Live Wire (7 page)

Myron stopped walking. “Suzze?”

“I’m here.”

“When was the last time you saw Kitty?” Myron asked.

“How long ago did she run away with your brother?”

“Sixteen years ago.”

“Then the answer is sixteen years.”

“So I was just imagining seeing her?”

“I didn’t say that. In fact, I bet it was her.”

“Do you want to explain?”

“Are you near a computer?” Suzze asked.

“No. I’m walking to the office like a dumb animal. I should be there in about five minutes.”

“Forget that. Can you grab a cab and swing by the academy? I want to show you something anyway.”

“When?”

“I’m just about to start a lesson. An hour?”

“Okay.”

“Myron?”

“What?”

“How did Lex look?”

“He looked fine.”

“I just got a bad feeling. I think I’m going to mess up.”

“You won’t.”

“It’s what I do, Myron.”

“Not this time. Your agent won’t let you.”

“Won’t let you,” she repeated, and he could almost see her shaking her head. “If anyone other than you said that, I would think it was the lamest thing I ever heard. But coming from you . . . no, sorry, it’s still really lame.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

Myron picked up his pace and headed into the Lock-Horne Building—yes, Win’s full name was Windsor Horne Lockwood, and as they used to say in school, you do the math—and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The doors opened right into the MB Reps reception area and sometimes, when children on the elevator pressed the wrong button and the door opened, they screamed at what they saw.

Big Cyndi. Receptionist extraordinaire at MB Reps.

“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar!” she cried out in the high-pitched squeal of a little girl seeing her
Teen Beat
idol.

Big Cyndi was six-five and had recently completed a four-day juice-cleansing “evacuation” diet so that she now tipped the scales at three-ten. Her hands were the size of throw pillows. Her head resembled a cinder block.

“Hey, Big Cyndi.”

She insisted that he call her that, never just Cyndi or, uh, Big, and even though she had known him for years, she liked the formality of calling him Mister Bolitar. Big Cyndi was, he guessed, feeling better today. The diet had darkened Big Cyndi’s usually sunny demeanor. She had growled more than talked. Her makeup, usually a Joseph-and-the-Technicolor-Dreamcoat display, had been a harsh black ’n’ white, landing somewhere between nineties’ goth and seventies’ Kiss. Now, as usual, her makeup looked as though it’d been applied by laying a sixty-four box of Crayolas on her face and turning up the heat lamp.

Big Cyndi leapt to her feet and while Myron was beyond being shocked by what she wore anymore—tube tops, spandex bodysuits—this outfit almost made him step back. Her dress was chiffon, maybe, but it was more like she’d tried to wrap her entire body in party streamers. What appeared to be bands of flimsy purplish pink crepe paper started at the top of her breasts and wound and wound and wound down past her hips and stopped too short on the upper thigh. There were rips in the fabric, pieces dangling off like something Bruce Banner sported after turning into the Hulk. She smiled at him and spun hard on one leg, the earth teetering on its axis as she did. There was a diamond-shaped opening on her lower back near the coccyx bone.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I guess.”

Big Cyndi turned back toward him, put her hands on her crepe-paper-clad hips, and pouted. “You ‘guess’?”

“It’s great.”

“I designed it myself.”

“You’re very talented.”

“Do you think Terese will like it?”

Myron opened his mouth, stopped, closed it. Uh-oh.

“Surprise!” Big Cyndi shouted. “I designed these bridesmaid dresses myself. It’s my gift to you both.”

“We don’t even have a date yet.”

“True fashion stands the test of time, Mr. Bolitar. I’m just so glad you like them. I was going to go with a sea-foam color, but I think the fuchsia is warmer. I’m more a warm-tone person. I think Terese is too, don’t you?”

“I do,” Myron said. “She’s all about fuchsia.”

Big Cyndi gave him the slow smile—tiny teeth in a giant mouth—that sent children shrieking. He smiled back. God, he loved this big, crazy woman.

