by Harlan Coben
“What do you mean?”
“Was this appointment made a long time ago?”
“What, now, I look like a receptionist?”
“Forget it.”
“Forgotten.”
“Excuse me a second,” Myron said. “Do you mind if I go make a call?”
“Am I your mother?” Zuckerman made a shooing motion. “Go already.”
Myron debated using his cellular phone but decided not to piss off the Merion gods. He found a phone booth in the men’s locker room foyer and dialed the Coldrens’ house. He used Chad’s line. Linda Coldren answered.
“Hello?”
“Just checking in,” Myron said. “Anything new?”
“No,” Linda said.
“Are you aware that Esme Fong is coming over?”
“I didn’t want to cancel,” Linda Coldren explained. “I didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention.”
“You’ll be okay then?”
“Yes,” she said.
Myron watched Tad Crispin walk by in the direction of Win’s table. “Were you able to reach the school?”
“No; nobody was there,” she said. “So what do we do next?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said. “I have the override Caller ID on your phone. If he calls again, we should be able to get the number.”
“What else?”
“I’ll try to speak to Matthew Squires. See what he can tell me.”
“I already spoke to Matthew,” Linda said impatiently. “He doesn’t know anything. What else?”
“I could get the police involved. Discreetly. There’s not much else I can do on my own.”
“No,” she said firmly. “No police. Jack and I are both adamant on that point.”
“I have friends in the FBI—”
“No.”
He thought about his conversation with Win. “When Jack lost at Merion, who was his caddie?”
She hesitated. “Why would you want to know that?”
“I understand Jack blamed his caddie for the loss.”
“In part, yes.”
“And that he fired him.”
“So?”
“So I asked about enemies. How did the caddie feel about what happened?”
“You’re talking about something that happened over twenty years ago,” Linda Coldren said. “Even if he did harbor a deep hatred for Jack, why would he wait so long?”
“This is the first time the Open has been at Merion since then. Maybe that’s reawakened dormant anger. I don’t know. Chances are there’s nothing to this, but it might be worth checking out.”
He could hear talking on the other end of the line. Jack’s voice. She asked Myron to hold on a moment.
A few moments later, Jack Coldren came on the line. Without preamble, he said, “You think there’s a connection between what happened to me twenty-three years ago and Chad’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
His tone was insistent. “But you think—”
“I don’t know what I think,” he interrupted. “I’m just checking out every angle.”
There was a stony silence. Then: “His name was Lloyd Rennart,” Jack Coldren said.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since the day the Open ended.”
“The day you fired him.”
“Yes.”
“You never bumped into him again? At the club or a tournament or something?”
“No,” Jack Coldren said slowly. “Never.”
“Where did Rennart live back then?”
“In Wayne. It’s the neighboring town.”
“How old would he be now?”
“Sixty-eight.” No hesitation.
“Before this happened, were you two close?”
Jack Coldren’s voice, when he finally spoke, was very soft. “I thought so,” he said. “Not on a personal level. We didn’t socialize. I never met his family or visited his home or anything like that. But on the golf course”—he paused—“I thought we were very close.”
Silence.
“Why would he do it?” Myron asked. “Why would he purposely ruin your chances of winning?”
Myron could hear him breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and scratchy. “I’ve wanted to know the answer to that for twenty-three years.”
6
Myron called in Lloyd Rennart’s name to Esperanza. It probably wouldn’t take much. Again modern technology would simplify the feat. Anyone with a modem could type in the address www.switchboard.com—a Web site that was virtually a telephone directory of the entire country. If that site didn’t work, there were others. It probably wouldn’t take long, if Lloyd Rennart was still among the living. If not, well, there were sites for that too.
“Did you tell Win?” Esperanza asked.
“Yes.”
“How did he react?”
“He won’t help.”
“Not surprising,” she said.
“No,” he agreed.
Esperanza said, “You don’t work well alone, Myron.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You looking forward to graduation?”
Esperanza had been going to NYU Law School at night for the past six years. She graduated on Monday.
“I probably won’t go.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not big on ceremony,” she said.
Esperanza’s only close relative, her mother, had died a few months back. Myron suspected that her death had more to do with Esperanza’s decision than not being big on ceremony.
“Well, I’m going,” Myron said. “Sitting front row center. I want to see it all.”
Silence.
Esperanza broke it. “Is this the part where I choke back tears because someone cares?”
Myron shook his head. “Forget I said anything.”
“No, really, I want to get it right. Should I break down in loud sobs or just sniffle a little? Or better yet, I could get a little teary, like Michael Landon on Little House on the Prairie.”
“You’re such a wiseass.”
“Only when you’re being patronizing.”
“I’m not being patronizing. I care. Sue me.”
“Whatever,” she said.
“Any messages?”
“About a million, but nothing that I can’t handle until Monday,” she said. “Oh, one thing.”
“What?”
“The bitch asked me out to lunch.”
