by Harlan Coben
Win gave a slight shake of the head. "You know better than that."
"I do?"
"Yes. Many have talent. Many practice. There is more to the art of creating a true winner."
"This look-in-the-eye thing?"
"Yes."
Myron winced. "You're not going to start singing 'Eye of the Tiger,' are you?" _
Win cocked his head. "Who sang that song?"
The continuing trivia game. Win knew the answer, of course. "It was in Rocky II, right?"
"Rocky IIl," Win corrected.
"That the one with Mr. T?"
Win nodded. "Who played . . . ?" he prompted.
"Clubber Lange."
"Very good. Now who sang the song?"
"I don't remember."
"The name of the group was Survivor," Win said.
"Ironic name when you think of how quickly they vanished, no?"
"Uh-huh," Myron said. "So what is this great divider, Win? What makes a winner'?"
Win took another swish and sip. "Wanting," he said.
"Wanting?"
"Hunger."
"Uh+huh." "The answer isn't surprising," Win said. "Look in Joe DiMaggio's eyes. Or Larry Bird's. Or Michael Jordan's.
Look at pictures of Jolm McEnroe in his prime, or Chris Evert. Look at Linda Coldren." He stopped. ' 'Look in the mirror."
"The mirror? I have this?"
"When you were on the court," Win said slowly, "your eyes were barely sane."
They fell into silence. Myron took a swig of Yoo-Hoo.
The cold aluminum felt good in his hand. "You make the . whole 'wanting' thing sound like it's all foreign to you,"
Myron said.
"It is."
"Bull."
"I am a good golfer," Win said. "Correction: I am a very good golfer. I practiced quite a bit in my youth. I
have even won my share of toumaments. But I never wanted it bad enough to move up to that next level."
"I've seen you in the ring," Myron countered. "In martial arts tournaments. You seemed plenty 'wanting' to me."
"That is very different," Win said.
"How so?" +
"I do not view a martial arts tournaments as a sporting contest, whereby the winner brings home a chintzy trophy and brags to colleagues and friends- nor do I view it as a competition that will lead to some sort of empty emotion that the insecure among us perceive as glory.
Fighting is not a sport to me. It's about survival. If I could lose in there"- he motioned to an imaginary ring "I
could lose in the real world." Win looked up in the air.
"But . . ." His voice drifted off "But?" Myron repeated.
"But you may be on to something."
"Oh?"
Win steepled his fingers. "You see, fighting is life and death to me. That's how I treat it. But the athletes we've been talking about take it a step further. Every competition,-even the most banal, is viewed by them as life-and-death and losing is death."
Myron nodded. He didn't buy it, but what the hell.
Keep him talking. "I don't get something," he said. "If Jack has this special 'wanting,' why hasn't he ever won a professional tournament?' '
"He lost it."
"The wanting?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Twenty-three years ago."
"During the Open?"
"Yes," Win said again. "Most athletes lose it in a slow burnout. They grow weary or they win enough to quench whatever inferno rages in their bellies. But that was not the case with Jack. His fire was extinguished in one crisp, cold gust. You could almost see it. Twentythree years ago. The sixteenth hole. The ball landing in the stone quarry. His eyes have never been the same."
"Until now," Myron added.
"Until now," Win agreed. "It took him twenty-three years, but he stoked the flames back to life."
They both drank. Win sipped. Myron guzzled. The chocolaty coldness felt wonderful sliding down his throat.
"How long have you known Jack?" Myron asked.
"I met him when I was six years old. He was fifteen."
"Did he have the 'wanting' back then?"
Win smiled at the ceiling. "He would sooner carve out his own kidney with a grapefruit spoon than lose to someone on the golf course." He lowered his gaze to Myron.
."Did Jack Coldren have the 'wanting'? He was the pure definition."
"Sounds like you admired him."
"I did."
"You don't anymore?"
"No."
"What made you change?"
"l grew up."
"Wow." Myron took another swig of Yoo-Hoo.
"That's heavy."
Win chuckled. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Win put down the brandy snifter. He leaned forward very slowly. "What is so great about winning?"
"Pardon?"
"People love a winner. They look up to him. They admire nay, revere him. They use terms like hero and courage and perseverance to describe him. They want to be near him and touch him. They want to be like him."
Win spread his hands. "But why? What about the winner do we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement?
His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?" He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. "Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?"
"Competitive drive isn't a bad thing, Win. You're talking about extremes."
