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one and ever love什么意思
one and ever love什么意思
09-02-04 &匿名提问 发布
rom newspapers, by reporting a donkey show here or a I had earned a few pounds by addressing envelopes,reading to old ladies, making artificial flowers, teaching the alphabetto small children in a kindergarten. Such were the chief occupationsthat were open to women before 1918. I need not, I am afraid, describein any detail the hardness of the work, for you know perhaps women who nor the difficulty of living on the money when it wasearned, for you may have tried. But what still remains with me as aworse infliction than either was the poison of fear and bitterness whichthose days bred in me. To begin with, always to be doing work that onedid not wish to do, and to do it like a slave, flattering and fawning,not always necessarily perhaps, but it seemed necessary and the stakeswere to and then the thought of that one gift whichit was death to hide--a small one but dear to the possessor--perishingand with it my self, my soul,--all this became like a rust eating awaythe bloom of the spring, destroying the tree at its heart. However, as Isay, and whenever I change a ten-shilling note a little ofthat rust and corrosion is rubbed off, fear and bitterness go. Indeed, Ithought, slipping the silver into my purse, it is remarkable,remembering the bitterness of those days, what a change of temper afixed income will bring about. No force in the world can take from me myfive hundred pounds. Food, house and clothing are mine forever.Therefore not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred andbitterness. I n he cannot hurt me. I need not he has nothing to give me. So imperceptibly I foundmyself adopting a new attitude towards the other half of the human race.It was absurd to blame any class or any sex, as a whole. Great bodies ofpeople are never responsible for what they do. They are driven byinstincts which are not within their control. They too, the patriarchs,the professors, had endless difficulties, terrible drawbacks to contendwith. Their education had been in some ways as faulty as my own. It hadbred in them defects as great. True, they had money and power, but onlyat the cost of harbouring in their breasts an eagle, a vulture, forevertearing the liver out and plucking at the lungs--the instinct forpossession, the rage for acquisition which drives them to desire otherpeople's fields a to makebattle to offer up their own lives and theirchildren's lives. Walk through the Admiralty Arch (I had reached thatmonument), or any other avenue given up to trophies and cannon, andreflect upon the kind of glory celebrated there. Or watch in the springsunshine the stockbroker and the great barrister going indoors to makemoney and more money and more money when it is a fact that five hundredpounds a year will keep one alive in the sunshine. These are unpleasantinstincts to harbour, I reflected. They are bred of the conditions of of the lack of civilization, I thought, looking at the statue ofthe Duke of Cambridge, and in particular at the feathers in his cockedhat, with a fixity that they have scarcely ever received before. And, asI realized these drawbacks, by degrees fear and bitterness modifiedthemselves into and then in a year or two, pity andtoleration went, and the greatest release of all came, which is freedomto think of things in themselves. That building, for example, do I likeit or not? Is that picture beautiful or not? Is that in my opinion agood book or a bad? Indeed my aunt's legacy unveiled the sky to me, andsubstituted for the large and imposing figure of a gentleman, whichMilton recommended for my perpetual adoration, a view of the open sky.So thinking, so speculating I found my way back to my house by theriver. Lamps were being lit and an indescribable change had come overLondon since the morning hour. It was as if the great machine afterlabouring all day had made with our help a few yards of something veryexciting and beautiful--a fiery fabric flashing with red eyes, a tawnymonster roaring with hot breath. Even the wind seemed flung like a flagas it lashed the houses and rattled the hoardings.In my little street, however, domesticity prevailed. The house painterwas d the nursemaid was wheeling the perambulatorcarefully in and out the coal-heaver was foldinghis empty sacks
the woman who keeps the greengrocer's shop was adding up the day's takings with her hands in redmittens. But so engrossed was I with the problem you have laid upon myshoulders that I could not see even these usual sights without referringthem to one centre. I thought how much harder it is now than it musthave been even a century ago to say which of these em ployments is thehigher, the more necessary. Is it better to be a coal-heaver or a is the charwoman who has brought up eight children of lessvalue to the world than, the barrister who has made a hundred thousandpounds?  