Drop Shot Quotes

“So basically your plan is to flail about helplessly.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Win took another putt. Another make. “We’re not the same, you and I. We both know that. But it’s okay.” “It’s not okay.” “Yes, it is. If we were the same it wouldn’t work. We’d both be dead by now. Or insane. We balance each other. It’s why you’re my best friend. It’s why I love you.” Silence. “Don’t do it again,” Myron said. Win did not reply. He lined up another putt. “Did you hear me?” “It’s time to move on,” Win said. “This incident is in the past. You know better than to try to control the future.” More silence. Win sank another putt.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“But if Frank had wanted Pavel dead, he would have had Aaron do it. Pavel had been murdered between midnight and one. Aaron was dead by midnight. Myron mulled this over a bit and decided that Aaron’s being dead made it extremely unlikely he was the killer.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“The eyebrows were his most prominent feature—unusually thick and angry and constantly undulating”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“It was scary,” she said. “Win was scary.” “He also saved your life.” “Yes.” “It’s what Win does. He’s good at it—the best I’ve ever seen. Everything with him is black and white. He has no moral ambiguities. If you cross the line, there is no reprieve, no mercy, no chance to talk your way out of it. You’re dead. Period. Those men came to harm you. Win wasn’t interested in rehabilitating them. They made their choice. The moment they entered your apartment they were doomed.” “It sounds like the theory of massive retaliation,” she said. “You kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours.” “Colder,” Myron said. “Win’s not interested in teaching a lesson. He sees it as extermination. They’re no more than pestering fleas to him.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Captain Midnight is always careful.” “It’s not just Captain Midnight I’m worried about it. It’s his alter ego.” “And who might that be?” “My Love Muffin.” Myron grinned into the receiver. “Hey, Jess, did you know Joan Collins was on Batman?” “Of course,” Jessica said. “She played the Siren.” “Oh yeah? Well, who did Liberace play?”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“He sounded genuine, but Myron knew that meant nothing. People were amazing liars.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“I refuse to offer hints.’ Myron ran episodes through his mind. On the court the umpire announced, ‘Time.’ The ninety-second commercial break was over. The players rose. Myron couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he saw Henry blink.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Liberace only appeared in that one episode,’ Win announced. ‘Is that your final answer?’ ‘Yes. Liberace only appeared in that one episode.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Ma Parker.’ ‘Milton Berle.’ ‘Louie the Lilac.’ ‘Liberace.’ ‘Chandell the Great.’ ‘And?’ Win looked puzzled. ‘And what?’ ‘What other criminal did Liberace play?”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“He hung up and dialed Jake. A gruff voice said, “Sheriff Courter’s office.” “It’s me, Jake.” “What the fuck do you want now?” “My, what a charming salutation,” Myron said. “I must use it sometime.” “Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.” “You know,” Myron said, “I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re not invited to more parties.” Jake blew his nose. Loudly. Geese in the tristate area scattered. “Before I’m left mortally wounded by your caustic wit,” he said, “tell me what you want.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Myron followed Jake down the street. They stopped at a place very generously dubbed the Royal Court Diner. A pit. If it were totally renovated, it might reach the sanitary status of an interstate public toilet. Jake smiled. “Nice, huh?” “My arteries are hardening from the smell,” Myron said. “For chrissake, man, don’t inhale.” The table had one of those diner jukeboxes. The records hadn’t been changed in a long time. The current number one single, according to the little advertisement, was Elton John’s Crocodile Rock. The”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Your father is picking up some Chinese food. I ordered enough for you.” “I’m not hungry, thanks.” “Spareribs, Myron. Sesame chicken.” Meaningful pause. “Shrimp with lobster sauce.” “I’m really not hungry.” “Shrimp with lobster sauce,” she repeated. “Mom …” “From Fong’s Dragon House.” “No thanks.” “What? You love Fong’s shrimp in lobster sauce. You’re crazy about it.” “Maybe a little then.” Easier. She”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Myron headed down the steps. Without warning a man wearing a blue blazer and aviator sunglasses stepped in front of him. He was a big guy—six-four, two-twenty—just about Myron’s size. His neatly combed hair sat above a pleasant though unyielding face. He expanded his chest into a paddleball wall, blocking Myron’s path. His voice said, “Can I help you, sir?” But his tone said, Take a hike, bub. Myron looked at him. