Back Spin (1997) (9 page)

Tad Crispin took a sip of iced tea. He crossed his ankle on his knee. Even his socks were yellow. "You are making a hard sale for your friend," he said.

"Wrong," Win said. "I would kill for my friend, but financially I owe him nothing. You, on the other hand, are my client, and thus I have a very serious fiscal responsibility with regard to you. Stripping it bare, you have asked me to increase your portfolio. I will suggest several investment sources to you. But this is the best recommendation I can make."

Crispin tumed to Myron. He looked him up and down, studying him hard. Myron almost brayed so he could examine his teeth. "He makes you sound awfully good,"

Crispin said to Myron.

"I am good," Myron said. "But I don't want him to give you the wrong impression. I'm not quite as altruistic as Win might have made me sound. I don't insist clients use him because I'm a swell guy. I know that having him handle my clients is a major plus. He improves the value of my services. He helps keep my clients happy. That's what I get out of it. Yes, I insist on having clients heavily involved in the decision-making on money matters, but that's as much to protect me as them."

"How so?"

"Obviously you know something about managers or agents robbing athletes."

"Yes."

"Do you know why so much of that occurs?"

Crispin shrugged. "Greed, I suppose."

Myron tilted his head in a yes-and-no gesture. "The main culprit is apathy. An athlete's lack of involvement.

They get lazy. They decide it's easier to fully trust their agent, and that's bad. Let the agent pay the bills, they say. .

Let the agent invest the money. That kind of thing. But that won't ever happen at MB SportsReps. Not because I'm watching. Not because Win's watching. But because you are watching."

"I'm watching now," Crispin said.

"You're watching your money, true. I doubt you're watching everything else."

Crispin considered that for a moment. "I appreciate the talk," he said, "but I think I'm okay on my own."

Myron pointed at Tad Crispin's head. "How much are you getting for that hat?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're wearing a hat with no company logo on it,"

Myron explained. "For a player of your ilk, that's a loss of at least a quarter of a million dollars."

Silence.

"But I'm going to be working with Zoom," Crispin said.

"Did they purchase hat rights from you'?"

He thought about it. "I don't think so." .

"The front of the hat is a quarter million. We can also sell the sides if you want. They'll go for less. Maybe we'll total four hundred grand. Your shirt is another matter."

"Now just wait one minute here," Zuckerman interjected. "He's going to be wearing Zoom shirts."

"Fine, Norm," Myron said. "But he's allowed to wear logos. One on the chest, one on either sleeve."

"Logos?"

"Anything. Coca-Cola maybe. IBM. Even Home Depot."

"Logos on my shirt?"

"Yep. And what do you drink out there?"

"Drink? When I play?"

"Sure. I can probably get you a deal with Powerade or one of the soda companies. How about Poland Spring water? They might be good. And your golf bag. You have to negotiate a deal for your golf bag."

"I don't understand."

"You're a billboard, Tad. You're on television. Lots of fans see you. Your hat, your shirt, your golf bag those are all places to post ads."

Zuckerman said, "Now hold on a second. He can't just-"

A cell phone began to sound, but it never made it past the first ring. Myron's finger reached the ringer and turned it off with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp retire. Fast reflexes. They came in handy every once in a while.

Still, the brief sound had drawn the ire of nearby club members. Myron looked around. He was on the receiving end of several dagger-glares, including one from Win.

"Hurry around behind the clubhouse," Win said pointedly. "Let no one see you."

Myron gave a flippant salute and rushed out like a man with a suddenly collapsing bladder. When he reached a safe area near the parking lot, he answered the call.

"Hello."

"Oh, God . . ." It was Linda Coldren. Her tone struck the marrow of his bone.

"What's wrong?"

"He called again," she said.

"Do you have it on tape?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right over "

"No!" she shouted. "He's watching the house."

"You saw him?"

"No. But . . . Don't come here. Please."

"Where are you calling from?"

"The fax line in the basement. Oh God, Myron, you should have heard him." '

"Did the number come up on the Caller lD?"

"Yes." '

"Give it to me."

She did. Myron took out a pen from his wallet and wrote the number down on an old Visa receipt.

"Are you alone?"

` "Jack is right here with me."

"Anybody else`? What about Esme Fong?"

"She's upstairs in the living room."

"Okay," Myron said. "I'll need to hear the call."

"Hold on. Jack is plugging the machine in now. I'll put you on the speaker so you can hear."

Chapter
7

The tape player was snapped on. Myron heard the phone ringing first. The sound was surprisingly clear.

Then he heard Jack Coldren: "Hello?"

"Who's the chink bitch?" `

The voice was very deep, very menacing, and definitely machine-altered. Male or female, young or old, it was anyone's guess.

"I don't know what "

"You trying to fuck with me, you dumb son of a bitch? l'll start sending you the fucking brat in little pieces."

Jack Coldren said, "Please "

"l told you not to contact anyone."

"We haven't."

' 'Then tell me who that chink bitch is who just walked into your house."

Silence.

"You think we're stupid, Jack?"

"Of course not."

"So who the fuck is she?"

"Her name is Esme Fong," Coldren said quickly.

"She works for a clothing company. She's just here to set up an endorsement deal with my wife, that's all."

"Bullshit. ' '

"It's the truth, I swear."

"l don't know, Jack .... "

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"Well, Jack, we'll just see about that. This is gorma cost you."

