Fade Away

Chapter 4

There was no body. Just the blood.

Using Glad sandwich bags he found in the kitchen, Win collected a few samples. Ten minutes later they were back outside, the lock on the front door reengaged. A blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 drove past them. Two men sat in the front seat. Myron glanced at Win. Win barely nodded.

“A second pass,” Myron said.

“Third,” Win said. “I saw them when I first drove up.”

“They’re not exactly experts at this,” Myron said.

“No,” Win agreed. “But of course, they hadn’t known the job would require expertise.”

“Can you run the plates?”

Win nodded. “I’ll also run Greg’s ATM and credit card transactions,” he said. He reached the Jag and unlocked it. “I’ll contact you when I have something. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“You heading back to the office?”

“I’m going to Master Kwon’s first,” Win said.

Master Kwon was their tae kwon do instructor. Both of them were black belts—Myron a second degree, Win a sixth degree, one of the highest ranking Caucasians in the world. Win was the best martial artist Myron had ever seen. He studied several different arts including Brazilian jujitsu, animal kung fu, and Jeet Kun Do. Win the Contradiction. See Win and you think pampered, preppy pantywaist; in reality, he was a devastating fighter. See Win and you think normal, well-adjusted human being; in reality, he was anything but.

“What are you doing tonight?” Myron asked.

Win shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“I can get you a ticket to the game,” Myron said.

Win said nothing.

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him speed away, puzzled by his friend’s abruptness. But then again, to paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be different than any other day?

He checked his watch. He still had a few hours before the big press conference. Enough time to get back to the office and tell Esperanza about his career shift. More than anyone else, his playing for the Dragons would affect her.

He took Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge. There was no waiting at the tolls. Proof there was a God. The Henry Hudson however was backed up. He swung off near Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center to get on Riverside Drive. The squeegee guys—the homeless men who “cleaned” your windshield with a mixture of equal parts grease, Tabasco sauce, and urine—were no longer at the light. Mayor Giuliani’s doing, Myron guessed. They had been replaced by Hispanic men selling flowers and something that looked like construction paper. He asked once what it was and had gotten an answer back in Spanish. As much as Myron could translate, the paper smelled nice and spruced up any home. Maybe that was what Greg used as potpourri.

Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on 46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win’s Jag; in fact, he usually managed to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where were the support groups?

The Lock-Horne Securities building was on Park Avenue and 46th, perpendicular to the Helmsley building. High-rent district. The street bustled with the doings of big finance. Several stretch limos double-parked illegally in front of the building. The ugly modern sculpture that looked like someone’s intestines stood pitifully in its usual place. Men and women in business attire sat on the steps, eating sandwiches too hurriedly, lost in their own thoughts, many talking to themselves, rehearsing for an important afternoon meeting or rehashing a morning mistake. People who worked in Manhattan learned how to be surrounded by others yet remain completely alone.

Myron entered the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. He nodded to the three Lock-Horne Hostesses, known to everyone else as the Lock-Horne Geishas. They were all model/actress wanna-bes, hired to escort high rollers up to the offices of Lock-Horne Securities and look attractive while doing it. Win had brought the idea home after a trip to the Far East. Myron guessed this could be more blatantly sexist, but he wasn’t sure how.

Esperanza Diaz, his valued associate, greeted him at the door. “Where the hell have you been?”

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Later. You’ve got a million messages.”

Esperanza wore a white blouse—an absolute killer look against her dark hair, dark eyes, and that dark skin that shimmered like moonlight on the Mediterranean. Esperanza had been spotted by a modeling scout when she was seventeen, but her career took a few weird turns and she ended up making it big in the world of professional wrestling. Yes, professional wrestling. She’d been known as Little Pocahontas, the brave Indian Princess, the jewel of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (FLOW) organization. Her costume was a suede bikini, and she was always cast as the good guy in the morality play that was professional wrestling. She was young, petite, tight-bodied, gorgeous, and though of Latin origin, she was dark enough to pass for Native American. Racial backgrounds were irrelevant to FLOW. The real name of Mrs. Saddam Hussein, the evil harem girl in the black veil, was Shari Weinberg.

The phone rang. Esperanza picked it up. “MB SportsReps. Hold on a moment, he’s right here.” She flashed the eyes at him. “Perry McKinley. It’s his third call today.”

“What does he want?”

She shrugged. “Some people don’t like dealing with underlings.”

“You’re not an underling.”

She looked at him blankly. “You going to take it or not?”

