“Burgess Meredith,” Win said. He was looking at the court, not Myron.

“What?”

“Burgess Meredith.”

More Name the Batman Criminal. “Not now,” Myron said.

“Now. Burgess Meredith.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re staring. Aaron will pick it up.” Win adjusted his sunglasses. “Burgess Meredith.”

He was right. “The Penguin.”

“Victor Buono.”

“King Tut.”

“Bruce Lee.”

Jessica leaned over. “Trick question,” she said.

“No hints,” Win said.

“He played Kato,” Myron said. “Green Hornet’s sidekick. He guest-starred on one episode. I don’t know if you could call him a criminal.”

“Correct.” Silence. Then Win said: “That bad?”

“Worse.”

“The police released Valerie’s body,” Win said. “The funeral is tomorrow.”

Myron nodded. On the court Duane served up an ace. Only his second of the match. Myron said, “It may get ugly now.”

“How so?”

“I know why the Ache brothers want us out.”

“Ah,” Win said. “May I assume the Aches will not want you to disseminate this information to the general public?”

“Correct assumption.”

“And may I further assume this information is worth the cost of Aaron and an all-star cast?”

“Another correct assumption.”

Win sat back. He was very still. He was also smiling. Myron turned to Jessica. Her hand still held his.

“If you get killed,” she whispered, “I’ll kill you. Soul mate.”

Silence.

On the court Duane hit two more aces and then an overhead to tie the third set at three games apiece. Duane looked over at the box. The reflection of the sun off his sunglasses was blinding, giving him a sleek, robotic look. But something in his face had changed. Duane made the fist again.

Henry spoke for the first time. “He’s baaack.”

30

Henry Hobman was good as his word. Duane rallied. He took the third set 6–4. Ned Tunwell stopped crying. The fourth set went to a tiebreaker, which Duane won 9–7, saving three match points. Ned started the windmill wave again. Duane won the fifth set 6–2. Ned had to change his underwear.

Final score of the marathon match: 3–6, 1–6, 6–4, 7–6, (9–7), 6–2. Before the combatants had even left the court the word classic was being bantered about.

By the time all the congratulations and news conferences ended it was getting late. Jess borrowed Myron’s car to visit her mother. Win dropped him off at the office. Esperanza was still there.

“Big win,” she said.

“Yup.”

“Duane played like shit in the first two sets.”

“He had a long night,” Myron said. “What have we got?”

Esperanza handed him a stack of papers. “Prenuptial agreement for Jerry Prince. Final copy.”

Ah, the beloved prenup. A necessary evil. Myron hated to recommend them. Marriage should be about love and romance. A prenup, frankly speaking, was about as romantic as licking a litter box. Still, Myron had an obligation to guard the financial well-being of his clients. Too many of these marriages ended in quickie divorces. Gold-digging, it used to be called. Some mistook his concern for sexism. It wasn’t. Well-to-do female athletes should do the same.

“What else?” he asked.

“Emmett Roberts wants you to call. He needs your opinion on a car he’s buying.”

Myron drove a Ford Taurus, hardly qualifying him as Motor Trend’s Man of the Year.

Emmett was a fringe basketball player who bounced between bench-sitting in the NBA and starring in the Continental Basketball Association—a sort of basketball minor league where players do nothing but try to impress NBA scouts. Very few do. There were exceptions. John Starks and Anthony Mason of the Knicks, to name two. But for the most part the CBA gymnasiums were yet another haven of shattered dreams, a bottom rung on the ladder before slipping off altogether.

Myron fingered through his Rolodex. Esperanza was good about keeping it up-to-date and in alphabetical order for him. Raston. Ratner. Rextell. Rippard. Roberts. There. Emmett Roberts.

Myron stopped.

“Where’s Duane’s card?” he asked.

“What?”

Myron quickly skimmed through the rest of the R’s. “Duane Richwood isn’t in my Rolodex. Could you have misfiled it?”

She dismissed that possibility with a glare. “Look around. It’s probably on your desk someplace.”

Not on the desk. Myron tried the D’s. No Duane.

“I’ll make you up a new one,” she said, heading for the door. “Try not to lose it this time.”

“Thanks a bunch,” he said. Still, the missing card gnawed at him. Another coincidence involving Duane? He dialed Emmett Roberts’s phone. Emmett answered.

“Hey, Myron. How’s it going?”

“Good, Emmett. What’s this about buying a car?”

“I saw this Porsche today. Red. Fully loaded. Seventy Gs. I was thinking about using the play-off bonus money to buy it.”

“If that’s what you want,” Myron said.

“Man, you sound like my mother. I wanted your opinion.”

“Buy something cheaper,” Myron said. “A lot cheaper.”

“But the car is so hot, Myron. If you could just see it …”

“Then buy it, Emmett. You’re an adult. You don’t need my blessing.” Myron hesitated. “Did I ever tell you about Norm Booker?”

“Who?”

How soon they forget.

“I was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old,” Myron said, “and I was working at this summer camp in Massachusetts. It was a Celtics camp. They used to have their rookie tryouts there. I was basically a towel boy. I met a lot of the draft picks back then. Cedric Maxwell. Larry Bird. But my first year the Celtics had a first-round pick named Norm Booker. I think he was out of Iowa State.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Norm was a great player. Six-seven, smooth moves, nice touch. Strong as an ox. And nice guy too. He talked to me. Lot of the guys ignored the towel boys, but Norm wasn’t like that. I remember he used to shoot foul shots with his back to the basket. He’d toss the ball over his shoulder. He had such a great touch that he could make better than fifty percent that way.”