Myron pointed at the door on the left. “Is Esperanza in?”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Should I let her know that you’re here?”

“I got it, thanks.”

“Would you please tell her that I’ll be in for her fitting in five minutes?”

“Will do.”

Myron knocked lightly on the door and entered. Esperanza sat at her desk. She was wearing the fuchsia dress, though on her, with the strategic rips, it looked a bit more like Raquel Welch in
One Million Years B.C.
Myron stifled a chuckle.

“Make one comment,” Esperanza said, “and die.”

“
Moi
?” Myron sat. “I do think, however, that sea foam would work better on you. You’re not a warm-tone person.”

“We have a meeting at noon,” she said.

“I’ll be back by then, and hopefully you’ll be changed. Any hits on Lex’s credit cards?”

“Nothing.”

She didn’t look up at him, her eyes down examining some paper on her desk with a tad too much concentration.

“So,” Myron said, aiming for nonchalant. “What time did you get home last night?”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. I didn’t break curfew.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.”

Myron looked at the swirl of trite-but-true family photographs on her desk. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Dr. Phil, I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t give me that sanctimonious face. I didn’t do anything beyond flirting last night.”

“I’m not here to judge.”

“Yeah, but you do it anyway. Where are you off to?”

“Suzze’s tennis academy. Have you seen Win?”

“I don’t think he’s in yet.”

Myron grabbed a taxi west toward the Hudson River. The Suzze T Tennis Academy was located near Chelsea Piers in what looked like, and maybe was, a giant white bubble. When you entered the courts, the air pressure used to inflate the bubble made your ears pop. There were four courts, all filled with young women/teens/girls playing tennis with instructors. Suzze was on court one, all eight months pregnant of her, giving instructions on how to approach the net to two sun-soaked blond teens with ponytails. Forehands were being drilled on court two, backhands court three, serves on court four. Someone had put down hula hoops in the corners of the service line as targets. Suzze spotted Myron and signaled for him to give her a minute.

Myron moved back into the waiting room overlooking the courts. The moms were there, all in tennis whites. Tennis was the only sport where spectators liked to dress like the participants, as if they might suddenly be called out of the stands to play. Still—and Myron knew that this was politically incorrect—there was something hot about a mom in tennis whites. So he looked. He did not ogle. He was too sophisticated for that. But he looked.

The lust, if that was what this was, quickly dissipated. The mothers scrutinized their daughters with too much intensity, their lives seemingly riding on every shot. Looking out the picture window at Suzze, watching her sharing a laugh with one of her pupils, he remembered Suzze’s own mom, who used terms like “driven” or “focused” to cover up what should have been labeled “innate cruelty.” Some believe that these parents go overboard because they are living their lives through their children, but that wasn’t the case because they wouldn’t ever treat themselves so callously. Suzze’s mother wanted to create a tennis player, period, and felt the best way to do that was to tear asunder anything else that might give her child either joy or self-esteem, making her wholly dependent on how she swung a racket. Beat your opponent, you’re good. Lose, you’re meaningless. She did more than withhold love. She withheld any inkling of self-worth.

Myron had grown up in an era in which people blamed their parents for all their problems. Many were whiners, pure and simple, not willing to look in the mirror and get a grip. The Blame Generation, finding fault with everyone and everything but ourselves. But Suzze T’s situation was different. He had seen the torment, seen the years of struggle, trying to rebel against everything tennis, wanting to quit but also loving the actual game. The court became both her torture chamber and her one place of escape, and it was hard to reconcile that. Eventually, almost inevitably, it led to drugs and self-destructive behavior until finally even Suzze, who could have played the blame game with a fair amount of legitimacy, looked in the mirror and found her answer.

Myron sat and paged through a tennis magazine. Five minutes later, the kids started filing off the court. The smiles fled as they left the pressure-air confines of the bubble, their heads held down by their mothers’ forceful gazes. Suzze came out after them. A mother stopped her, but Suzze kept it short. Without breaking stride, she walked past Myron and gestured for him to follow. Moving target, Myron thought. Harder for a parent to nab.

