Back Spin

Crispin nodded. "That sounds good."

"I thought it might," Win said. "From what I see, you plan on watching your money carefully."

"Yes."

"Savvy," Win said with a nod. "You've read about too many athletes retiring broke. Of being taken advantage of by unscrupulous money managers and the like."

"Yes."

"And it will be my job to help you maximize your return, correct?"

Crispin leaned forward a bit. "Correct."

"Very well, then. It will be my task to help maximize your investment opportunities after you earn it. But I

would not be serving your best interests if I did not also tell you how to make more."

Crispin's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I follow."

Zuckerman said, "Win."

Win ignored him. "As your financial consultant, I

would be remiss if I did not make the following recommendation: You need a good agent."

Crispin's line of vision slid toward Myron. Myron remained still, looking back at him steadily. He turned back to Win. "I know you work with Mr. Bolitar," Crispin said.

"Yes and no," Win said. "If you decide to use his services I do not make one penny more. Well, that's not exactly true. If you choose to use Myron's services, you will make more money and subsequently I will have more of your money to invest. So in that way, I will make more."

"Thanks," Crispin said, "but I'm not interested."

"That's up to you," Win said, "but let me just explain a little further what I meant by yes and no. I manage assets worth approximately four hundred, million dollars.

Myron's clients represent less than three percent of that total. I am not employed by MB SportsReps. Myron Bolitar is not employed by Lock-Home Securities. We do not have a partnership. I have not invested in his enterprise and he is not invested in mine.

Myron has never looked at, asked about, or in any way discussed the financial situation of any of my clients.

We are totally separate.

Except for one thing."

All eyes were on Win. Myron, not famous for knowing when to keep his mouth shut, knew now.

"I am the financial consultant for every one of his clients," Win said. "Do you know why?"

Crispin shook his head.

"Because Myron insists upon it."

Crispin looked confused. "I don't understand. If he gets nothing out of it "

"I didn't say that. He gets plenty out of it."

"But you said "

"He, too, was an athlete; did you know that?"

"I heard something about it."

"He knows what happens to athletes. How they get cheated. How they squander their earnings, never fully accepting the fact that their careers can be over in a heartbeat. So he insists insists, mind you that he does not handle their finances. I've seen him refuse clients because of this. He further insists that I handle them. Why? For the same reason you sought me out. He knows I am the best. Immodest but true. Myron further insists that they see me in person at least once every quarter. Not just phone calls. Not just faxes or E-mails or letters. He insists that I go over every item in the account personally with them."

Win leaned farther back and steepled his fingers. The man loved to `steeple his fingers. It looked good on him.

Gave him an air of wisdom. "Myron Bolitar is my best friend. I know he'd give his life for me and I for him. But if he ever thought that I was not doing what was in a client's best interest, he would take away their portfolios without a second thought."

Norm said, "Beautiful speech, Win. Got me right there." He pointed to his stomach.

Win gave him the look. Norm stopped smiling.

"I made the deal with Mr. Zuckerman on my own,"

Crispin said. "I could make others."

"I won't comment on the Zoom deal," Win said.

"But I will tell+you this. You are a bright young man. A

bright man knows not only his strengths but equally important, he knows his weaknesses. I do not, for example, know how to negotiate an endorsement contract. I may know the basics, but it is not my business. I'm not a plumber. If a pipe in my house broke, I would not be able to fix it. You are a golfer. You are one of the greatest talents I have ever seen. You should concentrate on that."

Tad Crispin took a sip of iced tea. He crossed his ankle on his knee. Even his socks were yellow. "You are making a hard sale for your friend," he said.

"Wrong," Win said. "I would kill for my friend, but financially I owe him nothing. You, on the other hand, are my client, and thus I have a very serious fiscal responsibility with regard to you. Stripping it bare, you have asked me to increase your portfolio. I will suggest several investment sources to you. But this is the best recommendation I can make."

Crispin tumed to Myron. He looked him up and down, studying him hard. Myron almost brayed so he could examine his teeth. "He makes you sound awfully good,"

Crispin said to Myron.

"I am good," Myron said. "But I don't want him to give you the wrong impression. I'm not quite as altruistic as Win might have made me sound. I don't insist clients use him because I'm a swell guy. I know that having him handle my clients is a major plus. He improves the value of my services. He helps keep my clients happy. That's what I get out of it. Yes, I insist on having clients heavily involved in the decision-making on money matters, but that's as much to protect me as them."

"How so?"

"Obviously you know something about managers or agents robbing athletes."

"Yes."

"Do you know why so much of that occurs?"

Crispin shrugged. "Greed, I suppose."

Myron tilted his head in a yes-and-no gesture. "The main culprit is apathy. An athlete's lack of involvement.

They get lazy. They decide it's easier to fully trust their agent, and that's bad. Let the agent pay the bills, they say. .

Let the agent invest the money. That kind of thing. But that won't ever happen at MB SportsReps. Not because I'm watching. Not because Win's watching. But because you are watching."

"I'm watching now," Crispin said.

"You're watching your money, true. I doubt you're watching everything else."

Crispin considered that for a moment. "I appreciate the talk," he said, "but I think I'm okay on my own."

Myron pointed at Tad Crispin's head. "How much are you getting for that hat?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You're wearing a hat with no company logo on it,"

Myron explained. "For a player of your ilk, that's a loss of at least a quarter of a million dollars."

Silence.

"But I'm going to be working with Zoom," Crispin said.

"Did they purchase hat rights from you'?"

He thought about it. "I don't think so." .

"The front of the hat is a quarter million. We can also sell the sides if you want. They'll go for less. Maybe we'll total four hundred grand. Your shirt is another matter."

"Now just wait one minute here," Zuckerman interjected. "He's going to be wearing Zoom shirts."

"Fine, Norm," Myron said. "But he's allowed to wear logos. One on the chest, one on either sleeve."

"Logos?"

"Anything. Coca-Cola maybe. IBM. Even Home Depot."

"Logos on my shirt?"

"Yep. And what do you drink out there?"

"Drink? When I play?"

"Sure. I can probably get you a deal with Powerade or one of the soda companies. How about Poland Spring water? They might be good. And your golf bag. You have to negotiate a deal for your golf bag."

"I don't understand."

"You're a billboard, Tad. You're on television. Lots of fans see you. Your hat, your shirt, your golf bag those are all places to post ads."

Zuckerman said, "Now hold on a second. He can't just-"

A cell phone began to sound, but it never made it past the first ring. Myron's finger reached the ringer and turned it off with a speed that would have made Wyatt Earp retire. Fast reflexes. They came in handy every once in a while.

Still, the brief sound had drawn the ire of nearby club members. Myron looked around. He was on the receiving end of several dagger-glares, including one from Win.

"Hurry around behind the clubhouse," Win said pointedly. "Let no one see you."

Myron gave a flippant salute and rushed out like a man with a suddenly collapsing bladder. When he reached a safe area near the parking lot, he answered the call.

"Hello."

"Oh, God . . ." It was Linda Coldren. Her tone struck the marrow of his bone.

"What's wrong?"

"He called again," she said.

"Do you have it on tape?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right over "

"No!" she shouted. "He's watching the house."

"You saw him?"

"No. But . . . Don't come here. Please."

"Where are you calling from?"

"The fax line in the basement. Oh God, Myron, you should have heard him." '

"Did the number come up on the Caller lD?"

"Yes." '

"Give it to me."

She did. Myron took out a pen from his wallet and wrote the number down on an old Visa receipt.

"Are you alone?"

` "Jack is right here with me."

"Anybody else`? What about Esme Fong?"

"She's upstairs in the living room."

"Okay," Myron said. "I'll need to hear the call."

"Hold on. Jack is plugging the machine in now. I'll put you on the speaker so you can hear."

Chapter 7

The tape player was snapped on. Myron heard the phone ringing first. The sound was surprisingly clear.

Then he heard Jack Coldren: "Hello?"

"Who's the chink bitch?" `

The voice was very deep, very menacing, and definitely machine-altered. Male or female, young or old, it was anyone's guess.

"I don't know what "

"You trying to fuck with me, you dumb son of a bitch? l'll start sending you the fucking brat in little pieces."

Jack Coldren said, "Please "

"l told you not to contact anyone."

"We haven't."

' 'Then tell me who that chink bitch is who just walked into your house."

Silence.

"You think we're stupid, Jack?"

"Of course not."

"So who the fuck is she?"

"Her name is Esme Fong," Coldren said quickly.

"She works for a clothing company. She's just here to set up an endorsement deal with my wife, that's all."

