Fade Away

by Harlan Coben

  "I don't do hunches," Win said. "Do you believe him?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "You are fond of Mr. Arnstein, are you not?"

  "Yes."

  "Even though he has already admitted lying to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then let me present you with an interesting scenario," Win said. "Who, besides Greg, has the most to lose if his gambling addiction becomes public knowledge? Who, besides Greg, would have the greatest motive to keep Liz Gorman silent? And finally, if Greg Downing was about to become a terrible embarrassment to the franchise--to the point of devaluating if not destroying Clip Arnstein's chances of maintaining control--who would have the best motive to make sure Greg Downing disappeared?"

  Myron did not bother answering.

  Chapter 25

  The seat next to Thumper was open. Win took it and gave her the full-wattage smile.

  "Good evening," he said.

  She smiled back. "Hello."

  "You must be Ms. Mason."

  She nodded. "And you are Windsor Horne Lockwood III. I recognize you from the picture in Forbes."

  They shook hands, their eyes meeting. Their hands released one another; their eyes didn't. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mason."

  "Please call me Maggie."

  "Yes, fine." Win upped the smile for a moment. A buzzer sounded on the court. The first quarter was over. He saw Myron stand up to let his teammates sit. Seeing him dressed in a uniform on an NBA court hit Win in a very weird, unpleasant way. He didn't like to watch. He turned back toward Thumper. She looked at him expectantly.

  "I understand that you are seeking employment with my firm," Win said.

  "Yes."

  "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

  "Please do." She motioned a welcome with her hand.

  "You are currently employed by Kimmel Brothers, are you not?"

  "Yes."

  "How many traders do they currently engage?" Win asked.

  "Less than ten," she said. "We're very small."

  "I see." Win did the steepling, feigning consideration of her words. "Do you work there on weekends?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Weekend evenings?"

  Her eyes narrowed just slightly, then relaxed back into place. "Sometimes," she repeated.

  "How about last Saturday night?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "You know Greg Downing, do you not?"

  "Of course, but--"

  "As you are no doubt aware," Win continued, "he has been missing since last Saturday night. Interestingly enough, the last call Mr. Downing made from his home was to your office. Do you recall that phone call?"

  "Mr. Lockwood--"

  "Please. Call me Win."

  "I don't know what you're trying to do here--"

  "It's quite simple really," Win interrupted. "Last night, you told my associate Mr. Bolitar that you had not spoken to Greg Downing in several months. Yet, as I have just told you, I have information that contradicts your statement. So there is a discrepancy here--a discrepancy that may cause some to view you, Ms. Mason, as less than honest. I cannot have that at Lock-Horne Securities. My employees must be beyond reproach. For that reason, I'd like you to explain this contradiction."

  Win took out a bag of peanuts from his coat pocket. He shelled a few in the neatest manner imaginable, swept the shells with small movements into a second bag, then placed the peanuts into his mouth one at a time.

  "How do you know Mr. Downing called my office?" Thumper asked.

  "Please," Win said with a side glance. "Let us not waste time with trivialities. His call is an established fact. You know it. I know it. Let us move beyond it."

  "I didn't work last Saturday night," she said. "He must have been calling somebody else."

  Win frowned. "I grow weary of your tactics, Ms. Mason. As you just admitted to me, yours is a small firm. I could call your employer, if you wish. I am sure he would be glad to tell Mr. Windsor Horne Lockwood III if you were there or not."

  Thumper sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, looking out at the game. The Dragons were up 24 to 22. Her eyes followed the course of the ball down the court. "I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Lockwood."

  "Ah. No longer interested in a job?"

  "That's right."

  "You misunderstand," Win said. "I don't mean just with Lock-Horne Securities. I mean with anybody, including your current employer."

  She turned to him. "What?"

  "There are two options here," Win said. "Let me spell them out for you clearly, so that you choose the one most suitable for you. One, you tell me why Greg Downing called you on Saturday night. You tell me why you lied to Myron about it. You tell me everything you know about his disappearance."

  "What disappearance?" she interrupted. "I thought he was injured."

