One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,5

Brenda Slaughter is steaming."

"So admitted."

"It might be fun for a night or two."

Myron nodded into the phone. A lesser man might mentally conjure up a few choice images of the lithe, petite Hispanic beauty in the throes of passion with the ravishing black Amazon in the sports bra. But not Myron. Too worldly.

"Norm wants us to watch her," Myron said. He filled her in. When he finished, he heard her sigh.

"What?" he said.

"Jesus Christ, Myron, are we a sports agency or Pinkertons?"

"It's to get clients."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. So what do you need me to do?"

"Her father is missing. His name is Horace Slaughter. See what you can dig up on him."

"I'll need help here," she said.

Myron rubbed his eyes. "I thought we were going to hire someone on a permanent basis."

"Who has the time?"

Silence.

"Fine," Myron said. He sighed. "Call Big Cyndi. But make sure she knows it's just on a trial basis."

"Okey-dokey."

"And if any client comes in, I want Cyndi to hide in my office."

"Yeah, fine, whatever."

She hung up the phone.

When the photo shoot ended, Brenda Slaughter approached him.

"Where does your father live now?" Myron asked.

"Same place."

"Have you been there since he disappeared?"

"No."

"Then let's start there," Myron said.
Chapter 3
Newark, New Jersey. The bad part. Almost a redundancy.

Decay was the first word that came to mind. The buildings were more than falling apart - they actually seemed to be breaking down, melting from some sort of acid onslaught. Here urban renewal was about as familiar a concept as time travel. The surroundings looked more like a war newsreel- Frankfurt after the Allies' bombing - than a habitable dwelling.

The neighborhood was even worse than he remembered. When Myron was a teenager, he and his dad had driven down this very street, the car doors suddenly locking as though even they sensed oncoming danger. His father's face would tighten up. "Toilet," he would mutter. Dad had grown up not far from here, but that had been a long time ago. His father, the man Myron loved and worshiped like no other, the most gentle soul he had ever known, would barely contain his rage. "Look what they did to the old neighborhood," he would say.

Look what they did.

They.

Myron's Ford Taurus slowly cruised by the old playground. Black faces glared at him. A five-on-five was going on with plenty of kids sprawled on the sidelines waiting to take on the winners. The cheap sneakers of Myron's day - Thorn McAn or Keds or Kmart - had been replaced with the hundred-dollar-plus variety these kids could ill afford. Myron felt a twinge. He would have liked to take a noble stand on the issue - the corruption of values and materialism and such - but as a sports agent who made money off sneaker deals, such perceptions paid his freight. He didn't feel good about that, but he didn't want to be a hypocrite either.

Nobody wore shorts anymore either. Every kid was dressed in blue or black jeans that journeyed far south of baggy, like something a circus clown might sport for an extra laugh. The waist drooped below the butt, revealing designer boxer shorts. Myron did not want to sound like an old man, grousing over the younger generation's fashion sense, but these made bell-bottoms and platforms seem practical. How do you play your best when you're constantly pausing to pull up your pants?

But the biggest change was in those glares. Myron had been scared when he first came down here as a fifteen-year-old high school student, but he had known that if he wanted to rise to the next level, he had to face down the best competition. That meant playing here. He had not been welcomed at first. Not even close. But the looks of curious animosity he received back then were nothing compared with the dagger-death glares of these kids. Their hatred was naked, up front, filled with cold resignation. Corny to say, but back then - less than twenty years ago - there had been something different here. More hope maybe. Hard to say.

As though reading his thoughts, Brenda said, "I wouldn't even play down here anymore."

Myron nodded.

"It wasn't easy on you, was it? Coming down here to play."

"Your father made it easy," he said.

She smiled. "I never understood why he took such a liking to you. He usually hated white people."

Myron feigned a gasp. "I'm white?"

"As Pat