Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

“And?”

“Sure enough. She took out a thousand dollars, the max, at an ATM machine at two in the morning.”

“You get the video from the bank?”

“I did.”

Loren knew that this was done in seconds now. You didn’t have an old-fashioned tape anymore. The videos are digital and could be e-mailed and downloaded almost instantaneously.

“It was Aimee,” he said. “No question about it. She didn’t try to hide her face or anything.”

“So?”

“So you figure it’s a runaway, right?”

“Right.”

“A slam dunk,” he went on. “She took the money and is doing a little partying, whatever. Blowing off steam at the end of her senior year.” Banner looked off.

“Come on, Lance. What’s the problem?”

“Katie Rochester.”

“Because Katie did the same thing? Used an ATM before disappearing?”

He tilted his head back and forth in a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. His eyes were still far away. “It’s not just that she did the same thing as Katie,” he said. “It’s that she did the exact same thing.”

“I’m not following.”

“The ATM machine Aimee Biel used was located in Manhattan—more specifically”—he slowed his words now—“at a Citibank on Fifty-second Street and Sixth Avenue.”

Loren felt the chill begin at the base of her skull and travel south.

Banner said, “That’s the same one Katie Rochester used, right?”

She nodded and then she said something truly stupid: “Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be,” he agreed.

“You got anything else?”

“We’re just starting, but we pulled the logs on her cell phone.”

“And?”

“She made a phone call right after she took out the money.”

“To whom?”

Lance Banner leaned back and crossed his legs. “Do you remember a guy a few years ahead of us—big basketball star named Myron Bolitar?”

CHAPTER 13

Down in Miami, Myron dined with Rex Storton, a new client, at some super-huge restaurant Rex had picked out because a lot of people walked by. The restaurant was one of those chains like Bennigans or TGI Fridays or something equally universal and awful.

Storton was an aging actor, a one-time superstar who was looking for the indie role that would launch him out of Miami’s Loni Anderson Dinner Theater and back into the upper echelon of La-La Land. Rex was resplendent in a pink polo with the collar turned up, white pants that a man his age just shouldn’t involve himself with, and a shiny gray toupee that looked good when you weren’t sitting directly across the table from it.

For years Myron had represented professional athletes only. When one of his basketball players wanted to cross over and do movies, Myron started meeting actors. A new branch of the business took root, and now he handled the Hollywood clients almost exclusively, leaving the sports management stuff to Esperanza.

It was strange. As an athlete himself, one would think that Myron would relate more to those in a similar profession. He didn’t. He liked the actors more. Most athletes are singled out right away, at fairly young ages, and elevated to godlike status from the get-go. Athletes are in the lead clique at school. They get invited to all the parties. They nab all the hot girls. Adults fawn. Teachers let them slide.

Actors are different. Many of them had started out at the opposite end of the spectrum. Athletics rule in most towns. Actors were often the kids who couldn’t make the team and were looking for another activity. They were often too small—ever meet an actor in real life and notice that they’re tiny?—or uncoordinated. So they back into acting. Later, when stardom hits them, they are not used to the treatment. They’re surprised by it. They’re somewhat more appreciative. In many cases—no, not all—it makes them more humble than their athletic counterparts.

There were other factors, of course. They say that actors take to the stage to fill a void of emptiness only applause can fill. Even if true, it made thespians somewhat more anxious to please. While athletes were used to people doing their bidding and came to believe it was their due in life, actors came to that from a position of insecurity. Athletes need to win. They need to beat you. Actors need only your applause and thus your approval.

It made them easier to work with.

Again this was a complete generalization—Myron was an athlete, after all, and did not consider himself difficult—but like most generalizations, there was something to it.

He told Rex about the indie role as, to quote the pitch, “a geriatric, cross-dressing car thief, but with a heart.” Rex nodded. His eyes continuously scanned the room, as if they were at a cocktail party and he was waiting for someone more important to come in. Rex always kept one eye toward the entrance. This was how it was with actors. Myron repped one guy who was world-renowned for detesting the press. He had battled with photographers. He had sued tabloids. He had demanded his privacy. Yet whenever Myron ate dinner with him, the actor always chose a seat in the center of the room, facing the door, and whenever someone would enter, he’d look up, just for a second, just to make sure he was recognized.

His eyes still moving, Rex said, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Do I have to wear a dress?”

“For some scenes, yes.”

“I’ve done that before.”

Myron arched an eyebrow.

“Professionally, I mean. Don’t be a wiseass. And it was tastefully done. The dress must be something tasteful.”

“So, what, nothing with a plunging neckline?’

“Funny, Myron. You’re a scream. Speaking of which, do I have to do a screen test?”

“You do.”

“Chrissakes, I’ve made eighty films.”

“I know, Rex.”

“He can’t look at one of them?”

Myron shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

“You like the script?”

“I do, Rex.”

“How old is this director?’

“Twenty-two.”

“Jesus. I was already a has-been by the time he was born.”

“They’ll pay for a flight to L.A.”

“First class?”

“Coach, but I think I can get you a business upgrade.”

“Ah, who am I kidding? I’d sit on the wing in only my girdle if the role was right.”

“That’s the spirit.”