Harlan Coben - Home

“He’s special,” Grady said.

“Yep.”

“I think he may be better than you.”

“Hush, now.”

Coach Grady laughed and blew the whistle. The game stopped, and for the first time, Mickey let up on his focus and spotted his uncle. He didn’t wave. Neither did Myron. The coach called them into the circle at center court, said a few words of encouragement, told them, “Hands in.” They all put their hands in and shouted, “Team!” before breaking for the showers.

Mickey jogged over to Myron. He had a towel around his neck. Myron stood. Mickey was sixteen years old, a little taller than Myron, maybe six five. He didn’t smile often, at least not around his uncle, but, then again, their relationship, brief as it was, had been strained until recently.

Mickey was smiling now.

“You got the tickets?” Mickey asked.

“They’re at will call.”

“Let me just quickly shower. I’ll be right back.”

He jogged off. The gym emptied. Myron picked up a stray basketball and headed out onto the court. He stood at the foul line. He bounced the ball three times. His fingers found the grooves without conscious thought. He released the ball with perfect backspin. Swish. He did again. And again.

Time passed. Impossible to say how much.

“Myron?”

It was Mickey.

They headed outside toward the parking lot. Mickey stopped when he saw the limousine.

“We’re taking that?”

“Yep. Problem?”

“It’s a little showy.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Mickey looked around to make sure none of his friends was in sight. When he was sure the coast was clear, they both slipped into the back. Mickey leaned forward and stuck his hand out to the driver. “I’m Mickey.”

“I’m Stan,” the driver said. “Nice to meet you, Mickey.”

“Same here.”

Mickey sat back and fastened his seat belt. The car started up. “So I thought you were traveling and we weren’t going tonight,” Mickey said.

“I just got back.”

“Where were you?”

“London,” Myron said. “How’s Grandma and Grandpa?”

Grandma and Grandpa were Ellen and Alan Bolitar, Myron’s parents. They were staying with Mickey for the next few days.

“They’re good.”

“When will your parents be back?”

Mickey shrugged and looked out the window. “It’s supposed to be a three-day retreat.”

“And then?”

“Then if it goes well, Mom can be an outpatient.”

Mickey’s tone told Myron to leave it alone. For once, Myron did.

The ride into the heart of Newark took half an hour. The Prudential Center arena is known as the Rock, a reference to the Rock of Gibraltar on Prudential’s logo. The New Jersey Devils hockey team played here, and that was about it for the pro teams. The Nets ended up moving to Brooklyn, abandoning their roots, but Myron had seen a lot of college basketball games here, and Springsteen twice.

Myron picked up the tickets at will call. They also got laminated backstage passes.

“Good seats?” Mickey asked.

“Ringside.”

“Sweet.”

“Your aunts take care of us. You know that.”

Tonight’s entertainment: professional wrestling.

In the old days, before the Internet made images of scantily clad women readily available, adolescent boys watched titillation in the guise of women’s professional wrestling on Sunday morning local television. The undercard for tonight’s main events featured a return to those days, to the days of FLOW, the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (originally they wanted to call themselves the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling but the local networks had issues with the ensuing acronym), and some of the organization’s all-time favorites.

FLOW had gone out of business many years ago, but somebody, mainly Myron’s friend and former business partner, Esperanza Diaz, had resurrected the organization. Nostalgia was in, and Esperanza, known back in her FLOW days as “Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess,” hoped to cash in on it. She didn’t hire hot young female wrestlers to dazzle the adolescents. That market was already satiated.

Welcome instead to the “cougar tour” of pro wrestling.

It was the “senior tour” of professional wrestling. And why not? Golf’s senior tour was a big draw. Tennis had one. Those autograph conventions with old actors from seventies TV shows were hotter than ever. Just take a quick gander at the schedule of rock performers at your favorite venues-the Rolling Stones, the Who, Steely Dan, U2, Springsteen-and you realized that either youth was out or maybe they just had no disposable income.

So why not capitalize?

Tonight’s Tag Team Championship in the Cougar Division featured the team of Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama.

Aka Esperanza Diaz and Big Cyndi.

When they entered the ring-Esperanza still teeth-meltingly rocking a skimpy leopard-print suede bikini with a hair lasso; Big Cyndi, all six six, three hundred pounds of her, squeezed into some kind of leather merry widow and a full feather headdress-the crowd erupted.

Mickey turned to his right to see the opponents coming out of the tunnel. “What the…?”

The crowd began to boo.

Here was where FLOW really tested the boundaries. If Esperanza’s and Big Cyndi’s ages might qualify them as “MILFs,” their evil opponents-“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Axis of Evil, Commie Connie and Iron Curtain Irene!”-would fit more into the “GILF” category.

For those who might be a little slow in the area of acronyms, the G would stand for “grandmother.”

Still, Commie Connie proudly (or defiantly) wore the same supertight, revealing red costume with Chinese stars and pictures of Mao that had made her famous, while Irene sported a two-piece that formed an old Soviet sickle across her cleavage.

Mickey started playing with his phone.

“What are you doing?” Myron asked.

“I’m looking something up.”

“What?”

“Hold on.” Then: “According to this, Commie Connie is seventy-four years old.”

Myron smiled. “Looks great, doesn’t she?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Mickey didn’t get it. Then again, he was sixteen. Myron had been ten when he watched Connie, so maybe he was still seeing her through his childhood goggles the same way we hear our favorite bands through childhood earphones. Whatever. As they sat back and watched the match unfold, Myron downed popcorn.

“So Aunt Esperanza is supposed to be Native American?” Mickey asked.

“Yes.”

“But she’s Hispanic, right?”

“Yes.”

“And Big Cyndi is?”

“Anyone’s guess.”

“But she’s not Native American.”

“No, she’s not.” Myron glanced at him. “There isn’t much about pro wrestling that’s politically correct.”

“More like downright insensitive.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s a role. We can be outraged about it tomorrow.”

Mickey grabbed some of the popcorn. “I told a couple of my teammates I knew Little Pocahontas.”

“I bet they were impressed.”

“Oh yeah. One says his dad still has her poster in his weight room.”

“And that’s probably politically incorrect too.”

In the ring, Big Cyndi wore enough makeup to put a Kiss concert out of business. Then again, she wore the same in real life too. Big Cyndi made a quick move near the turnbuckle, grabbed Commie Connie in a headlock, and then, with her free hand, she blew Myron a kiss.

“I love you, Mr. Bolitar,” she shouted.

Mickey loved that. So did the crowd. So, well, did Myron.

Again, the “senior tour” for the “cougar division” title was all about memories, which was tantamount to wanting your favorite band to play its old hits. So that was what the four wrestlers gave the crowd.