baby steps here.”
“You took one baby step, and then you fell on your ass.” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t pushed you on this since we were down at Merion.” The golf U.S. Open in Philadelphia. Myron was in the midst of finding a kidnap victim when she hit him with her partnership demands. Since then, he had been, well, er, stalling.
Esperanza stood. “I want to be a partner. Not full. I understand that. But I want equity.” She walked to the door. “You have a week.”
Myron was not sure what to say. She was his best friend. He loved her. And he needed her here. She wasa part of MB. A big part. But things were not that simple.
Esperanza opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You going to see Brenda Slaughter now?”
He nodded. “In a few minutes.”
“I’ll start the search. Call me in a few hours.”
She closed the door behind her. Myron went around to his chair and picked up the phone. He dialed Win’s number.
Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”
“You got plans for tonight?”
“Moi?
But of course.”
“Typical evening of demeaning sex?”
“Demeaning sex,” Win repeated. “I told you to stop reading Jessica’s magazines.”
“Can you cancel?”
“I could,” he said, “but the lovely lass will be very disappointed.”
“Do you even know her name?”
“What? Off the top of my head?”
One of the construction workers started hammering. Myron put a hand over his free ear. “Could we meet at your place? I need to bounce a few things off you.”
Win did not hesitate. “I am but a brick wall awaiting your verbal game of squash.”
Myron guessed that meant yes.
Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.
He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. Atired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.
Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.
Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.
“Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,” Myron said.
The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. “This is too weird.”
“What?” Myron said.
She reached toward him and took the ball from his hands. She held on to it as though it might grow wings and fly off. “It’s so like my mother,” she said. “First the clothes gone. Now the money.”
“Your mother took money?”
“Every dime.”
Myron looked at her. She kept her eyes on the ball. Her face was suddenly so guileless, so frail, Myron felt something inside him crumble. He waited a momentbefore changing the subject. “Was Horace
“You took one baby step, and then you fell on your ass.” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t pushed you on this since we were down at Merion.” The golf U.S. Open in Philadelphia. Myron was in the midst of finding a kidnap victim when she hit him with her partnership demands. Since then, he had been, well, er, stalling.
Esperanza stood. “I want to be a partner. Not full. I understand that. But I want equity.” She walked to the door. “You have a week.”
Myron was not sure what to say. She was his best friend. He loved her. And he needed her here. She wasa part of MB. A big part. But things were not that simple.
Esperanza opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You going to see Brenda Slaughter now?”
He nodded. “In a few minutes.”
“I’ll start the search. Call me in a few hours.”
She closed the door behind her. Myron went around to his chair and picked up the phone. He dialed Win’s number.
Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”
“You got plans for tonight?”
“Moi?
But of course.”
“Typical evening of demeaning sex?”
“Demeaning sex,” Win repeated. “I told you to stop reading Jessica’s magazines.”
“Can you cancel?”
“I could,” he said, “but the lovely lass will be very disappointed.”
“Do you even know her name?”
“What? Off the top of my head?”
One of the construction workers started hammering. Myron put a hand over his free ear. “Could we meet at your place? I need to bounce a few things off you.”
Win did not hesitate. “I am but a brick wall awaiting your verbal game of squash.”
Myron guessed that meant yes.
Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.
He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. Atired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.
Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.
Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.
“Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,” Myron said.
The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. “This is too weird.”
“What?” Myron said.
She reached toward him and took the ball from his hands. She held on to it as though it might grow wings and fly off. “It’s so like my mother,” she said. “First the clothes gone. Now the money.”
“Your mother took money?”
“Every dime.”
Myron looked at her. She kept her eyes on the ball. Her face was suddenly so guileless, so frail, Myron felt something inside him crumble. He waited a momentbefore changing the subject. “Was Horace
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