"Bullshit. ' '

"It's the truth, I swear."

"l don't know, Jack .... "

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"Well, Jack, we'll just see about that. This is gorma cost you."

"What do you mean?"

"One hundred grand. Call it a penalty price."

"For what'?"

' 'Never you fucking mind. You want the kid alive? lt's gonna cost you one hundred grand now. That's in "

"Now hold on a second." Coldren cleared his throat.

Trying to gain some footing, some degree of control.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"You interrupt me again and I'm going to stick your kid's dick in a vise."

Silence.

"You get the money ready, Jack. One hundred grand.

I'll call you back and let you know what to do. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Don't fuck up, Jack. I enjoy hurting people."

The brief silence was shattered by a sharp, sudden scream, a scream that jangled nerve endings and raised hackles. Myron's hand tightened on the receiver.

The phone disconnected. Then a dial tone. Then nothing.

Linda Coldren took him off the speaker. "What are we going to do?"

"Call the FBI," Myron said.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I think it's your best move."

Jack Coldren said something in the background. Linda came back on the line. "Absolutely not. We just want to pay the ransom and get our son back."

No point in arguing with them. "Sit tight. I'll call you a back as soon as I can."

Myron disconnected the call and dialed another number.

Lisa at New York Bell. She'd been a contact of theirs since the days he and Win had worked for the goverment.

"A Caller ID came up with a number in Philadelphia,"

he said. "Can you find an address for me?"

"No problem," Lisa said.

He gave her the number. People who watch too much television think this sort of thing takes a long time. Not anymore. Traces are instantaneous now. No "keep him on a little longer" or any of that stuff. The same is true when it comes to finding the location of a phone number.

Any operator almost anywhere can plug the number into her computer or use one of those reverse directories, and whammo. Heck, you don't even need an operator. Computer programs on CD-ROM and Web sites did the same thing.

"It's a pay phone," she said.

Not good news, but not unexpected either. "Do you know where?"

"The Grand Mercado Mall in Bala-Cynwyd."

"A mall?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"That's what it says."

"Where in the mall?"

"I have no idea. You think they list it 'between Sears and Victoria's Secret'?"

This made no sense. A mall? The kidnapper had dragged Chad Coldren to a mall and made him scream into a phone?

"Thanks, Lisa."

He hung up and turned back toward the porch. Win was standing directly behind him. His arms were folded, his body, as always, completely relaxed.

"The kidnapper called," Myron said.

"So I overheard." `

"I could use your help tracking this down."

"No," Win said.

"This isn't about your mother, Win."

Win's face did not change, but something happened to his eyes. "Careful," was all he said.

Myron shook his head. "I have to go. Please make my excuses." .

"You came here to recruit clients," Wm said. "You claimed earlier that you agreed to help the Coldrens in the hopes of representing them."

"So'?"

"So you are excruciatingly close to landing the world's top golf protTgT. Reason dictates that you stay."

"l can't."

Win unfolded his arms, shook his head.

"Will you do one thing for me? To let me know if l'm wasting time or not?"

Win remained still.

"You know how I told you about Chad using his ATM

card?"

"Yes."

"Get me the security videotape of the transaction,"

he said. "It may tell me if this whole thing is just a hoax on Chad's part."

Win turned back to the porch. "I'll see you at the house tonight."

Chapter 8

Myron parked at the mall and checked his watch.

Seven forty-five. It had been a very long day and it was still relatively early. He entered through a Macy's and immediately located one of those big table blueprints of the mall. Public telephones were marked with blue locators.

Eleven altogether. Two at the south entrance downstairs.

Two at the north entrance upstairs. Seven at the food court.

Malls were the great American geographical equalizer.

Between shiny anchor stores and beneath excessively flood lit ceilings, Kansas equaled California, New Jersey equaled Nevada, No place was truly more Americana.

Some of the stores inside might be different, but not by much. Athlete's Foot or Foot Locker, Rite Aid or CVS, Williams-Sonoma or Pottery Barn, the Gap or Banana Republic or Old Navy (all, coincidentally, owned by the same people), Waldenbooks or B. Dalton, several anonymous shoe stores, a Radio Shack, a Victoria's Secret, an art gallery with Gorman, McKnight, and Behrens, a museum store of some kind, two record stores all wrapped up in some Orwellian, sleek-chrome neo Roman Forum with chintzy fountains and overstated marble and dentistoffice sculptures and unmanned information booths and fake ferns.

In front of a store selling electric organs and pianos sat an employee dressed in an ill-fitting navy suit and a sailor's cap. He played "Muskrat Love" on an organ.

Myron was tempted to ask him where Tenille was, but he refrained. Too obvious. Organ stores in malls. Who goes to the mall to buy an organ?

He hurried past the Limited or the Unlimited or the Severely Challenged or something like that. Then Jeans Plus or Jeans Minus or Shirts Only or Pants Only or Tank Top City or something like that. They all looked pretty much the same. They all employed lots of skinny, bored teenagers who stocked shelves with the enthusiasm of a eunuch at an orgy.

There were lots of high school kids draped aboutjust hanging, man and looking very, er, rad. At the risk of sounding like a reverse racist, all the white boys looked the same to him. Baggie shorts. White T-shirts. Unlaced black hundred-dollar high-top sneakers. Baseball cap pulled low with the brim worked into a nifty curve, covering a summer buzzcut. Thin. Lanky. Long-limbed. Pale as a Goya portrait, even in the summer. Poor posture. Eyes that never looked directly at another human being. Uncomfortable eyes. Slightly scared eyes.

He passed a hair salon called Snip Away, which sounded more like a vasectomy clinic than a beauty parlor.

The Snip Away beauticians were either reformed mall girls or guys named Mario whose fathers were named Sal.

Two patrons sat in a window one getting a perm, the other a bleach job. Who wanted that? Who wanted to sit in a window and have the whole world watch you get your hair done?

He took an escalator up past a plastic garden complete with plastic vines to the crowned jewel of the mall: the food court. lt was fairly empty now, the dinner crowd long since gone. Food courts were the final outpost of the . great American melting pot. Italian, Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, Middle Eastem (or Greek), a deli, a chicken place, one fast food chain like McDonald's (which had the biggest crowd), a frozen yogurt place, and then a few strange offshoots the ones started by people who dream of franchising themselves into becoming the next Ray Kroc. Ethiopian Ecstasy. Sven's Swedish Meatballs.

Curry Up and Eat.

Myron checked for numbers on the seven phones. All had been whited out. Not surprising, the way people abused them nowadays. No problemo either. He took out his cellular phone and punched in the number from the Caller ID. A phone starting ringing immediately.

Bingo.

The one on the far right. Myron picked it up to make sure. "Hello?" he said. He heard the hello in his cellular phone. Then he said to himself through the cellular, "Hello, Myron, nice to hear from you." He decided to stop talking to himself Too early in the evening to be this goofy.

He hung up the phone and looked around. A group of mall girls inhabited a table not far away. They sat in a closed circle with the protectiveness of coyotes during mating season.

Of the food stands, Sven's Swedish Meatballs had the best view of the phone. Myron approached. Two men worked the booth. They both had dark hair and dark skin and Saddam Hussein mustaches. One's name tag read T Mustafa. The other Achmed.

"Which one of you is Sven?" he asked.

No smiles.

Myron asked about the phone. Mustafa and Achmed were less than helpful. Mustafa snapped that he worked for a living, and didn't watch phones. Achmed gestured and cursed him in a foreign tongue.

"I'm not much of a linguist," Myron said, "but that didn't sound like Swedish."

Death glares.

"Bye now. I'll be sure to tell all my friends."

Myron turned toward the table of mall girls. They all quickly looked down, like rats scurrying in the glare of a flashlight. He stepped toward them. Their eyes darted to and fro with what they must have thought were surreptitious glances. He heard a low cacophony of ' ' ohmygod!ohmygod!ohmygod!he'scomingover! ' '

Myron stopped directly at their table. There were four girls. Or maybe five or even six. Hard to say. They all seemed to blend into one another, into one hazy, indistinct mesh of hair and black lipstick and Fu Manchulength fingernails and earrings and nose rings and cigarette smoke and too-tight halter tops and bare midriffs and popping gum.

The one sitting in the middle looked up first. She had hair like Elsa Lancaster in The Bride of Frankenstein and what looked like a studded dog collar around her neck.

The other faces followed suit.

"Like, hi," Elsa said. .

Myron tried his most gentle, crooked smile. Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The girls all looked at one another. A few giggles escaped. Myron felt his face redden, though he wasn't sure why. They elbowed one another. No one answered.

