Harlan Coben - Drop Shot

Eddie smiled. "I thought you didn't do that."

"Do what?"

"That ass-kissing stuff."

"I do. Every agent does. I'm not above it. But in this case I actually thought it might be fun."

Eddie stood. "Should I be skeptical of your motives?" he asked.

"Only if you're smart."

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

Duane liked to be alone before a match. Win had taught him meditation techniques, sans the dirty videotapes, and you could usually find him curled up in a corner, sitting in the lotus position with his eyes closed. He didn't like to be disturbed, which was good. Myron wasn't sure he wanted to see him right now anyway. His main responsibility, he knew, was still to help his client perform his best – especially on this, the most important day of Duane's career. Raising the issue of Duane's late-night rendezvous with Deanna Yeller would be a distraction. A major distraction.

It would have to wait.

The crowd was huge. Everyone had been waiting for this match between the upstart American Duane Rich-wood and the cool Czech Michel Brishny, a former number one player now ranked fifth. Myron and Jessica took their seats in the front row. Jess looked incredible in a simple yellow sundress. Spectators gaped. Nothing new there. Without a doubt, the TV cameras would be getting plenty of shots of the box today. Between Jess's beauty and her fame in the literary world they wouldn't be able to resist.

Myron debated having her hold up one of his business cards. Nah. Too tacky.

A bevy of favorites was already in their seats. Ned Tunwell and other Nike VIPs crowded a corner box. Ned waved like a windmill on LSD. Myron gave a small wave back. Two boxes behind them sat chubby Roy O'Connor, the rotund president of TruPro. Sitting with him was Aaron. Aaron had his face tilted to the sun, soaking up the rays. He was garbed in his usual attire – white suit, no shirt. Across the way Myron also spotted Senator Cross in a box jammed with gray-haired lawyer types – the exception being Gregory Caufield. Myron still wanted to talk to Gregory. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself after the match. The buxom blonde from the other day was back in the same seat. The shapely lass gave Myron another small wave. He didn't wave back.

Myron turned to Jessica. She smiled at him.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"More beautiful than the blonde with the big boobs?" she asked.

"Who?" Myron said.

"The Silicone She-Beast giving you the eye."

"I don't know what you mean." Then: "How do you know they're silicone?"

The players took the court for warm-ups. Two minutes later Pavel Menansi made his grand entrance. There was a smattering of applause. Pavel displayed his gratitude with a circular hand gesture. Very popelike. He wore tennis whites, with a green sweater tied around his neck. The smile was on full blast. Pavel made his way toward the TruPro box. Aaron rose, let him in, then sat back down. Pavel and Roy O'Connor shook hands.

It hit Myron like a shot to the solar plexus. "Oh no," he said.

"What?" Jessica asked.

Myron stood. "I've got to go."

"Now?"

"I'll be back. Make my excuses."

The match was on the car radio. WFAN, 66 AM. From the sound of it Duane was not playing well. He had just dropped the first set 6-3 when Myron pulled into a lot off Central Park West in Manhattan.

Dr. Julie Abramson lived in a town house half a block down from her office. Myron rang the bell. There was a buzzing noise and then her voice came over the intercom.

"Who is it?"

"Myron Bolitar. It's urgent."

There were a few seconds of silence. Then: "Second floor." The buzzer sounded again. Myron pushed the door open. Julie Abramson was waiting for him on the stairwell.

"Did you call and hang up on me?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To see if you were home."

He arrived at her door. They stood and faced each other. With their height difference – she well under five feet, he six-four – the sight was almost comical.

She looked up. Way up. "I still can't deny or confirm that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine," she said.

"That's okay. I want to ask you about a hypothetical situation."

"A hypothetical situation?"

He nodded.

"And that couldn't wait until Monday?"

"No."

Dr. Abramson sighed. "Come on in."

She had the television turned on to the match. "I should have known," she said. "The TV keeps flashing to Jessica Culver in the players' box, but never you."

"With her there they wouldn't show me anyway."

"The sportscaster says you two are an item. Is that true?"

Myron shrugged. Noncommittal. "What's the score now?" he asked.

"Your client lost the first set 6-3," she said. "He's down 2- 0 in this set." She switched off the television with the remote and signaled to a chair. They both sat. "So tell me about your hypothetical situation, Myron."

"I want to start off with a young girl. Fifteen years old. Pretty. From a well-to-do family, parents divorced, the father absent. She dates a boy from a prominent family. She's also a tennis protégée."

"This isn't sounding too hypothetical," Dr. Abramson said.

"Just bear with me a second. The young girl is such a great tennis player that her mother ships her off to an academy run by a world-famous tennis coach. When this young girl arrives at the academy she finds the competition cutthroat. Tennis is the most individual of sports. There is no team spirit here. There is no camaraderie. Everybody is vying for the approval of the world-famous coach. Tennis is not conducive to making friends." Echoing Eddie's words. "It isolates. Would you say that's true, Doctor?"

"On the level you're talking about, yes."

"So when this young girl is uprooted from the life she has known and tossed into this rather hostile environment, she is not made to feel welcome. Far from it. The other girls see this new tennis protégée as a threat and when they realize what a magnificent player she is, the threat becomes reality. The other girls shun her all the more. She grows even more isolated"

"Okay."

"Now, this world-famous coach, he's a bit Darwinian. Survival of the fittest and all that. He sort of plays a dual role here. On the one hand this isolation will force the girl to search for an escape, a place where she can thrive."

"The tennis court?" Abramson said.

"Exactly. The young girl begins to practice even harder than before. But at the same time the world-famous coach is nice to her. While everyone else is cruel, the world-famous coach praises her. He spends time with her. He gets the most out of her."

"Which in turn," Dr. Abramson interjected, "isolates her from the other girls all the more."

"Right. The young girl becomes dependent on the coach. She thinks he cares and like any eager student she wants – needs – his approval. She begins to play even harder. She also knows that pleasing the world-famous coach will also please her mother. She tries even harder. The cycle continues."

Dr. Abramson had to see where Myron was going with this, but her face remained blank. "Go on," she said.

"The tennis academy is not the real world. It's a secluded domain ruled by the world-famous coach. But he acts like he cares for the young girl. He treats her like she's something special. The young girl plays even harder, pushing herself more than she could ever imagine – not for herself, but to please him. Maybe he offers her a pat on the back after practice. Maybe he rubs her sore shoulders. Maybe they have dinner one night to discuss her tennis. Who knows how it started?"

"How what started?" Abramson asked.

Myron chose to ignore the question. For now. "The young girl and world-famous coach start touring together," he continued. "She starts playing competitive tennis against women who again treat her as a feared rival. But now the young girl and the world-famous coach are alone. On the road. Staying in hotels."