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Drop Shot: A Myron Bolitar Novel (Anglais) Poche – 30 avril 2013

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Descriptions du produit


Chapter One

Cesar Romero," Myron said.

Win looked at him. "You'renot serious."

"I'm starting off with aneasy one."

On Stadium Court the players were changing sides. Myron's client,Duane Richwood, was shellacking the number-fifteen seed IvanSomething-okov, leading 5-0 in the third set after winning the firsttwo sets 6-0, 6-2. An impressive U.S. Open debut for the unseededtwenty-one-year-old upstart from the streets (literally) of New York. "

Cesar Romero," Myron repeated. "Unless you don't know."

Win sighed. "The Joker."

"Frank Gorshin."

"The Riddler." Ninety-second commercial break. Myron and Win were keeping themselvesbusy with a scintillating game of Name the Batman Criminal. The TVBatman. The Batman starring Adam West and Burt Ward and all those Pow,Bam, Slam balloons. The real Batman.

"Who played the second one?" Myron asked.

"The second Riddler?" Myron nodded.

From across the court Duane Richwood flashed them a cocky smile. Hesported garish aviator sunglasses with loud fluorescent green frames.The latest style from Ray*Ban. Duane was never without them. He hadbecome not only identified by the shades but defined by them.Ray*Ban was rather pleased.

Myron and Win sat in one of the two players' boxes reserved forcelebrities and players' entourages. For most matches every seat inthe box was filled. When Agassi played the night before, the box hadoverflowed with his family, friends, suck-ups, young lasses,environmentally correct movie stars, hair weaves-like an Aerosmithbackstage party. But Duane had only three people in the box: agentMyron, financial consultant Win, and Duane's coach, Henry Hobman.Wanda, the love of Duane's life, got too nervous and preferred tostay home. "

John Astin," Win answered.

Myron nodded. "How about Shelley Winters."

"Ma Parker."

"Milton Berle."

"Louie theLilac."


"Chandell theGreat."


Win looked puzzled. "And what?"

"What other criminal did Liberace play?"

"What are you talking about? Liberace only appeared in that oneepisode."

Myron leaned back and smiled. "Are you sure?" In his seat next to the umpire's chair Duane happily chugged down abottle of Evian. He held the bottle so that the sponsor's name couldbe clearly seen by the television cameras. Smart kid. Knew how toplease the sponsor. Myron had recently signed Duane to a simple dealwith the natural water giant: during the U.S. Open Duane drank Evianin marked bottles. In return Evian paid him ten grand. That was waterrights. Myron was negotiating Duane's soda rights with Pepsi and hiselectrolyte rights with Gatorade.

Ah, tennis.

"Liberace only appeared in that one episode," Win announced .

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes. Liberace only appeared in that one episode."

Henry Hobman continued to study the court, scrutinizing with intenseconcentration, his line of vision swinging back and forth. Too bad noone was playing.

"Henry, you want to take a guess?"

Henry ignored them. Nothing new there.

"Liberace only appeared in that one episode," Win repeated, hisnose in the air.

Myron made a soft buzzing sound. "Sorry, that answer is incorrect.What do we have for our player, Don? Well, Myron, Windsor gets thehome version of our game plus a year's supply of Turtle Wax. Andthank you for playing our game!"

Win was unmoved. "Liberace only appeared in that oneepisode."

"That your new mantra?"

"Until you prove otherwise."

Win-full name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III-steepled his manicuredfingers. He did that a lot, steepling. Steepling fit him. Win lookedliked his name. The poster boy for the quintessential WASP. Everythingabout his appearance reeked arrogance, elitism, Town and CountryParties Page, debutantes dressed in monogrammed sweaters and pearlswith names like Babs, dry martinis at the clubhouse, stuffy oldmoney-his fine blond hair, his pretty-boy patrician face, hislily-white complexion, his snotty Exeter accent. Except in Win'scase some sort of chromosomal abnormality had slipped through thegenerations of careful breeding. In some ways Win was exactly what he appeared to be. But in many more ways-sometimes very frighteningways-Win was not.

"I'm waiting," Win said.

"You remember Liberace playing Chandell the Great?" Myronasked.

"Of course."

"But you forgot that Liberace also played Chandell's evil twinbrother, Harry. In the same episode."

Win made a face. "You cannot be serious."


"That doesn't count. Evil twin brothers."

"Where in the rule book does it say that?"

Win set his jutting jaw in that certain way.

The humidity was thick enough towear as undergarments, especially in Flushing Meadows's windlessstadium court. The stadium, named strangely enough for LouisArmstrong, was basically a giant billboard that also happened to havea tennis court in the middle. IBM had a sign above the speedometerthat clocked the velocity of each player's serve. Citizen kept boththe real time and how long the match had been going on. Visa had itsname printed behind the service line. Reebok, Infiniti, Fuji Film,Clairol had their names plastered wherever there was a free spot. Sodid Heineken.