"But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call 'competitive drive' leads to extremism and destroys all in its path."
"You're being simplistic, Win."
"It is simple, my friend."
They both settled back. Myron stared up at the exposed beams. Aiter some time, he said, "You have it wrong."
"How so?"
Myron wondered how to explain it. "W'hen I played basketball," he began, "I mean, when I really got into it and reached these levels you're talking about I barely thought about the score. I barely thought about my opponent or about beating somebody. I was alone. I was in the zone. This is going to sound stupid, but playing at the top of my game was almost Zen-like."
Win nodded. "And when did you feel this way?"
"Pardon?"
"When did you feel your most to use your word Zen?"
"I don't follow."
' 'Was it at practice? No. Was it during an unimportant game or when your team was up by thirty points? No.
What brought you to this sweat-drenched state of Nirvana, my friend, was competition. The desire the naked need to defeat a top-level opponent."
Myron opened his mouth to counter. Then he stopped.
Exhaustion was starting to take over. ' 'I'm not sure I have an answer to that," he said. "At the end of the day, I like to win. I don't know why. I like ice cream too. I don't know why either."
Win frowned. "Impressive simile," he said flatly.
"Hey, it's late."
Myron heard a car pull up front. A young blond entered the room and smiled. Win smiled back. She bent down and kissed him. Win had no problem with that. Win was never outwardly rude to his dates. He was not the type to rush them out. He had no problem with them staying the night, if it made them happier. Some might mistake this for kindness or a tender spot in the soul.
They'd be wrong. Win let them stay because they meant so little to him. They could never reach him. They could never touch him. So why not. let them stay?
"That's my taxi," the blonde said.
Win's smile was blank.
"I had fun," she said.
Not even a blink.
"You can reach me through Amanda if you want"
she looked at Myron, then back at Win "well, you know."
"Yes," Win said. "l know." .
The young woman offere
d up an uncomfortable smile and left.
Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past in the mideighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called "Chinese Night" but to still partake, in this day and age?
Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.
He turned to his friend. They looked at each other.
Neither one of them said anything.
"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."
"I didn't say anything." .
"Indeed." Win stood.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
Myron felt his heart pound."'Mind if I go with you?"
"Yes."
"What car are you taking?"
Win did not bother responding. "Good night, Myron." .
Myron's mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. ' 'One question, if I may."
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
"Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you'?" Win asked.
"No," Myron said.
"Then who?"
"Your uncle Bucky."
Win arched an eyebrow. "And who suggested us to Bucky?"
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn't stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
"Win?"
"Go to sleep, Myron."
Chapter 11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn't even bother trying.
He sat in Win's chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win's potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A. M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open.
Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion. +
"Good night," Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach.
He had just begun to slide into his REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open. '
"You're still asleep'?" a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking;
he wasn't used to her doing it where he slept.
"What time is it?" he croaked.
' ' Six+thirty. ' '
"In the morning?"
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations.
With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
"How did you get here?" he asked.
"Amtrak red-eye," she said.
Myron was still groggy. "Then what did you do?
Catch a cab?"
"What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab."
"Just asking."
"The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he's not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood. ' '
Myron shrugged. "Probably thought you were a domestic,"
he said.
"In these shoes?" She lifted her foot so he could see.
"Very nice." Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. "Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?"
"I got some information on the old caddie."
"Lloyd Rennart'?"
Esperanza nodded: "He's dead."
"Oh." Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a begirming. "You could have just called."
"There's more." .
"Oh?"
"The circumstances surrounding his death are" she stopped, bit her lower lip "fuzzy."
Myron sat up a bit. "Fuzzy?"
"Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago."
"How?" +
"That's the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain range in Peru. He woke up one morning, wrote a brief note, then he jumped oif a cliff of some kind."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I haven't been able to get too many details yet.
The Philadelphia Daily News just had a brief story on it." There was a hint of a smile. "But according to the article, the body had not yet been located."
Myron was starting to wake up in a big hurry.
"What?"
"Apparently Lloyd Rermart took the plunge in a remote crevasse with no access. They may have located the body by now, but I couldn't find a follow-up article. None of the local papers carried an obituary."
Myron shook his head. No body. The questions that sprang to mind were obvious: could Lloyd Rennart still be alive? Did he fake his own death in order to plot out his revenge? Seemed a tad out there, but you never know. If he had, why would he have waited twenty-three years?
True, the U. S. Open was back at Merion. True, that could make old wounds resurface. But still. "Weird," he said.
