Drop Shot (1996) Read Free Page B

lowered his head. "Ah, shit."
    Myron remained silent.
    "I can't believe I said that, Myron. To you of all people."
    "Forget it."
    "No. I mean, look, I can pretend I didn't just put my foot in my mouth like that, but' "
    Myron waved him off. "A knee injury isn't a mental breakdown, Ned."
    "Yeah, I know but still' " He stopped again. "When the Celts drafted you, were you a Nike guy?"
    "No. Converse."
    "They dump you? I mean, right away?"
    "I have no complaints."
    Esperanza opened the door without knocking. Nothing new there. She never knocked. Ned Tunwell's smile quickly returned. Hard to keep the man down. He stared at Esperanza. Appreciatively. Most men did.
    "Can I see you for second, Myron?"
    Ned waved. "Hi, Esperanza."
    She turned and looked right through him. One of her many talents.
    Myron excused himself and followed her out. Esperanza's desk was bare except for two photographs. One was of her dog, an adorable shaggy pooch named Chloe, winning a dog show. Esperanza was into dog shows a sport not exactly dominated by inner-city Latinos, though she seemed to do pretty well. The desk's other picture showed Esperanza wrestling another woman. Professionally wrestling, that is. The lovely and lithe Esperanza had once wrestled professionally under the name Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess. For three years Little Pocahontas had been a crowd favorite of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling organization, popularly known as FLOW (someone had once suggested calling it the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling, but the acronym was a problem for the networks). Esperanza's Little Pocahontas was a scantily clad (basically a suede bikini) sexpot whom fans cheered and leered at as she bravely took on enormous evil, cheating nemeses every week. A morality play, some called it A classic reenactment of Good vs. Evil. But to Myron the weekly action was more like those women-in-prison films. Esperanza played the beautiful, naive prisoner stuck in cell block C. Her opponent was Olga, the sadistic prison matron.
    "It's Duane," Esperanza said.
    Myron took the call at her desk. "Hey, Duane. What's up?"
    His voice came fast. "Get over here, man. Like now."
    "What's the matter?"
    "The cops are in my face. They're asking me all kinds of shit"
    "About what?"
    "That girl who got shot today. They think I got something to do with it."

    Chapter 3
    "Let me speak to the police officer," Myron told Duane.
    Another voice came on the line. "This is homicide detective Roland Dimonte," the voice barked with pure cop impatience. "Who the hell is this?"
    "I'm Myron Bolitar. Mr. Richwood's attorney."
    "Attorney, huh? I thought you were his agent."
    "I'm both," Myron said.
    "That a fact?"
    "Yes."
    "You got a law degree?"
    "It's hanging on my wall. But I can bring it if you'd like."
    Dimonte made a noise. Might have been a snicker. "Ex-jock. Ex-fed. And now you tell me you're a goddamn lawyer?"
    "I'm what you might call a Renaissance man," Myron said.
    "Yeah? Tell me, Bolitar, what law school would let in someone like you?"
    "Harvard," Myron said.
    "Whoa, aren't we a big shot."
    "You asked."
    "Well, you got half an hour to get here. Then I drag your boy to the precinct. Got me?"
    "I've really enjoyed this little chat, Rolly."
    "You got twenty-nine minutes. And don't call me Rolly."
    "I don't want my client questioned until I'm present. Understood?"
    Roland Dimonte didn't answer.
    "Understood?" Myron repeated.
    Pause. Then: "Must be a bad connection, Bolitar." Dimonte hung up.
    Pleasant guy.
    Myron handed the phone back to Esperanza. "Mind getting rid of Ned for me?"
    "Done."
    Myron took the elevator to the ground floor and sprinted toward the Kinney lot. Someone shouted, "Go, O. J!" at him. In New York everyone's a comedian. Mario tossed Myron the keys without glancing up from his newspaper.
    Myron's car was parked on the ground floor. Unlike Win, Myron was not what one would label a "car guy." A car was a mode of transportation, nothing more. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. A