“Do you know who he hangs out with?”
“Not really. He’s supposed to be closest to his teammates, but Leon White—that’s his roommate on the road—seemed less than enamored. Oh, here’s something that might interest you: after home games, Greg drives a taxi in the city.”
Dimonte looked puzzled. “You mean he picks up fares and stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Why the fuck does he do that?”
“Greg is a little”—Myron searched for the word—“off.”
“Uh huh.” Dimonte rubbed his face vigorously, as if he were polishing a fender with a rag. He did this for several seconds, not looking at the road; fortunately, he was in the middle of an empty parking lot. “Does it make him feel like a regular guy or something? Could that be part of it? Getting closer to the masses?”
“I guess,” Myron said.
“Go on. What about his interests? His hobbies?”
“He’s a nature boy. He likes to fish and hunt and hike and boat, that goyish stuff.”
“A back-to-nature type?”
“Sort of.”
“Like maybe an outdoor, communal guy?”
“No. Like maybe an outdoor, loner guy.”
“You have any idea where he might be?”
“None.”
Dimonte hit the gas and circled the arena. He came to a stop in front of Myron’s Ford Taurus and put the car in park. “Okay, thanks for the help. We’ll talk later.”
“Whoa, hold up a second. I thought we were working together on this.”
“You thought wrong.”
“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on?”
His voice was suddenly soft. “No.”
Silence. The rest of the players were gone by now. The Taurus stood alone in the still, empty lot.
“It’s that bad?” Myron said.
Dimonte kept frighteningly still.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” Myron went on. “You got an ID?”
Dimonte leaned back. Again he rubbed his entire face. “Nothing confirmed,” he muttered.
“You got to tell me, Rolly.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“I won’t say anything. You know—”
“Get the fuck out of my car, Myron.” He leaned across Myron’s lap and opened the car door. “Now.”
Chapter 15
TC lived in a turn-of-the-century red brick mansion encircled by a six-foot, matching brick fence on one of the better streets of Englewood, New Jersey. Eddie Murphy lived down the block. So did three Forbes 500 CEOs and several major Japanese bankers. There was a security post by the driveway entrance. Myron gave the security guard his name. The guard checked his clipboard.
“Please park along the drive. The party is out back.” He raised the yellow-and-black striped gate and waved him through. Myron parked next to a black BMW. There were maybe a dozen other cars, all glistening from fresh washes and waxes or perhaps they were all new. Mostly Mercedes Benzes. A few BMWs. A Bentley. A Jag. A Rolls. Myron’s Taurus stood out like a zit in a Revlon commercial.
The front lawn was immaculately manicured. Perfectly pruned shrubs guarded and clung to the brick facade. In stark contrast to this majestic setting was the rap music blaring from the speakers. Awful. The shrubs looked pained by the sound. Myron didn’t necessarily hate all rap. He knew there was worse music out there—John Tesh and Yanni proved it every day. Some rap songs Myron found engaging and even profound. He also recognized that rap music had not been written for him; he didn’t get it all, but he suspected that he wasn’t supposed to.
The party was held in the well-lit pool area. The crowd of about thirty mingled about in a fairly subdued fashion. Myron was wearing a blue blazer, a button-down pinstripe shirt, a flower tie, J. Murphy casual loafers. Bolitar the Prep. Win would be so proud. But Myron felt frighteningly underdressed next to his teammates. At the risk of sounding racist, the black guys on the team—there were only two other white players on the Dragons right now—knew how to dress with style. Not Myron’s style (or lack thereof), but definitely with style. The group looked like they were readying themselves for a Milan runway walk. Perfectly tailored suits. Silk shirts buttoned to the neck. No ties. Shoes polished like twin mirrors.
TC reclined in a lounge chair by the shallow end of the pool. He was surrounded by a bunch of white guys who looked like college students. They were laughing at his every word. Myron also spotted Audrey in her customary reporter’s garb. She had added pearls for the occasion. Really dressing up. He barely had a chance to step toward them when a woman in her late thirties/maybe forty approached him. “Hello,” the woman said.
“Hi.” The Wordsmith Strikes Again.
“You must be Myron Bolitar. My name is Maggie Mason.”
“Hi, Maggie.” They shook hands. Firm grip, nice smile.
She was dressed conservatively in a white blouse, charcoal-gray blazer, red skirt, and black pumps. Her hair was down and slightly mussed, as if she’d just released her bun. She was slim and attractive and would have been the perfect choice to play the opposing attorney on
She smiled at him. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“They call me Thumper.”
Myron waited. When she didn’t add anything, he said, “Uh huh.”
“Didn’t TC tell you about this?”
“He mentioned something about getting thump…” He stopped midword. She just smiled at him and spread her arms. After some time had passed, he said, “I don’t get it.”
“Nothing to get,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have sex with all the guys on the team. You’re new to the team. It’s your turn.”
Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “You don’t look like a groupie.”
“Groupie.” She shook her head. “God, I hate that word.”
Myron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me see if I’m getting this.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’ve slept with every guy on the Dragons?”
“Yes.”
“Even the married ones?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Anyone who has been on the team since 1993. That’s when I started with the Dragons. I started with the Giants in 1991.”
“Wait a second. You’re a groupie for the Giants too? The football Giants?”
“I told you. I don’t like the term groupie.”
“What word would you be more comfortable with?”
She tilted her head a little and kept the smile. “Look, Myron, I’m an investment banker on Wall Street. I work very hard. I like taking cooking classes and I’m a step-aerobics nut. All in all I am pretty normal by this world’s standards. I don’t hurt anybody. I don’t want to get married or have a relationship. But I have this one little fetish.”
“You have sex with professional athletes.”
She held up her index finger. “Only with the guys on the Giants and Dragons.”
“Nice to see team loyalty,” Myron said, “in this era of free agency.”
Thumper laughed. “That’s pretty funny.”
