Otto’s smile did not falter. Myron wondered how he did that, if his mouth was frozen that way, like the threat a little kid hears from his mom when he’s making faces. Otto nodded and walked away. His entourage followed in a row, like a family of mallard ducks.
Win looked at Myron “Kiss my grits?”
Shrug. “Paying homage to Flo on
“You watch too much television.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh?”
“About Gary Grady,” Myron said.
“What about him?”
“He has an affair with a student. She vanishes a year or so later. Time passes and her picture ends up in a porno ad he runs.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s crazy.”
“So is everything about this case.”
Myron shook his head. “Think about it. Grady admits having an affair with Kathy, right? So what would be the last thing he’d want to do?”
“Publicize it.”
“Yet her picture ends up in his ad.”
“Ah.” Win nodded. “You believe someone is setting him up.”
“Exactly.”
“Who?”
“Fred Nickler would be my bet,” Myron said.
“Hmm. He did hand over Grady’s p.o. box without much debate.”
“And he has the power to switch photos in his own magazine.”
“So what do you suggest?” Win asked.
“I’d like you to check out Mr. Fred Nickler very thoroughly Maybe talk to him again.
On the field Christian was fading back again. For the third straight time Tommy Lawrence blitzed over left guard untouched. In fact, the left guard stood with his hands on his hips and watched.
“Christian’s own lineman is setting him up,” Myron said.
Christian side-stepped Tommy Lawrence, cocked his arms, and whipped the ball with unearthly velocity directly into his left guard’s groin. There was a short
“Ouch,” Win said.
Myron almost clapped.
The left guard was, of course, wearing a cup. But a cup was far from full protection against a speeding missile. He rolled on the ground, back curved fetal-like, eyes wide. Every man in the general vicinity gave a collective, sympathetic “Ooo.”
Christian walked over to his left guard-a man weighing in excess of 275 pounds-and offered him a hand. The left guard took it. He limped back to the huddle.
“Christian has balls,” Myron said.
Win nodded. “But can the same be said of the left guard?”
Chapter 18
As soon as Myron entered the Reston University campus, his car phone rang.
“Listen, putz, I got what you want,” P.T. said. “My friend’s name is Jake Courter. He’s the town sheriff.”
“Sheriff Jake,” Myron said. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Hey, don’t let the title fool you. Jake used to work homicide in Philly, Boston, and New York. Good man. He said he’d meet with you today at three.”
Myron checked his watch. It was one o’clock now. The station was five minutes away. “Thanks, P.T.”
“Can I ask you something, Myron?”
“Shoot.”
“Why you looking into this?”
“It’s a long story, P.T.”
“This have to do with her sister? That great piece of tail you used to nail?” He cackled.
“You’re all class, P.T.”
“Hey, Myron, I want to hear about it sometime. The whole story.”
“It’s a promise.”
Myron parked the car and headed into the old athletic center. The corridor was a bit more beaten up than Myron had expected. Three rows of framed photographs of past athletic teams-some from as far back as a hundred years ago-lined the walls. Myron approached a beaded-glass door that looked like something out of an old Sam Spade film. The word FOOTBALL was stenciled in black. He knocked.
The voice was like an old tire on an unpaved road. “What?”
Myron stuck his head. “Busy, Coach?”
Reston University football coach Danny Clarke looked up from his computer. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“Fine, thanks. But let’s dispense with the pleasantries.”
“That supposed to be funny?”
Myron tilted his head. “You didn’t think so?”
“I’ll ask one more time: Who the hell are you?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
The coach’s scowl did not change. “Am I supposed to know you?”
It was a hot summer day, the campus was practically empty, and here sat the school’s legendary football coach wearing a suit and tie, watching videotapes of high school prospects. A suit and tie and no air conditioning. If the heat bothered Danny Clarke, it didn’t show. Everything about him was well groomed and tidy. He was shelling and eating peanuts, but no mess was visible. His jaw muscles bunched as he chewed, making little knobs appear and disappear near his ears. He had a prominent vein in his forehead.
“I’m a sports agent.”
He flicked his eyes away like a ruler dismissing an underling. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”
“We need to talk.”
“Out of here, asshole. Now.”
“I just-”
“Listen up, shithead.” He pointed a coach finger at Myron. “I don’t talk to bottom-feeders. Ever. I run a clean program with clean players. I don’t take payoffs from so-called agents or any of that bullshit. So if you got an envelope stuffed with green, you can go shove it up your ass.”
Myron clapped. “Beautiful. I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.”
Danny Clarke looked up sharply. He wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, but part of him seemed almost amused by it. “Get the hell out of here,” he growled, but more gently now. He turned back to the television. On the screen a young quarterback threw a long, tight spiral. Caught. Touchdown.
Myron decided to disarm him with tact. “The kid looks pretty good,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you’re a scum-sucking leech and not a scout. The kid can’t play a lick. Now take a hike.”
“I want to talk to you about Christian Steele.”
That got his attention. “What about him?”
“I’m his agent.”