Myron proceeded.

"How long have you been sitting here?" he asked.

"Is this, like, one of those mall surveys?"

"No," Myron said.

"Good. Those are, like, so lame, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's like, get away from me already, Mr. Polyester Pants, you know?"

Myron said "uh-huh" again. "Do you remember how long you've been sitting here?"

"Nah. Amber, you know?"

"Like, we went to the Gap at four."

"Right, the Gap. Fab sale."

"Ultra sale. Love that blouse you bought, Trish."

"lsn't it, like, the total package, Mindy?"

"Totally. Ultra."

Myron said, "It's almost eight now. Have you been here for the past hour?" '

"Like, hello, anybody home? At least."

"This is, like, our spot, you know?"

"No one else, like, sits here."

"Except that one time when those gross lame-os tried to move in."

"But, like, whoa, don't even go there, 'kay?"

They stopped and looked at Myron. He figured the answer to his prior question was yes, so he plowed ahead.

"Have you seen anybody use that pay phone?"

"Are you, like, a cop or something?"

"As if"

"No way."

"Way."

"He's too cute to be a cop."

"Oh, right, like Jimmy Smits isn't cute."

"That's, like, TV, dumb wad. This is real life. Cops aren't cute in real life."

"Oh, right, like Brad isn't totally cute? You, like, love him, remember?" .

"As if And he's not a cop. He's, like, some rent-auniform at Florsheim."

"But he's so hot."

"Totally."

"Ultra buff."

"He likes Shari."

"Eeeuw. Shari?"

"l, like, hate her, you know?"

"Me too. Like, does she only shop at Sluts 'R' Us, or what?"

"Totally."

"It's, like, 'Hello, Dial-a-Disease, this is Shari speaking.' "

Giggles.

Myron looked for an interpreter. "I'm not a cop," he said.

"Told you."

"As if"

"But," Myron said, "I am dealing with something very important. Life-and-death. I need to know if you remember anyone using that phone the one on the far right forty-five minutes ago.' '

"Whoa!" The one called Amber pushed her chair back. "Clear out, because I'm, like, gonna barf for days, you know?"

"Like, Crusty the Clown."

"He was, like, so gross!"

"Totally gross."

"Totally."

"He, like, winked at Amber!"

"As if"

"Totally eeeuw!"

"Gag city."

"Bet that slut Shari would have Frenched him."

' 'At least.' '

Giggles.

Myron said, "You saw somebody'?"

"Serious groatie." , "Totally crusty."

"He was, like, hello, ever wash your hair?"

"Like, hello, buy your cologne at the local Gas-NGo?"

More giggles.

Myron said, "Can you describe him to me?"

"Blue jeans from, like, 'Attention, Kmart shoppers.' "

"Work boots. Definitely not Tirnberland."

"He was, like, so skinhead wanna-be, you know?"

Myron said, "Skinhead wanna-be?"

"Like, a shaved head. Skanky beard. Tattoo of that thing on his arm."

"That thing?" Myron tried._

"You know, that tattoo." She kind of drew something in the air with her finger. "It kinda looks like a funny cross from, like, the old days."

Myron said, "You mean a swastika?"

"Like, whatever. Do I look like a history major?"

"Like, how old was he?" Like. He'd said like. If he stayed here much longer, he'd end up getting some part of him pierced. Way.

"Old."

' ' Grampa ville. ' '

"Like, at least twenty."

"Height?" Myron asked. "Weight?"

"Six feet." .

"Yeah, like six feet."

"Bony."

"Very."

"Like, no ass at all."

"None."

"Was anybody with him?" Myron asked.

"As if"

"Him?"

"No way."

"Who would be with a skank like that?"

"Just him by that phone for like half an hour."

"He wanted Mindy."

"Did not!"

"Wait a second," Myron said. "He was there for half an hour?"

"Not that long."

"Seemed a long time."

"Maybe like fifteen minutes. Amber, like, always exaggerates." +

"Like, fuck you, Trish, all right? Just fuck you."

"Anything else?" Myron asked.

"Beeper."

"Right, beeper. Like anybody would ever call that skank."

"Held it right up to the phone, too."

Probably not a beeper. Probably a microcassette player. That would explain the scream. Or a voice changer. They also came in a small box.

He thanked the girls and handed out business cards that listed his cellular phone number. One of the girls actually read it. She made a face.

"Like, your name is really Myron?"

"Yes."

They all just stopped and looked at him.

"I know," Myron said. "Like, ultra lame-o."

He was heading back to his car when a nagging thought suddenly resurfaced. The kidnapper on the phone had mentioned a "chink bitch." Somehow he had known about Esme Fong arriving at the house. The question was, how?

There were two possibilities. One, they had a bug in the house.

Not likely. If the Coldren residence was bugged or under some kind of electronic surveillance, the kidnapper would also have known about Myron's involvement.

Two, one of them was watching the house.

That seemed most logical. Myron thought a moment.

If someone had been watching the house only an hour or so ago, it was fair to assume that they were still there, still hiding behind a bush or up a tree or something. If Myron could locate the person surreptitiously, he might be able to follow them back to Chad Coldren.

Was it worth the risk?

Like, totally.

Chapter 9

Ten o'clock.

Myron used Win's name again and parked in Merion's lot. He checked for Win's Jaguar, but it was nowhere to be seen. He parked and checked for guards. No one.

They'd all been stationed at the front entrance. Made things easier.

He quickly stepped over the white rope used to hold back the galley and started crossing the golf course. It was dark now, but the lights from the houses across the way provided enough illumination to cross. For all its fame, Merion was a tiny course. From the parking lot to Golf House Road, across two fairways, was less than a hundred yards.

Myron trudged forward. Humidity hung in the air in a heavy blanket of beads. Myron's shirt began to feel _

sticky. The crickets were incessant and plenteous, their swarming time as monotonous as a Mariah Carey CD, though not quite as grating. The grass tickled Myron's sockless ankles.

Despite his natural aversion to golf, Myron still felt the appropriate sense of awe, as if he were trespassing over sacred ground. Ghosts breathed in the night, the same way they breathed at any sight that had bome legends. Myron remembered once standing on the parquet floor at Boston Garden when no one else was there. It was a week after he had been picked by the Celtics in the flrst round of the NBA draft. Clip Arnstein, the Celtics' fabled general manager, had introduced him to the press earlier that day. It had been enormous fun. Everybody had been laughing and smiling and calling Myron the next Larry Bird. That night, as he stood alone in the famed halls of the Garden, the championship Bags hanging from the rafters actually seemed to sway in the still air, beckoning him forward and whispering tales of the past and promises of what was to come.

Myron never played a game on that parquet floor.

He slowed as he reached Golf House Road and stepped over the white rope. Then he ducked behind a tree. This would not be easy. Then again, it would not be easy for his quarry either. Neighborhoods like this noted anything suspicious. Like a parked car where it didn't belong. That had been why Myron had parked in the Merion lot. Had the kidnapper done likewise? Or was his car out on the street? Or had someone dropped him off?

He kept low and darted to another tree. He looked, he assumed, rather goofy a guy six-feet four inches tall and comfortably over two hundred pounds darting between bushes like something left on the cutting room floor of The Dirty Dozen.

But what choice did he have?

He couldn't just casually walk down the street. The kidnapper might spot him. His whole plan relied on the fact that he could spot the kidnapper before the kidnapper spotted him. How to do this? He really did not have a clue. The best he could come up with was to keep circling closer and closer to the Coldren house, looking out for, er uh, something.

He scanned the surroundings- for what, he wasn't sure. Someplace for a kidnapper to use as a lookout spot, he guessed. A safe place to hide, maybe, or a perch where a man with binoculars could survey the scene. Nothing.

`The night was absolutely windless and still.

He circled the block, dashing haphazardly from one bush to another, feeling now very much like John Belushi breaking into Dean Wormer's office in Animal House.

Animal House and The Dirty Dozen; Myron watched too many movies.

As he continued to spiral closer to the Coldrens' residence, Myron realized that there was probably a good chance that he'd be the "spottee" rather than the "spotter." He tried to hide himself better, to concentrate on making himself become part of the night, to blend in to the background and become invisible.

Myron Bolitar, Mutant Ninja Warrior.

Lights twinkled from spacious homes of stone and black shutters. They were all imposing and rather beautiful with a tutelary, stay-away coziness about them. Solid homes. The third-little-piggie homes. Settled and staying and proud homes.

He was getting very close to the Coldren house now.

