Frank was dressed in a powder blue sweat suit with neon yellow trim. The jacket was unzippered and—taking a fashion tip from Yves St. Aaron—he wore no shirt. His chest hairs were matted with either some type of oil or sweat. Quite a turn-on. The form-fitting pants were a few sizes too small, outlining a bulge in his crotch. Myron started feeling nauseous again.

Frank did not speak. He sat at his brother’s desk and waited.

“Now, Myron,” Herman continued, “I understand this is all about some black boy who plays basketball.”

“Chaz Landreaux,” Myron said. “And I’m not sure he’d be crazy about being called ‘boy.’ ”

“Pardon an old man who is not up on all the politically correct terms. I meant no disrespect.”

Win sat quietly, studying his surroundings.

“Let me tell you how I see it,” Herman continued. “And I’m trying to be objective here. Your Mr. Landreaux made a deal. He took the money. For four years he helped his family with that money. Then when it was time to pay up, he reneged.”

“That’s objective? Chaz Landreaux is just a kid—”

“Spare me the lecture,” Herman interrupted gently. “We’re not social workers here. You know that. We are businessmen. We made an investment in this young man. We risked several thousand dollars on him. The investment was finally about to pay dividends when you interfered.”

“I didn’t interfere. He came to me. He’s a scared kid. O’Connor got his hooks in him when he was eighteen. There are rules against approaching kids that young for a reason. Now the kid’s trying to get out before he slides in too deep.”

Herman looked skeptical. “Oh, come on now, Myron. Kids grow up fast nowadays. He knew exactly what he was doing. So it was against the rules—big deal. The kid knew the rules. He wanted the money anyway.”

“He’ll pay it back.”

Frank Ache spoke for the first time. “Fuck he will.”

Myron waved. “Hi, Frank. Boss threads.”

“And fuck you too, bug shit. Deal’s a deal.”

Myron turned to Win. “Bug shit?”

Win shrugged.

“The deal,” Myron continued, “was that Chaz could back out at any time and pay back the money. Roy O’Connor told him that.”

“I don’t give a fuck what O’Connor said.”

Herman said, “Please, Frank, we don’t need to get hostile.”

“Ah, fuck him, Herman. This asshole wants to fuck me over. He wants to steal food off my fucking table. Not just this Landreaux nigger. That’s just the start. We got dozens of prospects signed like this. We lose one, we lose them all. I say we let the other agents know we ain’t to be messed with. I say we waste Bolitar right now.”

Myron said, “I don’t like that idea.”

“Who the fuck asked you?”

“Just giving my opinion.”

“Please, Frank, this isn’t helping. You promised to let me handle this.”

“Handle what? Kill the son of a bitch. End of story.”

“Wait in the other room. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

Frank glared at Myron. Myron did not bother glaring back. He knew this was part of the act. He knew that they were trying to intimidate him in much the same way Otto Burke and Larry Hanson had. But for some odd reason, the air of death gave the Mutt and Jeff routine a whole new dynamic.

Win, however, remained pensive.

“Come on, Aaron,” Frank growled. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He stood. “But the contract is still on.”

“Fine,” Herman said. “If you want to kill him, I won’t get in the way.”

“He’s as good as dead.”

Frank and Aaron left. Frank slammed the door. Overacting, Myron thought, but an effective cameo appearance.

Myron said, “He’s fun.”

Herman moved to the corner of the room. He took a slow practice swing with the club. “I wouldn’t mess with him, Myron. Frank is really angry. Me, I’ve always liked you. From the early days. But I’m not sure I can help you on this one.”

The “early days” had begun Myron’s sophomore year at Duke. It was not something he liked to remember. His father had been gambling. And losing. On the day before a game against Georgia State, Myron returned to his dorm to find his father and two of Herman Ache’s hoods. The two hoods told Myron that if Georgia State did not cover the twelve-point spread, his father would lose a finger. His father was crying, the first time Myron had ever seen his father cry. Myron made three turnovers in the last forty seconds to make sure Duke won by only ten.

Father and son never talked about it.

“Why is this kid, this Chaz Landreaux, so important to you, Myron?”

“I think he’s worth saving.”

“Saving from what?”

“He’s just a kid, Herman. Frank is putting the screws to him. I want it to stop.”

Herman smiled, changed clubs, took a few more swings. Then he picked up his putter. “Still a crusader, eh, Myron?”

“Hardly. I’m just trying to help the kid.”

“And yourself.”

“Fine. And myself.”

Myron realized that Herman Ache was wearing golf cleats. Jesus. To most people golf is an idiotic excuse for a sport. For others it’s a life-consuming obsession. There is no in between.

“I don’t think,” Herman said, reading the break in his carpet, “I can stop Frank. He’s very determined.”

“You run the show,” Myron said. “Everyone knows that.”

“But Frank is my brother. I don’t step on his toes unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t think that’s the case here.”

“What did Frank do to him?”

“Pardon?”

“How did he scare the kid?”

“Oh,” Herman said. Another club changed. This time he exchanged the putter for a wood. “He kidnapped his sister. Twin sister, I think.”

Myron felt his stomach dive anew. They’d been right. Not much satisfaction in that. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Herman said, as if that were a truly foolish question. “They won’t hurt her. Long as Landreaux continues to cooperate.”

“When are they going to let her go?”

“Two more days. Something about making sure the contract is official and Landreaux doesn’t have second thoughts.”