  "Option two," Win went on. "You continue to either stay silent or lie to me, in which case I will begin to circulate a rumor within our industry vis-a-vis your integrity. More specifically, I will let it be known that there are federal authorities looking into serious allegations of embezzlement."

  "But..." she started, stopped. "You can't do that."

  "No?" He made an amused face. "I am Windsor Horne Lockwood III. My word on such matters will not be questioned. You, on the other hand, will have difficulty finding employment as a hat-check girl in a roadside Denny's when I'm through." He smiled and tilted the bag her way. "Peanut?"

  "You're insane."

  "And you are normal," Win countered. He looked down at the court. "Say, that young towel boy is wiping a player's sweat off the floor. That must be worth"--he gave a big shrug--"oh, I don't know. Fellatio at the very least, wouldn't you say?"

  Win smiled at her sweetly.

  "I'm leaving." She started to stand.

  "Would you sleep with me?" he asked.

  She looked at him in horror. "What?"

  "Would you sleep with me? If you're very good, I may consider employing you at Lock-Horne."

  Her teeth were clenched. "I'm not a prostitute," she hissed.

  "No, you are not a prostitute," Win said, loud enough so that a few heads turned. "But you are a hypocrite."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Win motioned to her seat. "Please sit down."

  "I'd rather not."

  "And I'd rather not have to shout." He motioned again. "Please."

  With wary eyes she did as he asked. "What do you want?"

  "You find me attractive, do you not?"

  She made a face. "I think you are the most repulsive man I have--"

  "I am just speaking only about looks here," Win said. "The physical, remember? As you told Myron just last night, having sex is merely a physical thing. Like shaking hands--though with an analogy like that I question your partners' prowess. Now, at the risk of appearing immodest, I know that I am not physically unattractive. When you think back over the many Giants and Dragons you've bedded in your stellar career, surely there must be at least one that was less physically attractive than moi."

  Her eyes squinted. She looked intrigued and horror-stricken at the same time. "Perhaps," she allowed.

  "Yet you will not sleep with me. That, my dear, is hypocritical."

  "How so?" Thumper countered. "I'm an independent woman. I choose."

  "So you've told me," Win said. "But why do you choose only Giants and Dragons?" When she hesitated a bit too long, he smiled and wagged his finger. "You should at least be honest as to why you made that particular choice."

  "You seem to know a lot about me," Thumper said. "Why don't you tell me?"

  "Fine. You immediately announce this bizarre rule about Dragons and Giants and whatnot. You set limits. I do not. If I find a woman attractive, that is enough. But you need this random team affiliation. You use it as a fence to separate you."

  "Separate me from what?"

  "Not from what. Whom. From so-called freewheeling sluts. As you just pointed out to me, you are not a prostitute
. You choose, dammit. You are no slut."

  "That's right, I'm not."

  He smiled. "But what is a slut? A woman who sleeps around? Well, no. That's what you do. You wouldn't criticize a fellow sister to the cause. So what exactly is a slut? Well, by your definition, there is no such thing. Except, of course, you needed to deny being a slut when I questioned you. Why?"

  "Don't make it out to be more than it is," Thumper said. "Slut carries with it a negative connotation. That's the only reason I got defensive."

  Win spread his hands. "But why should there be any negative connotation? If a slut is, by definition, a so-called loose woman, a woman who sleeps around, why not embrace the term with both legs? Why put up these fences? Why create these artificial limits? You use your team affiliations to announce your independence. But it announces the opposite. It announces that you are unsure and insecure."

  "And that's why I'm a hypocrite?"

  "Of course. Go back to my request to sleep with you. Either sex is a purely physical act, in which case my brusque behavior with you now should have no bearing on it, or sex is something more than physical. Which is it?"

  She smiled, gave a quick head shake. "You're an interesting man, Mr. Lockwood. Maybe I will sleep with you."

  "No good," he said.

  "What?"

  "You'll be doing it simply to prove I'm wrong. That, my dear, is as pathetic and insecure as what you are currently doing. But we are getting sidetracked. That is my fault, I apologize. Are you going to tell me about your conversation with Greg Downing, or do I destroy your reputation?"

