“Just listen to me for a second, Myron, okay? Hear me out. Brenda is a lovely girl, a wonderful basketball player—and a pain in my left tuchis. I don’t blame her. If I grew up with a father like that, I’d be a pain in the left tuchis too.”

“So her father is the problem?”

Norm made a yes-and-no gesture. “Probably.”

“So get a restraining order,” Myron said.

“Already done.”

“Then what’s the problem? Hire a private eye. If he steps within a hundred yards of her, call the cops.”

“It’s not that easy.” Norm looked out over the court. The workers involved in the shoot darted about like trapped particles under sudden heat. Myron sipped his coffee. Gourmet coffee. A year ago he never drank coffee. Then he started stopping into one of the new coffee bars that kept cropping up like bad movies on cable. Now Myron could not go through a morning without his gourmet coffee fix.

There is a fine line between a coffee break and a crack house.

“We don’t know where he is,” Norm said.

“Excuse me?”

“Her father,” Norm said. “He’s vanished. Brenda is always looking over her shoulder. She’s terrified.”

“And you think the father is a danger to her?”

“This guy is the Great Santini on steroids. He used to play ball himself. Pac Ten, I think. His name is—”

“Horace Slaughter,” Myron said.

“You know him?”

Myron nodded very slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know him.”

Norm studied his face. “You’re too young to have played with him.”

Myron said nothing. Norm did not catch the hint. He rarely did.

“So how do you know Horace Slaughter?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Myron said. “Tell me why you think Brenda Slaughter is in danger.”

“She’s been getting threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Death.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

The photo shoot frenzy continued to whirl. Models sporting the latest in Zoom wear and oodles of attitude cycled through poses and pouts and postures and pursed lips. Come on and vogue. Someone called out for Ted, where the hell is Ted, that prima donna, why isn’t Ted dressed yet, I swear, Ted will be the death of me yet.

“She gets phone calls,” Norm said. “A car follows her. That kind of thing.”

“And you want me to do what exactly?”

“Watch her.”

Myron shook his head. “Even if I said yes—which I’m not—you said she won’t go for a bodyguard.”

Norm smiled and patted Myron’s knee. “Here’s the part where I lure you in. Like a fish on a hook.”

“Original analogy.”

“Brenda Slaughter is currently unagented.”

Myron said nothing.

“Cat got your tongue, handsome?”

“I thought she signed a major endorsement deal with Zoom.”

“She was on the verge when her old man disappeared. He was her manager. But she got rid of him. Now she’s alone. She trusts my judgment, to a point. This girl is no fool, let me tell you. So here’s my plan: Brenda will be here in a couple of minutes. I recommend you to her. She says hello. You say hello. Then you hit her with the famed Bolitar charm.”

Myron arched one eyebrow. “Set on full blast?”

“Heavens, no. I don’t want the poor girl disrobing.”

“I took an oath to only use my powers for good.”

“This is good, Myron, believe me.”

Myron remained unconvinced. “Even if I agreed to go along with this cockamamy scheme, what about nights? You expect me to watch her twenty-four hours a day?”

“Of course not. Win will help you there.”

“Win has better things to do.”

“Tell that goy boy-toy it’s for me,” Norm said. “He loves me.”

A flustered photographer in the great Eurotrash tradition hurried over to their perch. He had a goatee and spiky blond hair like Sandy Duncan on an off day. Bathing did not appear to be a priority here. He sighed repeatedly, making sure all in the vicinity knew that he was both important and being put out. “Where is Brenda?” he whined.

“Right here.”

Myron swiveled toward a voice like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. With her long, purposeful stride—not the shy-girl walk of the too-tall or the nasty strut of a model—Brenda Slaughter swept into the room like a radar-tracked weather system. She was very tall, over six feet for sure, with skin the color of Myron’s Starbucks Mocha Java with a hefty splash of skim milk. She wore faded jeans that hugged deliciously but without obscenity and a ski sweater that made you think of cuddling inside a snow-covered log cabin.

Myron managed not to say wow out loud.

Brenda Slaughter was not so much beautiful as electric. The air around her crackled. She was far too big and broad-shouldered to be a model. Myron knew some professional models. They were always throwing themselves at him—snicker—and were ridiculously thin, built like strings with helium balloons on top. Brenda was no size six. You felt strength with this woman, substance, power, a force if you will, and yet it was all completely feminine, whatever that meant, and incredibly attractive.

Norm leaned over and whispered, “See why she’s our poster girl?”

Myron nodded.

Norm jumped down from the chair. “Brenda, darling, come over here. I want you to meet someone.”

The big brown eyes found Myron’s, and there was a hesitation. She smiled a little and strode toward them. Myron rose, ever the gentleman. Brenda headed straight for him and stuck out her hand. Myron shook it. Her grip was strong. Now that they were both standing, Myron could see he had an inch or two on her. That made her six-two, maybe six-three.

“Well, well,” Brenda said. “Myron Bolitar.”

Norm gestured as if he were pushing them closer together. “You two know each other?”

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Bolitar doesn’t remember me,” Brenda said. “It was a long time ago.”

It took Myron only a few seconds. His brain immediately realized that had he met Brenda Slaughter before, he would have undoubtedly remembered. The fact that he didn’t meant their previous encounter was under very different circumstances. “You used to hang out at the courts,” Myron said. “With your dad. You must have been five or six.”