Chapter One

Chapter One


Just behave.”

“Me?” Myron said. “I’m always a delight.”

Myron Bolitar was being led through the corridor of the darkened Meadowlands Arena by Calvin Johnson, the New Jersey Dragons new general manager. Their dress shoes clacked sharply against the tile and echoed through empty Harry M. Stevens food stands, Carvel Ice Cream carts, pretzel vendors, souvenir booths. The smell of sporting-event hot dogs—that sort of rubbery, chemically, yet nostalgically delicious aroma—wafted from the walls. The stillness of the place consumed them; there is nothing more hollow and lifeless than an empty sports arena.

Calvin Johnson stopped in front of a door leading to a luxury box. “This may all seem a bit strange,” he said. “Just go with the flow, okay?”

“Okay.”

Calvin reached for the knob and took a deep breath. “Clip Arnstein, the owner of the Dragons, is in there waiting for us.”

“And yet I’m not trembling,” Myron said.

Calvin Johnson shook his head. “Just don’t be an ass.”

Myron pointed to his chest. “I wore a tie and ?everything.”

Calvin Johnson opened the door. The luxury box faced midcourt. Several workers were putting down the basketball floor over the hockey ice. The Devils had played the night before. Tonight was the Dragons’ turn. The box was cozy. Twenty-four cushioned seats. Two tele?vision monitors. To the right was a wood-paneled counter for the food—usually fried chicken, hot dogs, po?tato knishes, sausage and pepper sandwiches, that sort of stuff.