AUGUST 30

Myron hunched his shoulders and slurred his words. "I am not a baby-sitter," he said. "I am a sports agent."

Norm Zuckerman looked pained. "Was that supposed to be Bela Lugosi?"

"The Elephant Man," Myron said.

"Damn, that was awful. And who said anything about being a baby-sitter? Did I say the word baby-sitter or baby-sitting or for that matter any form of the verb to baby-sit or noun or even the word baby or the word sit or sat or--"

Myron held up a hand. "I get the point, Norm."

They sat under a basket at Madison Square Garden in those cloth-and-wood directors' chairs that have stars' names on the back. Their chairs were set high so that the net from the basket almost tickled Myron's hair. A model shoot was going on at half-court. Lots of those umbrella lights and tall, bony women-cum-children and tripods and people huffing and fluffing about. Myron waited for someone to mistake him for a model. And waited.

"A young woman may be in danger," Norm said. "I need your help."

Norm Zuckerman was approaching seventy and as CEO of Zoom, a megasize sports manufacturing conglomerate, he had more money than Trump. He looked, however, like a beatnik trapped in a bad acid trip. Retro, Norm had explained earlier, was cresting, and he was catching the wave by wearing a psychedelic poncho, fatigue pants, love beads, and an earring with a dangling peace sign. Groovy, man. His black-to-gray beard was unruly enough to nest beetle larvae, his hair newly curled like something out of a bad production of Godspell.

Che Guevara lives and gets a perm.

"You don't need me," Myron said. "You need a bodyguard."

Norm waved a dismissing hand. "Too obvious."

"What?"

"She'd never go for it. Look, Myron, what do you know about Brenda Slaughter?"

"Not much," Myron said.

He looked surprised. "What do you mean, not much?"

"What word are you having trouble with, Norm?"

"For crying out loud, you were a basketball player."

"So?"

"So Brenda Slaughter may be the greatest female player of all time. A pioneer in her sport--not to mention the pinup girl, pardon the political insensitivity, for my new league."

"That much I know."

"Well, know this: I'm worried about her. If something happens to Brenda Slaughter, the whole WPBA--and my substantial investment--could go right down the toilet."

"Well, as long as it's for humanitarian reasons."

"Fine, I'm a greedy capitalist pig. But you, my friend, are a sports agent. There is not a greedier, sleazier, slimier, more capitalist entity in existence."

Myron nodded. "Suck up to me," he said. "That'll work."

"You're not letting me finish. Yes, you're a sports agent. But a damn fine one. The best, really. You and the Spanish shiksa do incredible work for your clients. Get the most for them. More than they should get really. By the time you finish with me, I feel violated. Hand to God, you're that good. You come into my office, you rip off my clothes and have your way with me."

Myron made a face. "Please."

"But I know your secret background with the feds."

Some secret. Myron was still hoping to bump into someone above the equator who didn't know about it.

"Just listen to me for a second, Myron, okay? Hear me out. Brenda is a lovely girl, a wonderful basketball player--and a pain in my left tuchis. I don't blame her. If I grew up with a father like that, I'd be a pain in the left tuchis too."

"So her father is the problem?"

Norm made a yes-and-no gesture. "Probably."

"So get a...

 

"Fast-moving, funny-- an altogether good read!"

 

"Consistently entertaining... Coben moves himself into the front ranks of mystery fiction alongside heavy hitters like Robert B. Parker, Sue Grafton and Robert Crais."

 

"Must reading... combines Chandler's wry wit with Ross Macdonald's moral complexity."

 

"A superb book!"

 

One False Move by Harlan Coben
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