Still nothing not even a single car parked on the roads.

Sweat coated him like syrup on a stack of pancakes. God, he wanted to take a shower. He hunched down andwatched the house.

Now what?

Wait. Be on the lookout for movement of some kind.

Surveillance and the like was not Myron's forte. Win usually handled that kind of stuff. He had the body control and the patience. Myron was already getting fidgety. He wished he'd brought a magazine or something to read.

The three minutes of monotony was broken when the front door opened. Myron sat up. Esme Fong and Linda Coldren appeared in the door frame. They said their good-byes. Esme gave Linda the firm handshake and headed to her car. Linda Coldren shut the front door.

Esme Fong started her car and left.

A thrill a second, this surveillance stuff`.

Myron settled back behind a shrub. There were lots of shrubs around here. Everywhere one looked, there were shrubs of various sizes-and shapes and purposes. Rich blue bloods must really like shrubs, Myron decided. He wondered if they had had any on the Mayflower.

His legs were beginning to cramp from all this crouching.

He straightened them out one at a time. His bad knee, the one that ended his basketball career, began to throb.

Enough. He was hot and sticky and in pain. Time to get out of here.

Then he heard a sound.

It seemed to be coming from the back door. He sighed, creaked to his feet, and circled. He found yet another comfy shrub and hid behind it. He peered out.

Jack Coldren was in the backyard with his caddie, Diane Hoffman. Jack held a golf club in his hands, but he wasn't hitting. He was talking with Diane Hoffman. Animatedly.

Diane Hoffman was talking back. Equally animated.

Neither one of them seemed very pleased. Myron could not hear them, but they were both gesturing like mad.

An argument. A rather heated argument.

Hmm.

Of course, there probably was an innocent explanation.

Caddies and players argue all the time, Myron guessed. He remembered reading how Seve Ballesteros, the Spanish former wunderkind, was always fighting with his caddie. Bound to happen. Routine stuff, a caddie and a pro having a little tiff especially during such a pressure filled tournament as the U. S. Open.

But the timing was curious.

Think about it a second. A man gets a terrifying call from a kidnapper. He hears his son scream in apparent fright or pain. Then, a couple of hours later, he is in his backyard arguing about his backswing with his caddie.

Did that make sense?

Myron decided to move closer, but there was no straight path. Shrubs again, like tackle dummies at a football practice. He'd have to move to the side of the house and circle in behind them. He made a quick bolt to his left and risked another glance. The heated argument continued.

Diane Hoflrnan tooka step closer to Jack.

Then she slapped him in the face.

The sound sliced through the night like a scythe. Myron froze. Diane Hoffman shouted something. Myron heard the word bastard, but nothing else. Diane flicked her cigarette at Jack's feet and stormed off Jack looked down, shook his head slowly, and went back inside.

Well, well, Myron thought. Must have been some trouble with that backswing.

Myron stayed behind the shrub. He heard a car start in the driveway. Diane Hoffman's, he assumed. For a moment, he wondered if she had a role in this. Obviously she had been in the house. Could she be the mysterious lookout?

He leaned back and considered the possibility. The idea was just starting to soak in and settle when Myron spotted the man.

Or at least he assumed it was a man. It was hard to tell from where he was crouched. Myron could not believe what he was seeing. He had been wrong. Dead wrong.

The perpetrator hadn't been hiding in the bushes or anything like that. Myron watched now in silence as someone dressed completely in black climbed out an upper-floor window. More specifically if memory didn't fail himChad Coldren's bedroom window.

Hello there.

Myron ducked down. Now what? He needed a plan.

Yes, a plan. Good thinking. But what plan? Did he grab the perp now? No. Better to follow him. Maybe he'd lead him back to Chad Coldren. That would be nice.

He took another peek out. The black-clad figure had scaled down a white lattice fence with entwined ivy. He jumped the last few feet. As soon as he hit the ground, he sprinted away.

Great.

Myron followed, trying to stay as far behind the figure as possible. The Hgure, however, was running. This made following silently rather difficult. But Myron kept back.

Didn't want to risk being seen. Besides, chances were good that the perpetrator had brought a car or was getting picked up by someone. These streets barely had any traftic. Myron would be bound to hear an engine.

But then what?

What would Myron do when the perp got to the car?

Run back to get his own? No, that wouldn't work. Follow a car on foot? Er, not likely. So what exactly was he going to do?

Good question.

He wished Win were here.

The perp kept running. And running. Myron was starting to suck air. Jesus, who the hell was he chasing anyway, Frank Shorter? Another quarter mile passed before the perp abruptly veered to the right and out of view. The turn was so sudden that for a moment Myron wondered if he`d been spotted. Impossible. He was too far back and his quarry had not so much as glanced over his shoulder.

Myron tried to hurry a bit, but the road was gravelly.

Running silently would be impossible. Still, he had to make up ground. He ran high atop his tiptoes, looking not unlike Baryshnikov with dysentery. He prayed nobody would see him.

He reached the turn. The name of the street was Green Acres Road. Green Acres. The old TV show theme song started in his head, like someone had pressed buttons on a jukebox. He couldn't stop it. Eddie Albert rode a tractor.

Eva Gabor opened boxes in a Manhattan penthouse. Sam Drucker waved from behind the counter of his general store. Mr. Haney pulled his suspenders with both thumbs.

Arnold the pig snorted.

Man, the humidity was definitely getting to him.

Myron wheeled to the right and looked ahead.

Nothing.

Green Acres was a short cul-de-sac with maybe five homes. Fabulous homes, or so Myron assumed. Towering shrub walls again with the shrubs lined either side of the street. Locked gates were on the driveways, the kind that worked by remote control or by pushing a combination in a keypad. Myron stopped and looked down the road.

So where was our boy?

He felt his pulse quicken. No sign of him. The only escape route was through the woods between two houses in the cul-de-sac. He must have gone in there, Myron surmised if, that is, he was trying to escape and not, say, hide in the bushes. He might, after all, have spotted Myron.

He might have decided to duck down somewhere and hide. Hide and then pounce when Myron walked by.

These were not comforting thoughts.

Now what?

He licked the sweat off his upper lip. His mouth felt terribly dry. He could almost hear himself sweat.

Suck it up, Myron, he told himself He was six-four and two hundred and twenty poimds. A big guy. He was also a black belt in tae kwon do and a well-trained fighter.

He could fend off any attack.

Unless the guy was armed.

True. Let's face it. Fight training and experience were helpful, but they did not make one bullet-proof. Not even Win. Of course, Win wouldn't have been stupid enough to get himself into this mess. Myron carried a weapon only when he thought it was absolutely necessary. Win, on the other hand, carried at least two guns and one bladed instrument at all times. Third world countries should be as well armed as Win.

So what to do?

He looked left and right, but there was no place much for anybody to hide. The shrub walls were thick and fully impenetrable. That left only the woods at the end of the road. But there were no lights down that way and the woods looked dense and forbidding.

Should he go in?

No. That would be pointless at best. He had no idea how big the woods were, what direction to head in, nothing.

The odds of finding the perpetrator were frighteningly remote. Myron's best hope was that the perp was just hiding for a while, waiting for Myron to clear out.

Clear out. That sounded like a plan.

Myron moved back to the end of Green Acres. He turned left, traveled a couple of hundred yards, and settled behind yet another shrub. He and shrubs were on a firstname basis by now. This one he named Frank.

He waited an hour. No one appeared.

Great.

He finally stood up, said good-bye to Frank, and headed back to the car. The perpetrator must have escaped through the woods. That meant that he had planned an escape route or, more probably, he knew the area well.

Could mean that it was Chad Coldren. Or it could mean that the kidnappers knew what they were doing. And if that was so, it meant there was a good chance that they now knew about Myron's involvement and the fact that the Coldrens had disobeyed them.

Myron hoped like hell it was just a hoax. But if it wasn't, if this was indeed a real kidnapping, he wondered about repercussions. He wondered how the kidnappers would react to what he had done. And as he continued on his way, Myron remembered their previous phone call and the harrowing, fiesh creeping sound of Chad Coldren's scream.

Chapter IO

"Meanwhile, back at stately Wayne Manor . .

That voice-over fiom the TV Batman always came to Myron when he reached the steely gates of the Lockwood estate. In reality, Win's family home looked very little like Bruce Wayne's house, though it did offer up the same aura. A tremendous serpentine driveway wound to an imposing stone mansion on the hill. There was grass, lots of it, all the blades kept at a consistently ideal length, like a politician's hair in an election year. There were also lush gardens and hills and a swimming pool, a pond, a tennis court, horse stables, and a horse obstacle course of some kind.