it is useless t for nobody can answerthem. Not only do the comparative values of charwomen and lawyers riseand fall from decade to decade, but we have no rods with which tomeasure them even as they are at the moment. I had been foolish to askmy professor to furnish me with 'indisputable proofs' of this or that inhis argument about women. Even if one could state the value of any onegift at the moment, thos in a century's time verypossibly they will have changed completely. Moreover, in a hundredyears, I thought, reaching my own doorstep, women will have ceased to bethe protected sex. Logically they will take part in all the activitiesand exertions that were once denied them. The nursemaid will heave coal.The shopwoman will drive an engine. All assumptions founded on the factsobserved when women were the protected sex will have disappeared--as,for example (here a squad of soldiers marched down the street), thatwomen and clergymen and gardeners live longer than other people. Removethat protection, expose them to the same exertions and activities, makethem soldiers and sailors and engine-drivers and dock labourers, andwill not women die off so much younger, so much quicker, than men thatone will say, 'I saw a woman to-day', as one used to say, 'I saw anaeroplane'. Anything may happen when womanhood has ceased to be aprotected occupation, I thought, opening the door. But what bearing hasall this upon the subject of my paper, Women and Fiction? I asked, goingindoors.THREEIt was disappointing not to have brought back in the evening someimportant statement, some authentic fact. Women are poorer than menbecause--this or that. Perhaps now it would be better to give up seekingfor the truth, and receiving on one's head an avalanche of opinion hotas lava, discoloured as dish-water. It would be better to draw the to s to narrow theenquiry and to ask the historian, who records not opinions but facts, todescribe under what conditions women lived, not throughout the ages, butin England, say, in the time of Elizabeth.For it is a perennial puzzle why no woman wrote a word of thatextraordinary literature when every other man, it seemed, was capable ofsong or sonnet. What were the conditions in which women lived? I asked for fiction, imaginative work that is, is not dropped like apebble upon the ground, fiction is like a spider'sweb, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at allfour corners. Often the attachment is Shakespeare's plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete bythemselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge,torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun inmid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering humanbeings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health andmoney and the houses we live in.I went, therefore, to the shelf where the histories stand and took downone of the latest, Professor Trevelyan's HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Once more Ilooked up Women, found 'position of' and turned to the pages indicated.'Wife-beating', I read, 'was a recognized right of man, and waspractised without shame by high as well as low. . . . Similarly,' thehistorian goes on, 'the daughter who refused to marry the gentleman ofher parents' choice was liable to be locked up, beaten and flung aboutthe room, without any shock being inflicted on public opinion. Marriagewas not an affair of personal affection, but of family avarice,particularly in the &chivalrous& upper classes. . . . Betrothal oftentook place while one or both of the parties was in the cradle, andmarriage when they were scarcely out of the nurses' charge.' That wasabout 1470, soon after Chaucer's time. The next reference to theposition of women is some two hundred years later, in the time of theStuarts. 'It was still the exception for women of the upper and middleclass to choose their own husbands, and when the husband had beenassigned, he was lord and master, so far at least as law and customcould make him. Yet even so,' Professor Trevelyan concludes, 'neitherShakespeare's women nor those of authentic seventeenth-century memoirs,like the Verneys and the Hutchinsons, seem wanting in personality andcharacter.' Certainly, if we consider it, Cleopatra must have had a way Lady Macbeth, one would suppose, hRosalind, one might conclude, was an attractive girl. ProfessorTrevelyan is speaking no more than the truth when he remarks thatShakespeare's women do not seem wanting in personality and character.Not being a historian, one might go even further and say that women haveburnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginningof time--Clytemnestra, Antigone, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Phedre,Cressida, Rosalind, Desdemona, the Duchess of Malfi, among the then among the prose writers: Millamant, Clarissa, BeckySharp, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary, Madame de Guermantes--the names flockto mind, nor do they recall women 'lacking in personality andcharacter.' Indeed, if woman had no existence save in the fictionwritten by men, one would imagine her a person of t infinitely beautifuland hi as great as a man, some think evengreater [1*]. But this is woman in fiction. In fact, as ProfessorTrevelyan points out, she was locked up, beaten and flung about the room.