  She looked dazed. It was what he wanted.

  "Of course there is option three," Win continued, "which closely follows option two. That is, on top of having your reputation destroyed you face a murder charge."

  That made her eyes widen. "What?"

  "Greg Downing is a serious suspect in a murder investigation. If it is discovered that you in some way helped him, that would make you an accessory." He stopped, frowned. "But to be frank, I don't think the D.A. will get a conviction. No matter. I'll start with your reputation. We'll see how it goes from there."

  Thumper looked at him steadily. "Mr. Lockwood?"

  "Yes."

  "Go fuck yourself," she said.

  Win rose. "Undeniably a better option than present company." He smiled and bowed. If he had a hat, he would have tipped it. "Good day."

  He moved away, head high. There was, of course, a method to such madness. She would not talk. He knew that almost immediately. She was both smart and loyal. A dangerous albeit admirable combination. But what he had said would jar her. Even the best amongst us would panic or at the very least act. He would wait outside and follow her.

  He checked the scoreboard. Midway through the second quarter. He had no interest in watching any more of this game. But as he reached the gate, a buzz came over the loudspeaker and then a voice said, "Now coming in for Troy Erickson, Myron Bolitar."

  Win hesitated. Then he took another step for the exit. He did not wish to watch. But he stopped again and, still standing, he faced the court.

  Chapter 26

  Myron sat at the far end of the bench. He knew that he wasn't going to play, but his chest was still wrapped in the steel bands of pregame jitters. In his younger days Myron had enjoyed the pressure of big-time competition, even when the jitters reached a level of near paralysis. They never lasted long after the opening tip. Once he had physical contact with an opponent or chased down a loose ball or shot a fade-away jumper, the butterflies flew off, the crowd's cheers and jeers dissolving into something akin to office background music.

  Pregame jitters hadn't been a part of Myron's existence for over a decade, and he knew now what he'd always suspected: this nerve-jangled high was directly connected to basketball. Nothing else. He had never experienced anything similar in his business or personal life. Even violent confrontations--a perverted high if ever there was one--were not exactly like this. He had thought this uniquely sports-related sensation would ebb away with age and maturity, when a young man no longer takes a small event like a basketball game and blows it into an entity of near biblical importance, when something so relatively insignificant in the long run is no longer magnified to epic dimensions through the prism of youth. An adult, of course, can see what is useless to explain to a child--that one particular school dance or missed foul shot would be no more than a pang in the future. Yet here Myron was, comfortably ensconced in his thirties and still feeling the same heightened and raw sensations he had known only in youth. They hadn't gone away with age. They'd just hibernated--as Calvin had warned him--hoping for a chance to stir, a chance that normally never came in one man's lifetime.

  Were his friends right? Was this all too much for him? Had he not put this all behind him? He spotted Jessica in the stands. She was watching the action, that funny look of concentration on her face. She alone seemed unconcerned by his return, but then again, she had not been a part of his life in his basketball heyday. Did the woman he loved not understand, or did she--?

  He stopped.

  When you are on the bench, an arena can be a small place. He saw, for example, Win speaking with Thumper. He saw Jessica. He saw the other players' wives and girlfriends. And then, entering from a gate dead straight in front of him, he saw his parents. His eyes quickly fled back to the court. He clapped his hands and yelled out encouragement to his teammates, pretending to be interested in the outcome of the game. His mom and dad. They must have flown in early from their trip.

  He risked a quick glance. They sat near Jessica now, in the family and friends section. His mom was staring back at him. Even from the distance he could see the lost look in her glassy eyes. Dad's eyes darted about, his jaw taut, as though he were summoning up a little extra before looking at the court straight-on. Myron understood. This was all too familiar, like an old family film coming to life. He looked away again.

  Leon White came out of the game. He grabbed an empty seat next to Myron. A towel boy draped his sweat top around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze bottle. Leon guzzled some Gatorade, his body glistening with sweat.

  "Saw you talking with Thumper last night," Leon said.

  "Yeah."

  "You get some?"

  Myron shook his head. "I remain thump-less."