All in all, the Lockwood estate was very "stately"

and worthy of the term "manor," whatever that meant.

Myron and Win were staying at the guest house or as Win's father liked to call it, "the cottage." Exposed beams, hardwood floors, fireplace, new kitchen with a big island in the middle, pool room not to mention five bedrooms, four and half baths. Some cottage.

Myron tried to sort through what was happening, but all he came up with was a series of paradoxes, a whole lot of "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Motive, for example. On the one hand, it might make sense to kidnap Chad Coldren to throw off Jack Coldren. But Chad had been missing since before the tournament, which meant the kidnapper was either very cautious or very prophetic. On the other hand, the kidnapper had asked for one hundred grand, which pointed to a simple case of kidnapping for money. A hundred grand was a nice, tidy sum a little low for a kidnapping, but not bad for a few days' work.

But if this was merely a kidnapping to extort mucho dinero, the timing was curious. Why now? Why during the one time a year the U. S. Open was played? More than that, why kidnap Chad during the one time in the last twenty-three years the Open was being played at Merion the one time in almost a quarter of a century that Jack Coldren had a chance to revisit and redeem his greatest failing?

Seemed like a hell of a coincidence.

That brought it back to a hoax and a scenario that went something like this: Chad Coldren disappears before the tournament to screw around with his dad's mind. When that doesn't work-then, to the contrary, Dad starts win' ning he ups the ante and fakes his own kidnapping. Taking it a step further, one could assume that it had been Chad Coldren who had been climbing out of his own window. Who better? Chad Coldren knew the area. Chad Coldren probably knew how to go through those woods.

Or maybe he was hiding out at a friend's house who lived on Green Acres Road. Whatever.

It added up. It made sense.

All of this assumed, of course, that Chad truly disliked his father. Was there evidence of that? Myron thought so.

Start of with the fact that Chad was sixteen years old.

Not an easy age. Weak evidence for sure, but worth keeping in mind. Second and far, far more important Jack Coldren was an absent father. No athlete is away from home as much as a golfer. Not basketball players or football players or baseball players or hockey players. The only ones who come close are tennis players. In both tennis and golf, tournaments are taking place almost all year there is little so-called off season and there is no such thing as a home game. lf you were lucky, you hit your home course once a year.

Lastly and perhaps most crucial of all Chad had been gone for two days without raising eyebrows. Forget Linda Coldren's discourse on responsible children and open child raising. The only rational explanation for their nonchalance was that this had happened before, or at the very least, was not unexpected.

But there were problems with the hoax scenario too.

For example, how did Mr. Total Grunge from the mall fit in?

There was indeed the rub. What role was the Crusty Nazi playing in all this? Did Chad Coldren have an accomplice?

Possibly, but that really didn't fit in well with a revenge scenario. If Chad was indeed behind all this, Myron doubted that the preppy golfer would join forces with a "skinhead wanna-be," complete with a swastika tattoo.

So where did that leave Myron?

Baffled.

As Myron pulled up to the guest house, he felt his heart constrict. Win's Jag was there. But so was a green Chevy Nova.

Oh, Christ.

Myron got out of the car slowly. He checked the license plate on the Nova. Unfamiliar. As he expected. He swallowed and moved away.

He opened the cottage's front door and welcomed the sudden onslaught of air-conditioning. The lights were out.

For a moment he just stood in the foyer, eyes closed, the cool air tingling his skin. An enormous grandfather clock ticked.

Myron opened his eyes and flicked on a light.

"Good evening."

He pivoted to his right. Win was seated in a high back leather chair by the fireplace. He cupped a brandy sniiter in his hand.

"You were sitting in the dark?" Myron asked.

"Yes." `

Myron frowned. "A bit theatrical, don't you think?"

Win switched on a nearby lamp. His face was a tad rosy from the brandy. "Care to join me?"

"Sure. I'll be right back."

Myron grabbed a cold Yoo-Hoo from the refrigerator and sat on the couch across from his friend. He shook the can and popped it open. They drank in silence for several minutes. The clock ticked. Long shadows snaked across the floor in thin, almost smoky tendrils. Too bad it was summertime. This was the kind of setting that begged for a roaring fire and maybe some howling wind. An air conditioner just didn't cut it.

Myron was just getting comfortable when he heard a toilet flush. He looked a question at Win.

"I am not alone," Win said.

"Oh." Myron adjusted himself on the couch. "A

woman?"

"Your gifts," Win said. "They never cease to amaze."

"Anybody I know?" Myron asked.

Win shook his head. "Not even somebody I know."

The norm. Myron looked steadily at his friend. "You want to talk about this?"

"No." '

"I'm here if you do."

"Yes, I see that." Win swished around the drink in the snifter. He finished it in one gulp and reached for the crystal decanter. There was a slight slur in his speech.

Myron tried to remember the last time he had seen Win the vegetarian, the master of several martial arts, the transcendental meditator, the man so at ease and in focus with his surroundings, have too much to drink.

It had been a very long time.

"I have a golf question for you," Myron said.

Win nodded for him to proceed.

"Do you think Jack Coldren can hang on to this lead?"

Win poured the brandy. "Jack will win," he said.

"You sound pretty sure."

"I am sure."

"Why?"

Win raised the glass to his mouth and looked over the rim. "I saw his eyes."

Myron made a face. "What's that supposed to mean?" .

"He has it back. The look in the eyes."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Perhaps I am. But let me ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"What separates the great athletes from the very good? The legend from the joumeyman? Simply put, what makes winners?"

"Talent," Myron said. "Practice. Skill."

Win gave a slight shake of the head. "You know better than that."

"I do?"

"Yes. Many have talent. Many practice. There is more to the art of creating a true winner."

"This look-in-the-eye thing?"

"Yes."

Myron winced. "You're not going to start singing 'Eye of the Tiger,' are you?" _

Win cocked his head. "Who sang that song?"

The continuing trivia game. Win knew the answer, of course. "It was in Rocky II, right?"

"Rocky IIl," Win corrected.

"That the one with Mr. T?"

Win nodded. "Who played . . . ?" he prompted.

"Clubber Lange."

"Very good. Now who sang the song?"

"I don't remember."

"The name of the group was Survivor," Win said.

"Ironic name when you think of how quickly they vanished, no?"

"Uh-huh," Myron said. "So what is this great divider, Win? What makes a winner'?"

Win took another swish and sip. "Wanting," he said.

"Wanting?"

"Hunger."

"Uh+huh." "The answer isn't surprising," Win said. "Look in Joe DiMaggio's eyes. Or Larry Bird's. Or Michael Jordan's.

Look at pictures of Jolm McEnroe in his prime, or Chris Evert. Look at Linda Coldren." He stopped. ' 'Look in the mirror."

"The mirror? I have this?"

"When you were on the court," Win said slowly, "your eyes were barely sane."

They fell into silence. Myron took a swig of Yoo-Hoo.

The cold aluminum felt good in his hand. "You make the . whole 'wanting' thing sound like it's all foreign to you,"

Myron said.

"It is."

"Bull."

"I am a good golfer," Win said. "Correction: I am a very good golfer. I practiced quite a bit in my youth. I

have even won my share of toumaments. But I never wanted it bad enough to move up to that next level."

"I've seen you in the ring," Myron countered. "In martial arts tournaments. You seemed plenty 'wanting' to me."

"That is very different," Win said.

"How so?" +

"I do not view a martial arts tournaments as a sporting contest, whereby the winner brings home a chintzy trophy and brags to colleagues and friends- nor do I view it as a competition that will lead to some sort of empty emotion that the insecure among us perceive as glory.

Fighting is not a sport to me. It's about survival. If I could lose in there"- he motioned to an imaginary ring "I

could lose in the real world." Win looked up in the air.

"But . . ." His voice drifted off "But?" Myron repeated.

"But you may be on to something."

"Oh?"

Win steepled his fingers. "You see, fighting is life and death to me. That's how I treat it. But the athletes we've been talking about take it a step further. Every competition,-even the most banal, is viewed by them as life-and-death and losing is death."

Myron nodded. He didn't buy it, but what the hell.

Keep him talking. "I don't get something," he said. "If Jack has this special 'wanting,' why hasn't he ever won a professional tournament?' '

"He lost it."

"The wanting?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Twenty-three years ago."

"During the Open?"

