Harlan Coben - Deal Breaker

Welcome to Lock-Horne Investments & Securities.

All six floors were exactly the same. In fact, Myron often suspected that Lock-Horne had only one floor and that the elevator was set to stop on the same floor no matter which number you hit from floor fourteen to floor nineteen, giving the illusion of a bigger company.

Office after office made up the compound’s perimeter. These were saved for the head honchos, the top dogs, the numero unos, or in securities talk, the Big Producers. The BPs all had windows and sunshine, unlike the peons on the inside, who sickened and paled from the unnatural light.

Win had a corner office with a view of both Forty-seventh Street and Park Avenue-a view that screamed major dinero. His office was decorated in Early American Wasp. Dark-paneled walls. Forest green carpet. Wing-back chairs. Paintings of a fox hunt on the wall. Like Win had ever seen a fox.

Win looked up from his massive oak desk when Myron entered. The desk weighed slightly less than a cement mixer. He’d been studying a computer print-out, one of those never-ending reams with green and white stripes. The desk was blanketed with them. They sort of matched the carpet.

“How did your morning rendezvous go with our friend Jerry the Phone-icator?” Win asked.

“Phone-icator?”

Win smiled. “I spent the whole morning working that one.”

“It was worth it,” Myron said.

He filled Win in on his encounter with Gary “Jerry” Grady. Win sat back and steepled. Myron then filled him in on his encounter with Otto Burke. Win leaned forward and unsteepled.

“Otto Burke,” Win said, his voice measured, “is a scoundrel. Perhaps I should pay him a private visit.” He looked up at Myron hopefully.

“No. Not yet Please.”

“Are you quite positive?”

“Yes. Promise me, Win. No visits.”

He was clearly disappointed. “Fine,” Win said, grudgingly.

“So what did you want to see me about?”

“Ah.” Win’s face lit up again. “Take a look at this.”

He lifted the reams of computer print-outs and unceremoniously dumped them on the floor. Underneath were a pile of magazines. The top one was called Climaxx . The subheadline read, “Double Xs for Double the Pleasure.” Nifty sales technique. Win fanned them out as if he were doing a card trick.

“Six magazines,” he said.

Myron read the titles. Climaxx, Licks, Jiz, Quim, Orgasm Today , and of course, Nips. “Nickler’s publications?”

“God, you are good,” Win said.

“Years of training. So what about them?”

“Take a look at the pages I have marked off.”

Myron started with Climaxx . The cover featured another freakishly endowed woman, this time licking her own nipple. Handy. Win had used leather bookmarks to mark the page. Leather bookmarks in porno magazines. Like cigarettes in an aerobics class.

The page marked off was already too familiar. Myron felt his stomach churn all over again.

Live Fantasy Phone-Pick Your Girl

There were still three rows, still four in each row. His eyes immediately moved down to the bottom row, second from the right. It still read, “I’ll Do Anything!” The phone number was still 1-900-344-LUST. Still $3.99 per minute. Still discreetly billed to your telephone or charge card, Visa and MasterCard accepted.

But the woman in the picture was not Kathy Culver.

He quickly scanned the rest of the page. Nothing else was different. The same Oriental girl was still waiting. The same buttock still craved a spanking. “Tiny Titties” had not pubesced.

“This same advertising page is in all six magazines,” Win explained. “But only Nips has Kathy Culver’s picture.”

“Interesting.” Myron thought a moment. “Nickler probably sells package deals to advertisers-buy space in six for the price of three, that kind of thing.”

“Precisely. I would venture to say that all six magazines have the exact same ads.”

“But someone stuck Kathy’s picture in Nips. ” Myron was getting used to saying the name of the magazine. It no longer felt grimy on his lips, which in itself made him feel grimier.

Win said, “Do you remember Nickler telling us that Nips was doing poorly?”

Myron nodded.

“Well, I had a devil of a time locating it. Most of the other rags were fairly easy to find on corner newsstands. But I had to go to a hardcore porno palace on Forty-second Street to come up with Nips. ”

“Yet,” Myron added, “Otto Burke was able to get a copy.”

“Precisely. I am sure you’ve considered the possibility that Mr. Burke is behind it.”

“The idea has crossed my mind.”

There was a knock on the door. Esperanza entered.

“Your handwriting expert is on the phone,” she said. “I put it on Win’s line.”

Win picked up the receiver and handed it to Myron.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Myron, it’s Swindler. I just went over the two samples you gave me.”

Myron had given Swindler the envelope Nips had come in as well as a letter in Kathy’s handwriting.

“Well?”

“They match. It’s her or a very professional forgery.

Myron felt his stomach dive. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Thanks for calling.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Myron handed the receiver back to Win.

“A match?” Win asked.

“Yep.”

Win tilted back in his chair and smiled. “Yowzer.”

Myron ran into Ricky Lane in the corridor. He hadn’t seen him in three months. Ricky looked a lot bigger. The Jets would be pleased.

“What are you doing here?” Myron asked.

“I made an appointment with Win,” Ricky said with a big grin. “Just like my agent advised.”

“Good to see you listen to your agent.”

“Always. The man is brilliant.”

“And he never argues with a client.”

Ricky laughed. “Say, I heard Christian got locked out of camp.”

News traveled fast. “Where did you hear that?”

“The FAN.”

WFAN was New York’s all-sports radio station. “Have you spoken to him lately?”

Ricky made a face. “Christian?”

“Yeah.”

“Not since my last college football game, what, year and a half ago.”

“I thought you were friends.” Myron had, in fact, assumed that Ricky had recommended his services to Christian.

“We were teammates,” Ricky replied steadily. “We were never friends.”

“You don’t like him?”

Ricky shrugged. “Not really. None of us did.”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“Guys on the team.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Long story, man. Not worth telling.”

“I’d be interested.”

“Put it like this,” Ricky said. “Christian was a little too perfect for most of us, okay?”

“An egomaniac?”

Ricky paused, considering. “Not really. I mean, to be straight, I guess a lot of it was jealousy. Christian wasn’t just good. Shit, he wasn’t even just great. He was incredible. Best I ever seen.”

“So?”

“So he expected the same from everyone else.”

“He got on people’s case when they made mistakes?”

Ricky paused again, shook his head. “No, that ain’t it either.”

“You’re being a tad obtuse, Ricky.”

Ricky Lane looked up, looked down, looked left, looked right, looked very uneasy. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “It’s going to sound like a lot of griping, but guys weren’t crazy about all the attention he was getting. I mean, we won two national championships, and the only guy they ever talked to was Christian.”

“I heard those interviews. He always gave his teammates all the credit.”