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

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

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

"The Bookworm."

"Vincent Price."


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

"I refuse to offer hints."

Myron ran episodes through his mind. On the court the umpireannounced, "Time." The ninety-second commercial break was over.The players rose. Myron couldn't swear to it, but he thought he sawHenry 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 woreReebok. His logos featured Sharp electronics and Bic. Bic. The pen andrazor company. Like someone was going to watch a tennis match, see thelogo, and buy a pen.

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

Win shrugged. "I don't remember."


"I know she was in an episode. But I don't remember hercharacter'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 puzzleon Wheel of Fortune? Does Alex Trebeck have to know every question onJeopardy!"


"Nice analogy, Win. Really."

"Thank you."

Then another voice said, "TheSiren."

Myron and Win looked around. Itseemed to have come from Henry.

"Did you say something?" Henry's mouth did not appear to be moving. "The Siren," herepeated, his eyes still pasted to the court. "Joan Collins playedthe 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 asmile. On the court Duane opened the game with an ace that nearly bore a holethrough a ball boy. The IBM speedometer clocked it at 128 mph. Myronshook his head in disbelief. So did Ivan What's-his-name. Duane waslining up for the second point when Myron's cell phone rang.

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


"It's not Jessica." It was Esperanza, hisassociate.

"I didn't think it was."

"Right," she said. "You always sound like a whimpering puppywhen 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 thestadium."

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

Now that she mentioned it . . .

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

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


"The TV does make you look heavier."

"What do you want?"

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

"You're kidding." Eddie Crane, one of the hottest tennis juniorsin 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'smatch."

"I love you, you know."

"Then pay me more," she said.

Duane hit a cross-court forehandwinner. Thirty-love.

"Anything else?" Myronasked. "Nothing important. Valerie Simpson. She's called three times."

"What did she want?"

"She wouldn't say. But the Ice Queen sounded ruffled."

"Don't call her that."

"Yeah, whatever."

Myron hung up. Win looked at him. "Problem?"

Valerie Simpson. A weird, albeit sad case. The former tenniswunderkind had visited Myron's office two days ago looking forsomeone-anyone-to represent her. "Don't think so."

Duane was up forty-love. Triple match point. Bud Collins, tenniscolumnist extraordinaire, was already waiting in the gangway for thepostmatch interview. Bud's pants, always a Technicolor fashion risk,were particularly hideous today.

Duane took two balls from the ball boy and approached the line. Duanewas a rare commodity in tennis. A black man. Not from India or Africaor even France. Duane was from New York City. Unlike just about everyother player on the tour, Duane had not spent his life preparing forthis moment. He hadn't been pushed by ambitious, carpooling parents.He hadn't worked with the world's top coaches in Florida orCalifornia since he was old enough to hold a racket. Duane was on theopposite end of the spectrum: a street kid who had run away at agefifteen and somehow survived on his own. He had learned tennis fromthe public courts, hanging around all day and challenging anyone who could hold a racket.

He was on the verge of winning his first Grand Slam match when the gunshot sounded.

The sound had been muffled, coming from outside the stadium. Mostpeople did not panic, assuming the sound had come from a firecrackeror car backfire. But Myron and Win had heard the sound too often. Theywere up and moving before the screams. Inside the stadium the crowdbegan to mumble. More screams ensued. Loud, hysterical screams. Thecourt umpire in his infinite wisdom impatiently shouted "Quiet,please!" into his microphone.

Myron and Win sprinted up the metallic stairway. They leaped over thewhite chain, put out by the ushers so that no one could enter or leavethe court until the players switched sides, and ran outside. A smallcrowd was beginning to gather in what was generously dubbed the"Food Court." With a lot of work and patience the Food Court hopedto one day reach the gastronomic levels of, say, its mall brethren.

They pushed through the crowd. Some people were indeed hysterical butothers hadn't moved at all. This was, after all, New York. The linesfor refreshments were long. No one wanted to lose their place.

The girl was lying facedown in front of a stand serving Moëtchampagne at $7.50 a glass. Myron recognized her immediately, evenbefore he bent down and turned her over. But when he saw her face,when he saw the icy blue eyes stare back at him in a final,unbreakable death gaze, his heart plummeted. He looked back at Win.Win, as usual, had no expression on his face.

"So much," Win said, "for her comeback."

