have any thoughts on who killed her?"
Win stood perfectly still. "We'll chat later," he said. "I have some business matters I must attend to first."
The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.
Esperanza looked up from her desk. "Jesus, you look like hell."
"You heard about Valerie?"
She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn't show it "You have blood on your jacket."
"I know."
"Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room."
"I guess I'll see him," Myron said. "No use moping around."
Esperanza looked at him. No expression.
"Don't get so upset," he continued. "I'm okay."
"I'm putting on a brave front," she said.
Ms. Compassion.
When Myron opened me conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.
Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron's age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed or worse, a Family Feud contestant He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.
Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. "Wait till you see this!" he raved. "Myron, you are going to love it. It's fantastic."
"Let's take a look."
"I'm telling you, Myron, it's fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You're gonna love it. It's fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you."
The key word here: fantastic.
Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson's corpse. He needed to concentrate. This Duane's first national television commercial was crucial. Truth was, an athlete's image was made more by these commercials than anything else including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn't tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grand-mama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.
"When is it going to air?" Myron asked.
"During the quarter finals. We're gonna blitz the networks in a very big way."
The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.
Tennis needed new blood, and Duane Richwood was the most exhilarating transfusion to come along in years. Courier and Sampras were about as exciting as dry dog food. The Swedish players were always a snooze-a-thon. Agassi's act was growing wearisome. McEnroe and Connors were history.
So enter Duane Richwood. Colorful, funny, slightly controversial, but not yet hated. He was black and he was from the streets, but he was perceived as "safe" street, "safe" black, the kind of guy even racists could get behind to show they are not really racists.
"Just check this baby out, Myron. This spot, I'm telling you, it's' it's just' " Tunwell looked up, as though searching for the word.
"Fantastic?" Myron tried.
Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. "Just wait till you see. I get hard watching it. Shit, I get hard
Win stood perfectly still. "We'll chat later," he said. "I have some business matters I must attend to first."
The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.
Esperanza looked up from her desk. "Jesus, you look like hell."
"You heard about Valerie?"
She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn't show it "You have blood on your jacket."
"I know."
"Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room."
"I guess I'll see him," Myron said. "No use moping around."
Esperanza looked at him. No expression.
"Don't get so upset," he continued. "I'm okay."
"I'm putting on a brave front," she said.
Ms. Compassion.
When Myron opened me conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.
Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron's age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed or worse, a Family Feud contestant He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.
Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. "Wait till you see this!" he raved. "Myron, you are going to love it. It's fantastic."
"Let's take a look."
"I'm telling you, Myron, it's fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You're gonna love it. It's fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you."
The key word here: fantastic.
Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson's corpse. He needed to concentrate. This Duane's first national television commercial was crucial. Truth was, an athlete's image was made more by these commercials than anything else including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn't tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grand-mama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.
"When is it going to air?" Myron asked.
"During the quarter finals. We're gonna blitz the networks in a very big way."
The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid tennis players in the world. Not from winning matches, though that would help. But from endorsements. In most sports, the big-name athletes made more money from sponsors than from their teams. In the case of tennis, a lot more. A hell of a lot more. The top ten players made maybe fifteen percent of the money from winning matches. The bulk was from endorsements, exhibition matches, and guarantees money paid big names to show up at a given tournament no matter how they fared.
Tennis needed new blood, and Duane Richwood was the most exhilarating transfusion to come along in years. Courier and Sampras were about as exciting as dry dog food. The Swedish players were always a snooze-a-thon. Agassi's act was growing wearisome. McEnroe and Connors were history.
So enter Duane Richwood. Colorful, funny, slightly controversial, but not yet hated. He was black and he was from the streets, but he was perceived as "safe" street, "safe" black, the kind of guy even racists could get behind to show they are not really racists.
"Just check this baby out, Myron. This spot, I'm telling you, it's' it's just' " Tunwell looked up, as though searching for the word.
"Fantastic?" Myron tried.
Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. "Just wait till you see. I get hard watching it. Shit, I get hard
Similar Books
salt.
nayyirah waheed
5 Tutti Frutti
Mike Faricy
Face to Face
Ariana Gaynor
Engleby
Sebastian Faulks
Gathering Shadows
Nancy Mehl
Get It Girls
Treasure Blue
The Concubine's Secret
Kate Furnivall
Bondmate
J.J. Lore
A Christmas Howl
Laurien Berenson
Safekeeping
Jessamyn Hope