“Why? Who they getting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lester’s a pretty good player. Raw but good. Why the Yankees so interested in getting rid of him?”

“You won’t print this?”

Pause. Myron could almost hear Al’s brain awhirring. “Not if you tell me not to.”

“He’s hurt. Home accident. Damaged the knee. They’re keeping it quiet, but Lester will need surgery after the season.”

Silence.

“You can’t print it, Al.”

“No problem. Hey, I gotta go.”

Myron smiled. “Later, Al.”

He hung up.

Esperanza looked at him. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Al Toney is the master of the loophole,” Myron explained. “He promised he wouldn’t print it. He won’t. But he works by trading favors. He’s the best barterer in the business.”

“So?”

“So now he’ll call a friend at the Seattle Times and barter. The injury rumor will spread. If it gets public before the trade is announced, well, it’s doomed.”

Esperanza smiled. “Highly unethical.”

Myron shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s fuzzy.”

“I still like it.”

“Always remember the MB SportsReps credo: The client comes first.”

She nodded and added, “Even in sexual liaisons.”

“Hey, we’re a full-service agency.” Myron looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. Can you?”

“Why do you hate Jessica?”

Esperanza’s face clouded over. She shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“I’m serious.”

She crossed her legs, uncrossed them. “Let me just stick to taking cheap potshots, okay?”

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “I want to know why you don’t like her.”

Esperanza sighed, crossed the legs again, tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Jessica is bright, smart, funny, a great writer, and I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”

Bisexuals.

“But she hurt you.”

“So? She’s not the first woman to commit an indiscretion.”

“True enough,” Esperanza agreed. She slapped her knees and stood. “Guess I’m wrong. Can I go now?”

“So why do you still hold a grudge?”

“I like grudges,” Esperanza said. “They’re easier than forgiveness.”

Myron shook his head, signaled her to sit.

“What do you want me to say, Myron?”

“I want you to tell me why you don’t like her.”

“I’m just being a pain in the ass. Don’t take it seriously.”

Myron shook his head again.

Esperanza put her hand to her face. She looked away for a moment. “You’re not tough enough, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“For that kind of hurt. Most people can take it. I can. Jessica can. Win certainly can. But you can’t. You’re not tough enough. You’re just not built that way.”

“Then maybe that’s my fault.”

“It is your fault,” Esperanza said. “At least in part. You idealize relationships too much, for one thing. And you’re too sensitive. You used to expose yourself too much. You used to leave yourself too open.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

She hesitated. “No. In fact, it’s a good thing, I guess. A bit naive, but it’s a lot better than those assholes who hold everything back. Can we stop talking about this now?”

“I still don’t think you’ve answered my question.”

Esperanza raised her palms. “That’s as good as I can do.”

Myron flashed back to Little League again, to being hit by Joey Davito’s pitch, to never planting his feet in the batter’s box the same again. He nodded. Used to expose, Esperanza had said. “Used to.” A curious use of words.

Esperanza took advantage of the silence and changed subjects. “I checked into Elizabeth Bradford for you.”

“And?”

“There’s nothing there that would suggest her death was anything other than an accident. You can take a run at her brother, if you want. He lives in Westport. He’s also closely aligned to his old brother-in-law, so I doubt you’ll get anywhere.”

Waste of time. “Any other family?”

“A sister who also lives in Westport. But she’s spending the summer on the Côte d’Azur.”

Strike two.

“Anything else?”

“One thing bothered me a little,” Esperanza said. “Elizabeth Bradford was clearly a social animal, a society dame of the first order. Barely a week went by when her name wasn’t in the paper for some function or other. But about six months before she fell off the balcony, mentions of her stopped.”

“When you say ‘stopped’—”

“I mean, completely. Her name was nowhere, not even in the town paper.”

Myron thought about this. “Maybe she was on the Côte d’Azur.”

“Maybe. But her husband wasn’t there with her. Arthur was still getting plenty of coverage.”

Myron leaned back and spun his chair around. He checked out the Broadway posters behind his desk again. Yep, they definitely had to go. “You said there were a lot of stories on Elizabeth Bradford before that?”

“Not stories,” Esperanza corrected. “Mentions. Her name was almost always preceded by ‘Hosting the event was’ or ‘Attendees included’ or ‘Pictured from right to left are.’ ”

Myron nodded. “Were these in some kind of column or general articles or what?”

“The Jersey Ledger used to have a social column. It was called ‘Social Soirees.’ ”

“Catchy.” But Myron remembered the column vaguely from his childhood. His mother used to skim it, checking out the boldface names for a familiar one. Mom had even been listed once, referred to as “prominent local attorney Ellen Bolitar.” That was how she wanted to be addressed for the next week. Myron would yell down, “Hey, Mom!” and she would reply, “That’s Prominent Local Attorney Ellen Bolitar to you, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Who wrote the column?” Myron asked.

Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper. There was a head shot of a pretty woman with an overstylized helmet of hair, à la Lady Bird Johnson. Her name was Deborah Whittaker.