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Jack Lord?” No reaction. “You know,” Myron said. “Jack Lord? Hawaii Five-O?” “I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“You live in that world. You’re one of them. They’d be more apt to talk to you.” Win shook his head. “They’ll never talk to me. Being ‘one of them,’ as you put it, is a severe handicap. Their guard will be up with someone like me. But with you they won’t be so concerned about facades. They’ll perceive you as someone who doesn’t matter, as someone inferior, as someone beneath them. A nobody.” “Gee, that’s flattering.” Win”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Yes, for here was one of the final strongholds of true yuppieism, a place where man was free to practice the religion of eighties greed, greed at all costs, without pretense of doing otherwise. No hypocrisy here. Investment houses were not about helping the world. They were not about providing a service to mankind or doing what was best for all. This haven had a simple, clear-cut, basic goal. Making money. Period. Win had a spacious corner office overlooking Park and Fifty-second Street. A prime-time view for the company’s number one producer. Myron knocked on the door.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Yuppieville. The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall—the big producers’ offices—safeguarding the perimeter. The open area housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed and replaced, a seemingly endless sea of them, bobbing and blending into the corporate-gray carpet, the identical desks, the identical rolling chairs, the computer terminals, the telephones, the fax machines. Like soldiers they wore uniforms—white button-down shirts, suspenders, bright ties strangling carotid arteries, suit jackets draped across the backs of the identical rolling chairs. There were loud noises, screams, rings, even something that sounded like death cries. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was scattering, panicked, under constant attack. Yes,”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“A man who had to be Detective Roland Dimonte answered the door. He was dressed in jeans, paisley green shirt, black leather vest. He also had on the ugliest pair of snakeskin boots—snow-white with flecks of purple—Myron had ever seen. His hair was greasy. Several strands were matted to his forehead like to flypaper. A toothpick—an actual toothpick—was jutting out of his mouth. His eyes were set deep in a pudgy face, like someone had stuck two brown pebbles in at the last minute. Myron”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“When Myron opened the conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face. Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron’s age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed—or worse, a Family Feud contestant. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches. Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. “Wait till you see this!” he raved. “Myron, you are going to love it. It’s fantastic.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Henry, you want to take a guess?” Henry ignored them. Nothing new there. “Liberace only appeared in that one episode,” Win repeated, his nose 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 the home version of our game plus a year’s supply of Turtle Wax. And thank you for playing our game!” Win was unmoved. “Liberace only appeared in that one episode.” “That your new mantra?” “Until you prove otherwise.” Win”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Esperanza and Myron shared a yellow cab to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street between Seventh and Eighth. The cab smelled like a Turkish whorehouse, which was an improvement over most.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Hope she’s not getting Gloria.” “Why?” “She kinda looks like a white version of me,” Jake said. “Only with a heavier beard.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“On the radio a rock group called the Motels were repeatedly singing the ingenious line Take the L out of lover, and it’s over. Deep. Literal, but still deep. The Motels. Whatever happened to them?”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“A commodity is far easier to abuse than a human being.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Everything with him is black and white. He has no moral ambiguities. If you cross the line, there is no reprieve, no mercy, no chance to talk your way out of it.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“Win shrugged. ‘No one ever does.’ The eternal optimist.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“generational equalizer,”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“The death is all-consuming. It never lets you go, never gives you a chance to catch your breath.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“He had sleep-buggers in both eyes.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot

“word classic was being bantered about.”
― Harlan Coben, Drop Shot