"Yes," Win said again. "Most athletes lose it in a slow burnout. They grow weary or they win enough to quench whatever inferno rages in their bellies. But that was not the case with Jack. His fire was extinguished in one crisp, cold gust. You could almost see it. Twentythree years ago. The sixteenth hole. The ball landing in the stone quarry. His eyes have never been the same."

"Until now," Myron added.

"Until now," Win agreed. "It took him twenty-three years, but he stoked the flames back to life."

They both drank. Win sipped. Myron guzzled. The chocolaty coldness felt wonderful sliding down his throat.

"How long have you known Jack?" Myron asked.

"I met him when I was six years old. He was fifteen."

"Did he have the 'wanting' back then?"

Win smiled at the ceiling. "He would sooner carve out his own kidney with a grapefruit spoon than lose to someone on the golf course." He lowered his gaze to Myron.

."Did Jack Coldren have the 'wanting'? He was the pure definition."

"Sounds like you admired him."

"I did."

"You don't anymore?"

"No."

"What made you change?"

"l grew up."

"Wow." Myron took another swig of Yoo-Hoo.

"That's heavy."

Win chuckled. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Win put down the brandy snifter. He leaned forward very slowly. "What is so great about winning?"

"Pardon?"

"People love a winner. They look up to him. They admire nay, revere him. They use terms like hero and courage and perseverance to describe him. They want to be near him and touch him. They want to be like him."

Win spread his hands. "But why? What about the winner do we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement?

His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?" He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. "Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?"

"Competitive drive isn't a bad thing, Win. You're talking about extremes."

"But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call 'competitive drive' leads to extremism and destroys all in its path."

"You're being simplistic, Win."

"It is simple, my friend."

They both settled back. Myron stared up at the exposed beams. Aiter some time, he said, "You have it wrong."

"How so?"

Myron wondered how to explain it. "W'hen I played basketball," he began, "I mean, when I really got into it and reached these levels you're talking about I barely thought about the score. I barely thought about my opponent or about beating somebody. I was alone. I was in the zone. This is going to sound stupid, but playing at the top of my game was almost Zen-like."

Win nodded. "And when did you feel this way?"

"Pardon?"

"When did you feel your most to use your word Zen?"

"I don't follow."

' 'Was it at practice? No. Was it during an unimportant game or when your team was up by thirty points? No.

What brought you to this sweat-drenched state of Nirvana, my friend, was competition. The desire the naked need to defeat a top-level opponent."

Myron opened his mouth to counter. Then he stopped.

Exhaustion was starting to take over. ' 'I'm not sure I have an answer to that," he said. "At the end of the day, I like to win. I don't know why. I like ice cream too. I don't know why either."

Win frowned. "Impressive simile," he said flatly.

"Hey, it's late."

Myron heard a car pull up front. A young blond entered the room and smiled. Win smiled back. She bent down and kissed him. Win had no problem with that. Win was never outwardly rude to his dates. He was not the type to rush them out. He had no problem with them staying the night, if it made them happier. Some might mistake this for kindness or a tender spot in the soul.

They'd be wrong. Win let them stay because they meant so little to him. They could never reach him. They could never touch him. So why not. let them stay?

"That's my taxi," the blonde said.

Win's smile was blank.

"I had fun," she said.

Not even a blink.

"You can reach me through Amanda if you want"

she looked at Myron, then back at Win "well, you know."

"Yes," Win said. "l know." .

The young woman offered up an uncomfortable smile and left.

Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past in the mideighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called "Chinese Night" but to still partake, in this day and age?

Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.

He turned to his friend. They looked at each other.

Neither one of them said anything.

"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."

"I didn't say anything." .

"Indeed." Win stood.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

Myron felt his heart pound."'Mind if I go with you?"

"Yes."

"What car are you taking?"

Win did not bother responding. "Good night, Myron." .

Myron's mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.

Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. ' 'One question, if I may."

Myron nodded, unable to speak.

"Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you'?" Win asked.

"No," Myron said.

"Then who?"

"Your uncle Bucky."

Win arched an eyebrow. "And who suggested us to Bucky?"

Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn't stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.

"Win?"

"Go to sleep, Myron."

Chapter 11

Myron did not go to sleep. He didn't even bother trying.

He sat in Win's chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win's potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.

At 3:30 A. M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open.

Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion. +

"Good night," Win said.

He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach.

He had just begun to slide into his REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open. '

"You're still asleep'?" a familiar voice asked.

Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking;

he wasn't used to her doing it where he slept.

"What time is it?" he croaked.

' ' Six+thirty. ' '

"In the morning?"

Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations.

With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"Amtrak red-eye," she said.

Myron was still groggy. "Then what did you do?

Catch a cab?"

"What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab."

"Just asking."

"The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he's not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood. ' '

Myron shrugged. "Probably thought you were a domestic,"

he said.

"In these shoes?" She lifted her foot so he could see.

"Very nice." Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. "Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?"

"I got some information on the old caddie."

"Lloyd Rennart'?"

Esperanza nodded: "He's dead."

"Oh." Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a begirming. "You could have just called."

"There's more." .

"Oh?"

"The circumstances surrounding his death are" she stopped, bit her lower lip "fuzzy."

Myron sat up a bit. "Fuzzy?"

"Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago."

"How?" +

"That's the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain range in Peru. He woke up one morning, wrote a brief note, then he jumped oif a cliff of some kind."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I haven't been able to get too many details yet.

The Philadelphia Daily News just had a brief story on it." There was a hint of a smile. "But according to the article, the body had not yet been located."

Myron was starting to wake up in a big hurry.

"What?"

"Apparently Lloyd Rermart took the plunge in a remote crevasse with no access. They may have located the body by now, but I couldn't find a follow-up article. None of the local papers carried an obituary."

Myron shook his head. No body. The questions that sprang to mind were obvious: could Lloyd Rennart still be alive? Did he fake his own death in order to plot out his revenge? Seemed a tad out there, but you never know. If he had, why would he have waited twenty-three years?

True, the U. S. Open was back at Merion. True, that could make old wounds resurface. But still. "Weird," he said.

He looked up at her. "You could have told me all this on the phone. You didn't have to come all the way down here."

"What the hell is the big deal?" Esperanza snapped.

' 'I wanted to get out of the city for the weekend. I thought seeing the Open would be fun. You mind?"

"I was just asking."

"You're so nosy sometimes."

"Okay, okay." He held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Forget I asked."

"Forgotten," she said. "You want to fill me in on what's going on?"

He told her about the Crusty Nazi at the mall and about losing the black-clad perpetrator.

When he finished, Esperanza shook her head.

"Jesus," she said. "Without Win, you're hopeless."

Ms. Morale Booster.

"Speaking of Win," Myron said, "don't talk to him about the case."

"Why?"

"He's reacting badly,"

She watched him closely. "How badly?"

"He went night visiting."

Silence.

"I thought he stopped doing that," she said.

"I thought so too."

"Are you sure?"

"There was a Chevy parked in the driveway," Myron said. ' 'He took it out of here last night and didn't get back till three-thirty."

Silence. Win stored a bunch of old, unregistered Chevys. Disposable cars, he called them. Completely untraceable.

Esperanza's voice was soft. "You can't have it both ways, Myron."

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't ask Win to do it when it suits you, then get pissed off when he does it on his own."

"l never ask him to play vigilante."

"Yeah, you do. You involve him in violence. When it suits your needs, you unleash him. Like he's a weapon of some kind."

"It's not like that."

"It is like that," she said. "It is exactly like that.

When Win goes out on these night errands, he doesn't hurt the irmocent, does he?"

Myron considered the question. "No," he said.

"So what's the problem? He is just attacking a different type of guilty. He picks out the guilty instead of you."

Myron shook his head. "It's not the same thing."

"Because you judge?"

' 'I don't send him out to hurt people. I send him out to watch people or to back me up."

"I'm not sure I see the difference."

"Do you know what he does when he night visits, Esperanza? He walks through the worst neighborhoods he can find in the middle of the night. Old FBI buddies tell him where drug dealers or child pornographers or street gangs hang out alleyways, abandoned buildings, whatever and he goes strolling through those hellholes no cop would dare tread."

"Sounds like Batman," Esperanza countered.

"You don't think it's wrong?"

"Oh, I think it's wrong," she replied steadily. "But I'm not sure you do."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it," she said. "About why you're really upset."

Footsteps approached. Win stuck his head in the doorway. He was smiling like a guest star on the opening credits of the Love Boat. "Good morning, all," he said with far too much cheer. He bussed Esperanza's cheek.

He was decked out in classic, though fairly understated, golf clothes. Ashworth shirt. Plain golf cap. Sky-blue pants with pleats.

