by Harlan Coben
Myron hadn’t played in months because he didn’t like these sort of white-collar pickup games. Basketball, the game itself, still meant so much to him. He loved it. He loved the feel of the ball on his fingertips, the way they would find the grooves on the jump shot, the arch as the ball headed for the rim, the backspin on it, the positioning for the rebound, the perfect bounce pass. He loved the split-second decision making—pass, drive, shoot—the sudden openings that lasted tenths of a second, the way the world slowed down so that you could split the seam.
He loved all that.
What he did not love was the middle-age machismo. The gym was filling up with Masters of the Universe, the wannabe alpha males who, despite the big house and fat wallet and penis-compensating sports car, still needed to beat someone at something. Myron had been competitive in his youth. Too competitive perhaps. He had been a nutjob for winning. This was, he had learned, not always a wonderful quality, though it often separated the very good from the greats, the near-pros from the pros: this desire—no, need—to better another man.
But he had outgrown it. Some of these guys—a minority for certain, but enough—had not.
When they saw Myron, the former NBA player (no matter for how short a time), they saw their chance to prove what real men they were. Even now. Even when most of them were north of forty. And when the skills are slower but the heart still hungers for glory, it can get physical and downright ugly.
Myron scanned the gym and found his reason for being there.
Erik warmed up at the far basket. Myron jogged over and called out to him.
“Erik, hey, how’s it going?”
Erik turned and smiled at him. “Good morning, Myron. Nice to see you show up.”
“I’m usually not much of a morning guy,” Myron said.
Erik tossed him the ball. Myron took a shot. It clanged off the rim.
“Late night?” Erik asked.
“Very.”
“You’ve looked better.”
“Gee, thanks,” Myron said. Then: “So how are things?”
“Fine, you?”
“Good.”
Someone shouted out and the ten guys jogged toward center court. That was how it was. If you wanted to play in the first group, you have to be one of the first ten to arrive. David Rainiv, a brilliant numbers guy and CFO of some Fortune 500 company, always made up teams. He had a knack for balancing the talent and forming competitive matchups. No one questioned his decisions. They were final and binding.
So Rainiv divided up the sides. Myron was matched up against a young guy who stood six-seven. This was a good thing. The theory of men having Napoleon complexes may be debatable in the real world but not in pickup games. Little guys wanted to harm big guys—show them up in an arena usually dominated by size.
But sadly, today the exception proved the rule. The six-seven kid was all elbows and anger. He was athletic and strong but had little basketball talent. Myron did his best to keep his distance. The truth was, despite his knee and age, Myron could score at will. For a while that was what he did. It just came so naturally. It was hard to go easy. But eventually he pulled back. He needed to lose. More men had come in. It was winners-stay-on. He wanted to get off the court so he could talk to Erik.
So after they won the first three games, Myron threw one.
His teammates were not pleased when Myron dribbled off his own foot, thus losing the game. Now they’d have to sit out. They bemoaned the moment but relished the fact that they’d had a great streak going. Like it mattered.
Erik had a water bottle, of course. His shorts matched his shirt. His sneakers were neatly laced. His socks came up to the exact same spot on both ankles, both having the same size roll. Myron used the water fountain and sat next to him.
“So how’s Claire?” Myron tried.
“Fine. She does a Pilates-yoga mix now.”
“Oh?”
Claire had always been into some exercise craze or another. She’d gone through the Jane Fonda leggings, the Tae Bo kicks, the Soloflex.
“That’s where she is now,” Erik said.
“Taking a class?”
“Yes. During the week, she takes one at six thirty in the morning.”
“Yikes, that’s early.”
“We’re early risers.”
“Oh?” Myron saw an opening and took it. “And Aimee?”
“What about Aimee?”
“Does she get up early too?”
Erik frowned. “Hardly.”
“So you’re here,” Myron said, “and Claire is working out. Where’s Aimee?”
“She slept at a friend’s last night.”
“Oh?”
“Teenagers,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
“Trouble?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh?”
Again with the Oh.
Erik said nothing.
“What kind?” Myron asked.
“Kind?”
Myron wanted to say Oh again, but he feared going to the well once too often. “Trouble. What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Is she sullen?” Myron said, again trying to sound nonchalant. “Does she not listen? Does she stay up late, blow off school, spend too much time on the Internet, what?”
“All of the above,” Erik said, but now his words came out even slower, even more measured. “Why do you ask?”
Back up, Myron thought. “Just making conversation.”
Erik frowned. “Making conversation usually consists of bemoaning the local teams.”
“It’s nothing,” Myron said. “It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
“The party at my house.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t know, seeing Aimee like that, I just started thinking about how tough those teenage years are.”
Erik’s eyes narrowed. On the court someone had called a foul and someone was protesting the call. “I didn’t touch you!” a guy with a mustache and elbow pads shouted. Then the name-calling began—something else you never outgrow on a basketball court.
