“What do you want, FJ?”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

“Gee, I just know this is really going to interest me.”

“I want to buy you out.”

The Aches ran TruPro, a rather large sports representation firm. TruPro had always been devoid of any semblance of scruples, recruiting young athletes with as much moral restraint as a politician planning a fund-raiser. But then their owner stacked up debts. Bad debts. The debts that attract the wrong kind of fungus. The appropriately named Ache brothers, the fungi in question, moved in and, like the parasitic entities they were, ate away all signs of life and were now gnawing on the carcass.

Still, being a sports agent was a legit way of making a living, sort of, and Frank Senior, wanting for his son what all fathers wanted, handed young FJ the reins straight out of business school. In theory FJ was supposed to run TruPro as legitimately as possible. His father had killed and maimed so that his son wouldn't have to-yep, the classic American dream with, granted, a rather deranged twist. But FJ seemed incapable of freeing himself from the old familial shackles. Why was a question that fascinated Myron. Was FJ's evil genetic, passed down from his father like a prominent nose, or was he, like so many other children, simply trying to gain his father's acceptance by proving the acorn could be as ferociously psychotic as the oak?

Nature or nurture. The argument rages on.

“MB SportsReps is not for sale,” Myron said.

“I think you're being foolish.”

Myron nodded. “I'll file that under One Day I Might Even Care.' ”

The Bookends sort of grumbled, took a step forward, and cracked their necks in unison. Myron pointed to one, then the other. “Who does your choreography?”

They wanted to be insulted-you could just tell-except neither one of them knew what the word choreography meant.

FJ asked, “Do you know how many clients MB Sports-Reps lost in the last few weeks?”

“A lot?”

“I'd say a quarter of your list. A couple of them went with us.”

Myron whistled, feigned nonchalant, but he was not happy to hear this. “I'll get them back.”

“You think so?” FJ again smiled the reptilian smile; Myron almost expected a forked tongue to dart out between his lips. “Do you know how many more are going to leave when they hear about Esperanza's arrest?”

“A lot?”

“You'll be lucky to have one left.”

“Hey, then I'll be like Jerry Maguire. Did you see that movie? Show me the money? I love black people?” Myron gave FJ his best Tom Cruise earnest. “You. Complete. Me.”

FJ remained cool. “I'm willing to be generous, Myron.”

“I'm sure you are, FJ, but the answer is still no.”

“I don't care how clean your rep used to be. Nobody can survive the sort of money scandal you're about to go through.”

It wasn't a money scandal, but Myron was not in the mood to issue corrections. “Are we finished, FJ?”

“Sure.” FJ gave him one last scaly smile. The smile seemed to jump off his face, crawl toward Myron, and then slither its way up his back. “But why don't we get together and have lunch?”

“Any time,” Myron said. “You have a cellular?”

“Of course.”

“Call my partner right away and set it up.”

“Isn't she in jail?”

Myron snapped his fingers. “Drat.”

FJ found that amusing. “I mentioned that some of your old clients are now using my services.”

“So you did.”

“If you contact any of them”-he paused, thought it over-“I'd feel obliged to retaliate. Do I make myself clear?”

FJ was maybe twenty-five years old, less than a year out of Harvard Business School. He had gone undergrad to Princeton. Smart kid. Or powerful father. Either way, rumor had it that when a Princeton professor was about to accuse FJ of plagiarism, the professor disappeared and only his tongue was found-on the pillow of another professor who had considered leveling the same charges.

“Crystal, FJ.”

“Great, Myron. Then we'll talk again.”

If Myron still had his tongue.

The three men slid into their car and drove off without another word. Myron slowed his heart rate and checked his watch. Court time.

The courtroom in Hackensack looked very much like the ones you see on television. Shows like The Practice and Law & Order and even Judge Judy capture the physical appearance pretty well. They can't of course capture the essence emanating from the little things: the faint, underlying stench of fear-induced sweat, the overuse of disinfectant, the slightly sticky feel to all the benches and tables and handrails-what Myron liked to call the ooze factors.

Myron had his checkbook ready so bail could be posted immediately. He and Win had gone over it last night and figured the judge would come in around fifty to seventy-five grand. Esperanza had no record and a steady job. Those factors would play in her favor. If the money was higher, no problem. Myron's pockets might be only semideep, but Win's net worth was on par with the GNP of a small European country.

There were droves of reporters parked outside, tons of vans with wrapped cables and satellite dishes, and of course phallic antennas, stretching toward the heavens as though in search of the elusive god of higher ratings. Court TV was there. News 2 New York. ABC News. CNN. Eyewitness News. Every city in every region of the country had an Eyewitness News. Why? What was so appealing about that name? There were also the new sleazoid TV shows, like Hard Copy, Access Hollywood, Current Affair, though the distinction between them and the local news was becoming murky to the point of nonexistent. Hey, at least Hard Copy and the like were somewhat honest about the fact that they served no redeeming social value. And they didn't subject you to weathermen.

A couple of reporters recognized Myron and called out. Myron put on his game face-serious, unyielding, concerned, confident-and no-commented his way through them. When he entered the courtroom, he spotted Big Cyndi first-no surprise since she stuck out like Louis Farrakhan at B'nai B'rith. She was jammed into the aisle of a row empty except for Win. Not unusual. If you wanted to save seats, send Big Cyndi; people did not relish excusing themselves to squeeze past her. Most opted to stand. Or go home even.

Myron slid into Big Cyndi's row, actually high-stepping over two knees that looked like batting helmets, and sat between his friends.

Big Cyndi had not changed from last night or even washed up. The steady rain had rinsed out some of the hair dye; purple and yellow streaks had dried on the front and back of her neck. Her makeup, always applied in amounts thick enough to make a plaster bust, had also suffered under the rain's onslaught, her face now resembling multicolored menorah candles left too long in the sun.

In some major cities, murder arraignments were commonplace and handled in factory-line fashion. Not so here in Hackensack. This was big time-a murder case involving a celebrity. There would be no rush.

The bailiff started calling cases.

“I had a visitor this morning,” Myron whispered to Win.

“Oh?”

“FJ and two goons.”

“Ah,” Win said. “Was the cover boy for Modern Mobster voicing his usual medley of colorful threats?”

“Yes.”

Win almost smiled. “We should kill him.”

“No.”

“You're just putting off the inevitable.”

“He's Frank Ache's son, Win. You just don't kill Frank Ache's son.”

“I see. Then you'd rather kill somebody from a better family?”

Win logic. It made sense in the scariest way possible. “Let's just see how it plays out, okay?”

“Don't put off until tomorrow what must be exterminated today.”

Myron nodded. “You should write one of those life-instruction books.”