“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. About your 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 solemn oath to only use it for good.”

“Lucky me.” Brenda brought a long finger up to her face and tapped it against her chin a few times. “So,” she said at last, “Norm thinks I need a baby-sitter.”

Myron threw up his hands and did his best Norm impression. “Who said anything about a baby-sitter?” It was better than his Elephant Man, but nobody was speed-dialing Rich Little either.

She smiled. “Okay,” she said with a nod. “I’ll go along with this.”

“I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“No reason to be. If you don’t do it, Norm might hire someone else who might not be so forthcoming. This way I know the score.”

“Makes sense,” Myron said.

“But there are conditions.”

“I thought there might be.”

“I do what I want when I want. This isn’t carte blanche to invade my privacy.”

“Of course.”

“If I tell you to get lost for a while, you ask how lost.”

“Right.”

“And no spying on me when I don’t know about it,” she continued.

“Okay.”

“You keep out of my business.”

“Agreed.”

“I stay out all night, you don’t say a thing.”

“Not a thing.”

“If I choose to participate in an orgy with pygmies, you don’t say a thing.”

“Can I at least watch?” Myron asked.

That got a smile. “I don’t mean to sound difficult, but I have enough father figures in my life, thank you. I want to make sure you know that we’re not going to be hanging out with each other twenty-four a day or anything like that. This isn’t a Whitney Houston–Kevin Costner movie.”

“Some people say I look like Kevin Costner.” Myron gave her a quick flash of the cynical, rogue smile, à la Bull Durham.

She looked straight through him. “Maybe in the hairline.”

Ouch. At half-court the goateed Sandy Duncan started calling for Ted again. His coterie followed suit. The name Ted bounced about the arena like rolled-up balls of Silly Putty.

“So do we understand each other?” she asked.

“Perfectly,” Myron said. He shifted in his seat. “Now do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

From the right, Ted—it simply had to be a guy named Ted—finally made his entrance. He wore only Zoom shorts, and his abdomen was rippled like a relief map in marble. He was probably in his early twenties, model handsome, and he squinted like a prison guard. As he sashayed toward the shoot, Ted kept running both hands through his Superman blue-black hair, the movement expanding his chest and shrinking his waist and demonstrating shaved underarms.

Brenda muttered, “Strutting peacock.”

“That’s totally unfair,” Myron said. “Maybe he’s a Fulbright scholar.”

“I’ve worked with him before. If God gave him a second brain, it would die of loneliness.” Her eyes veered toward Myron. “I don’t get something.”

“What?”

“Why you? You’re a sports agent. Why would Norm ask you to be my bodyguard?”

“I used to work”—he stopped, waved a vague hand—“for the government.”

“I never heard about that.”

“It’s another secret. Shh.”

“Secrets don’t stay secret much around you, Myron.”

“You can trust me.”

She thought about it. “Well, you were a white man who could jump,” she said. “Guess if you can be that, you could be a trustworthy sports agent.”

Myron laughed, and they fell into an uneasy silence. He broke it by trying again. “So do you want to tell me about the threats?”

“Nothing much to tell.”

“This is all in Norm’s head?”