  Leon chuckled. "Anyone tell you how she got that nickname?"

  "No."

  "When she gets into it--I mean, when she gets really fired up--she's got this habit of thumping her leg up and down. Left leg. Always her left leg, you know. So she's like on her back and you're pumping her for all you're worth and then all of a sudden her left leg starts bopping up and down. You hear thump-thump, get it?"

  Myron nodded. He got it.

  "So if she don't do that--if a guy don't get Thumper thumping--it's like you haven't done your duty. You can't show your face. You hang your head." Then he added, "It's a pretty serious tradition."

  "Like lighting a menorah on Hanukkah," Myron said.

  Leon laughed. "Well, not exactly."

  "You ever been thumped, Leon?"

  "Sure, once." Then he quickly added, "But that was before I was married."

  "How long you been married?"

  "Me and Fiona been married a little over a year."

  Myron's heart plummeted down an elevator shaft. Fiona. Leon's wife's name was Fiona. He looked up in the stands at the flashy, well-rounded blonde. Fiona began with the letter F.

  "Bolitar!"

  Myron looked up. It was Donny Walsh, the head coach. "Yeah?"

  "Go in for Erickson." Walsh said it like the words were fingernail clippings he needed to spit out. "Take the off guard spot. Put Kiley at the point."

  Myron looked at his coach as if he were speaking Swahili. It was the second quarter. The score was tied.

  "What the fuck you waiting for, Bolitar? For Erickson. Now."

  Leon slapped his back. "Go, man."

  Myron stood. His legs felt like strung-out Slinkys. Though
ts of murder and disappearances fled like bats in a spotlight. He tried to swallow but his mouth was bone dry. He jogged over to the scorer's table. The arena spun like the bed of a drunk. Without conscious thought he discarded his sweats on the floor like a snake changing skin. He nodded at the scorer. "For Erickson," he said. Ten seconds later, a buzzer sounded. "Now coming in the game for Troy Erickson, Myron Bolitar."

  He jogged out, pointing to Erickson. His teammates looked surprised to see him. Erickson said, "You got Wallace." Reggie Wallace. One of the game's best shooting guards. Myron lined up next to him and prepared. Wallace studied him with an amused smile.

  "SWB alert," Reggie Wallace called out with a mocking laugh. "Goddamn SWB alert."

  Myron looked at TC. "SWB?"

  "Slow White Boy," TC told him.

  "Oh."

  Everyone else was breathing deeply and coated with sweat. Myron felt stiff and unprepared. His eyes swung back to Wallace. The ball was about to be inbounded. Something caught Myron's eye and he looked up. Win stood near an exit. His arms crossed. Their eyes met for a brief second. Win gave a half nod. The whistle blew. The game began.

  Reggie Wallace began the trash talk immediately. "You got to be kidding me," he said. "Old-timer, I'm gonna make you my woman."

  "Dinner and a movie first," Myron said.

  Wallace looked at him. "Lame retort, old man."

  Hard to argue.

  Wallace lowered himself to a ready position. He shook his head. "Shit. Might as well have my grandma cover me."

  "Speaking of making someone your woman," Myron said.

  Wallace looked at him hard, nodded. "Better," he said.

  The Pacers inbounded the ball. Wallace tried to post Myron up under the basket. This was a good thing. Physical contact. Nothing unclasped those steel bands like battling for position. Their bodies bounced against one another with small grunts. At six-four, two-twenty, Myron held his ground. Wallace tried digging back with his butt, but Myron held firm, putting a knee into Wallace's backside.

  "Man," Wallace said, "you are so strong."

  And with that, he made a move Myron barely saw. He spun off Myron's knee so quickly that Myron barely had time to turn his head. Seeming to use Myron for leverage, Wallace leaped high in the air. From Myron's vantage point, it looked like an Apollo spacecraft heading straight out of the arena. He watched helplessly as Wallace's outstretched hands grasped the lob pass at rim level. He seemed to pause in midair, then continue rising as though gravity itself had decided to freeze frame the moment. When Reggie Wallace finally began to descend, he pulled the ball behind his head before throwing it through the cylinder with frightening force.