Forty-Nine
LAURANCE MOST GRABS a bottle of water out of the small refrigerator next to the door and walks over and hands it to me.
“If it’s all the same to you,” I say, “I’d rather not talk about the things you’re sorry about. Or that I’m even more sorry about.”
“Hey, you’re the client,” he says, as if wanting to flip a switch and change the mood back to what it was when I first saw him standing there.
“That’s a pretty generous definition of client.”
“From what I observed, you still look like an athlete to me,” he says. “In training for something?”
“Nope. Just because I can’t throw doesn’t mean I can’t keep myself in decent shape.”
“Have you tried? To throw, I mean?”
“I have,” I say. “My grandmother has more arm than I do these days.”
“Had to ask.”
“Hey,” I say, grinning at him. “You’re the agent.”
He’s wearing a skinny suit, expensive loafers, no socks, no tie. His hair is shaved on the sides and stacked on top. If I’m not mistaken, there is a little bronzing to complete the look.
He’s at one end of the bench now and I’m at the other, as if he’s afraid I might drip sweat on his suit if he gets any closer.
He lifts the bag now, as if remembering he’s still carrying it.
“The aforementioned gift.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, taking the bag.
“What can I tell you. I’m a giver.”
“Tell the owners that,” I say.
Inside the bag is a shoebox with the Jordan logo on it. Inside the box are a pair of retro high-top Air Jordans, red and white and black, the kind he used to wear when he was still playing for the Bulls.
“Go ahead and try ’em on,” Laurance Most says.
I do and then stand.
“Sweet,” I say after taking a few steps.
“At a thousand bucks a pair,” he says, “they sure as shit ought to be.”
I sit back down, still admiring my new kicks. Then I grin at him again.
“You must want something from me.”
“So young and yet so cynical.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I come by it honestly.”
“Well, as luck would have it,” he says, “I do have an exciting proposition for you. Aleve called the other day, and they want you to be the national spokesman for their new and improved pain med. Like they’ve dialed it up a notch.
TV, print, social media, the whole ball of wax, if there still are balls of wax, that is.
The slogan will be something like ‘It makes even my pain go away.’ Or something along those lines. ”
I give him a long look then.
“There’s no such thing,” I say quietly.
“I hear you, Silas,” he says. “I do, I’m not an idiot. But work with me on this. For the kind of money they’re talking about, you can lie a little bit.”
“No.”
He checks his phone now, almost as a reflex, then puts it away.
“No to the lying piece,” he says, “or no to working with me on this?”
“Both,” I say. “I wouldn’t even let them give me pain pills in the hospital once I was awake, and as much pain as I was in at the time.
And if you were at the stadium a little while ago and heard my speech, about oxy and all the rest of that shit, you have to understand that I wouldn’t want to be out front right now on so much as an aspirin. ”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now.
“No pain,” he says.
“No gain,” I say.
He says he’s on his way over to Parsons Regional Airport, he’s got a jet waiting for him. And to call him if I change my mind, even if he’s in the air.
The next day a Bobcat is delivered to the farm, followed by another unexpected guest from the world of sports.