One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (15 page)

“You Bolitar?” the coach barked.

Her spine was a titanium bar, her face as unyielding as a meter maid’s.

“Yes.”

“Name’s Podich. Jean Podich.” She spoke like a drill sergeant. She put her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels a bit. “Used to watch you play, Bolitar. Friggin’ awesome.”

“Thank you.” He almost added
sir
.

“Still play at all?”

“Just pickup games.”

“Good. Had a player go down with a twisted ankle. Need someone to fill in for the scrimmage.”

“Pardon me?” Coach Podich was not big on using pronouns.

“Got nine players here, Bolitar. Nine. Need a tenth. Plenty of gym clothes in the equipment room. Sneakers too. Go suit up.”

This was not a request.

“I need my knee brace,” Myron said.

“Got that too, Bolitar. Got it all. The trainer will wrap you up good and tight. Now hustle, man.”

She clapped her hands at him, turned, walked away.
Myron stayed still for a second. Great. This was just what he needed.

Podich blew her whistle hard enough to squeeze out an internal organ. The players stopped. “Shoot foul shots, take ten,” she said. “Then scrimmage.”

The players drifted off. Brenda jogged toward him.

“Where you going?” she asked.

“I have to suit up.”

Brenda stifled a smile.

“What?” he said.

“The equipment room,” Brenda said. “All they have is yellow Lycra shorts.”

Myron shook his head. “Then somebody should warn her.”

“Who?”

“Your coach. I put on tight yellow shorts, no way anybody’s going to concentrate on basketball.”

Brenda laughed. “I’ll try to maintain a professional demeanor. But if you post me down low, I may be forced to pinch your butt.”

“I’m not just a plaything,” Myron said, “here for your amusement.”

“Too bad.” She followed him into the equipment room. “Oh, that lawyer who wrote to my dad,” she said. “Thomas Kincaid.”

“Yes.”

“I remember where I heard his name before. My first scholarship. When I was twelve years old. He was the lawyer in charge.”

“What do you mean, in charge?”

“He signed my checks.”

Myron stopped. “You received checks from a scholarship?”

“Sure. The scholarship covered everything. Tuition, board, schoolbooks. I wrote out my expenses, and Kincaid signed the checks.”

“What was the name of the scholarship?”

“That one? I don’t remember. Outreach Education or something like that.”

“How long did Kincaid administer the scholarship?”

“It covered through my high school years. I got an athletic scholarship to college, so basketball paid the freight.”

“What about medical school?”

“I got another scholarship.”

“Same deal?”

“It’s a different scholarship, if that’s what you mean.”

“Does it pay for the same stuff? Tuition, board, the works?”

“Yep.”

“Handled by a lawyer again?”

She nodded.

“Do you remember his name?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Rick Peterson. He works out of Roseland.”

Myron thought about this. Something clicked.

“What?” she asked.

“Do me a favor,” he said. “I got to make a couple of calls. Can you stall Frau Brucha for me?”

She shrugged. “I can try.”

Brenda left him alone. The equipment room was enormous. An eighty-year-old guy worked the desk.
He asked Myron for his sizes. Myron told him. Two minutes later the old man handed Myron a pile of clothes. Purple T-shirt, black socks with blue stripes, white jockstrap, green sneakers, and, of course, yellow Lycra shorts.

Myron frowned. “I think you missed a color,” he said.

The old man gave him the eye. “I got a red sports bra, if you’re interested.”

Myron thought about it but ultimately declined.

He slipped on his shirt and jock. Pulling on the shorts was like pulling on a wet suit. Everything felt compressed—not a bad feeling, actually. He grabbed his cellular phone and hurried to the trainer’s room. On the way he passed a mirror. He looked like a box of Crayolas left too long on a windowsill. He lay on a bench and dialed the office. Esperanza answered.

“MB SportsReps.”

“Where’s Cyndi?” Myron asked.

“At lunch.”