She headed into her office and closed the door after Myron.

“This isn’t working,” Suzze said.

“What’s not?”

“The academy.”

“Looks like a pretty good crowd to me,” Myron said.

Suzze collapsed into her desk chair. “I came in with what I thought would be a great concept—a tennis academy for top players that would also let them breathe and live and become more well-rounded. I argued the obvious—that such a setting would make them better-adjusted, happier people—but I also argued that in the long run, it would make them better tennis players.”

“And?”

“Well, who knows what the long run means? But the truth is, my concept isn’t working. They aren’t better players. The kids who are single-minded and have no interest in art or theater or music or friends—those kids become the best players. The kids who just want to beat your brains in, destroy you, show no mercy—those are the ones who win.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“You don’t?”

Myron said nothing.

“And the parents see it too. Their kids are happier here. They won’t burn out as fast, but the better players are leaving for the intense boot camps.”

“That’s short-term thinking,” Myron said.

“Maybe. But if they burn out when they’re twenty-five, well, that’s late in a career anyway. They need to win now. We get that, don’t we, Myron? We were both blessed athletically, but if you don’t have that killer instinct—the part of you that makes you a great competitor if not a great human being—it is hard to be an elite.”

“So are you saying we were like that?” Myron asked.

“No, I had my mom.”

“And me?”

Suzze smiled. “I remember seeing you play at Duke in the NCAA finals. The expression on your face . . . you’d rather die than lose.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. Myron stared at tennis trophies, the shiny trinkets that represented Suzze’s success. Finally Suzze said, “Did you really see Kitty last night?”

“Yes.”

“How about your brother?”

Myron shook his head. “Brad may have been there, but I didn’t see him.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Myron shifted in his seat. “You think Kitty posted that ‘Not His’?”

“I’m raising the possibility.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. You said you had something you wanted to show me. About Kitty.”

“Right.” She started gnawing on her lip, something Myron hadn’t seen her do in years. He waited, gave her a little time and space. “So yesterday after we talked, I started checking around.”

“Checking around for what?”

“I don’t know, Myron,” she said, a little impatience sneaking in. “Something, a clue, whatever.”

“Okay.”

Suzze started typing on her computer. “So I started looking at my own Facebook page, where that lie was posted. You know anything about how people fan you?”

“I assume they just sign up.”

“Right. So I decided to sort of do what you suggested. I started looking for old boyfriends or tennis rivals or fired musicians—someone who might want to harm us.”

“And?”

Suzze was still typing. “And I started going through the people who’d signed up recently for the fan page. I mean, I now have forty-five thousand followers. So it took some time. But eventually . . .”

She clicked the mouse and waited. “Okay, here. I stumbled across this profile from someone who signed up three weeks ago. I thought it was pretty odd, especially in light of what you told me about last night.”

She gestured toward Myron, who stood and circled around to see what was on the screen. When he saw the name in bold on the top of the profile page, he wasn’t really all that surprised.

Kitty Hammer Bolitar.

K
itty Hammer Bolitar.

Back in the privacy of his office, Myron took a closer look at the Facebook page. No question about it when he saw the profile photo: It was his sister-in-law. Older, sure. A little more weathered. The cuteness from her tennis days had hardened a bit, but her face still had that perky-pretty thing going on. He stared at her for a moment and tried to quell the hatred that naturally rose to the surface whenever he thought of her.

Kitty Hammer Bolitar.

Esperanza came in and sat next to him without a word. Some would assume that Myron would want to be alone. Esperanza knew better. She looked at the screen.

“Our first client,” she said.

“Yep,” Myron said. “Did you see her at the club last night?”

“Nope. I heard you call her name, but by the time I turned, she was gone.”

Myron checked the wall posts. Sparse. Some people playing Mafia Wars or Farmville or quizzes. Myron saw that Kitty had forty-three friends. “First thing,” he said. “Let’s print out a list of her friends, see if there is anybody we know.”