Free the Plan (1995) by Stephen Cannell

I can tell you this now." She smiled. "Back then I had a terrible crush on you."
    He tried for a rakish grin and missed.
    "Come in. Mickey's on the phone."
    She led him into the antique-laden room. New York Tony stood by the door. Mickey was on the phone, his back to them. He was wearing a polka-dot shut and Bermuda shorts, with sockless loafers.
    "Okay, check that out and get back to me." He hung up the phone, turning, his round cherubic face changing gears completely as he broke into a grin.
    "Hey, Ryan. . . . Sis turned out pretty good, no?" "She certainly did." Ryan was having trouble taking his eyes off her.
    "She's on her summer break." Mickey put his arm around his little sister.
    "You aren't still in college?" Ryan asked.
    "I graduated from Sarah Lawrence and I'm doing my doctorate in psychology at UCLA."
    "I couldn't get her to go to Harvard." Mickey grinned.
    "After the damage you did to the family name, they'd have had me under twenty-four-hour surveillance," she joked.
    "Hey, come on, I wasn't that bad . . . Was I that bad, Ryan?"
    "You were awful." Ryan smiled, remembering a couple of lost weekends when they'd met occasionally in New York during their college years.
    "Gotta go, got a tennis lesson at one. Good to see you, Ryan." She stopped in front of him, holding out her hand, looking into his eyes. . . . And then she was gone.
    "Come on," Mickey said. "Let's get lunch. I made a reservation in the hotel dining room."
    The maitre d' led them to the best table.
    "Hey, Ryan, don't take this the wrong way, but are you okay?"
    "Sure. Why?"
    "You look fucked-up. You're not doing drugs, are ya?" "No. Come on. . . . You nuts?"
    Mickey hadn't changed at all, Ryan thought. Always right to the point with no bullshit. He still had that force of personality that drew people to him.
    "Lucinda is beautiful," he said, trying to change the subject.
    "Yeah, she's a sweetheart. She counsels kids who can't get their belts through all the loops. Spends hours with them."
    The maitre d' himself brought the menus and pulled out a pad to take their orders.
    "Hey, Claude... . You 'member those vongole I had here two months ago? With the angel-hair . . . ?"
    "Vividly, sir." Claude grinned. "We sent ten gallons to your mother, airmail."
    "Can ya whip us up some a' that . . . for two? And the real dry chardonnay, the Acacia." Claude left, bowing out in reverse.
    He had ordered for both of them as if what Ryan wanted didn't matter, and somehow it was okay.
    "So, how's everything going with you?"
    "Tearing up the field," Ryan lied.
    "I know a few guys out here and the word I been gettin' is you been stepping on your rep." Mickey frowned. "I hear you're packing an attitude and when they see you coming, they drop the blinds. I'm thinking that doesn't sound like the old wide receiver, so I figured I'd look you up." He was smiling but his eyes weren't. "What's the play?"
    "Since Matt died, nothing has worked quite right. I'll punch through it." Ryan remembered how Mickey had flown out when Matt died. He'd lived in the Bel Air guesthouse and handled everything for Ryan. He even picked out the clothes Matt was buried in.
    The food came and Mickey ate savagely while Ryan picked at his plate.
    "Look, I don't wanna get in your face, man, so if I'm outta line, tell me, but if you wanna change of venue, I maybe have something set up that could work for you. . . . Take you away for a while."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "There're these guys. We do a little business sometimes, and they're miming a guy for President of the United States. . . . I was talking to my friend and he said they needed somebody who could produce a documentary. I know that's chickenshit stuff to a guy like you, with Emmys and everything, but if you're looking to get a little air between you and these L . A . hairbags, I could make a call."
    "Documentary?" Ryan said. "I never did a documentary." His heart was racing. Something irrational told him to take it . . . to get the hell