He looked up at her. "You could have told me all this on the phone. You didn't have to come all the way down here."
"What the hell is the big deal?" Esperanza snapped.
' 'I wanted to get out of the city for the weekend. I thought seeing the Open would be fun. You mind?"
"I was just asking."
"You're so nosy sometimes."
"Okay, okay." He held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Forget I asked."
"Forgotten," she said. "You want to fill me in on what's going on?"
He told her about the Crusty Nazi at the mall and about losing the black-clad perpetrator.
When he finished, Esperanza shook her head.
"Jesus," she said. "Without Win, you're hopeless."
Ms. Morale Booster.
"Speaking of Win," Myron said, "don't talk to him about the case."
"Why?"
"He's reacting badly,"
She watched him closely. "How badly?"
"He went night visiting."
Silence.
"I thought he stopped doing that," she said.
"I thought so too."
"Are you sure?"
"There was a Chevy parked in the driveway," Myron said. ' 'He took it out of here last night and didn't get back till three-thirty."
Silence. Win stored a bunch of old, unregistered Chevys. Disposable cars, he called them. Completely untraceable.
Esperanza's voice was soft. "You can't have it both ways, Myron."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can't ask Win to do it when it suits you, then get pissed off when he does it on his own."
"l never ask him to play vigilante."
"Yeah, you do. You involve him in violence. When it suits your needs, you unleash him. Like he's a weapon of some kind."
"It's not like that."
"It is like that," she said. "It is exactly like that.
When Win goes out on these night errands, he doesn't hurt the irmocent, does he?"
Myron considered the question. "No," he said.
"So what's the problem? He is just attacking a different type of guilty. He picks out the guilty instead of you."
Myron shook his head. "It's not the same thing."
"Because you judge?"
' 'I don't send him out to hurt people. I send him out to watch people or to back me up."
"I'm not sure I see the difference."
"Do you know what h
e does when he night visits, Esperanza? He walks through the worst neighborhoods he can find in the middle of the night. Old FBI buddies tell him where drug dealers or child pornographers or street gangs hang out alleyways, abandoned buildings, whatever and he goes strolling through those hellholes no cop would dare tread."
"Sounds like Batman," Esperanza countered.
"You don't think it's wrong?"
"Oh, I think it's wrong," she replied steadily. "But I'm not sure you do."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Think about it," she said. "About why you're really upset."
Footsteps approached. Win stuck his head in the doorway. He was smiling like a guest star on the opening credits of the Love Boat. "Good morning, all," he said with far too much cheer. He bussed Esperanza's cheek.
He was decked out in classic, though fairly understated, golf clothes. Ashworth shirt. Plain golf cap. Sky-blue pants with pleats.
"Will you be staying with us, Esperanza?" he asked in his most solicitous tone.
Esperanza looked at him, looked at Myron. Nodded.
"Wonderful. You can use the bedroom down the hall on the left." Win turned to Myron. "Guess what?"
"I'm all ears, Mr. Happy Face," Myron said.
"Crispin still wants to meet with you. It appears that your walking out last night actually made something of an impression on him." Big smile, spread hands. "The reluctant suitor approach. I must try it sometime."
Esperanza said, "Tad Crispin? The Tad Crispin'?"
"The very," Win replied.
She gave Myron an approving look. "Wow."
"Indeed," Win said. "Well, I must be going. I'll see you at Merion. I'll be at the Lock Home tent most of the day." Renewing the smile. "Ta-ta."
Win started to leave, stopped, snapped his fingers. "I
almost forgot." He tossed Myron a videotape. "Maybe this will save you some time."
The videotape landed on the bed. "Is this . . . ?"
"The bank security tape from First Philadelphia,"
Win said. "Six eighteen on Thursday afternoon. As per your request." One more smile, one more wave. "Have a great day."
Esperanza watched him go. " 'Have a great day'?"
she repeated.
Myron shrugged.
"Who the hell was that guy'?" she asked.
"Wink Martindale," Myron said. "Come on. Let's go downstairs and watch this."
Chapter I2
Linda Coldren opened the door before Myron knocked.
"What is it?" she asked.
Linda's face was drawn, accentuating the already high cheekbones. Her eyes had a lost and hollow look. She hadn't slept. The pressure was growing unbearable. The worrying. The not knowing. She was strong. She was trying to stand up to it. But her son's disappearance was beginning to gnaw away at her core.