As he entered he saw the nameplate on his desk, a gift from his parents. myron bolitar sports agent He shook his head. Myron Bolitar. He still couldn't believe someone would name a kid Myron. When his family first moved to New Jersey, he had told everyone in his new high school that his name was Mike. Nope, no dice. Then he tried to nickname himself Mickey. Unh-unh. Everyone reverted to Myron; the name was like a horror-movie monster that would not die.

To answer the obvious question: No, he never forgave his parents.

He picked up the phone. 'Christian?'

'Mr Bolitar? Is that you?'

'Yes. And please call me… Myron.' Acceptance of the inevitable, a sign of a wise man.

'I'm sorry to interrupt you. I know how busy you are.'

'I'm busy negotiating your contract. I have Otto Burke and Larry Hanson in the next room.'

'I appreciate that, Mr Bolitar, but this is very important.' His voice was trembling. 'I have to see you right away.'

He switched hands. 'Something wrong, Christian?' Mr Perceptive.

'I - I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. Would you be able to meet me at my room on campus?'

11

'Sure, no problem. What time?'

'Now, please. I don't know what to make of this. I want you to see it.'

Myron took a deep breath. 'No problem. I'll throw Otto and Larry out.

It'll be good for the negotiations. I'll be there in an hour.'

It took a lot longer.

Myron entered the Kinney garage on Forty-sixth Street, not too far from his Park Avenue office. He nodded to Mario, the garage attendant, walked past the pricing sheet, which had a small disclaimer on the bottom that read 'not including 97% tax,' and headed to his car on the lower level. A Ford Taurus. Your basic Babe Magnet.

He was about to unlock the door when he heard a hissing sound. Like a snake. Or more likely, air escaping from a tire. The sound emanated from his back right tire. A quick examination told Myron that it had been slashed.