Drop Shot - By Harlan Coben Page 0,1

clocked the velocity of each player's serve. Citizen kept both the real time and how long the match had been going on. Visa had its name printed behind the service line. Reebok Infiniti, Fuji Film, Clairol had their names plastered wherever there was a free spot. So did Heineken.

Heineken, the official beer of the U.S. Open.

The crowd was a complete mix. Down low - in the good seats - people had money. But anything went in the dress department. Some wore full suits and ties (like Win), some wore more casual Banana Republic-type clothes (like Myron), some wore jeans, some wore shorts. But Myron's personal favorite were the fans who came in full tennis gear - shirt, shorts, socks, tennis shoes, warm-up jacket, sweatbands, and tennis racket. Tennis racket. Like they might get called on to play. Like Sampras or Steffi or someone might suddenly point into the stands and say, "Hey, you with the racket I need a doubles partner."

Win's turn. "Roddy McDowall," he began.

"The Bookworm."

"Vincent Price."

"Egghead."

"Joan Collins."

Myron hesitated. "Joan Collins? As in Dynasty?"

"I refuse to offer hints."

Myron ran episodes through his mind. On the court the umpire announced, "Time." The ninety-second commercial break was over. The players rose. Myron couldn't swear to it, but he thought he saw Henry blink.

"Give up?" Win asked.

"Shhh. They're about to play."

"And you call yourself a Batman fan."

The players took the court. They too were billboards, only smaller. Duane wore Nike sneakers and clothes. He used a Head tennis racket. Logos for McDonald's and Sony adorned his sleeves. His opponent wore Reebok. His logos featured Sharp electronics and Bic. Bic. The pen and razor company. Like someone was going to watch a tennis match, see the logo, and buy a pen.

Myron leaned toward Win. "Okay, I give," he whispered. "What criminal did Joan Collins play?"

Win shrugged. "I don't remember."

"What?"

"I know she was in an episode. But I don't remember her character's name."

"You can't do that."

Win smiled with perfect white teeth. "Where in the rule book does it say that?"

"You have to know the answer."

"Why?" Win countered. "Does Pat Sajak have to know every puzzle on Wheel of Fortune! Does Alex Trebeck have to know every question on Jeopardy!"

Pause. "Nice analogy, Win. Really."

"Thank you."

Then another voice said, "The Siren."

Myron and Win looked around. It seemed to have come from Henry.

"Did you say something?"

Henry's mouth did not appear to be moving. "The Siren," he repeated, his eyes still pasted to the court. "Joan Collins played the Siren. On Batman."

Myron and Win exchanged a glance.

"Nobody likes a know-it-all, Henry."

Henry's mouth might have moved. Might have been a smile.

On the court Duane opened the game with an ace that nearly bore a hole through a ball boy. The IBM speedometer clocked it at 128 mph. Myron shook his head in disbelief. So did Ivan What's-his-name. Duane was lining up for the second point when Myron's cellular phone rang.

Myron quickly picked it up. He was not the only person in the stands who was talking on a cellular phone. He was, however, the only one in a front row. Myron was about to disconnect the power when he realized it might be Jessica. Jessica. Just the thought quickened his pulse a little.

"Hello."

"It's not Jessica." It was Esperanza, his associate.

"I didn't think it was."

"Right," she said. "You always sound like a whimpering puppy when you answer the phone."

Myron gripped the receiver. The match continued without interruption, but sour faces spun to seek out the origin of the offending ring. "What do you want?" he whispered. "I'm in the stadium."

"I know. Bet you look like a pretentious asshole. Talking on a cellular phone at the match."

Now that she mentioned it...

The sour faces were glaring daggers now. In their eyes Myron had committed an unpardonable sin. Like molesting a child. Or using the salad fork on the entree. "What do you want?"

"They're showing you on TV right now. Jesus, it's true."

"What?"

"The TV does make you look heavier."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing much. I thought you might want to know I got you a meeting with Eddie Crane."

"You're kidding." Eddie Crane, one of the hottest tennis juniors in the country. He was seeing only the big-four agencies. ICM, TruPro, Advantage International, ProServ.

"No joke. Meet him and his parents by court sixteen after Duane's match."

"I love you, you know."

"Then pay me more," she said.

Duane hit a cross-court forehand winner. Thirty-love.

"Anything else?" Myron asked.

"Nothing important. Valerie Simpson. She's called three times."

"What did she want?"

"She wouldn't say. But the Ice

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