Erik’s eyes were still on the court. “Did Aimee say anything to you?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like anything. I remember you were in the basement with her and Erin Wilder.”
“Right.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Nothing. They were just goofing on me about how dated the room was.”
Now he looked at Myron. Myron wanted to look away, but he held on. “Aimee can be,” Erik said, “rebellious.”
“Like her mother.”
“Claire?” He blinked. “Rebellious?”
Oh man, he should learn to shut his mouth.
“In what way?”
Myron went for the politician response: “It depends on what you mean by rebellious, I guess.”
But Erik didn’t let it slide. “What did you mean by it?”
“Nothing. It’s a good thing. Claire had edge.”
“Edge?”
Shut up, Myron. “You know what I mean. Edge. Good edge. When you first saw Claire—that very first second—what attracted you to her?”
“Many things,” he said. “But edge was not one of them. I had known a lot of girls, Myron. There are those you want to marry and those you just want, well, you know.”
Myron nodded.
“Claire was the one you wanted to marry. That was the first thing I thought when I saw her. And yes, I know how it sounds. But you were her friend. You know what I mean.”
Myron tried to look noncommittal.
“I loved her so much.”
Loved, Myron thought, keeping quiet this time. He’d said loved, not love.
As if reading his mind, Erik added, “I still do. Maybe more than ever.”
Myron waited for the “but.”
Erik smiled. “You heard the good news, I assume?”
�
�About?”
“Aimee. In fact, we owe you a great big thank-you.”
“Why’s that?”
“She got accepted to Duke.”
“Hey, that’s great.”
“We just heard two days ago.”
“Congratulations.”
“Your recommendation letter,” he said. “I think it pushed her over the line.”
Myron said, “Nah,” though there was probably more truth in Erik’s statement than Erik knew. Myron had not only written that letter, but he also had called one of his old teammates, who now worked in admissions.
“No, really,” Erik went on. “There’s so much competition to get into the top schools. Your recommendation carried a lot of weight, I’m sure. So thank you.”
“She’s a good kid. It was my pleasure.”
The game ended. Erik rose. “Ready?”
“I think I’m done for today,” Myron said.
“Hurting, eh?”
“A little.”
“We’re getting older, Myron.”
“I know.”
“There are more aches and pains now.”
Myron nodded.
“Seems to me you have a choice when things hurt,” Erik said. “You can sit out—or you can try to play through the pain.”
Erik jogged away, leaving Myron to wonder if he’d still been talking about basketball.
CHAPTER 9
Back in the car, Myron’s cell phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. Again nothing.
“Hello?”
“You’re a bastard, Myron.”
“Yeah, I got that the first time. Do you have any new material or are we going to follow up with that original line about me paying for what I’ve done?”
Click.
Myron shrugged it off. Back in the days when he used to play superhero, he had been a rather well-connected fellow. It was time to see if that still held. He checked his cell phone’s directory. The number for Gail Berruti, his old contact from the telephone company, was still there. People think it’s unrealistic how private eyes in TV can get phone records with a snap. The truth is, it was beyond easy. Every decent private eye has a source in the phone company. Think about how many people work for Ma Bell. Think how many of them wouldn’t mind making an extra buck or two. The going rate had been five hundred dollars per billing statement, but Myron imagined the price had gone up in the past six years.
Berruti wasn’t in—she was probably off for the weekend—but he left a message.
“This is a voice from your past,” Myron began.
He asked Berruti to get back to him with the trace on the phone number. He tried Aimee’s cell phone again. It went to her voice mail. When he got home, he headed to the computer and Googled the number. Nothing came up. He took a quick shower and then checked his e-mail. Jeremy, his sorta-son, had written him an e-mail from overseas:
Hey, Myron—
We’re only allowed to say that we’re in the Persian Gulf area. I’m doing well. Mom sounds crazy. Give her a call if you can. She still doesn’t understand. Dad doesn’t either, but at least he pretends he does. Thanks for the package.
We love getting stuff.
I got to go. I’ll write more later, but I might be out of touch for a while. Call Mom, okay?
Jeremy
Myron read it again and then again, but the words didn’t change. The e-mail, like most of Jeremy’s, said nothing. He didn’t like that “out of touch” part. He thought about parenting, how he had missed so much of it, all of it really, and how this kid, his son, fit into his life now. It was working, he thought, at least for Jeremy. But it was hard. The kid was the biggest what-could-have-been, the biggest if-only-I’d-known, and most of the time, it just plain hurt.
Still staring at the message, Myron heard his cell phone. He cursed under his breath, but this time the caller ID told him it was the divine Ms. Ali Wilder.
Myron smiled as he answered it. “Stallion Services,” he said.
“Sheesh, suppose it was one of my kids on the phone.”
“I’d pretend to be a horse seller,” he said.
“A horse seller?”
