yes," she said. "It was Anita."

  "Did Horace know about the calls?"

  "At first I told him. But it was like ripping at a wound that wasn't closing anyhow. So I stopped. But I think maybe she called him too."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "He said something about it once when he had too much to drink. When I asked him about it later, he denied it, and I didn't push him. You have to understand, Myron. We never talked about Anita. But she was always right there. In the room with us. You know what I'm saying?"

  The silence moved in like a cloud covering. Myron waited for it to disperse, but it hung there, thick and heavy.

  "I'm very tired, Myron. Can we talk more about this another time?"

  "Of course." He rose. "If your brother calls again--"

  "He won't. He thinks maybe they bugged the phone. I haven't heard from him in almost a week."

  "Do you know where he is, Mrs. Edwards?"

  "No. Horace said it'd be safer that way."

  Myron took a business card and a pen. He jotted down the number of his cellular phone. "I can be reached at this number twenty-four hours a day."

  She nodded, drained, the simple act of reaching for the card suddenly a chore.

  "I wasn't totally honest with you yesterday."

  Norm Zuckerman and Myron sat alone in the top row of the stands. Below them the New York Dolphins scrimmaged five-on-five. Myron was impressed. The women moved with finesse and strength. Being something of the semisexist Brenda had described, he had expected their movements to be more awkward, more the old stereotype of "throwing like a girl."

  "You want to hear something funny?" Norm asked. "I hate sports. Me, owner of Zoom, the sports apparel king, detests anything to do with a ball or a bat or a hoop or any of that. Know why?"

  Myron shook his head.

  "I was always bad at them. A major spaz, as the kids say today. My older brother, Herschel, now he was an athlete." He looked off. When he started speaking again, his voice was throaty. "So gifted, sweet Heshy. You remind me of him, Myron. I'm not just saying that. I still miss him. Dead at fifteen."

  Myron did not need to ask how. Norm's entire family had been slaughtered in Auschwitz. They all went in; only Norm came out. Today was warm, and Norm was wearing short sleeves. Myron could see his concentration camp tattoo and no matter how many times he saw one, he always fell into a respectful hush.

  "This league"--Norm motioned toward the court--"it's a long shot. I understood that from the start. It's why I link so much of the league promotion with the clothing. If the WPBA goes down the tubes, well, at least Zoom athletic wear would have gotte
n a ton of exposure out of it. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes."

  "And let's face it: without Brenda Slaughter, the investment is shot. The league, the endorsements, the tie-in with the clothing, the whole thing goes kaput. If you wanted to destroy this enterprise, you would go through her."

  "And you think someone wants to do that?"

  "Are you kidding? Everybody wants to do that. Nike, Converse, Reebok, whoever. It's the nature of the beast. If the sneaker were on the other foot, so to speak, I would want the same thing. It's called capitalism. It's Economics one-oh-one. But this is different, Myron. Have you heard of the PWBL?"

  "No."

  "You aren't supposed to. Yet. It stands for the Professional Women's Basketball League."

  Myron sat up a bit. "A second women's basketball league?"

  Norm nodded. "They want to start up next year."

  On the court Brenda got the ball and drove hard baseline. A player jumped up to block the shot. Brenda pump-faked, glided under the basket, and made a reverse layup. Improvised ballet.

  "Let me guess," Myron said. "This other league. It's being set up by TruPro."

  "How did you know that?"

  Myron shrugged. Things were beginning to click.

  "Look, Myron, it's like I said before: Women's basketball is a tough sell. I'm promoting it a ton of different ways--to sports nuts, women eighteen to thirty-five, families who want something more genteel, fans who want more access to athletes--but at the end of the day there is one problem that this league will never overcome."

  "What's that?"

  Again Norm motioned to the court below them. "They're not as good as the men. I'm not being a chauvinist here. It's a fact. The men are better. The best player on this team could never compete against the worst player in the NBA. And when people watch professional sports, they want to watch the best. I'm not saying that the problem destroys us. I think we can build a nice fan base. But we have to be realistic."

  Myron massaged his face with his hands. He felt a headache coming on. TruPro wanted to start a women's basketball league. It made sense. Sports agencies were moving in that direction, aiming to corner markets. IMG, one of the world's biggest agencies, ran entire golf events. If you can own an event or run a league, you can make money a dozen different ways--not to mention how many clients you'd pick up. If a young golfer, for example, wanted to qualify for the big moneymaking IMG events, wouldn't he naturally want to have IMG as his sports rep?

  "Myron?"

  "Yes, Norm."

  "Do you know this TruPro well?"

  Myron nodded. "Oh, yeah."

  "I got hemorrhoids older than this kid they're making league commissioner. You should see him. He comes up to me and shakes my hand and gives me this icy smile. Then he tells me they're going to wipe me out. Just like that. Hello, I'm going to wipe you off the face of the earth." Norm looked at Myron. "Are they, you know, connected?" He bent his nose with his index fingers in case Myron did not get the drift.

  "Oh, yeah," Myron said again. Then he added, "Very."

  "Great. Just great."

  "So what do you want to do, Norm?"

  "I don't know. I don't run and hide--I had enough of that in my life--but if I'm putting these girls in danger--"

  "Forget they're women."

  "What?"

  "Pretend it's a men's league."

  "What, you think this is about sex? I wouldn't want men in danger either, okay?"

  "Okay," Myron said. "Has TruPro said anything else to you?"

  "No."

  "No threats, nothing?"

  "Just this kid and his wipeout stuff. But don't you think they're probably the ones making the threats?"

