"I know. Bet you look like a pretentious asshole. Talking on a cellular phone at the match."

Now that she mentioned it…

The sour faces were glaring daggers now. In their eyes Myron had committed an unpardonable sin. Like molesting a child. Or using the salad fork on the entree. "What do you want?"

"They're showing you on TV right now. Jesus, it's true."

"What?"

"The TV does make you look heavier."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing much. I thought you might want to know I got you a meeting with Eddie Crane."

"You're kidding." Eddie Crane, one of the hottest tennis juniors in the country. He was seeing only the big-four agencies. ICM, TruPro, Advantage International, ProServ.

"No joke. Meet him and his parents by court sixteen after Duane's match."

"I love you, you know."

"Then pay me more," she said.

Duane hit a cross-court forehand winner. Thirty-love.

"Anything else?" Myron asked.

"Nothing important. Valerie Simpson. She's called three times."

"What did she want?"

"She wouldn't say. But the Ice Queen sounded ruffled."

"Don't call her that"

"Yeah, whatever "

Myron hung up. Win looked at him. "Problem?"

Valerie Simpson. A weird, albeit sad case. The former tennis wunderkind had visited Myron's office two days ago looking for someone – anyone – to represent her. "Don't think so."

Duane was up forty-love. Triple match point. Bud Collins, tennis columnist extraordinaire, was already waiting in the gangway for the postmatch interview. Bud's pants, always a Technicolor fashion risk, were particularly hideous today.

Duane took two balls from the ball boy and approached the line. Duane was a rare commodity in tennis. A black man. Not from India or Africa or even France. Duane was from New York City. Unlike just about every other player on the tour, Duane had not spent his life preparing for this moment.