"And the parents see it too. Their kids are happier here. They won't burn out as fast, but the better players are leaving for the intense boot camps."

"That's short-term thinking," Myron said.

"Maybe. But if they burn out when they're twenty-five, well, that's late in a career anyway. They need to win now. We get that, don't we, Myron? We were both blessed athletically, but if you don't have that killer instinct-the part of you that makes you a great compet.i.tor if not a great human being-it is hard to be an elite."

"So are you saying we were like that?" Myron asked.

"No, I had my mom."

"And me?"

Suzze smiled. "I remember seeing you play at Duke in the NCAA finals. The expression on your face . . . you'd rather die than lose."

For a moment neither of them spoke. Myron stared at tennis trophies, the shiny trinkets that represented Suzze's success. Finally Suzze said, "Did you really see Kitty last night?"

"Yes."

"How about your brother?"

Myron shook his head. "Brad may have been there, but I didn't see him."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Myron shifted in his seat. "You think Kitty posted that 'Not His'?"

"I'm raising the possibility."

"Let's not jump to conclusions yet. You said you had something you wanted to show me. About Kitty."

"Right." She started gnawing on her lip, something Myron hadn't seen her do in years. He waited, gave her a little time and s.p.a.ce. "So yesterday after we talked, I started checking around."

"Checking around for what?"

"I don't know, Myron," she said, a little impatience sneaking in. "Something, a clue, whatever."

"Okay."

Suzze started typing on her computer. "So I started looking at my own Facebook page, where that lie was posted. You know anything about how people fan you?"

"I a.s.sume they just sign up."

"Right. So I decided to sort of do what you suggested. I started looking for old boyfriends or tennis rivals or fired musicians-someone who might want to harm us."

"And?"

Suzze was still typing. "And I started going through the people who'd signed up recently for the fan page. I mean, I now have forty-five thousand followers. So it took some time. But eventually . . ."

She clicked the mouse and waited. "Okay, here. I stumbled across this profile from someone who signed up three weeks ago. I thought it was pretty odd, especially in light of what you told me about last night."

She gestured toward Myron, who stood and circled around to see what was on the screen. When he saw the name in bold on the top of the profile page, he wasn't really all that surprised.

Kitty Hammer Bolitar.

8.

Kitty Hammer Bolitar.

Back in the privacy of his office, Myron took a closer look at the Facebook page. No question about it when he saw the profile photo: It was his sister-in-law. Older, sure. A little more weathered. The cuteness from her tennis days had hardened a bit, but her face still had that perky-pretty thing going on. He stared at her for a moment and tried to quell the hatred that naturally rose to the surface whenever he thought of her.

Kitty Hammer Bolitar.

Esperanza came in and sat next to him without a word. Some would a.s.sume that Myron would want to be alone. Esperanza knew better. She looked at the screen.

"Our first client," she said.

"Yep," Myron said. "Did you see her at the club last night?"

"Nope. I heard you call her name, but by the time I turned, she was gone."

Myron checked the wall posts. Spa.r.s.e. Some people playing Mafia Wars or Farmville or quizzes. Myron saw that Kitty had forty-three friends. "First thing," he said. "Let's print out a list of her friends, see if there is anybody we know."

"Okay."

Myron hit a photo alb.u.m icon called "Brad and Kitty-A Love Story." Then he started looking through the photographs, Esperanza at his side. For a long time, neither spoke. Myron just clicked, looked, clicked. A life. That was what he was seeing. He had made fun of these social networks and didn't get them and thought of all the strange, even quasi-perverse stuff about the whole thing, but what he was seeing here, what he was watching go by, click by click, was nothing less than a life, or in this case, two.

His brother's and Kitty's.