"What do you mean?"

"One hundred grand. Call it a penalty price."

"For what'?"

' 'Never you fucking mind. You want the kid alive? lt's gonna cost you one hundred grand now. That's in "

"Now hold on a second." Coldren cleared his throat.

Trying to gain some footing, some degree of control.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"You interrupt me again and I'm going to stick your kid's dick in a vise."

Silence.

"You get the money ready, Jack. One hundred grand.

I'll call you back and let you know what to do. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't fuck up, Jack. I enjoy hurting people."

The brief silence was shattered by a sharp, sudden scream, a scream that jangled nerve endings and raised hackles. Myron's hand tightened on the receiver.

The phone disconnected. Then a dial tone. Then nothing.

Linda Coldren took him off the speaker. "What are we going to do?"

"Call the FBI," Myron said.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I think it's your best move."

Jack Coldren said something in the background. Linda came back on the line. "Absolutely not. We just want to pay the ransom and get our son back."

No point in arguing with them. "Sit tight. I'll call you a back as soon as I can."

Myron disconnected the call and dialed another number.

Lisa at New York Bell. She'd been a contact of theirs since the days he and Win had worked for the goverment.

"A Caller ID came up with a number in Philadelphia,"

he said. "Can you find an address for me?"

"No problem," Lisa said.

He gave her the number. People who watch too much television think this sort of thing takes a long time. Not anymore. Traces are instantaneous now. No "keep him on a little longer" or any of that stuff. The same is true when it comes to finding the location of a phone number.

Any operator almost anywhere can plug the number into her computer or use one of those reverse directories, and whammo. Heck, you don't even need an operator. Computer programs on CD-ROM and Web sites did the same thing.

"It's a pay phone," she said.

Not good news, but not unexpected either. "Do you know where?"

"The Grand Mercado Mall in Bala-Cynwyd."

"A mall?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"That's what it says."

"Where in the mall?"

"I have no idea. You think they list it 'between Sears and Victoria's Secret'?"

This made no sense. A mall? The kidnapper had dragged Chad Coldren to a mall and made him scream into a phone?

"Thanks, Lisa."

He hung up and turned back toward the porch. Win was standing directly behind him. His arms were folded, his body, as always, completely relaxed.

"The kidnapper called," Myron said.

"So I overheard." `

"I could use your help tracking this down."

"No," Win said.

"This isn't about your mother, Win."

Win's face did not change, but something happened to his eyes. "Careful," was all he said.

Myron shook his head. "I have to go. Please make my excuses." .

"You came here to recruit clients," Wm said. "You claimed earlier that you agreed to help the Coldrens in the hopes of representing them."

"So'?"

"So you are excruciatingly close to landing the world's top golf protTgT. Reason dictates that you stay."

"l can't."

Win unfolded his arms, shook his head.

"Will you do one thing for me? To let me know if l'm wasting time or not?"

Win remained still.

"You know how I told you about Chad using his ATM

card?"

"Yes."

"Get me the security videotape of the transaction,"

he said. "It may tell me if this whole thing is just a hoax on Chad's part."

Win turned back to the porch. "I'll see you at the house tonight."

Chapter
8

Myron parked at the mall and checked his watch.

Seven forty-five. It had been a very long day and it was still relatively early. He entered through a Macy's and immediately located one of those big table blueprints of the mall. Public telephones were marked with blue locators.

Eleven altogether. Two at the south entrance downstairs.

Two at the north entrance upstairs. Seven at the food court.

Malls were the great American geographical equalizer.

Between shiny anchor stores and beneath excessively flood lit ceilings, Kansas equaled California, New Jersey equaled Nevada, No place was truly more Americana.

Some of the stores inside might be different, but not by much. Athlete's Foot or Foot Locker, Rite Aid or CVS, Williams-Sonoma or Pottery Barn, the Gap or Banana Republic or Old Navy (all, coincidentally, owned by the same people), Waldenbooks or B. Dalton, several anonymous shoe stores, a Radio Shack, a Victoria's Secret, an art gallery with Gorman, McKnight, and Behrens, a museum store of some kind, two record stores all wrapped up in some Orwellian, sleek-chrome neo Roman Forum with chintzy fountains and overstated marble and dentistoffice sculptures and unmanned information booths and fake ferns.

In front of a store selling electric organs and pianos sat an employee dressed in an ill-fitting navy suit and a sailor's cap. He played "Muskrat Love" on an organ.

Myron was tempted to ask him where Tenille was, but he refrained. Too obvious. Organ stores in malls. Who goes to the mall to buy an organ?

He hurried past the Limited or the Unlimited or the Severely Challenged or something like that. Then Jeans Plus or Jeans Minus or Shirts Only or Pants Only or Tank Top City or something like that. They all looked pretty much the same. They all employed lots of skinny, bored teenagers who stocked shelves with the enthusiasm of a eunuch at an orgy.

There were lots of high school kids draped aboutjust hanging, man and looking very, er, rad. At the risk of sounding like a reverse racist, all the white boys looked the same to him. Baggie shorts. White T-shirts. Unlaced black hundred-dollar high-top sneakers. Baseball cap pulled low with the brim worked into a nifty curve, covering a summer buzzcut. Thin. Lanky. Long-limbed. Pale as a Goya portrait, even in the summer. Poor posture. Eyes that never looked directly at another human being. Uncomfortable eyes. Slightly scared eyes.