[1* 'It remains a strange and almost inexplicable fact that in Athena'scity, where women were kept in almost Oriental suppression asodalisques or drudges, the stage should yet have produced figures likeClytemnestra and Cassandra Atossa and Antigone, Phedre and Medea, andall the other heroines who dominate play after play of the &misogynist&Euripides. But the paradox of this world where in real life arespectable woman could hardly show her face alone in the street, andyet on the stage woman equals or surpasses man, has never beensatisfactorily explained. In modern tragedy the same predominanceexists. At all events, a very cursory survey of Shakespeare's work(similarly with Webster, though not with Marlowe or Jonson) suffices toreveal how this dominance, this initiative of women, persists fromRosalind to Lady Macbeth. So too in R six of his tragedies beartheir heroines' and what male characters of his shall we setagainst Hermione and Andromaque, Berenice and Roxane, Phedre andAthalie? So again with I what men shall we match with Solveig andNora, Heda and Hilda Wangel and Rebecca West?'--F. L. LUCAS, TRAGEDY,pp. 114-15.]A very queer, composite being thus emerges. Imaginatively she is of the practically she is completely insignificant. Shepervades poetry she is all but absent from history.She dominates the lives of kings and c in fact shewas the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger.Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts inliteratur in real life she could hardly read, couldscarcely spell, and was the property of her husband.It was certainly an odd monster that one made up by reading thehistorians first and the poets afterwards--a worm the spirit of life and beauty in a kitchen chopping up suet. But thesemonsters, however amusing to the imagination, have no existence in fact.What one must do to bring her to life was to think poetically andprosaically at one and the same moment, thus keeping in touch withfact--that she is Mrs Martin, aged thirty-six, dressed in blue, wearinga black but not losing sight of fictioneither--that she is a vessel in which all sorts of spirits and forcesare coursing and flashing perpetually. The moment, however, that onetries this method with the Elizabethan woman, one branch of illumination one is held up by the scarcity of facts. One knows nothingdetailed, nothing perfectly true and substantial about her. Historyscarcely mentions her. And I turned to Professor Trevelyan again to seewhat history meant to him. I found by looking at his chapter headingsthat it meant----'The Manor Court and the Methods of Open-field Agriculture . . . TheCistercians and Sheep-farming . . . The Crusades . . . The University. . . The House of Commons . . . The Hundred Years' War . . . The Wars ofthe Roses . . . The Renaissance Scholars . . . The Dissolution of theMonasteries . . . Agrarian and Religious Strife . . . The Origin ofEnglish Sea-power. . . The Armada. . .' and so on. Occasionally anindividual woman is mentioned, an Elizabeth, or a M a queen or agreat lady. But by no possible means could middle-class women withnothing but brains and character at their command have taken part in anyone of the great movements which, brought together, constitute thehistorian's view of the past. Nor shall we find her in  collection ofanecdotes. Aubrey hardly mentions her. She never writes her own lifeand sc there are only a handful of her lettersin existence. She left no plays or poems by which we can judge her. Whatone wants, I thought--and why does not some brilliant student at Newnhamor Girton supply it?--is a at what age did she how many childr what was her house like, hads di would she be likely tohave a servant? All these facts lie somewhere, presumably, in parishregiste the life of the average Elizabethan womanmust be scattered about somewhere, could one collect it and make a bookof it. It would be ambitious beyond my daring, I thought, looking aboutthe shelves for books that were not there, to suggest to the students ofthose famous colleges that they should rewrite history, though I ownthat it often seems a little queer as it is, unreal, lop- but whyshould they not add a supplement to history, calling it, of course, bysome inconspicuous name so that women might figure there withoutimpropriety? For one often catches a glimpse of them in the lives of thegreat, whisking away into the back ground, concealing, I sometimesthink, a  wink, a laugh, perhaps a tear. And, after all, we have livesenough of Jane A it scarcely seems necessary to consider again theinfluence of the tragedies of Joanna Baillie upon the poetry of EdgarAllan P as for myself, I should not mind if the homes and haunts ofMary Russell Mitford were closed to the
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One False Move (Myron Bolitar, No. 5)
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Shes smart, beautiful, and she doesnt need a man to look after her. But sports agent Myron Bolitar has come into her life--big time. Now Myrons 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 hes about to find out if hes man enough to unravel the tragic riddle of her life.Twenty years before, Brendas mother deserted her. And just as Brenda is making it to the top of the womens 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 isnt 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....
