Drop Shot

Myron and Win walked south down Park Avenue toward the high-rise of Lock-Horne Investments amp; Securities. Win's family owned the building. The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Myron stepped out. Win stayed inside. His office at Lock-Horne was two floors up.

Before the elevator closed Win said, "I knew her."

"Who?"

"Valerie Simpson. I sent her to you."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"No reason to."

"Were you close?"

"Depends on your definition. She's old money Philadelphia. Like my family. We were members of the same clubs, the same charities, that sort of thing. Our families occasionally summered together when we were kids. But I hadn't heard from her in years."

"She just called you out of the blue?" Myron asked.

"You could say that."

"What would you say?"

"Is this an interrogation?"

"No. Do you have any thoughts on who killed her?"

Win stood perfectly still. "We'll chat later," he said. "I have some business matters I must attend to first."

The elevator door slid closed. Myron waited for a moment, as though expecting the elevator to open again. Then he crossed the corridor and opened a door that read MB SportsReps Inc.

Esperanza looked up from her desk. "Jesus, you look like hell."

"You heard about Valerie?"

She nodded. If she felt guilty about calling her the Ice Queen moments before the murder, she didn't show it "You have blood on your jacket."

"I know."

"Ned Tunwell from Nike is in the conference room."

"I guess I'll see him," Myron said. "No use moping around."

Esperanza looked at him. No expression.

"Don't get so upset," he continued. "I'm okay."

"I'm putting on a brave front," she said.

Ms. Compassion.

When Myron opened me conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.

Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron's age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed – or worse, a Family Feud contestant He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike te

Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. "Wait till you see this!" he raved. "Myron, you are going to love it. It's fantastic."

"Let's take a look."

"I'm telling you, Myron, it's fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You're go

The key word here: fantastic.

Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson's corpse. He needed to concentrate. This – Duane's first national television commercial – was crucial. Truth was, an athlete's image was made more by these commercials than anything else – including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn't tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grand-mama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.

"When is it going to air?" Myron asked.

"During the quarter finals. We're go

The tape finished rewinding. Duane was on the verge of becoming one of the most highly paid te

Te

So enter Duane Richwood. Colorful, fu

"Just check this baby out, Myron. This spot, I'm telling you, it's… it's just…" Tunwell looked up, as though searching for the word.

"Fantastic?" Myron tried.

Ned snapped his fingers and pointed. "Just wait till you see. I get hard watching it. Shit, I get hard just thinking about it. Swear to Christ, it's that good."

He pressed the PLAY button.

Two days ago Valerie Simpson had sat in this very room, coming in on the heels of his meeting with Duane Richwood. The contrast was striking. Both were in their twenties, but while one career was just blossoming, the other had already dried up and blown away. Twenty-four years old and Valerie had long been labeled a "has-been" or "never-was." Her behavior had been cold and arrogant (ergo Esperanza's Ice Queen comment), or perhaps she'd just been distant and distracted. Hard to know for sure. And yes, Valerie had been young, but she had not exactly been – to quote a cliché – full of life. Eerie to say it now, but her eyes seemed to have more life in death – more animated while frozen and staring – than when she'd sat across from him in this very room.

Why, Myron wondered, would someone want to kill Valerie Simpson? Why had she tried so desperately to reach him? Why had she gone to the te

"Watch this, Myron," Tunwell repeated yet again. "It's so fantastic, I came. Really, swear to God. Right in my pants."

"Sorry I missed that," Myron said.

Ned whooped with pleasure.

The commercial finally began. Duane appeared, wearing his sunglasses, dashing back and forth on a te

"Come to my court…"

A few more hard ground strokes, a few more quick cuts. Then everything suddenly stopped. Duane vanished. The color faded to black and white. Silence. Scene change. A stern-looking judge glared down from his bench. Duane's voice returned:

"… and stay away from his court"

The rock music started up again. The color returned. The screen cut back to Duane hitting the ball, smiling through his sweat, his sunglasses reflecting the Light. A Nike symbol appeared with the words COME TO DUANE'S COURT below them.

Fade to black.

Ned Tunwell groaned – actually groaned – in satisfaction.

"You want a cigarette?" Myron asked.

Tunwell's smile doubled in wattage. "What did I tell you, Myron? Huh? Fantastic or what?"

Myron nodded. It was good. Very good. Hip, well-made, responsible message but not too preachy. "I like it," he said.

"I told you. Didn't I tell you? I'm hard again. Swear to God, that's how much I like it. I might just come again. Right here, right now. As we speak."

"Good to know."

Tunwell broke into a seizurelike fit of laughter. He slapped Myron's shoulder.

"Ned?"

Tunwell's laughter faded away like the end of a song. He wiped his eyes. "You kill me, Myron. I can't stop laughing. You really kill me."

"Yeah, I'm a scream. Did you hear about Valerie Simpson's murder?"