A mental image of Godzilla snacking on Tokyo’s citizenry flashed in front of his eyes.

“And she doesn’t like to be called just Cyndi,” Esperanza added. “It’s Big Cyndi.”

“Pardon my overabundance of political sensitivity. Do you have the list of Horace Slaughter’s phone calls?”

“Yes.”

“Any to a lawyer named Rick Peterson?”

The pause was brief. “You’re a regular Mannix,” she said. “Five of them.”

Wheels were beginning to churn in Myron’s head. Never a good thing. “Any other messages?”

“Two calls from the Witch.”

“Please don’t call her that,” Myron said.

Witch was actually an improvement over what Esperanza usually called Jessica (hint: rhymes with
Witch
but starts with the letter
B)
. Myron had recently hoped for a thawing between the two—Jessica had invited Esperanza to lunch—but he now recognized that nothing short of a thermonuclear meltdown would soften that particular spread of earth. Some mistook this for jealousy. Not so. Five years ago Jessica had hurt Myron. Esperanza had watched it happen. She had seen up close the devastation.

Some people held grudges; Esperanza clutched them and tied them around her waist and used cement and Krazy glue to hold them steady.

“Why does she call here anyway?” Esperanza half snapped. “Doesn’t she know your cellular number?”

“She only uses it for emergencies.”

Esperanza made a noise like she was gagging on a soup ladle. “You two have such a mature relationship.”

“Can I just have the message please?”

“She wants you to call her. At the Beverly Wilshire. Room six-one-eight. Must be the Bitch Suite.”

So much for improvement. Esperanza read off the number. Myron jotted it down.

“Anything else?”

“Your mom called. Don’t forget dinner tonight. Your dad is barbecuing. A potpourri of aunts and uncles will be in attendance.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Can’t wait,” she said. Then she hung up.

Myron sat back. Jessica had called twice. Hmm.

The trainer tossed Myron a leg brace. Myron strapped it on, fastening it with Velero. The trainer silently worked on the knee, starting with stretch wrap. Myron debated calling Jessica back right now and decided he still had time. Lying back with his head on a sponge pillow of some sort, he dialed the Beverly Wilshire and asked for Jessica’s room. She picked up as though she’d had her hand on the receiver.

“Hello?” Jessica said.

“Hello there, gorgeous,” he said. Charm. “What are you doing?”

“I just spread out a dozen snapshots of you on the floor,” she said. “I was about to strip naked, coat my entire body with some type of oil, and then undulate on them.”

Myron looked up at the trainer. “Er, can I have an ice pack?”

The trainer looked puzzled. Jessica laughed.

“Undulate,” Myron said. “That’s a good word.”

“Me a writer,” Jessica said.

“So how’s the left coast?” Left coast. Hip lingo.

“Sunny,” she said. “There’s too much damn sun here.”

“So come home.”

There was a pause. Then Jessica said, “I have some good news.”

“Oh?”

“Remember that production company that optioned
Control Room
?”

“Sure.”

“They want me to produce it and cowrite the screenplay. Isn’t that cool?”

Myron said nothing. A steel band wrapped around his chest.

“It’ll be great,” she continued, forcing pseudojocularity into the cautious tone. “I’ll fly home on weekends. Or you can fly out here sometimes. Say, you can do some recruiting out here, nab some West Coast clients. It’ll be great.”

Silence. The trainer finished up and left the room. Myron was afraid to speak. Seconds passed.

“Don’t be like that,” Jessica said. “I know you’re not happy about this. But it’ll work out. I’ll miss you like mad—you know that—but Hollywood always screws up my books. It’s too big an opportunity.”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it, started again. “Please come home.”

“Myron …”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re running away, Jess. It’s what you do best.”

Silence.

“That’s not fair,” she said.

“Screw fair. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Then come home,” he said.

Myron’s grip on the phone was tight. His muscles were tensing. In the background he heard Coach Podich blow that damn whistle.