“The bitch” was Jessica, the love of Myron’s life. Putting it kindly, Esperanza did not like Jessica. Many assumed that this had something to do with jealousy, with some sort of latent attraction between Esperanza and Myron. Nope. For one thing, Esperanza liked, er, flexibility in her love life. For a while she had dated a guy named Max, then a woman named Lucy, and now another woman named Hester. “How many times have I asked you not to call her that?” Myron said.
“About a million.”
“So are you going?”
“Probably,” she said. “I mean, it’s a free meal. Even if I do have to look at her face.”
They hung up. Myron smiled. He was a bit surprised. While Jessica did not reciprocate Esperanza’s animosity, a lunch date to thaw out their personal cold war was not something Myron would have anticipated. Perhaps now that they were living together, Jess figured it was time to offer an olive branch. What the hell. Myron dialed Jessica.
The machine picked up. He heard her voice. When the beep came on, he said, “Jess? Pick up.”
She did. “God, I wish you were here right now.” Jessica had a way with openings.
“Oh?” He could see her lying on the couch, the phone cord twisted in her fingers. “Why’s that?”
“I’m about to take a ten-minute break.”
“A full ten minutes?”
“Yup.”
“Then you’d be expecting extended foreplay?”
She laughed. “Up for it, big guy?”
&n
bsp; “I will be,” he said, “if you don’t stop talking about it.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” she said.
Myron had moved into Jessica’s Soho loft a few months ago. For most people, this would be a somewhat dramatic change—moving from a suburb in New Jersey to a trendy section of New York, moving in with a woman you love, etc.—but for Myron, the change rivaled puberty. He had spent his entire life living with his mom and dad in the classic suburban town of Livingston, New Jersey. Entire life. Age zero to six in the upstairs bedroom on the right. Age six to thirteen in the upstairs bedroom on the left. Age thirteen to thirty-something in the basement.
After that long, the apron strings become steel bands.
“I hear you’re taking Esperanza out for lunch,” he said.
“Yup.”
“How come?”
“No reason.”
“No reason?”
“I think she’s cool. I want to go to lunch. Stop being so nosy.”
“You realize, of course, that she hates you.”
“I can handle it,” Jessica said. “So how’s the golf tournament?”
“Very strange,” he said.
“How so?”
“Too long a story to tell now, sweetcakes. Can I call you later?”
“Sure.” Then: “Did you say ‘sweetcakes’?”
When they hung up, Myron frowned. Something was amiss. He and Jessica had never been closer, their relationship never stronger. Moving in together had been the right move, and a lot of their past demons had been exorcised away of late. They were loving toward each other, considerate of each other’s feelings and needs, and almost never fought.
So why did Myron feel like they were standing on the cusp of some deep abyss?
He shook it off. All of this was just the by-product of an over-stimulated imagination. Just because a ship is sailing upon smooth waters, he surmised, does not mean it is heading for an iceberg.
Wow, that was deep.
By the time he got back to the table, Tad Crispin was sipping an iced tea too. Win made the introductions. Crispin was dressed in yellows, lots of yellows, kind of like the man with the yellow hat from the Curious George books. Everything was yellow. Even his golf shoes. Myron tried not to make a face.
As if reading his mind, Norm Zuckerman said, “This isn’t our line.”
“Good to hear,” Myron said.
Tad Crispin stood. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Myron offered up a great big smile. “It’s a true honor to meet you, Tad.” His voice reeked with the sincerity of, say, a chain-store appliance salesman. The two men shook hands. Myron kept on smiling. Crispin began to look wary.
Zuckerman pointed a thumb at Myron and leaned toward Win. “Is he always this smooth?”
Win nodded. “You should see him with the ladies.”
Everyone sat.
“I can’t stay long,” Crispin said.
“We understand, Tad,” Zuckerman said, doing the shooing thing again with both hands. “You’re tired, you need to concentrate on tomorrow. Go already, get some sleep.”
Crispin sort of smiled a little and looked at Win. “I want you to have my account,” he said.
“I don’t ‘have’ accounts,” Win corrected. “I advise on them.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Most definitely,” Win said. “You are in control of your money at all times. I will make recommendations. I will make them to you directly. No one else. We will discuss them. You will then make a final decision. I will not buy or sell or trade anything without you being fully aware of what is going on.”
Crispin nodded. “That sounds good.”
“I thought it might,” Win said. “From what I see, you plan on watching your money carefully.”
“Yes.”
“Savvy,” Win said with a nod. “You’ve read about too many athletes retiring broke. Of being taken advantage of by unscrupulous money managers and the like.”
“Yes.”
“And it will be my job to help you maximize your return, correct?”
Crispin leaned forward a bit. “Correct.”
“Very well, then. It will be my task to help maximize your investment opportunities after you earn it. But I would not be serving your best interests if I did not also tell you how to make more.”
Crispin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Zuckerman said, “Win.”
Win ignored him. “As your financial consultant, I would be remiss if I did not make the following recommendation: You need a good agent.”
