Amazon.co.uk Review
What keeps a reader
turning the pages of a thriller? Strong characters, certainly--
Chandler gripped our attention through the most impenetrable plots
with his powerfully-drawn characters. But narrative ingenuity is
the ace card for most of the top writers in the genre, and it''s
here that Coben really excels. Of course, having a novel and
unusual protagonist is a highly desirable asset, and in Myron
Bolithar, his fast-thinking and vulnerable sports agent, Coben has
t
內容簡介：
She''s smart, beautiful, and she doesn''t need a man to look after
her. But sports agent Myron Bolitar has come into her life--big
time. Now Myron''s next move may be his last--
Brenda Slaughter is no damsel in distress. Myron Bolitar is no
bodyguard. But Myron has agreed to protect the bright, strong,
beautiful basketball star. And he''s about to find out if he''s man
enough to unravel the tragic riddle of her life.
Twenty years before, Brenda''s mother deserted her. And just as
Brenda is making it to the top of the women''s pro basketball world,
her father disappears too. A big-time New York sports agent with a
foundering love life, Myron has a professional interest in Brenda.
Then a personal one. But between them isn''t just the difference in
their backgrounds or the color of their skin. Between them is a
chasm of corruption and lies, a vicious young mafioso on the make,
and one secret that some people are dying to keep--and others are
killing to protect....
關於作者：
Harlan Coben is the author of five other Myron Bolitar novels:
The Final Detail; Back Spin, a Shamus Award nominee;
Drop Shot; the Edgar Award winner Fade Away; and
Deal Breaker, which won an Anthony Award and received an
Edgar Award nomination for Best Original Paperback. He lives in New
Jersey with his wife, daughter, and son. His e-mail address is
bolitar@aol.com.
內容試閱：
AUGUST 30
Myron hunched his shoulders and slurred his words. "I am not a
baby-sitter," he said. "I am a sports agent."
Norm Zuckerman looked pained. "Was that supposed to be Bela
Lugosi?"
"The Elephant Man," Myron said.
"Damn, that was awful. And who said anything about being a
baby-sitter? Did I say the word baby-sitter or
baby-sitting or for that matter any form of the verb to
baby-sit or noun or even the word baby or the word
sit or sat or--"
Myron held up a hand. "I get the point, Norm."
They sat under a basket at Madison Square Garden in those
cloth-and-wood directors'' chairs that have stars'' names on the
back. Their chairs were set high so that the net from the basket
almost tickled Myron''s hair. A model shoot was going on at
half-court. Lots of those umbrella lights and tall, bony
women-cum-children and tripods and people huffing and fluffing
about. Myron waited for someone to mistake him for a model. And
waited.
"A young woman may be in danger," Norm said. "I need your
help."
Norm Zuckerman was approaching seventy and as CEO of Zoom, a
megasize sports manufacturing conglomerate, he had more money than
Trump. He looked, however, like a beatnik trapped in a bad acid
trip. Retro, Norm had explained earlier, was cresting, and he was
catching the wave by wearing a psychedelic poncho, fatigue pants,
love beads, and an earring with a dangling peace sign. Groovy, man.
His black-to-gray beard was unruly enough to nest beetle larvae,
his hair newly curled like something out of a bad production of
Godspell.
Che Guevara lives and gets a perm.
"You don''t need me," Myron said. "You need a bodyguard."
Norm waved a dismissing hand. "Too obvious."
"What?"
"She''d never go for it. Look, Myron, what do you know about Brenda
Slaughter?"
"Not much," Myron said.
He looked surprised. "What do you mean, not much?"
"What word are you having trouble with, Norm?"
"For crying out loud, you were a basketball player."
"So?"
"So Brenda Slaughter may be the greatest female player of all time.
A pioneer in her sport--not to mention the pinup girl, pardon the
political insensitivity, for my new league."
"That much I know."
"Well, know this: I''m worried about her. If something happens to
Brenda Slaughter, the whole WPBA--and my substantial
investment--could go right down the toilet."
"Well, as long as it''s for humanitarian reasons."
"Fine, I''m a greedy capitalist pig. But you, my friend, are a
sports agent. There is not a greedier, sleazier, slimier, more
capitalist entity in existence."
Myron nodded. "Suck up to me," he said. "That''ll work."
"You''re not letting me finish. Yes, you''re a sports agent. But a
damn fine one. The best, really. You and the Spanish shiksa do
incredible work for your clients. Get the most for them. More than
they should get really. By the time you finish with me, I feel
violated. Hand to God, you''re that good. You come into my office,
you rip off my clothes and have your way with me."
Myron made a face. "Please."
"But I know your secret background with the feds."
Some secret. Myron was still hoping to bump into someone above the
equator who didn''t know about it.
"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 house 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."
"And you were just entering high school," she added. "The only
white guy that showed up steadily. You made all-state out of
Livingston High, became an all-American at Duke, got drafted by the
Celtics in the first round--"
Her voice dovetailed. Myron was used to that. "I''m flattered you
remembered," he said. Already wowing her with the charm.
"I grew up watching you play," she went on. "My father followed
your career like you were his own son. When you got hurt--" She
broke off again, her lips tightening.
He smiled to show he both understood and appreciated the
sentiment.
Norm jumped into the silence. "Well, Myron is a sports agent now. A
damn good one. The best, in my opinion. Fair, honest, loyal as
hell--" Norm stopped suddenly. "Did I just use those words to
describe a sports agent?" He shook his head.
The goateed Sandy Duncan bustled over again. He spoke with a French
accent that sounded about as real as Pepe LePew''s. "Monsieur
Zuckermahn?"
Norm said, "Oui."
"I need your help, s''il vous plait."
"Oui," Norm said.
Myron almost asked for an interpreter.
