Tad Crispin took a sip of iced tea. He crossed his ankle on his knee. Even his socks were yellow. “You 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.
“Did they purchase hat rights from you?”
He thought about it. “I don’t think so.”
“The front of the hat is a quarter million. We can also sell the sides if you want. They’ll go for less. Maybe we’ll total four hundred grand. Your shirt is another matter.”
“Now just wait one minute here,” Zuckerman interjected. “He’s going to be wearing Zoom shirts.”
“Fine, Norm,” Myron said. “But he’s allowed to wear logos. One on the chest, one on either sleeve.”
“Logos?”
“Anything. Coca-Cola maybe. IBM. Even Home Depot.”
“Logos on my shirt?”
“Yep. And what do you drink out there?”
“Drink? When I play?”
“Sure. I can probably get you a deal with Powerade or one of the soda companies. How about Poland Spring water? They might be good. And your golf bag. You have to negotiate a deal for your golf bag.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re a billboard, Tad. You’re on television. Lots of fans see you. Your hat, your shirt, your golf bag—those are all places to post ads.”
Zuckerman said, “Now hold on a second. He can’t just—”
A cell phone began to sound, but it never made it past the first ring. Myron’s finger reached the ringer and turned it off with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp retire. Fast reflexes. They came in handy every once in a while.
Still, the brief sound had drawn the ire of nearby club members. Myron looked around. He was on the receiving end of several dagger-glares, including one from Win.
“Hurry around behind the clubhouse,” Win said pointedly. “Let no one see you.”
Myron gave a flippant salute and rushed out like a man with a suddenly collapsing bladder. When he reached a safe area near the parking lot, he answered the call.
“Hello.”
“Oh, God …” It was Linda Coldren. Her tone struck the marrow of his bone.
“What’s wrong?”
“He called again,” she said.
“Do you have it on tape?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right ov—”
“No!” she shouted. “He’s watching the house.”
“You saw him?”
“No. But … Don’t come here. Please.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“The fax line in the basement. Oh God, Myron, you should have heard him.”
“Did the number come up on the Caller ID?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
She did. Myron took out a pen from his wallet and wrote the number down on an old Visa receipt.
“Are you alone?”
“Jack is right here with me.”
“Anybody else? What about Esme Fong?”
“She’s upstairs in the living room.”
“Okay,” Myron said. “I’ll need to hear the call.”
“Hold on. Jack is plugging the machine in now. I’ll put you on the speaker so you can hear.”
7
The tape player was snapped on. Myron heard the phone ringing first. The sound was surprisingly clear. Then he heard Jack Coldren: “Hello?”
“Who’s the chink bitch?”
The voice was very deep, very menacing, and definitely machine-altered. Male or female, young or old, it was anyone’s guess.
“I don’t know what—”
“You trying to fuck with me, you dumb son of a bitch? I’ll start sending you the fucking brat in little pieces.”
Jack Coldren said, “Please—”
“I told you not to contact anyone.”
“We haven’t.”
“Then tell me who that chink bitch is who just walked into your house.”
Silence.
“You think we’re stupid, Jack?”
“Of course not.”
“So who the fuck is she?”
“Her name is Esme Fong,” Coldren said quickly. “She works for a clothing company. She’s just here to set up an endorsement deal with my wife, that’s all.”