Myron watched Brad and Kitty age. There were photographs on a sand dune in Namibia, canyoning in Catalonia, sightseeing on Easter Island, helping the natives in Cusco, cliff-diving in Italy, backpacking in Tasmania, doing an archeological dig in Tibet. In some photographs, like the ones with the hilltop villagers in Myanmar, Kitty and Brad sported native garb. In others they wore cargo shorts and tees. Backpacks were almost always present. Brad and Kitty often posed cheek to cheek, one smile almost touching the other. Brad's hair remained a constant curly dark mess, at times getting long and unruly enough to mistake for a Rastafarian's. He hadn't changed much, his brother. Myron studied his brother's nose and saw that it was a little more crooked now-or maybe that was projecting.

Kitty had lost weight. There was something both wiry and brittle about her physique now. Myron kept clicking. The truth was-a truth he should be happy about-Brad and Kitty glowed in every shot.

As if reading his mind Esperanza said, "They look d.a.m.n happy."

"Yep."

"But they're vacation pictures. You can't tell anything from them."

"Not vacation," Myron said. "This is their life."

Christmas was in Sierra Leone. There was a Thanksgiving in Sitka, Alaska. Another festival of some kind in Laos. Kitty listed her current address as "Planet Earth's Obscure Corners," and her occupation as "Former Miserable Tennis Wunderkind Now Happy Nomad Looking to Better the World." Esperanza pointed at her "occupation" and made a gagging gesture with her finger and mouth.

When they finished looking through that first alb.u.m, he went back to the photo page. Two more alb.u.ms were there-one called "My Family," the other labeled "The Best Thing in Our Lives-Our Son, Mickey."

Esperanza said, "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Then let's get to it."

Myron clicked on the Mickey folder and the thumbs-small iconlike photos-loaded up. For a moment he just stared, his hand on the mouse. Esperanza kept still. Then, almost mechanically, Myron started clicking through the photographs of the boy, starting when Mickey was a newborn infant and ending sometime recently, when the boy was probably about fifteen. Esperanza bent for a closer look, watching the images whir by, when under her breath she whispered, "My G.o.d."

Myron said nothing.

"Go back," she said.

"Which one?"

"You know which one."

He did. He went back to the photograph of Mickey playing basketball. There were a lot of him playing hoops-in Kenya, Serbia, Israel-but in this particular picture, Mickey was taking a fadeaway jumper. His wrist was c.o.c.ked, the ball near his forehead. His taller opponent was reaching to block it, but he never would. Mickey had hops, yes, but he also had the fadeaway, drifting back to safety from that outstretched hand. Myron could almost see the gentle release, the way the ball would rise with perfect backspin.

"May I state the obvious?" Esperanza asked.

"Go for it."

"That's your move. This could be a picture of you."

Myron did not reply.

"Except, well, you had that ridiculous perm back then."

"It wasn't a perm."

"Sure, right, the natural curls that left when you were twenty-two."

Silence.

"How old would he be now?" Esperanza asked.

"Fifteen."

"He looks taller than you."

"Could be."

"No question he's a Bolitar. He's got your build, but he's got your dad's eyes. I like your dad's eyes. They're soulful."

Myron said nothing. He just stared at the photographs of the nephew he'd never met. He tried to sort through the emotions ricocheting through him and then decided to just let them be.

"So," Esperanza said, "what's our next step?"

"We find them."

"Why?"

Myron figured the question was rhetorical or maybe he didn't have a good answer. Either way he let it be. After Esperanza left, Myron went through the photographs of Mickey again, slower this time. When he finished, he clicked the message b.u.t.ton. Kitty's profile picture appeared. He typed a message to her, deleted it, typed it again. The wording was wrong. Always. The message was also too long, too much explanation, too much rationalization and couching, and too many "on the other hands." So finally he gave it one last try with three words: Please forgive me.

He looked at it, shook his head, and then, before he could change his mind, he hit the send b.u.t.ton.

Win never showed. He used to keep his office upstairs, corner of the trading floor of Lock-Horne Securities, but when Myron was indisposed for a significant period of time, he moved down to MB Reps (literally and figuratively) so as to sh.o.r.e up Esperanza and a.s.sure the clients that they were still in good hands.