"Sit, both of you," Norm said. "I have to run a sec." He patted the
empty chairs to drive home the point. "Myron is going to help me
set up the league. Kinda like a consultant. So talk to him, Brenda.
About your career, your future, whatever. He''d be a good agent for
you." He winked at Myron. Subtle.
When Norm left, Brenda high-stepped into the director''s chair. "So
was all that true?" she asked.
"Part of it," Myron said.
"What part?"
"I''d like to be your agent. But that''s not why I''m really
here."
"Oh?"
"Norm is worried about you. He wants me to watch out for
you."
"Watch out for me?"
Myron nodded. "He thinks you''re in danger."
She set her jaw. "I told him I didn''t want to be watched."
"I know," Myron said. "I''m supposed to be undercover. Shh."
"So why are you telling me?"
"I''m not good with secrets."
She nodded. "And?"
"And if I''m going to be your agent, I''m not sure it pays to start
our relationship with a lie."
She leaned back and crossed legs longer than a DMV line at
lunchtime. "What else did Norm tell you to do?"
"To turn on my charm."
She blinked at him.
"Don''t worry," Myron said. "I took a solemn oath to only use it for
good."
"Lucky me." Brenda brought a long finger up to her face and tapped
it against her chin a few times. "So," she said at last, "Norm
thinks I need a baby-sitter."
Myron threw up his hands and did his best Norm impression. "Who
said anything about a baby-sitter?" It was better than his Elephant
Man, but nobody was speed-dialing Rich Little either.
She smiled. "Okay," she said with a nod. "I''ll go along with
this."
"I''m pleasantly surprised."
"No reason to be. If you don''t do it, Norm might hire someone else
who might not be so forthcoming. This way I know the score."
"Makes sense," Myron said.
"But there are conditions."
"I thought there might be."
"I do what I want when I want. This isn''t carte blanche to invade
my privacy."
"Of course."
"If I tell you to get lost for a while, you ask how lost."
"Right."
"And no spying on me when I don''t know about it," she
continued.
"Okay."
"You keep out of my business."
"Agreed."
"I stay out all night, you don''t say a thing."
"Not a thing."
"If I choose to participate in an orgy with pygmies, you don''t say
a thing."
"Can I at least watch?" Myron asked.
That got a smile. "I don''t mean to sound difficult, but I have
enough father figures in my life, thank you. I want to make sure
you know that we''re not going to be hanging out with each other
twenty-four a day or anything like that. This isn''t a Whitney
Houston-Kevin Costner movie."
"Some people say I look like Kevin Costner." Myron gave her a quick
flash of the cynical, rogue smile, ? la Bull Durham.
She looked straight through him. "Maybe in the hairline."
Ouch. At half-court the goateed Sandy Duncan started calling for
Ted again. His coterie followed suit. The name Ted bounced about
the arena like rolled-up balls of Silly Putty.
"So do we understand each other?" she asked.
"Perfectly," Myron said. He shifted in his seat. "Now do you want
to tell me what''s going on?"
From the right, Ted--it simply had to be a guy named Ted--finally
made his entrance. He wore only Zoom shorts, and his abdomen was
rippled like a relief map in marble. He was probably in his early
twenties, model handsome, and he squinted like a prison guard. As
he sashayed toward the shoot, Ted kept running both hands through
his Superman blue-black hair, the movement expanding his chest and
shrinking his waist and demonstrating shaved underarms.
Brenda muttered, "Strutting peacock."
"That''s totally unfair," Myron said. "Maybe he''s a Fulbright
scholar."
"I''ve worked with him before. If God gave him a second brain, it
would die of loneliness." Her eyes veered toward Myron. "I don''t
get something."
"What?"
"Why you? You''re a sports agent. Why would Norm ask you to be my
bodyguard?"
"I used to work"--he stopped, waved a vague hand--"for the
government."
"I never heard about that."
"It''s another secret. Shh."
"Secrets don''t stay secret much around you, Myron."
"You can trust me."
She thought about it. "Well, you were a white man who could jump,"
she said. "Guess if you can be that, you could be a trustworthy
sports agent."
Myron laughed, and they fell into an uneasy silence. He broke it by
trying again. "So do you want to tell me about the threats?"
"Nothing much to tell."
"This is all in Norm''s head?"
Brenda did not reply. One of the assistants applied oil to Ted''s
hairless chest. Ted was still giving the crowd his tough guy
squint. Too many Clint Eastwood movies. Ted made two fists and
continuously flexed his pecs. Myron decided that he might as well
beat the rush and start hating Ted right now.
Brenda remained silent. Myron decided to try another approach.
"Where are you living now?" he asked.
"In a dorm at Reston University."
"You''re still in school?"
"Medical school. Fourth year. I just got a deferment to play pro
ball."
Myron nodded. "Got a specialty in mind?"
"Pediatrics."
He nodded again and decided to wade in a bit deeper. "Your dad must
be very proud of you."
A flicker crossed her face. "Yeah, I guess." She started to rise.
"I better get dressed for this shoot."
"You don''t want to tell me what''s going on first?"
She stayed in her seat. "Dad is missing."
"Since when?"
"A week ago."
"Is that when the threats started?"
She avoided the question. "You want to help? Find my father."
"Is he the one threatening you?"
"Don''t worry about the threats. Dad likes control, Myron.
Intimidation is just another tool."
"I don''t understand."
"You don''t have to understand. He''s your friend, right?"
"Your father? I haven''t seen Horace in more than ten years."
"Whose fault is that?" she asked.
The words, not to mention the bitter tone, surprised him. "What''s
that supposed to mean?"
"Do you still care about him?" she asked.
Myron didn''t have to think about it. "You know I do."
She nodded and jumped down from the chair. "He''s in trouble," she
said. "Find him."
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