“Whatever they call people who sell horses.”
“What time is your flight?”
“Four o’clock.”
“You busy?”
“Why?”
“The kids will be out of the house for the next hour.”
“Whoa,” he said.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Are you suggesting a little righteous nookie?”
“I am.” Then: “Righteous?”
“It’ll take me some time to get there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’ll have to be a quickie.”
“Isn’t that your specialty?” she said.
“Now that hurt.”
“Only kidding. Stallion.”
He brayed. “That’s horse-speak for ‘I’m on my way.’ ”
“Righteous,” she said.
But when he knocked on her door, Erin answered it. “Hey, Myron.”
“Hey,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed.
He glanced behind her. Ali shrugged a sorry at him.
Myron stepped inside. Erin ran upstairs. Ali came closer. “She got in late and didn’t feel like going to drama club.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“We could stand in a corner and neck,” she said.
“Can I cop a feel?”
“You better.”
He smiled.
“What?” she said.
“I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Something Esperanza said to me yesterday,” Myron said. “Men tracht und Gott lacht.”
“Is that German?”
“Yiddish.”
“What does it mean?”
“Man plans, God laughs.”
She repeated it. “I like that.”
“Me too,” he said.
He hugged her then. Over her shoulder, he saw Erin at the top of the stairs. She was not smiling. Myron’s eyes met hers and again he thought about Aimee, about how the night had swallowed her whole, and about the promise he had sworn to keep.
CHAPTER 10
Myron had time before his flight.
He grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks in the center of town. The barista who took his order had the trademark sullen attitude. As he handed Myron the drink, lifting it to the counter as though it were the weight of the world, the door behind them opened with a bang. The barista rolled his eyes as they entered.
There were six of them today, trudging in as though through deep snow, heads down, a variety of shakes. They sniffled and touched their faces. The four men were unshaven. The two women smelled like cat piss.
They were mental patients. For real. They spent most nights at Essex Pines, a psychiatric facility in the neighboring town. Their leader—wherever they walked, he stayed in front—was named Larry Kidwell. His group spent most days wandering through town. Livingstonites referred to them as the Town Crazies. Myron uncharitably thought of them as a bizarre rock group: Lithium Larry and the Medicated Five.
Today they seemed less lethargic than usual so it must be pretty close to medication time back at the Pines. Larry was extra jittery. He approached Myron and waved.
“Hey, Myron,” he said too loudly.
“What’s happening, Larry?”
“Fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-seven. And I haven’t seen a penny. You know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
Larry Kidwell shuffled forward. Long, stringy hair peeked out of his Indiana Jones hat. There were scars on his face. His worn blue jeans hung low, displaying enough plumber-crack to park a bike.
Myron started heading for the door. “Take it easy, Larry.”
“You too, Myron.” He reached out to shak
e Myron’s hand. The others in the group suddenly froze, all eyes—wide eyes, glistening-from-meds eyes—on Myron. Myron reached out his hand and clasped Larry’s. Larry held on hard and pulled Myron closer. His breath, no surprise, stank.
“The next planet,” Larry whispered, “it might be yours. Yours alone.”
“That’s great to know, thanks.”
“No!” Still a whisper, but it was harsh now. “The planet. It’s slither moon. It’s out to get you, you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t ignore this.”
He let go of Myron, his eyes wide. Myron took a step back. He could see the man’s agitation.
“It’s okay, Larry.”
“Heed my warning, man. He stroked the moon slither. You understand? He hates you so bad he stroked the moon slither.”
The others in the group were total strangers, but Myron knew Larry’s tragic backstory. Larry Kidwell had been two years ahead of Myron in school. He’d been immensely popular. He was an incredible guitarist, good with the girls, even dated Beth Finkelstein, the hometown hottie, during his senior year. Larry ended up being salutatorian of his class at Livingston High. He went to Yale University, his father’s alma mater, and from all accounts, had a great first semester.
Then it all came apart.
What was surprising, what made it all the more horrific, was how it happened. There had been no terrifying event in Larry’s life. There had been no family tragedy. There had been no drugs or alcohol or girl gone wrong.
The doctor’s diagnosis: a chemical imbalance.
Who knows how you get cancer? It was the same thing with Larry. He simply had a mental disease. It started as mild OCD, then became more severe, and then, try as they might, no one could stop his slide. By his sophomore year Larry was setting up rat traps so he could eat them. He became delusional. He dropped out of Yale. Then there were suicide attempts and major hallucinations and problems of all sorts. Larry broke into someone’s house because the “Clyzets from planet three hundred twenty-six” were trying to lay a nest there. The family was home at the time.
Larry Kidwell has been in and out of psych institutes ever since. Supposedly, there are moments when Larry is entirely lucid, and it is so painful for him, realizing what he has become, that he rips at his own face—ergo the scars—and cries out in such agony that they immediately sedate him.