Why, Myron wondered, would someone want to kill Valerie Simpson? Why had she tried so desperately to reach him? Why had she gone to the tennis center? To check out the competition? Or to find Myron?

"Watch this, Myron," Tunwell repeated yet again. "It's so fantastic, I came. Really, swear to God. Right in my pants."

"Sorry I missed that," Myron said.

Ned whooped with pleasure.

The commercial finally began. Duane appeared, wearing his sunglasses, dashing back and forth on a tennis court. Lots of quick cuts, especially to his sneakers. Lots of bright colors. Pounding beat, mixed in with the sound of tennis balls being blasted across the net. Very MTV-like. Could have been a rock video. Then Duane's voice came on:

"Come to my court…"

A few more hard ground strokes, a few more quick cuts. Then everything suddenly stopped. Duane vanished. The color faded to black and white. Silence. Scene change. A stern-looking judge glared down from his bench. Duane's voice returned:

"… and stay away from his court"

The rock music started up again. The color returned. The screen cut back to Duane hitting the ball, smiling through his sweat, his sunglasses reflecting the Light. A Nike symbol appeared with the words COME TO DUANE'S COURT below them.

Fade to black.

Ned Tunwell groaned – actually groaned – in satisfaction.

"You want a cigarette?" Myron asked.

Tunwell's smile doubled in wattage. "What did I tell you, Myron? Huh? Fantastic or what?"

Myron nodded. It was good. Very good. Hip, well-made, responsible message but not too preachy. "I like it," he said.