Being a sports agent was—to use computer terminology—a multitasking environment with the capability of performing a variety of services with but a click of a button. It was more than simple negotiating. Agents were expected to be accountants, financial planners, real estate agents, hand-holders, personal shoppers, travel agents, family counselors, marriage counselors, chauffeurs, errand boys, parental liaisons, lackeys, butt-kissers, you name it. If you weren’t willing to do all that for a client—to be what is known as a “full service agency”—the next guy would be.

The only way to compete was to have a team, and Myron felt he had assembled a small yet extremely effective one. Win, for example, handled all the finances for Myron’s clients. He set up a special portfolio for each player, met with them at least five times a year, made sure they understood what their money was doing and why. Having Win gave Myron a big leg up on the competition. Win was a near-legend in the financial world. His reputation was impeccable (at least in the financial world) and his track record unmatched. He gave Myron an instant “in,” instant credibility in a business where credibility was a rare and heady concoction.

Myron was the JD. Win was the MBA. Esperanza was the all-purpose player, the unflappable chameleon who held it all together. It worked.

“We need to talk,” he said again.

“So we’ll talk,” she said in a dismissing tone. “First take this call.”

Myron entered his office. He overlooked Park Avenue in midtown. Great View. On one wall he had posters of Broadway musicals. On another there were movie stills from some of Myron’s favorites: the Marx Brothers, Woody Allen, Alfred Hitchcock, and a potpourri of other classics. On a third wall were photographs of Myron’s clients. The client wall was a bit sparser than Myron would have liked. He imagined what it would look like with an NBA first rounder in the middle.

Good, he decided. Very good.

He strapped on his headset.

“Hey, Perry.”

“Jesus Christ, Myron, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“Good, Perry. And you.”

“Hey, I don’t mean to be impatient but this is important. You get anything on my boat?”

Perry McKinley was a golfer on the fringe, no pun intended. He was a pro. He made some money, but he wasn’t a name anyone but big golf fans would recognize. Perry loved to sail and was in need of a new vessel.

“Yeah, I got something,” Myron said.

“What company?”

“Prince.”

Perry did not sound thrilled. “Their boats are just okay,” he whined. “Nothing great.”

“They’ll let you trade in your old boat for a new one. You have to do five personal appearances.”

“Five?”

“Yep.”

“For a Prince eighteen-footer? That’s too many.”

“They originally wanted ten. But it’s up to you.”

Perry thought about it a moment. “Ah, shit, okay the deal. But first I want to make sure I like the boat. A full eighteen-footer, right?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks, Myron. You’re the best.”

They hung up. Bartering—an important component in the agent’s multitasking environment. No one ever paid for anything in this business. Favors were exchanged. Trading products for some form of endorsement. Want a free shirt? Wear it in public. Want a free car? Shake hands at a few car shows. The big stars could demand serious payments in exchange for their endorsements. The lesser-known athletes happily seized the freebies.

Myron stared at the pile of messages and shook his head. Playing for the Dragons and keeping MB SportsReps afloat—how the hell was he going to pull it off?

He buzzed Esperanza. “Come on in here, please,” he said.

“I’m in the middle—”

“Now.”

Silence.

“Gosh,” she said, “you’re so macho.”

“Give me a break, huh?”

“No, really, I’m very frightened. I better drop everything and immediately do your bidding.”

Her phone fell. She sprinted in, feigning fear and breathlessness. “Fast enough?”

“Yes.”

“So what is it?”

He told her. When he came to the part where he’d be playing for the Dragons, he was once again surprised to see no reaction. This was strange. First Win, now Esperanza. The two of them were his closest friends. They both lived for ridiculing him. Yet neither one of them had taken advantage of the obvious opening. Their silence on the subject of his “comeback” was a tad unnerving.

“Your clients aren’t going to like this,” she said.

“Our clients,” he corrected.

She made a face. “Does it make you feel better to be patronizing?”

Myron ignored the comment. “We have to turn this into a positive,” he said.

“How?”

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He leaned back in his chair. “We can say that the publicity of all this will help them.”

“How?”

“I can make new contacts,” he said, the ideas coming to him even as he spoke. “I can get closer to sponsors, learn more about them. More people will hear about me and indirectly my clients.”

Esperanza made a scoffing sound. “And you think that’s going to fly?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s bullshit. ‘Indirectly my clients.’ Sounds like trickle-down economics.”

