"A senior ladies' wrestling tour?"

"More like retired," Esperanza said. "I mean, Big Cyndi is only thirty-eight. They're bringing back a lot of the old favorites: Queen Qaddafi, Cold War Connie, Brezhnev Babe, Cellblock Celia, Black Widow--"

"I don't remember the Black Widow."

"Before our time. Hell, before our parents' time. She must be in her seventies."

Myron tried not to make a face. "And people are going to pay money to see a seventy-year-old woman wrestle?"

"You shouldn't discriminate on the basis of age."

"Right, sorry." Myron rubbed his eyes.

"And professional women's wrestling is struggling right now, what with the competition from Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake. They need to do something."

"And grappling old ladies is the answer?"

"I think they're aiming more for nostalgia."

"A chance to cheer on the wrestler of your youth?"

"Didn't you go see Steely Dan in concert a couple of years ago?"

"That's different, don't you think?"

She shrugged. "Both past their prime. Both mining more on what you remember than what you see or hear."

It made sense. Scary sense maybe. But sense. "How about you?" Myron asked.

"What about me?"

"Didn't they want Little Pocahontas to return?"

"Yep."

"Were you tempted?"

"To what? Return to the ring?"

"Yes."

"Oh, sure," Esperanza said. "I busted my shapely ass working full-time while getting my law degree, so I could once again don a suede bikini and grope aging nymphs in front of drooling trailer trash." She paused. "Still, it is a step above being a sports agent."

"Ha-ha." Myron walked over to Big Cyndi's desk. There was an envelope with his name scrawled across the top in glow-in-the-dark orange.

"She wrote it in crayon?" Myron said.

"Eye shadow."

"I see."

"So are you going to tell me what's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," Myron said.

"Bullshit," she said. "You look like you just heard Wham split up."

"Don't bring that up," Myron said. "Sometimes, late at night, I still suffer flashbacks."

Esperanza studied his face a few more seconds. "This have something to do with your college sweetheart?"

"Sort of."

"Oh Christ."

"What?"

"How do I say this nicely, Myron? You are beyond moronic in the ways of women. Exhibits A and B are Jessica and Emily."

"You don't even know Emily."

"I know enough," she said. "I thought you didn't want to talk to her."

"I didn't. She found me at my parents' place."

"She just showed up there?"

"Yep."

"What did she want?"

He shook his head. He still wasn't ready to talk about it yet. "Any messages?"

"Not as many as we'd like."

"Win upstairs?"

"I think he went home already." She picked up her coat. "I think I'll do likewise."

"Good night."

"If you hear anything from Lamar--"

"I'll call you."

Esperanza put on her coat, flipping the glistening black flow out of the collar. Myron headed into his office and made a few phone calls, mostly of a recruiting nature. It was not going well.

Several months ago, a friend's death had sent Myron into a tail-spin, causing him to--and we're using complex psychiatric jargon here--wig out. Nothing overly drastic, no nervous breakdown or institutional commitment. He had instead fled to a deserted Caribbean island with Terese Collins, a beautiful TV anchorwoman he didn't know. He had told no one--not Win, not Esperanza, not even Mom and Dad--where he was going or when he'd be back.