Revue de presse

Praise for Harlan Coben and his Myron Bolitar novels
“A gifted storyteller . . . Mystery just comes along for the ride.”—Denver Post
“Like fellow wisecracking P.I.’s Spenser and Elvis Cole, Myron Bolitar is great fun in the best ‘hard-boiled’ tradition.”—Houston Chronicle

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Détails sur le produit

  • Poche: 368 pages
  • Editeur : Dell; Édition : Reprint (30 avril 2013)
  • Collection : Myron Bolitar
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0345542223
  • ISBN-13: 978-0345542229
  • Dimensions du produit: 10,6 x 2,2 x 19 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.2 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (4 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 11.048 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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En savoir plus sur l'auteur

Né en 1962, Harlan Coben vit dans le New Jersey avec sa femme et leurs quatre enfants. Diplômé en sciences politiques du Amherst College, il a travaillé dans l'industrie du voyage avant de se consacrer à l'écriture.

Depuis ses débuts en 1995, la critique n'a cessé de l'acclamer. Il est notamment le premier auteur à avoir reçu le Edgar Award, le Shamus Award et le Anthony Award, les trois prix majeurs de la littérature à suspense aux États-Unis. Traduits dans une quarantaine de langues, ses romans occupent les têtes de listes de best-sellers dans le monde entier.

Le premier de ses romans traduit en France, Ne le dis à personne (Belfond, 2002) - prix du polar des lectrices de Elle en 2003 - a obtenu d'emblée un énorme succès auprès du public et de la critique. Succès confirmé avec : Disparu à jamais (2003), Une chance de trop(2004), Juste un regard (2005), Innocent (2006), Promets-moi (2007), Dans les bois (2008), Sans un mot (2009), Sans laisser d'adresse (2010) et Sans un adieu (2010), son premier roman écrit à vingt-cinq ans à peine.

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2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Carol Brown le 9 juillet 2010
Format: Poche Achat vérifié
Second book in the Myron Bolitar series. Just as good as the first one (and, if you care to check my comments on the Deal Breaker, just as good as the ones to follow).

This series is most enjoyable, funny, fast-paced and you'll need to dicipline yourself to put the book down before the wee hours of the morning, I couldn't...
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Format: Broché
Early 1986 bestseller and book 2 in a series of seven (7) about Myron Bolitar (MB; 32), ex-basketball star for Duke University and the Boston Celtics, ex-FBI agent, also a Harvard graduate and lawyer, now active as marketing manager for sportsmen and -women. Who become rich not from salaries or prizes they win, but from endorsing brands of goods or services. This is where Myron, who still occasionally lives with his parents, comes in. Sports management is a highly competitive business and Mafia involvement is not unheard of. So Myron, as a late starter faces tough competition.
What makes this book attractive? MB’s airy, ironic, sometimes sarcastic approach to anybody close, or less close, even under duress. Plus his serious sense of duty towards his sporting clients and his inquisitive mind. Finally, there is his friendship and operational partnership with multi-talented investment tycoon Win, scion of an old moneyed dynasty, who runs a financial empire two floors above MB’s office, but who always has time for Myron. Apart from asset management, Win reads Korean, is highly skilled in B&E, martial arts and elimination. Working as a loose duo with their different backgrounds gives them access to different social classes and circles.
Valerie, a former female tennis prodigy still aged only 24, is shot dead during the US Open on its grounds while MB’s new tennis protégé Duane serves out a winning match. The NYPD oddly suspects Duane of killing her. But not for long. Still, there is some connection between the two, which MB will pursue relentlessly. Because Valerie asked him days before to manage her comeback… When the plot thickens and more people and parties become involved, this thriller really revs up, producing plenty of death and violence.
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Par laurent le 15 octobre 2012
Format: Poche Achat vérifié
Après avoir plongé dans les coulisses du football américan, Harlan Coben s'attaque au milieu du tennis professionnel.

Le nouveau protégé de Myron Bolitar est le jeune Duane Richwood, jeune noir sorti à la force du poignet de la rue pour arpenter enfin le terrain de l'US Open. Mais l'assassinat d'une autre joueuse met en péril sa toute nouvelle vie quand des liens commencent à se dessiner entre la star montante du tennis mondial et la défunte star déchue du circuit.

Ce livre est l'occasion de montrer l'envers d'un nouveau décor, et de commencer à planter en second plan un autre univers, déjà esquissé dans le premier tome Deal Breaker, celui de la différence de classe sociale.
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2 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par abigail le 12 février 2010
Format: Poche
Bien sûr, ce n'est pas de la grande littérature, les personnages sont de vrais caricatures mais il y a de l'humour et surtout l'intrigue tient la route càd qu'on ne devine pas tout avant la fin mais on peut se faire une idée, c'est plausible.
J'aime ce genre de polar où il est possible de deviner soi-même en partie... chez d'autres auteurs, c'est tellement tordu que une fois qu'on vous révèle la solution, vous vous dites"ah ben oui, mais c'est vraiment trop compliqué, j'aurais pas su trouver ca"
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)

Amazon.com: 327 commentaires
24 internautes sur 26 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Another solid Coben effort... 5 juillet 2005
Par Brosamj - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
I will be the first to admit that I am a fan of Harlan Coben's work. Myron Bolitar led novels are among my favorites. Bolitar is a well-written character and you generally know what to expect from him. Wise-cracking, hard working and usually quite a bit of fun.

