Otto kept the smile aglow. His goatee was exactly the same as always, never heavier or lighter. Must trim it every day, Myron thought. They sat in two seats facing the field. Fifty yard line. Fans would kill for these seats. Down below, players were scattered across the field. Myron spotted Christian walking toward the sideline. His helmet was off, his head held high. Christian didn’t know about Nancy Serat’s murder—her name had not yet been released—but the press would be all over him soon enough. Myron could protect him only so much, though he did entertain hopes that the news of Christian’s signing would deflect some attention away from the murder.
“So,” Otto said with a clap of his hands, “are you ready to sign?”
Down on the field Christian was being introduced to a bunch of long-haired men. Myron recognized the men from a video on MTV. They were Otto Records’ latest find. A group called StillLife. Good sound, but did they have the raw talent, of, say, Pap Smear?
“Sure,” Myron said. “We would like nothing more.”
“Great I have a pen.”
“How handy. I have a contract.” He handed it to Otto. Otto read it quickly. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes frowned. He passed it to Larry Hanson.
“I’m confused, Myron. This looks like your last offer.”
“Very perceptive, Otto.”
“I thought we had an agreement,” he said.
“We do. There it is.”
“I think you’re forgetting”—he paused, searching for the right word—“Christian’s sudden devaluation.”
“You make him sound like a foreign currency.”
Otto laughed. He looked over to Larry as if to say, laugh too. Larry could only muster a smile. “Okay, Myron, I’ll accept that. We are all, to some extent, commodities. Your client, however, is now trading at a lower rate against the U.S. dollar.”
“Thanks for keeping within the metaphor, Otto, but I don’t see it that way.” Myron looked at Larry Hanson. “How’s his play been, Larry?”
“Well, it’s very early,” Larry said, clearing his throat. “You really can’t tell too much after such a short time period.”
“But if you had to grade him so far?”
Another throat clear. “Let’s just say,” he replied, “that Christian’s play has not been a disappointment.”
“There you go,” Myron said, matching Otto’s smile. “His value has, if anything, increased with his recent on-the-field display. You have now had a tasty morsel of his potential. I don’t see how you could expect us to drop our asking price.”
Otto rose, nodding his head. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the bar. “Care for a drink, Myron?”
“Do you have any Yoo-Hoo?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Nothing, then.”
Otto poured himself a 7-Up. He did not ask Larry Hanson if he wanted anything. “I will admit,” Otto said, “that Christian’s play so far has been impressive, though I must caution you, Myron—and you too, Larry—that there is a big difference between practice and games. Between how an athlete performs in a scrimmage and how he performs in a pressure situation.”
Myron and Larry exchanged a glance. The glance said, Pretentious asshole.
“But let me also add,” Otto continued, “that our product is dependent on more than just performance. If, for example, our team were to win the Super Bowl but were also involved in a major drug or sex scandal, the overall value of the product may decline.”
“Can you demonstrate that with a graph?” Myron asked. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“It means,” Otto said, “that the photograph in that sleazy publication makes Christian worth less money to us.”
“But it’s not a picture of him.”
“It’s a picture of his fiancée.”
“Ex-fiancée.”
“His fiancée who vanished under mysterious circumstances.”
“Christian and I are willing to take the chance,” Myron said. “It was in a small publication. It hasn’t gotten out so far. We don’t think it will.”
Otto sipped his 7-Up. He seemed to enjoy it, even adding an “aaah” like he was taping a commercial. “But the press might find out.”
“I don’t think so,” Myron said. “I’ve discussed it with Christian. We both feel the same.”
“Then you are both fools.”
The facade had dropped open a crack.
“Now, Otto, that wasn’t very nice.”
The facade slid back up, smooth as an electric car window. “Let me remind you of our previous discussion on this very subject, Myron. See if you can follow this. You were to take our agreement and knock it down by a third. If not, the picture of the au naturel Ms. Culver goes public, thereby ruining your player’s endorsement career.”
“But he didn’t do anything, Otto. It’s only a picture of Kathy Culver.”
“It doesn’t matter. Advertisers do not like the smallest whiff of controversy. Remember this, Myron: In business, appearance is far more important than reality.”
“Appearance versus reality,” Myron said. “That I have to write down.”
Otto took out a contract of his own. “Sign it,” he said. “Now.”
Myron just smiled at him.
“Sign it, Myron. Or I’ll ruin you.”
“I don’t think so, Otto.”
Myron began to unbutton his shirt.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t get excited, Otto. I’m stopping after the third button. Just enough to show you this.” He pointed to the small microphone on his chest.
“What the hell—?”
“It’s a wire, Otto. It leads to a tape recorder stuck in my belt. You can make the picture public, that’s up to you. It may damage Christian, it may not. I, in turn, will make this tape public. I will also sue your sorry ass for any damages Christian may have suffered because of your actions, and I will also see to it that you are arrested for extortion and blackmail.” Myron smiled. “I always wanted to own a record company. Chicks dig that, don’t they, Otto?”
Otto looked at him coolly. “Larry?”
“Yes, Mr. Burke.”
“Take the tape away from him. Forcibly, if necessary.”
Myron looked at Hanson “You’re a big guy, Larry,” Myron said. “And I know you were one of the toughest fullbacks ever to play this game. But if you get out of that chair, I’ll put you in a body cast.”