It was not unusual for Win not to come in or be in contact. Win disappeared a fair amount-not much recently, but whenever he did, it was usually not good. Myron was tempted to call him, but as Esperanza had pointed out earlier, he was not either of their mothers.

The rest of the day was about the clients. One was upset because he had recently been traded. One was upset because he wanted to be traded. One was upset because she had been forced to attend a movie premiere in a town car when she was promised a stretch limousine. One was upset (notice the trend here) because he was staying in a hotel in Phoenix and couldn't find his hotel key. "Why do they use these stupid cards as keys, Myron? Remember the days when you had the big ones with the ta.s.sels? I never lost those. Make sure they put me in hotels with those from now on, okay?"

"Sure thing," Myron said.

An agent wore many hats-negotiator, handler, friend, financial consultant (Win did most of that), real estate agent, personal shopper, travel agent, damage controller, branding merchandiser, chauffeur, babysitter, parental figure-but what clients liked most was that an agent got more worked up over your interests than you did. Ten years ago, during a tense negotiation with a team owner, the client calmly told Myron, "I don't take what he's saying personally" and Myron replied, "Well, your agent does." The client smiled. "That's why I'll never leave you."

And that pretty much sums up the best agent-talent relationships.

At six o'clock, Myron made the very familiar turn onto his hometown street in the suburban paradise known as Livingston, New Jersey. Like much of the suburbs surrounding Manhattan, Livingston had been farmland, considered the boondocks, until the early 1960s when someone realized that it was less than an hour from the big city. Then the split-levels invaded and conquered. In the past few years, the McMansions-definition: how much interior square footage could we fit on how tiny a plot of land-had made serious inroads, but not yet on his street. When Myron pulled up to the familiar abode, second from the corner, the same one he'd lived in pretty much his whole life, the front door opened. His mother appeared.

Not that long ago-a few years ago even-his mother would sprint out down the concrete walk upon his arrival, as though it were a tarmac and he was a returning POW. Today she stayed by the door. He kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. He could feel the gentle quake from her Parkinson's. Dad was behind her, waiting and watching, as was his way, until it was his turn. Myron kissed his cheek too, always, because that was what they did.

They were so glad to see him, and yes, at his age, he should be over that, but he wasn't and so what? Six years ago, when his father had finally retired from the warehouse in Newark and his parents decided to migrate south to Boca Raton, Myron had bought his childhood home. Yes, those in the psychiatric profession would scratch their chins and mutter something about arrested development or uncut umbilical cords, but Myron found the move to be a practical one. His parents came up a lot. They'd need a place to stay. It was a good investment-Myron owned no real estate. He could come here when he wanted to escape the city, and he could stay at the Dakota when he didn't.

Myron Bolitar, Master of Self-Rationalization.

Whatever. He had recently done some renovations, updating the bathrooms, painting the walls something neutral, remodeling the kitchen-and mostly, so Mom and Dad wouldn't have to navigate the stairs, Myron had turned what had been the downstairs den into a bedroom suite for them. Mom's first reaction: "Will this hurt resale value?" After he a.s.sured her that it would not-he really had no idea one way or the other-she had settled into it just fine.

The TV was on. "What are you watching?" Myron asked.

"Your father and I never watch anything live anymore. We used that DMV machine to record the shows."

"DVR," Dad corrected.

"Thank you, Mr. Television, Mr. Ed Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen. The DMV, the DVR, whatever. We record a show, Myron, then we watch it and skip the commercials. Saves time." She tapped her temple, indicating that doing this displayed intelligence.

"So what were you watching?"

"I," Dad said, stressing that one word, "wasn't watching anything."

"Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts." and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts."

Dad just shrugged.

"Your mother," his mother went on, loving that third person, "is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that's how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I'm thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?"