Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

He didn’t think so. But it was hard to remember.

He waited another ten minutes on that cul-de-sac. Nothing happened.

So Myron came up with a plan.

It took a while to find his way out. Aimee had led him into this suburban thicket, but maybe Myron should have dropped bread crumbs on the way. He worked rat-in-a-maze–style for twenty minutes until he stumbled upon Paramus Road, which led eventually to a main artery, the Garden State Parkway.

But now, Myron had no plans to return to the apartment in New York.

It was a Saturday night—well, Sunday morning now—and if he went to the house in Livingston instead, he could play basketball the next morning before heading to the airport for his flight to Miami.

And, Myron knew, Erik, Aimee’s father, played every Sunday without fail.

That was Myron’s immediate, if not pathetic, plan.

So, early in the morning—too early, frankly—Myron rose and put on his shorts and T-shirt, dusted off the old knee brace, and drove over to the gym at Heritage Middle School. Before he headed inside, Myron tried Aimee’s cell phone. It went immediately to her voice mail, her tone so sunny and, again, teenage, complete with a “Like, leave your message.”

He was about to put the phone down when it buzzed in his hand. He checked the caller ID. Nothing.

“Hello?”

“You’re a bastard.” The voice was muffled and low. It sounded like a young man, but it was hard to know. “Do you hear me, Myron? A bastard. And you will pay for what you did.”

The call disconnected. Myron hit star sixty-nine and waited to hear the number. A mechanical voice gave it to him. Local area code, yes, but otherwise the number was wholly unfamiliar. He stopped the car and jotted it down. He’d check it out later.

When Myron ducked into his school, it took a second to adjust to the artificial light, but as soon he did, the familiar ghosts popped up. The gym had the stale smell of every other middle school gym. Someone dribbled a ball. A few guys laughed. The sounds were all the same—all tainted by that hollow echo.

Myron hadn’t played in months because he didn’t like these sort of white-collar pickup games. Basketball, the game itself, still meant so much to him. He loved it. He loved the feel of the ball on his fingertips, the way they would find the grooves on the jump shot, the arch as the ball headed for the rim, the backspin on it, the positioning for the rebound, the perfect bounce pass. He loved the split-second decision making—pass, drive, shoot—the sudden openings that lasted tenths of a second, the way the world slowed down so that you could split the seam.

He loved all that.

What he did not love was the middle-age machismo. The gym was filling up with Masters of the Universe, the wannabe alpha males who, despite the big house and fat wallet and penis-compensating sports car, still needed to beat someone at something. Myron had been competitive in his youth. Too competitive perhaps. He had been a nutjob for winning. This was, he had learned, not always a wonderful quality, though it often separated the very good from the greats, the near-pros from the pros: this desire—no, need—to better another man.

But he had outgrown it. Some of these guys—a minority for certain, but enough—had not.

When they saw Myron, the former NBA player (no matter for how short a time), they saw their chance to prove what real men they were. Even now. Even when most of them were north of forty. And when the skills are slower but the heart still hungers for glory, it can get physical and downright ugly.

Myron scanned the gym and found his reason for being there.

Erik warmed up at the far basket. Myron jogged over and called out to him.

“Erik, hey, how’s it going?”

Erik turned and smiled at him. “Good morning, Myron. Nice to see you show up.”

“I’m usually not much of a morning guy,” Myron said.

Erik tossed him the ball. Myron took a shot. It clanged off the rim.

“Late night?” Erik asked.

“Very.”

“You’ve looked better.”

“Gee, thanks,” Myron said. Then: “So how are things?”

“Fine, you?”

“Good.”

Someone shouted out and the ten guys jogged toward center court. That was how it was. If you wanted to play in the first group, you have to be one of the first ten to arrive. David Rainiv, a brilliant numbers guy and CFO of some Fortune 500 company, always made up teams. He had a knack for balancing the talent and forming competitive matchups. No one questioned his decisions. They were final and binding.

So Rainiv divided up the sides. Myron was matched up against a young guy who stood six-seven. This was a good thing. The theory of men having Napoleon complexes may be debatable in the real world but not in pickup games. Little guys wanted to harm big guys—show them up in an arena usually dominated by size.

But sadly, today the exception proved the rule. The six-seven kid was all elbows and anger. He was athletic and strong but had little basketball talent. Myron did his best to keep his distance. The truth was, despite his knee and age, Myron could score at will. For a while that was what he did. It just came so naturally. It was hard to go easy. But eventually he pulled back. He needed to lose. More men had come in. It was winners-stay-on. He wanted to get off the court so he could talk to Erik.

So after they won the first three games, Myron threw one.

His teammates were not pleased when Myron dribbled off his own foot, thus losing the game. Now they’d have to sit out. They bemoaned the moment but relished the fact that they’d had a great streak going. Like it mattered.

Erik had a water bottle, of course. His shorts matched his shirt. His sneakers were neatly laced. His socks came up to the exact same spot on both ankles, both having the same size roll. Myron used the water fountain and sat next to him.

“So how’s Claire?” Myron tried.

“Fine. She does a Pilates-yoga mix now.”

“Oh?”

Claire had always been into some exercise craze or another. She’d gone through the Jane Fonda leggings, the Tae Bo kicks, the Soloflex.

“That’s where she is now,” Erik said.

“Taking a class?”

“Yes. During the week, she takes one at six thirty in the morning.”

“Yikes, that’s early.”

“We’re early risers.”

“Oh?” Myron saw an opening and took it. “And Aimee?”

“What about Aimee?”

“Does she get up early too?”

Erik frowned. “Hardly.”