This novel is no exception. With that said, I have given it 4 stars because it was not as good as some of his other work. The story follows Bolitar around as he investigates the death of a potential client (former tennis star player). His current client, a rising tennis star that is making a big splash in the tourney, may be involved or have some knowledge of the dead former tennis player. Now it is up to Bolitar to figure out if there is an relationship between the dead player and is current client. The plot twists a little here and there and Bolitar continues to fight against those that want this case buried (and an older case buried).

The Senator involved and the cover up from years ago of another murder (a murder that may have a connection to the dead tennis player and his current client) left a little to be desired. The details are sketchy and though it is later cleared up somewhat, I wish there were a few more details and a little more info.

The tennis also could have been portrayed better...his current client, the rising tennis star goes through the tourney and we don't know much about this guy's tennis career even though he is rushing through the tourney. A little more backround (has he played in many tourney's before this, is he ranked, etc.) would have made his run in the tourney one that the reader could have been more interested in.

The novel is solid. It is a fun read and will keep you entertained...I just wanted a little more from a good writer and a fun character.
17 internautes sur 18 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
MORE LOB THAN DROP SHOT 6 septembre 2008
Par Red Rock Bookworm - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
When a young female ex-tennis star is murdered at the gates of the U.S. Tennis Open, ex-lawyer turned sports agent (and pseudo detective) Myron Bolitar along with his slightly psycho pal, Win Lockwood, become involved in the investigation.

It seems the murder victim had intended to "make a comeback" and had been trying to contact Myron to engage his services as her agent before she met her untimely end. The mystery surrounding her death and its link to another murder six years earlier is pretty "run of the mill" and the identity of the killer is evident long before the last page of the book. The cop on the case is stereotypically stupid and stubborn, the "mob" boss comes across as an uneducated strong-arm goon, the tennis trainer is a twisted pervert, and all I can say about Myron's girlfriend, Jennifer, is "he deserves better". It's no wonder that his mother and his assistant Esperanza dislike her so intensely.

Drop Shot is a tennis term referring to the tactic of barely tapping the ball over the net thereby making it nearly impossible for your opponent to return the ball. This book is aptly titled, since the story itself barely makes it and is rescued by the interaction between a couple of the characters. The most interesting "couple" in the book are not Myron and Jennifer, but rather Bolitar and Lockwood. Bolitar has a sort of smart -aleck cerebral humor about him while Lockwood is the man of action with a skewed perception of society and together they are a the dynamic duo - - - - sort of like pairing Bernie Rohdenbahr with Jack Reacher.

Drop Shot is definitely not the best mystery you will ever read, but then again it's not the worst.
9 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Drop Shot 15 décembre 1999
Par Larry A. Little - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
I just finished this book, and enjoyed it, but it was not up the Harlan's usually high standards. I agree with another review who said that there were places in the book that could have been "cut & pasted" from some of Harlan's other books. Again, the conversational writing is tremendous, and most of all "true to life". The characters seem to come to life and do in fact have their individual personalities. Not his best, but worth reading.
7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Great read 12 novembre 2005
Par Highlanderthal - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
A great read with lots of action throughout.Like all of Coben's books, the one super underlying facet is the incredibly witty dialogue that would also be perfect for television or the "silver screen." Bolitar and his friend, Win, are hilarious together, not to mention the straight humor of the wrestler-turned office assistant, Esperanza. His characters are all so well-developed, and three-deimensional. Even more importantly, they all are blended together so nicely. Everyone from the snakeskin boot wearing cop, Rolly Dimonte, to the mob-muscle man, Aaron, has a very intricate role in making this such a good book.
10 internautes sur 12 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Read a Harlan Coben - any one 8 mars 2003
Par Vikram Seth - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
Some months back, I went to a bookshop in New Delhi & found one copy of each of the Myron Bolitair series. I bought two titles as they seemed interesting. Two days later, having finished both, I went back & bought the entire lot & both the Non- Myron Bolitair books; which meant that I had cleaned out their Harlan Corben stock as they only had one copy each.
The bookshop owners then went & re-stocked many more copies of each title,
It's difficult to suggest a specific Harlan Coben Book: I found them all tremendously enjoyable. Read any one & you will be hooked. It isn't necessary to read them in any order but I would recommend that start from the first as Myron's life will then unfold as lives should.... The crimes at the heart of each book can be read in any order.
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