One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel Read Free

Slaughter was not so much beautiful as electric. The air around her crackled. She was far too big and broad-shouldered to be a model. Myron knew some professional models. They were always throwing themselves at him—snicker—and were ridiculously thin, built like strings with helium balloons on top. Brenda was no size six. You felt strength with this woman, substance, power, a force if you will, and yet it was all completely feminine, whatever that meant, and incredibly attractive.
    Norm leaned over and whispered, “See why she’s our poster girl?”
    Myron nodded.
    Norm jumped down from the chair. “Brenda, darling, come over here. I want you to meet someone.”
    The big brown eyes found Myron’s, and there was a hesitation. She smiled a little and strode toward them. Myron rose, ever the gentleman. Brenda headed straight for him and stuck out her hand. Myron shook it. Her grip was strong. Now that they were both standing, Myron could see he had an inch or two on her. That made her six-two, maybe six-three.
    “Well, well,” Brenda said. “Myron Bolitar.”
    Norm gestured as if he were pushing them closer together. “You two know each other?”
    “Oh, I’m sure Mr. Bolitar doesn’t remember me,” Brenda said. “It was a long time ago.”
    It took Myron only a few seconds. His brain immediately realized that had he met Brenda Slaughter before, he would have undoubtedly remembered. The fact that he didn’t meant their previous encounter was under very different circumstances. “You used to hangout at the courts,” Myron said. “With your dad. You must have been five or six.”
    “And you were just entering high school,” she added. “The only white guy that showed up steadily. You made all-state out of Livingston High, became an all-American at Duke, got drafted by the Celtics in the first round—”
    Her voice dovetailed. Myron was used to that. “I’m flattered you remembered,” he said. Already wowing her with the charm.
    “I grew up watching you play,” she went on. “My father followed your career like you were his own son. When you got hurt—” She broke off again, her lips tightening.
    He smiled to show he both understood and appreciated the sentiment.
    Norm jumped into the silence. “Well, Myron is a sports agent now. A damn good one. The best, in my opinion. Fair, honest, loyal as hell—” Norm stopped suddenly. “Did I just use those words to describe a sports agent?” He shook his head.
    The goateed Sandy Duncan bustled over again. He spoke with a French accent that sounded about as real as Pepe LePew’s.
“Monsieur
Zuckermahn?”
    Norm said,
“Oui.”
    “I need your help,
s’il vous plaît?”
    “Oui,”
Norm said.
    Myron almost asked for an interpreter.
    “Sit, both of you,” Norm said. “I have to run a sec.” He patted the empty chairs to drive home the point. “Myron is going to help me set up the league. Kinda like a consultant. So talk to him, Brenda. Aboutyour career, your future, whatever. He’d be a good agent for you.” He winked at Myron. Subtle.
    When Norm left, Brenda high-stepped into the director’s chair. “So was all that true?” she asked.
    “Part of it,” Myron said.
    “What part?”
    “I’d like to be your agent. But that’s not why I’m really here.”
    “Oh?”
    “Norm is worried about you. He wants me to watch out for you.”
    “Watch out for me?”
    Myron nodded. “He thinks you’re in danger.”
    She set her jaw. “I told him I didn’t want to be watched.”
    “I know,” Myron said. “I’m supposed to be undercover. Shh.”
    “So why are you telling me?”
    “I’m not good with secrets.”
    She nodded. “And?”
    “And if I’m going to be your agent, I’m not sure it pays to start our relationship with a lie.”
    She leaned back and crossed legs longer than a DMV line at lunchtime. “What else did Norm tell you to do?”
    “To turn on my charm.”
    She blinked at him.
    “Don’t worry,” Myron said. “I took a