Harlan Coben - Play Dead

He must have been having a nightmare about last night’s Red Sox game. Damn, that had been a sure thing. Stan had studied the match-up carefully and had concluded that there was absolutely no way the Brewers could beat the Sox. Milwaukee could never hit a lefty pitcher with a 7-0 lifetime record against them. Combine that with the way the Sox had been beating up Brewer pitching and then add that they were playing in Fenway Park. It was a sure thing.

The Sox had lost 6-3.

Stan had dropped a thousand bucks on that game. And even worse, the B Man (so named because of his fondness for breaking bones) was after him just because Stan had been late on a few payments. Stan knew that all he needed was one more chance. He knew that today’s game between the Houston Astros and the Cards in St Louis was a sure thing. Mike Scott was ready to explode. He may even hurl a no-hitter against St Louis today. And there was a horse in the fifth at Yonkers Stan absolutely loved.

He silently slipped from under the covers, urinated, flushed, then looked at his naked body in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his late (very late) thirties. Everything was still firm this morning (even Mr Happy) and his handsome face still drew the women. Witness last night, his very first in Boston.

He moved back into the bedroom, What’s-her-name had not yet stirred. Good. He searched her dresser for some aspirin, found some Tylenol, quickly downed three in the hopes that it would kill his hangover. He turned on the television, flipped the stations until he found what he was looking for, sat on the edge of the bed. What’s-her-name finally began to stir from her hibernation as the television warmed up.

The anchorman was talking about his brother again. For chrissake you would have thought the President of the United States had died the way they covered David. He grabbed a cigarette off the floor (how the cigarette had ended up there he had no idea) and lit it as the television droned on:

‘The sports world is still shaken and shocked over the tragic drowning death of basketball great David Baskin. Today, our city pays its last respects to Mr Baskin, the Celtics legend who provided us all with so many memorable moments and world championships. A public memorial service will be held today at noon at Faneuil Hall. Thousands are expected to be on hand to say goodbye to David Baskin. Scheduled speakers include Senator Ted Kennedy, Celtics President Clip Arnstein and two of David Baskin’s teammates, center Earl Roberts and shooting guard Timmy Daniels.

Stan shook his head. A whole city mourning for that schmuck. Unbelievable. His eyes suddenly grew large when the television flashed a picture of Laura on the screen.

A spokesman for the team said that Baskin’s beautiful widow, fashion mogul Laura Ayars-Baskin, will come out of seclusion for today’s ceremony and the private burial that will follow. Mrs Ayars-Baskin and her husband were on their secret honeymoon when the tragedy occurred. She has not been seen since returning…

Stan was held spellbound by her image. He may not have liked his brother (hated him actually), but oh man, was his bride a different story. Just look at that body! Christ, she had to be a great lay. No question about it. And a girl like that would be crawling up walls soon without a steady fuck. A girl like that would want a real man sharing her bed this time.

And David’s dear older brother Stan was just the man for the job.

He stood up.

‘Where you going?’

So she was finally awake. Stan tried like hell to remember the name he had used last night, couldn’t, then gave up. ‘Huh?’

‘Did you sleep okay, David?’

He suppressed a laugh. David. He had used the son of a bitch’s name. ‘Just fine.’ He turned and faced her, seeing her for the first time since the night before.

Oh shit.

First the Red Sox lose, and now this beast. He could have sworn she was a whole lot better looking last night.

‘What would you like me to make you for breakfast?’

Christ, she was a cow. ‘I gotta go.’

‘Will you call?’

Moo. ‘Sure, sweetheart.’

She lowered her head. ‘I mean, if you don’t want…’

Listen to this cow nag. How had he ended up with her anyway? If Stan didn’t know himself better, he would have sworn he was slipping.

He looked at her again. Now he noticed that she had big tits. Real big. Well, that did count for something, but right now, it was time to teach her a lesson, time to teach her who was boss. ‘How about if we go out tonight?’ he asked.

Her eyes lit up, her face beaming. ‘Really?’

‘Sure. Dinner, dancing, formal dress, the works. Go out today and buy yourself a new gown. Sound okay?’

She sat up eagerly. ‘That sounds wonderful. What time?’

He suppressed another laugh. The cow was buying it. ‘How’s eight o’clock? I have a business appointment so I may be a few minutes late.’

‘Okay.’

He pictured the cow waiting all night in some new dress for a knock that would never come. This time, a chuckle did manage to escape from his lips.

‘Anything wrong, David?’

David. He chuckled again. ‘Just thought of something funny.’ He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits…

Nah.

It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press…

… and to Laura Ayars.

It made international headlines.

David’s death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes Scholar and, most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.

What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.

Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalism world, from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters, covered the sad event.

There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtics’ hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:

WHITE LIGHTNING DEAD

Laura laid the newspaper in the bed, leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now, as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita’s apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David’s body was found ‘bloated’ and ‘mutilated beyond recognition.’

The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.