“You still don’t trust me,” Jessica said softly. “You’re still afraid.”

“And you’ve done so much to assuage my fears, right?” He was surprised by the edge in his voice.

The old image jarred him anew. Doug. A guy named Doug. Five years ago. Or was he a Dougie? Myron bet he was. He bet his friends called him Dougie. Yo, Dougie, wanna party, man? Probably called her Jessie. Dougie and Jessie. Five years ago. Myron had walked in on them, and his heart had crumbled as though it’d been molded in ash.

“I can’t change what happened,” Jessica said.

“I know that.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to come home. I want us to be together.”

More cellular static. Coach Podich called out his name. Myron could feel something vibrating in his chest like a tuning fork.

“You’re making a mistake,” Jessica said. “I know I’ve had some trouble with commitment before—”

“Some
trouble?”

“—but this isn’t like that. I’m not running away. You’re pushing on the wrong issue.”

“Maybe I am,” he said. He closed his eyes. It was hard for him to breathe. He should hang up now. He should be tougher, show some pride, stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, hang up. “Just come home,” he said. “Please.”

He could feel their distance, a continent separating them, their voices bypassing millions of people.

“Let’s both take a deep breath,” she said. “Maybe this isn’t for the phone anyway.”

More silence.

“Look, I got a meeting,” she said. “Let’s talk later, okay?”

She hung up then. Myron held the empty receiver. He was alone. He stood. His legs were shaky.

Brenda met him at the doorway. A towel was draped around her neck. Her face was shiny from sweat. She took one look at him and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She kept her eyes on him. She didn’t believe him, but she wouldn’t push either.

“Nice outfit,” she said.

Myron looked down at his clothing. “I was going to wear a red sports bra,” he said. “It throws the whole look together.”

“Yummy,” she said.

He managed a smile. “Let’s go.”

They started heading down the corridor.

“Myron?”

“Yeah?”

“We talk a lot about me.” She continued walking, not looking at him. “Wouldn’t kill either of us to switch roles now and again. Might even be nice.”

Myron nodded, said nothing. Much as he might wish to be more like Clint Eastwood or John Wayne, Myron was not the silent type, not a macho tough guy who kept all his problems inside him. He confided to Win and Esperanza all the time. But neither one of them was helpful when it came to Jessica. Esperanza hated her so much that she could never think rationally on the subject. And in Win’s case, well, Win was simply not the man to discuss matters of the heart. His views on the subject could conservatively be called “scary.”

When they reached the edge of the court, Myron pulled up short. Brenda looked at him questioningly. Two men stood on the sidelines. Ragged brown suits, totally devoid of any sense of style or fashion. Weary faces, short hair, big guts. No doubt in Myron’s mind.

Cops.

Somebody pointed at Myron and Brenda. The two men sauntered over with a sigh. Brenda looked puzzled. Myron moved a little closer to her. The two men stopped directly in front of them.

“Are you Brenda Slaughter?” one asked.

“Yes.”

“I am Detective David Pepe of the Mahwah Police Department. This is Detective Mike Rinsky. We’d like you to come with us please.”

Myron stepped forward. “What’s this about?”

The two cops looked at him with flat eyes. “And you are?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

The two cops blinked. “And Myron Bolitar is?”

“Miss Slaughter’s attorney,” Myron said.

One cop looked at the other. “That was fast.”

Second cop: “Wonder why she called her attorney already.”

“Weird, huh?”

“I’d say.” He looked the multicolored Myron up and down. Smirked. “You don’t dress like an attorney, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I left my gray vest at home,” Myron said. “What do you guys want?”

“We would like to bring Miss Slaughter to the station,” the first cop said.

“Is she under arrest?”

First Cop looked at Second Cop. “Don’t lawyers know that when we arrest people, we read them their rights?”

“Probably got his degree at home. Maybe from that Sally Struthers school.”