"Will you be staying with us, Esperanza?" he asked in his most solicitous tone.

Esperanza looked at him, looked at Myron. Nodded.

"Wonderful. You can use the bedroom down the hall on the left." Win turned to Myron. "Guess what?"

"I'm all ears, Mr. Happy Face," Myron said.

"Crispin still wants to meet with you. It appears that your walking out last night actually made something of an impression on him." Big smile, spread hands. "The reluctant suitor approach. I must try it sometime."

Esperanza said, "Tad Crispin? The Tad Crispin'?"

"The very," Win replied.

She gave Myron an approving look. "Wow."

"Indeed," Win said. "Well, I must be going. I'll see you at Merion. I'll be at the Lock Home tent most of the day." Renewing the smile. "Ta-ta."

Win started to leave, stopped, snapped his fingers. "I

almost forgot." He tossed Myron a videotape. "Maybe this will save you some time."

The videotape landed on the bed. "Is this . . . ?"

"The bank security tape from First Philadelphia,"

Win said. "Six eighteen on Thursday afternoon. As per your request." One more smile, one more wave. "Have a great day."

Esperanza watched him go. " 'Have a great day'?"

she repeated.

Myron shrugged.

"Who the hell was that guy'?" she asked.

"Wink Martindale," Myron said. "Come on. Let's go downstairs and watch this."

Chapter I2

Linda Coldren opened the door before Myron knocked.

"What is it?" she asked.

Linda's face was drawn, accentuating the already high cheekbones. Her eyes had a lost and hollow look. She hadn't slept. The pressure was growing unbearable. The worrying. The not knowing. She was strong. She was trying to stand up to it. But her son's disappearance was beginning to gnaw away at her core.

Myron held up the videotape. "Do you have a VCR?"

he asked. .

In something of a daze, Linda Coldren led him to the same television he had seen her watching yesterday when they first met. Jack Coldren appeared from a back room, his golf bag on his shoulder. He, too, looked worn. There were sacks under his eyes, Heshy pouches like soft cocoons.

Jack tried to toss up a welcoming smile, but it sputtered up like a lighter low on fluid.

"Hey, Myron."

"Hey, Jack."

"What's going on?"

Myron slid the tape into the opening. "Do you know anybody who lives on Green Acres Road?" he asked.

Jack and Linda looked each other.

"Why do you want to know that?" Linda asked.

"Because last night I watched your house. I saw somebody crawl out a window."

"A window?" It was Jack. He lowered his eyebrows.

"What window?"

"Your son's."

Silence.

Then Linda asked, "What does that have to do with Green Acres Road?" .

"I followed whoever it was. He turned down Green Acres Road and disappeared either into a house or into the woods."

Linda lowered her head. Jack stepped forward and spoke. "The Squires live on Green Acres Road," he said.

"Chad's best friend Matthew."

Myron nodded. He was not surprised. He flicked on the television. "This is a bank security tape from First Philadelphia. ' '

"How did you get it?" Jack asked.

"It's not important." '

The front door opened and Bucky entered. The older man, dressed today in checked pants with a yellow-andgreen top, stepped into the den doing his customary neck craning bit. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

Nobody replied.

"I said "

"Just watch the screen, Dad," Linda interrupted.

"Oh," Bucky said softly, moving in closer.

Myron turned the channel to Three and hit the PLAY

button. All eyes were on the screen. Myron had already seen the tape. He studied their faces instead, watching for reactions.

On the television, a black-and-white image appeared.

The bank's driveway. The view was from up high and a bit distorted, a concave fish-eye effect to capture as much space as possible. There was no sound. Myron had the tape all cued up on the right spot. Almost immediately a car pulled into view. The camera was on the driver's side.

"It's Chad's car," Jack Coldren announced.

They watched in rapt silence as the car window lowered.

The angle was a bit odd above the car and from the machine's point of view but there was no doubt.

Chad Coldren was the driver. He leaned out the window and put his card in the ATM machine slot. His fingers tripped across the buttons like an experienced stenographer's.

Young Chad Coldren's smile was bright and happy.

When his fingers finished their little rumba, Chad settled back into the car to wait. He turned away from the camera for a moment. To the passenger seat. Someone was sitting next to Chad. Again Myron watched for a reaction. Linda, Jack, and Bucky all squinted, all trying to make out a face, but it was impossible. When Chad finally tumed back to the camera, he was laughing. He pulled the money out, grabbed his card, leaned back into the car, closed the window, and drove off.

Myron switched off the VCR and waited. Silence Hooded the room. Linda Coldren slowly lifted her head.

She kept her expression steady, but her jaw trembled from being so set.

"There was another person in the car," Linda offered.

"He could have had a gun on Chad or "

"Stop it!" Jack shouted. "Look at his face, Linda!

For crying out loud, just look at his goddamn smirking face!"

"I know my son. He wouldn't do this."

"You don't know him," Jack countered. "Face it, Linda. Neither one of us knows him."

"It's not what it looks like," Linda insisted, speaking more to herself than anyone in the room.

"No?" Jack gestured at the television, his face reddening.

"Then how the hell do you explain what we just saw? Huh? He was laughing, Linda. He's having the time of his life at our expense." He stopped, struggled with something. "At my expense," he corrected himself Linda gave him a long look. "Go play, Jack."

"That's exactly what I am going to do."

He lifted his bag. His eyes met Bucky's. Bucky remained silent. A tear slid down the older man's cheek.

Jack tore his gaze away and started for the door.

Myron called out, "Jack?"

Coldren stopped.

"It still might not be what it looks like," Myron said.

Again with the eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I traced the call you got last night," Myron explained.

"lt was made from a mall pay phone." He briefly filled them in on his visit to the Grand Mercado Mall and the Crusty Nazi. Linda's face kept slipping from hope to heartbreak and mostly confusion. Myron understood. She wanted her son to be safe. But at the same time, she did not want this to be some cruel joke. Tough mix.

"He is in trouble," Linda said as soon as he'd finished.

"That proves it."

' 'That proves nothing,' ' Jack replied in tired exasperation.

"Rich kids hang out at malls and dress like punks too. He's probably a friend of Chad's."

Again Linda looked at her husband hard. Again she said in a measured tone, "Go play, Jack."

Jack opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. He shook his head, adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and left. Bucky crossed the room. He tried to hold his daughter, but she stiffened at his touch. She moved away, studying Myron's face.

"You think he's faking too," she said.

"Jack's explanation makes sense."

"So you're going to stop looking'?"

"I don't know," Myron said.

She straightened her back. "Stay with it," she began, "and I promise to sign with you."

"Linda . . ."I "That's why you're here in the first place, right? You want my business. Well, here's the deal. You stay with me and I'll sign whatever you want. Hoax or no hoax. It'll be quite a coup, no? Signing the number one ranked female golfer in the world?"

"Yes," Myron admitted. "It would be."

"So there you go." She stuck out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Myron kept his hands by his side. "Let me ask you something. ' '

"What?"

"Why are you so sure it's not a hoax, Linda?"

"You think I'm being naive?"

"Not really," he said. "I just want to know what makes you so certain."

She lowered her hand and turned away from him.

"Dad?"

Bucky seemed to snap out of a daze. "Hmm'?"

"Would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?"

"Oh," Bucky said. Neck crane. Then another. Two of them back to-back. Good thing he wasn't a giraffe. "Yes, well, I wanted to get to Merion anyway."

"You go ahead, Dad. I'll meet you there."

When they were alone, Linda Coldren began to pace the room. Myron was again awed by her looks the paradoxical combination of beauty, strength and now delicacy.

The strong, toned arms, yet the long, slender neck.

The harsh, pointed features, yet the soft indigo eyes. Myron had heard beauty described as "seamless"; hers was quite the opposite.

"I'm not big on" Linda Coldren made quote marks in the air with her fingers "woman's intuition or any of that mother-knows-her-boy-best crap. But I know that my son is in danger. He wouldn't just disappear like this. No matter how it looks, that's not what happened."

Myron remained silent.

"I don't like asking for help. It's not my way to depend on someone else. But this is a situation .... I'm scared. I've never felt fear like this in all of my life. It's all-consuming. It's suffocating. My son is in trouble and I can't do anything to help him. You want proof that this is not a hoax. I can't provide that. I just know. And I'm asking you to please help me."

Myron wasn't sure how to respond. Her argument came straight from the heart, sans facts or evidence. But that didn't make her suffering any less real. "I'll check out Matthew's house," he said finally. "Let's see what happens after that."

