nose. There was a squelching noise like beetles being stepped on. Blood gushed from the nose.

'Son of a-'

Myron cradled the back of the big man's head for leverage and smashed his elbow into the swell of the Adam's apple, nearly caving the windpipe all the way in. There was a painful, gurgling choke. Then silence. Myron followed up with a knife-hand strike to the back of the neck below the skull.

The big man slid to the ground like wet sand.

'Okay, that's enough!'

The man with the fedora stepped closer, a gun drawn and pointed at Myron's chest.

'Back away from him. Now'

Myron squinted at him. 'Is that really a fedora?'

'I said, back off!'

'Okay, okay, I'm backing.'

'You didn't have to do that,' the smaller man said with almost childlike hurt. 'He was just doing his job.'

'A misunderstood youth,' Myron added. 'Now I feel terrible.'

'Just stay away from Chaz Landreaux, okay?'

'Not okay. Tell Roy O'Connor I said it's not okay.'

'Hey, I ain't hired to get no answer. I'm just delivering.'

Without another word the man with the fedora helped his fallen colleague to his feet. The big man stumbled to their car, one hand on his nose, the other massaging his windpipe. His nose was busted, but his throat would hurt even worse, especially when he swallowed.

They got in and quickly drove away. They did not stop to change Myron's tire.

Myron dialed Chaz Landreaux's number on his car phone.

Not being what one would call mechanically inclined, it had taken Myron half an hour to change the tire. He rode slowly for the first few miles, fearing his handiwork would encourage the tire to slip off and flee. When he felt more confident, he accelerated and started back on the road to Christian's.

When Chaz answered, Myron quickly explained what happened.

'They was already here,' Chaz told him. Lots of noise in the background.

An infant cried. Something fell and broke. Children laughed. Chaz shouted for quiet.

'When?' Myron asked.

'Hour ago. Three men.'

'Did they hurt you?'

'Nah. Just held me down and made threats. Said they was going to break my legs if I didn't honor my contract.'

Breaking legs, Myron thought. How original.

Chaz Landreaux was a senior basketball player at Georgia State and a probable first-round NBA pick. He was a poor kid from the streets of Philadelphia. He had six brothers, two sisters, no father. The ten of them lived in an area that - if daringly improved - might one day be charitably dubbed 'poor ghetto.'

During his freshman year, an underling of a big-time agent named Roy O'Connor had approached Chaz - four years before Chaz was eligible to talk to an agent. The man offered Chaz a five-thousand-dollar 'retainer' up front, with monthly payments of $250, if he signed a contract making O'Connor his agent when he turned pro.

Chaz was confused. He knew that NCAA rules forbade him from signing a contract while he still had eligibility. The contract would be declared null and void. But Roy's man assured him this would be no problem. They would simply postdate the contract to make it appear Chaz had signed it, after his final year of eligibility. They'd keep the contract in a safety deposit box until the proper time arrived. No one would be the wiser.

Chaz was not sure. He knew it was illegal, but he also knew what that kind of money would mean to his mom and eight siblings living in a

two-room hellhole. Roy O'Connor then entered the picture and pitched the final inducement: If Chaz changed his mind at some future date, he could repay the money and tear up the contract.

Four years later Chaz changed his mind. He promised to pay back every cent. No way, said Roy O'Connor. You have a contract with us. You'll stick with it.

This was not an uncommon setup. Dozens of agents did it. Norby Walters and Lloyd Bloom, two of the country's biggest agents, had been arrested for it. Threats too were not uncommon. But that was where it usually ended: with threats. No agent wanted to risk being exposed. If a kid stood firm, the agent backed off.

But not Roy O'Connor. Roy O'Connor was using muscle. Myron was surprised.

'I want you out of town for a little while,' Myron continued. 'You got someplace to lay low?'

'Yeah, I'll crash with a friend in Washington. But what we going to do?'

I'll take care of it. Just stay out of sight.'

'Okay, yeah, I hear ya.' Then: 'Oh, Myron, one other thing.'

'What?'

'One of the dudes who held me down said he knew you. A monster, man.

I mean, huge. Slick-looking motherfucker.'

'Did he say his name?'

'Aaron. He said to tell you Aaron said hi.'

Myron's shoulders slumped. Aaron. A name from his past. Not a good name either. Roy O'Connor not only had muscle behind him - he had serious muscle.

Three hours after leaving his office, Myron shook off all thoughts about the garage incident and knocked on Christian's door. Despite the fact that he'd graduated two months earlier, Christian still lived in the same campus dorm he had occupied throughout his senior year, working as a counselor at Reston U's football summer camp. The Titans' minicamp, however, started in two days, and Christian would be there. Myron had no intention of having Christian hold out.

Christian opened the door immediately. Before Myron had a chance to explain his tardiness, Christian said, 'Thanks for getting here so fast.'

'Uh, sure. No problem.'

Christian's face was completely devoid of its usual healthy color. Gone were the rosy cheeks that dimpled when Christian smiled. Gone was the wide-open, aw-shucks smile that made the co-eds swoon. Even the famed steady hands were noticeably quaking.

Come on in,' he said.

'Thanks.'

Christian's room looked more like a 1950s sitcom set than a modern-day

campus dorm room. For one thing, the place was neat. The bed was made, the shoes in a row beneath it. There were no socks on the floor, no underwear, no jock straps. On the walls were pennants. Actual pennants.

Myron couldn't believe it. No posters, no calendars with Claudia Schiffer or Cindy Crawford or the Barbi twins. Just old-fashioned pennants. Myron felt as if he'd just stepped into Wally Cleaver's dormitory.

Christian didn't say anything at first. They both stood there uncomfortably, like two strangers stuck together at some cocktail party with no drinks in their hands. Christian kept his eyes lowered to the floor like a scolded child. He hadn't commented on the blood on Myron's suit. He probably hadn't noticed it.

Myron decided to try one of his patented silver-tongued icebreakers.

'What's up?'

Christian began to pace - no easy accomplishment in a room slightly larger than the average armoire. Myron could see that Christian's eyes were red. He'd been crying, his cheeks still showing small traces of the tear tracks.

'Did Mr Burke get mad about canceling the meeting?' Christian asked.

Myron shrugged. 'He had a major conniption, but he'll survive. Means nothing, don't worry about it.'

'Minicamp starts Thursday?'

Myron nodded. 'Are you nervous?'

'A little, maybe.'

'Is that why you wanted to see me?'

Christian shook his head. He hesitated and then said, 'I - I don't-, understand it, Mr Bolitar.'