Amazon.co.uk Review
Myron Bolitar is part sports agent, part private detective. He is handsome, charming, tough and smart, with a good ear for a one-liner. In this, the first Bolitar novel to be published in the UK, he takes on the job of baby-sitting an up-and-coming female basketball star and finds himself enmeshed in a 20-year-old mystery. Four more of Bolitar's adventures are to be published soon and the series is well worth investigating. (Kirkus UK)
Fast-talking sports agent Myron Bolitar won't win any awards for baseball (since his Little League brushback) or basketball (thanks to his bum knee), but his paperback detective work has already won him an Anthony, a Shamus, and an Edgar. His hardcover debut dangles an appealing potential client in front of him--Brenda Slaughter, basketball star of the New York Dolphins--but there's a catch: Before he can sign her, he has to protect her from the threats she's been getting, and maybe even track down her missing parents (Dad's been gone a week, Mom 20 years). What could anybody have against Brenda--unless it's the mobsters who want to press her into defecting to a rival women's league, or the wealthy and well-connected Arthur Bradford, the gubernatorial candidate determined to keep the truth about his wife's ancient suicide under wraps, or all the New Jersey cops who are either on Bradford's payroll or would like to be? Undaunted, Myron and his Spenser-inspired entourage--his bisexual assistant Esperanza Diaz, his financial-planning associate Windsor Horne Lockwood III (who, despite his blond complexion, probably shaves in front of a photo of Spenser's buddy Hawk), and his ex-wrestler temp Big Cyndi, who doesn't like to be called just Cyndi--take on every soul in New Jersey with a gun, a bank account, and a bad attitude, and uncover a satisfyingly complex tangle of skullduggery. Could Myron, who pushes his wisecracking charm hard, be any more tough and adorable? It'll be a pleasure waiting for the next installment to find out. (Author tour)
-- Copyright &1998, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
"Fast-moving, funny-- an altogether good read!"--Los Angeles Times"Consistently entertaining... Coben moves himself into the front ranks of mystery fiction alongside heavy hitters like Robert B. Parker, Sue Grafton and Robert Crais."--Houston Chronicle"Must reading... combines Chandler's wry wit with Ross Macdonald's moral complexity."--The Philadelphia Enquirer"A superb book!"--The Christian Science Monitor
--This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.
Fast-moving, funny-- an altogether good read!--Los Angeles Times"Consistently entertaining... Coben moves himself into the front ranks of mystery fiction alongside heavy hitters like Robert B. Parker, Sue Grafton and Robert Crais."--Houston Chronicle"Must reading... combines Chandler's wry wit with Ross Macdonald's moral complexity."--The Philadelphia Enquirer"A superb book!"--The Christian Science Monitor -- Review
Harlan Coben is the author of five other Myron Bolitar novels: The Final D Back Spin, a Shamus A Drop S the Edgar Award winner Fade A 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 .
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, Ó 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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