protected.
You think I'd tell?
You can be forced to testify.
So I'd he.
You won't have to.
Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. Win and I can help here. We're good at this.
No offense, Myron, but Win is psycho. I love him, but his kind of help I don't need. And
you Esperanza stopped, looked up, unfolded her arms, lowered her gaze back to his you're
damaged goods. I don't blame you for running away. It was probably the right thing to do. But
let's not pretend you're back to normal.
Not normal, he agreed. But I'm ready for this.
She shook her head. Concentrate on MB. It's going to take all your efforts to keep her afloat.
You're not going to tell me what happened?
No.
That doesn't make any sense.
I just spelled out the reasons
You're really afraid I'd testify against you?
I didn't say that.
So what is it? If you think I'm not up for this, okay, maybe I buy it. But that wouldn't stop you
from talking to me. In fact, you'd probably tell me just to keep me from poking around. So what's
going on here?
Her face slid closed. Go to the office, Myron. You want to help? Save our business.
Did you kill him?
He regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth. She looked at him as if he'd just reached across the table and slapped her face.
I don't care if you did, he pressed on. Til stand by you no matter what. I want you to know that.
Esperanza regained her composure. She slid her chair back and stood. For a few moments she stared at him, studying his face as though searching for something that was normally there. Then she turned away, called for the guard, and left the room.
Chapter 9
Big Cyndi was already manning the reception desk when Myron reached the offices of MB SportsReps. They had a prime location, right smack on Park Avenue in midtown. The Lock-Horne high-rise had been owned by Win's family since Great-Great-Et-Cetera Grandpa Home (or was it Lockwood?) had torn down a tepee and started building it. Myron rented space at a premium discount from Win. In return Win handled all the finances for Myron's clients. This deal was a bargain for Myron. Between the primo address and the ability to guarantee his clients the financial services of the near-legendary Windsor Home Lockwood III, MB SportsReps had an air of legitimacy few small firms could boast.
MB SportsReps was on the twelfth floor. An elevator opened directly into their reception room. Muy classy. The phones were beeping. Big Cyndi put people on hold and looked up at him. She looked even more ridiculous than usual. No easy task. In the first place, the furniture was too small for her, the desk legs actually teetering on her knees like something a father might experience when visiting his child's elementary school. In the second place, she still had not washed up or changed from last night. Normally Myron, the image-conscious entrepreneur, would comment on this, but now did not seem an appropriate (or safe) time.
The press is pulling out all the tricks to get up here, Mr. Bolitar. Big Cyndi always called him Mr. Bolitar. She liked formalities. Two of them even pretended to be prospective clients coming out of Division One schools.
Myron was hardly surprised. I told the guard downstairs to be extra wary.
A lot of clients are calling too. They're concerned.
Patch them through. Get rid of everybody else.
Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Like she wanted to salute. Big Cyndi handed him a pile of blue slips. These are this morning's calls from clients.
He started thumbing through the stack.
For your information, Big Cyndi continued, we told everyone you were just gone for a day or two at first. Then a week or two. Then we started faking emergencies for you: family illnesses, helping a sick client, that sort of thing. But some clients got tired of the excuses.
He nodded. You have a list of who left us?
It was already in her hand. She handed it to him, and he started toward his office.
Mr. Bolitar?
He turned. Yes?
Will Esperanza be okay?
Again the tiny, distant voice belied her bulk, as though the looming form in front of him had swallowed a small child and the small child were now calling for help. Yes, Big Cyndi. She'll be fine.
You'll help her, won't you? Even though she doesn't want you to?
Myron gave her a half nod. That didn't seem to satisfy her. So he said, Yes.
Good, Mr. Bolitar. That's the right thing to do.
He had nothing to add to that so he entered his inner office. Myron had not been to MB in six
weeks. Strange. He had worked so hard and so long to build up MB SportsReps M for Myron, B for Bolitar, snappy name, no? and he had just abandoned her. Just like that. Abandoned his business. And his clients. And Esperanza.
The renovations had been completed they'd sliced a bit of space out of the conference room and reception area so that Esperanza could have an office of her own but the new room remained unfurnished. So Esperanza had been using his office. He sat at his desk and immediately the phone started ringing. He ignored it for a few seconds, his eyes latched on the client wall, the one with action photos of all the athletes MB represented. He zeroed in on Clu Haid's image. Clu was on the pitcher's mound, leaning forward, about to go into a stretch, his cheek bulging with tobacco chaw, his eyes squinting at a sign he would undoubtedly shake off.
What did you do this time, Clu? he said out loud.
The photo didn't reply, which was probably a good thing. But Myron continued to stare. He had
pulled Clu out of so many jams over the years that he had to wonder: If he had not run off to the
Caribbean, would he have been able to pull Clu out of this one too?
Useless introspection one of Myron's many talents.
Big Cyndi buzzed him. Mr. Bolitar?
Yes.
I know you told me to only patch through clients, but Sophie Mayor is on the line.
Sophie Mayor was the new owner of the Yankees.
Put her through. He heard a click and said hello.
Myron, my God. What the hell is going on here? Sophie Mayor wasn't big on chitchat.
I'm still trying to sort it out myself.
They think your secretary killed Clu.
Esperanza is my partner, he corrected, though he was not sure why. And she didn't kill
anyone.
I'm sitting here with Jared. Jared was her son and the co-general manager of the Yankees
co meaning shares the title with someone who knows what he's doing because he got the job through nepotism. Jared meaning born after 1973. We need to tell the press something. I'm not sure how I can help, Ms. Mayor.
You told me Clu was past all this, Myron.
He said nothing.
The drugs, the drinking, the partying, the trouble, Sophie Mayor continued. You said it was in the past. He was about to defend himself but thought better of it. I think it's better if we talk about all this in person, Myron said.
Jared and I are on the road with the team. We're in Cleveland right now. We're flying home