  It made sense, Myron guessed. Old gangsters had indeed moved into more legitimate enterprises--why limit yourself to prostitution and drugs and loan sharking when there were so many other ways to turn a buck?--but even with the best of intentions, it never worked out. Guys like the Aches couldn't help themselves really. They'd start out legit, but once things got the slightest bit tough, once they lost out on a contract or a sale or something, they reverted back to their old ways. Couldn't help it. Corruption too was a terrible addiction, but where were the support groups?

  In this case TruPro would quickly realize that it needed to get Brenda away from its competition. So it started applying pressure. It put the screws to her manager--her father--and then moved on to Brenda herself. It was a classic scare tactic. But that scenario was not without problems. The phone call that mentioned Brenda's mother, for example--how did that fit in?

  The coach blew the whistle ending practice. She gathered her players around, reminded them that they needed to be back in two hours for the second session, thanked them for their hustle, dismissed them with a clap.

  Myron waited for Brenda to shower and get dressed. It didn't take her long. She came out in a long red T-shirt and black jeans, her hair still wet.

  "Did Mabel know anything?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Has she heard from Dad?"

  Myron nodded. "She says he's on the run. Two men came to her house looking for him. They roughed her up a bit."

  "My God, is she okay?"

  "Yes."

  She shook her head. "What's he on the run from?"

  "Mabel doesn't know."

  Brenda looked at him, waited a beat. "What else?" she said.

  Myron cleared his throat. "Nothing that can't wait."

  She kept looking at him. Myron turned and headed for his car. Brenda followed.

  "So where we going?" she asked.

  "I thought we'd stop by St. Barnabas and talk to your father's supervisor."

  She caught up to him. "You think he knows something?"

  "Highly doubtful. But this is what I do. I go poking around and hope something stirs."

  They reached the car. Myron unlocked the doors, and they both got in.

  "I should be paying you for your time," she said.

  "I'm not a private investigator, Brenda. I don't work by the hour."

  "Still. I should be paying you."

  "Part of client recruitment," Myron said.

  "You want to represent me?"

  "Yes."

  "You haven't made much of a sales pitch or applied any pressure."

  "If I had," he said, "would it have worked?"

  "No."

  Myron nodded and started up the car.

  "Okay," she said. "We've got a few minutes. Tell me why I should choose you and not one of the big boys. Personal service?"

  "Depends on your definition of personal services. If you mean someone always following you around with lips firmly planted on your buttocks, then no, the big boys are better at puckering. They have the staff for it."

  "So what does Myron Bolitar offer? A little tongue with those lips?"

  He smiled. "A total package designed to maximize your assets while allowing room for integrity and a personal life."

  She nodded. "What a crock."

  "Yeah, but it sounds good. In truth, MB SportsReps is a three-prong system. Prong one is earning money. I'm in charge of negotiating all contracts. I will continually seek out new endorsement deals for you and whenever possible get a bidding war going for your services. You'll make decent money playing for the WPBA, but you'll make a hell of a lot more on endorsements. You got a lot of pluses in that department."

  "Such as?"

  "Three things off the top of my head. One, you're the best female player in the country. Two, you're studying to be a doctor--a pediatrician, no less--so we can play up the whole role model thing. And three, you're not hard on the eyes."

  "You forgot one."

  "What?"

  "Four, that perennial white man favorite: well spoken. You ever notice that no one ever describes a white athlete as well spoken?"

  "As a matter of fact, I have. It's why I left it off the list. But the truth is, it helps. I'm not going to get into a debate on Ebonics and the like, but if you ar
e what is commonly referred to as well spoken, it adds revenue. Simple as that."

  She nodded. "Go on."

  "In your case we need to design a strategy. Clearly you would have tremendous appeal to clothing and sneaker companies. But food products would love you too. Restaurant chains."

  "Why?" she asked. "Because I'm big?"

  "Because you're not waiflike," Myron corrected. "You're real. Sponsors like real--especially when it comes in an exotic package. They want someone attractive yet accessible--a contradiction, but there you go. And you have it. Cosmetic companies will want to get in on this too. We could also pick up a lot of local deals, but I would advise against it in the beginning. Try to stick with the national markets where we can. It doesn't pay to go after every dime out there. But that will be up to you. I'll present them to you. The final decision is always yours."

  "Okay," she said. "Give me prong two."

  "Prong two is what you do with your money after you earn it. You've heard of Lock-Horne Securities?"

  "Sure."

  "All of my clients are required to set up a long-term financial plan with their top man, Windsor Home Lockwood the Third."

  "Nice name."

  "Wait till you meet him. But ask around. Win is considered one of the best financial advisers in the country. I insist that every client meet with him quarterly--not by fax or phone but in person--to go over their portfolios. Too many athletes get taken advantage of. That won't happen here, not because Win or I am watching your money but because you are."

  "Impressive. Prong three?"

  "Esperanza Diaz. She is my right hand and handles everything else. I mentioned before that I'm not the best with ass kissing. That's true. But the reality of this business means I have to wear a lot of hats--travel agent, marriage counselor, limo driver, whatever."

  "And this Esperanza helps out with all that?"

  "She's crucial."

  Brenda nodded. "Sounds like you give her the shit detail."

  "Esperanza just graduated law school, as a matter of fact." He tried not to sound too defensive, but her words had struck bone. "She takes on more responsibility every day."

  "Okay, one question."

  "What?" Myron asked.

  "What aren't you telling me about your visit to Mabel?"

  Myron said nothing for a moment.

  "It's about my mother, isn't it?"

  "Not really. It's just ..." He let his voice drift off before starting up again. "Are you sure you want me to find her, Brenda?"

  She crossed her arms and slowly shook her head. "Cut it out."