Crispin’s line of vision slid toward Myron. Myron remained still, looking back at him steadily. He turned back to Win. “I know you work with Mr. Bolitar,” Crispin said.
“Yes and no,” Win said. “If you decide to use his services I do not make one penny more. Well, that’s not exactly true. If you choose to use Myron’s services, you will make more money and subsequently I will have more of your money to invest. So in that way, I will make more.”
“Thanks,” Crispin said, “but I’m not interested.”
“That’s up to you,” Win said, “but let me just explain a little further what I meant by yes and no. I manage assets worth approximately four hundred million dollars. Myron’s clients represent less than three percent of that total. I am not employed by MB SportsReps. Myron Bolitar is not employed by Lock-Horne Securities. We do not have a partnership. I have not invested in his enterprise and he is not invested in mine. Myron has never looked at, asked about, or in any way discussed the financial situation of any of my clients. We are totally separate. Except for one thing.”
All eyes were on Win. Myron, not famous for knowing when to keep his mouth shut, knew now.
“I am the financial consultant for every one of his clients,” Win said. “Do you know why?”
Crispin shook his head.
“Because Myron insists upon it.”
Crispin looked confused. “I don’t understand. If he gets nothing out of it—”
“I didn’t say that. He gets plenty out of it.”
“But you said—”
“He, too, was an athlete; did you know that?”
“I heard something about it.”
“He knows what happens to athletes. How they get cheated. How they squander their earnings, never fully accepting the fact that their careers can be over in a heartbeat. So he insists—insists, mind you—that he does not handle their finances. I’ve seen him refuse clients because of this. He further insists that I handle them. Why? For the same reason you sought me out. He knows I am the best. Immodest but true. Myron further insists that they see me in person at least once every quarter. Not just phone calls. Not just faxes or E-mails or letters. He insists that I go over every item in the account personally with them.”
Win leaned farther back and steepled his fingers. The man loved to steeple his fingers. It looked good on him. Gave him an air of wisdom. “Myron Bolitar is my best friend. I know he’d give his life for me and I for him. But if he ever thought that I was not doing what was in a client’s best interest, he would take away their portfolios without a second thought.”
Norm said, “Beautiful speech, Win. Got me right there.” He pointed to his stomach.
Win gave him the look. Norm stopped smiling.
“I made the deal with Mr. Zuckerman on my own,” Crispin said. “I could make others.”
“I won’t comment on the Zoom deal,” Win said. “But I will tell you this. You are a bright young man. A bright man knows not only his strengths but equally important, he knows his weaknesses. I do not, for example, know how to negotiate an endorsement contract. I may know the basics, but it is not my business. I’m not a plumber. If a pipe in my house broke, I would not be able to fix it. You are a golfer. You are one of the greatest talents I have ever seen. You should concentrate on that.”
Tad Crispin took a sip of iced tea. He crossed his ankle on his knee. Even his socks were yellow. “Y
ou are making a hard sale for your friend,” he said.
“Wrong,” Win said. “I would kill for my friend, but financially I owe him nothing. You, on the other hand, are my client, and thus I have a very serious fiscal responsibility with regard to you. Stripping it bare, you have asked me to increase your portfolio. I will suggest several investment sources to you. But this is the best recommendation I can make.”
Crispin turned to Myron. He looked him up and down, studying him hard. Myron almost brayed so he could examine his teeth. “He makes you sound awfully good,” Crispin said to Myron.
“I am good,” Myron said. “But I don’t want him to give you the wrong impression. I’m not quite as altruistic as Win might have made me sound. I don’t insist clients use him because I’m a swell guy. I know that having him handle my clients is a major plus. He improves the value of my services. He helps keep my clients happy. That’s what I get out of it. Yes, I insist on having clients heavily involved in the decision-making on money matters, but that’s as much to protect me as them.”
“How so?”
“Obviously you know something about managers or agents robbing athletes.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why so much of that occurs?”
Crispin shrugged. “Greed, I suppose.”
Myron tilted his head in a yes-and-no gesture. “The main culprit is apathy. An athlete’s lack of involvement. They get lazy. They decide it’s easier to fully trust their agent, and thats bad. Let the agent pay the bills, they say. Let the agent invest the money. That kind of thing. But that won’t ever happen at MB SportsReps. Not because I’m watching. Not because Win’s watching. But because you are watching.”
“I’m watching now,” Crispin said.
“You’re watching your money, true. I doubt you’re watching everything else.”
Crispin considered that for a moment. “I appreciate the talk,” he said, “but I think I’m okay on my own.”
Myron pointed at Tad Crispin’s head. “How much are you getting for that hat?” he asked.
Excuse me?
“You’re wearing a hat with no company logo on it,” Myron explained. “For a player of your ilk, that’s a loss of at least a quarter of a million dollars.”
Silence.
“But I’m going to be working with Zoom,” Crispin said.