She had a point. “What’s the big deal really?” he asked, palms to the ceiling. “Basketball will only be a couple of hours a day. I’ll be here the rest of the time. I’ll have the cellular phone with me all the time. We just have to emphasize that I won’t be there long.”

Esperanza looked at him skeptically.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, I want to know. What?”

“Nothing,” she said. She looked him straight in the eye, her hands resting on her lap. “What does the bitch say about all this?” she asked sweetly.

Her pet name for Jessica. “Will you please stop calling her that?”

She made a suit-yourself face, for once not arguing. There had been a time—long, long ago—when Jessica and Esperanza had at least tolerated each other. But then Jessica left, and Esperanza saw what it did to Myron. Some people held grudges. Esperanza internalized them. It didn’t matter that Jessica had come back.

“So what does she think?” Esperanza asked again.

“About what?”

“About the prospects for peace in the Middle East,” she snapped. “What do you think I mean? Your playing again.”

“I don’t know. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it much. Why?”

Esperanza shook her head again. “We’re going to need help in here,” she said, closing the subject. “Someone to answer the phones, do some typing, that kind of thing.”

“You have someone in mind?”

She nodded. “Cyndi.”

Myron blanched. “Big Cyndi?”

“She could answer the phone, do some odd jobs. She’s a good worker.”

“I didn’t even know she could talk,” Myron said. Big Cyndi had been Esperanza’s tag-team wrestling partner, fighting under the name of Big Chief Mama.

“She’ll take orders. She’ll do shit work. She’s not ambitious.”

Myron tried not to wince at the thought. “Isn’t she still working at the strip joint as a bouncer?”

“It’s not a strip joint. It’s a leather bar.”

“My mistake,” Myron said.

“And she’s a bartender now.”

“Cyndi’s been promoted?” Myron said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d hate to sidetrack her burgeoning career by asking her to work here.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Esperanza said. “She works there nights.”

“What,” Myron said, “Leather and Lust doesn’t do a big lunch crowd?”

“I know Cyndi. She’ll be perfect.”

“She scares people,” Myron said. “She scares me.”

“She’ll stay in the conference room. No one will see her.”

“I don’t know.”

Esperanza rose smoothly. “Fine, you find somebody. I mean, you’re the boss. You know best. Me, I’m just a pissant secretary. I wouldn’t dare question how you handle our clients.”

Myron shook his head. “Low blow,” he said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands holding up his head. “All right,” he said finally, releasing a deep breath. “We’ll give her a try.”

Myron waited. Esperanza stared back at him. After several seconds passed, she said, “Is this the part where I jump up and down and say thank you, thank you?”

“No, this is the part where I leave.” He checked his watch. “I got to talk to Clip about those bloodstains before the press conference.”

“Have fun.” She headed for the door.

“Hold up,” he called out. She turned and faced him. “Do you have class tonight?” Esperanza took night classes at NYU. Law school.

“No.”

“You want to go to the game?” He cleared his throat. “You can, uh, bring Lucy, if you’d like.”

Lucy was Esperanza’s latest love. Before Lucy she had dated a man named Max. Her sexual preference seemed to vacillate. “We broke up,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Myron said, not knowing what else to say. “When?”

“Last week.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

He nodded. True enough. “Well, you can bring a new, uh, friend, if you’d like. Or you can go yourself. We’re playing the Celtics.”

“I’ll pass,” she said.

“You sure?”

She nodded again, left the room. Myron grabbed his jacket and headed back to the lot. Mario tossed him his keys without looking up. He took the Lincoln Tunnel and hopped onto Route 3. He passed a huge and fairly famous appliance and electronics store called Tops. The billboard featured a giant nose jutted out over Route 3. The caption: Tops Is Right Under Your Nose. Very lifelike. The only thing missing were the giant nose hairs. He was only a mile or so from the Meadlowlands when the car phone rang.

“I have some preliminaries,” Win said.

“Go ahead.”

“None of Greg Downing’s accounts or credit cards have been accessed in the past five days.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Any cash withdrawals from his bank?”

“Not in the past five days.”

“How about earlier? Maybe he grabbed out a lot of money before he vanished.”

“It’s being worked on. I don’t know yet.”

Myron took the Meadowlands exit. He considered what this all meant. So far, not much, but it wasn’t really good news. The blood in the basement. No sign of Greg. No financial activity. It wasn’t really promising. “Anything else?” Myron asked.

Win hesitated. “I may soon have an idea where dearest Greg had that drink with fair Carla.”

“Where?”

“After the game,” Win said. “I’ll know more then.”