Chapter I3

In the light of day, Green Acres Road was even more imposing. Both sides of the street were lined with tenfoot-high shrubs so thick that Myron couldn't tell how thick. He parked his car outside a. wrought iron gate and approached an intercom. He pressed a button and waited.

There were several surveillance cameras. Some remained steady. Some whirred slowly from side to side. Myron spotted motion detectors, barbed wire, Dobermans.

A rather elaborate fortress, he thought.

A voice as impenetrable as the shrubs came through the speaker. "May I help you?"

"Good morning," Myron said, offering up a friendlybut-not-a-salesman smile to the nearest camera. Talking y to a camera. He felt like he was on Nightline. "I'm looking for Matthew Squires."

Pause. "Your name, sir?"

"Myron Bolitar."

"Is Master Squires expecting you?"

"No." Master Squires?

"Then you do not have an appointment?"

An appointment to see a sixteen-year-old? Who is this kid, Doogie Howser? "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"May I ask the purpose of your visit?"

"To speak to Matthew Squires." Mr. Vague.

"I am afraid that will not be possible at this time," the voice said. '

"Will you tell him it involves Chad Coldren?"

Another pause. Cameras pirouetted. Myron looked around. All the lenses were aiming down from up high, glaring at him like hostile space aliens or lunchroom monitors. .

"In what way does it involve Master Coldren?" the voice asked.

Myron squinted into a camera. "May I ask with whom I am speaking?"

No reply.

Myron waited a beat, then said, "You're supposed to say, 'I am the great and powerliil Oz.' "

"I am sorry, sir. No one is admitted without an appointment.

Please have a nice day."

"Wait a second. Hello? Hello?" Myron pressed the button again. No reply. He leaned on it for several seconds.

Still nothing. He looked up into the camera and gave his best caring-homespun-family-guy smile. Very Tom Brokaw. He tried a small wave. Nothing. He took a small step backward and gave a great big Jack Kemp fake-throwing-a-football wave. Nada.

He stood there for another minute. This was indeed odd. A sixteen-year-old with this kind of security? Something was not quite kosher. He pressed the button one more time. When no one responded he looked into the camera, put a thumb in either ear, wiggled his lingers and stuck out his tongue.

When in doubt, be mature.

Back at his car, Myron picked up the car phone and dialed his friend Sheriff Jake Courter.

"Sheriff"s office."

"Hey, Jake. It's Myron."

"Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have come in on Saturday."

"Ooo, I'm wounded. Seriously, Jake, do they still call you the Henny Youngman of law enforcement?"

Heavy sigh. "What the fuck do you want, Myron? I

just came in to get a little paperwork done."

"No rest for those vigilantly pursuing peace and justice for the common man."

"Right," Jake said. "This week, I went out on a whole twelve calls. Guess how many of them were for false burglar alarms?"

"Thirteen."

"Pretty close."

For more than twenty years, Jake Courter had been a cop in several of the country's meanest cities. He'd hated it and craved a quieter life. So Jake, a rather large black man, resigned from the force and moved to the picturesque (read: lily-white) town of Reston, New Jersey.

Looking for a cushy job, he ran for sheriff, Reston was a college (read: liberal) town, and thus Jake played up hisas he put it "blackness" and won easily. The white man's guilt, Jake had told Myron. The best vote-getter this side of Willie Horton.

"Miss the excitement of the big city?" Myron asked.

"Like a case of herpes," Jake countered. "Okay, Myron, you've done the charm thing on me. I'm like Play-Doh in your paws now. What do you want?"

"I'm in Philly for the U. S. Open."

"That's golf, right?"

"Yeah, golf. And I wanted to know if you've heard of a guy name Squires."

Pause. Then: "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"What the fuck are you involved in now?"

"Nothing. It's just that he's got all this weird security around his house "

"What the fuck are you doing by his house?"

"Nothing."

"Right," Jake said. "Guess you were just strolling by."

"Something like that."

"Nothing like that." Jake sighed. Then: "Ah what the hell, it ain't on my beat anymore. Squires. Reginald Squires aka Big Blue."

Myron made a face. "Big Blue?"

"Hey, all gangsters need a nickname. Squires is known as Big Blue. Blue, as in blue blood."

"Those gangsters," Myron said. "Pity they don't channel their creativity into honest marketing."

" 'Honest marketing,' " Jake repeated. "Talk about your basic oxymoron. Anyway Squires got a kiloton of family dough and all this blue-blood breeding and schooling and shit."

"So what's he doing keeping such bad company?"

"You want the simple answer? The son of a bitch is a ' serious wacko. Gets his jollies hurting people. Kinda like Win."

"Win doesn't get his jollies hurting people."

"If you say so."

"If Win hurts someone, there's a reason. To prevent them from doing it again or to punish or something."

"Sure, whatever," Jake said. "Kinda touchy though, aren't we, Myron?" +

"It's been a long day."

"It's only nine in the morning."

Myron said, ' 'For what breeds time but two hands on a clock?"

' "Who said that?", "No one. I just made it up."

"You should consider writing greeting cards."

"So what is Squires into, Jake?"

' "Want to hear something funny? I'm not sure. Nobody is. Drugs and prostitution. Shit like that. But very upscale. Nothing very well organized or anything. It's more like he plays at it, you know? Like he gets involved in whatever he thinks will give him a thrill, then dumps it.

"How about kidnapping?"

Brief pause. "Oh shit, you are involved in something again, aren't you?"

"I just asked you if Squires was into kidnapping?

"Oh. Right. Like it's a hypothetical question. Kinda like, 'If a bear shits in the forest and no one is around, does it still reek'?"

"Precisely. Does kidnapping reek like his kind of thing?" .

"Hell if I know. The guy is a major league loon, no question. He blends right into all that snobbish bullshitthe boring parties, the shitty food, the laughing at jokes that aren't remotely funny, the talking with the same boring people about the same boring worthless bullshit "

"It sounds like you really admire them."

"Just my point, my friend. They got it all, right? On the outside. Money, big homes, fancy clubs. But they're all so fucking boring shit, I'd kill myself. Makes me wonder if maybe Squires feels that way too, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Myron said. "And Win is the scary one here, right?

Jake laughed. "TouchT. But to answer your question, I

don't know if Squires would be into kidnapping.

Wouldn't surprise me though."

Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.

What now?

For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. lf he could also somehow land Tad Crispin . . .

Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble.

Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent take your pick is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents' expense.

So the question remained: What now?

He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn't go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.

But why would he do it at Porter Street?

Why not do it at a bank closer to home? And equally important, what was Chad Coldren doing in that area in the first place? There was nothing there. It wasn't a stop between highways or anything like that. The only thing in that neighborhood that would require cash was the Court Manor Inn. Myron again remembered motelier extraordinaire Stuart Lipwitz's attitude and wondered.

He started the car. It might be something. Worth looking into, at any rate.

Of course, Stuart Lipwitz had made it abundantly clear that he would not talk. But Myron thought he had just the tool to make him change his mind.

Chapter I4

"Smile!"

The man did not smile. He quickly shifted the car in reverse and backed out. Myron shrugged and lowered the camera. It was on a neck strap and bounced lightly against his chest. Another car approached. Myron lifted the camera again.

"Smile!" Myron repeated. .

Another man. Another no smile. This guy managed to duck down before shifting his car into reverse.

"Camera shy," Myron called out to him. ' 'Nice to see in this age of paparazzi overkill."

It didn't take long. Myron had been on the sidewalk in front of the Court Manor Inn for less than iive minutes when he spotted Stuart Lipwitz sprinting toward him. Big Stu was in full custom gray tails, wide tie, a concierge key pin in the suit's lapel. Gray tails at a no-tell motel.

Like a maitre d' at Burger King. Watching Stu move closer, a Pink Floyd song came to mind: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody out there? David Bowie joined in:

Ground control to Major Tom.

Ah, the seventies.

. "You there," he called out.

"Hi, Stu."

+ No smile this time. "This is private property," Smart Lipwitz said, a little out of breath. "I must ask you to remove yourself immediately. ' '

"I hate to disagree with you, Stu, but I am on a public sidewalk. I got every right to be here."

Smart Lipwitz stammered, then flapped his arms in frustration. With the tails, the movement kind of reminded Myron of a bat. "But you can't just stand there and take pictures of my clientele," he semi whined.

" 'Clientele,' " Myron repeated. "Is that a new euphemism for john?" "I'll call the police."

"Ooooo. Stop scaring me like that."

"You are interfering with my business."

"And you are interfering with mine."

Stuart Lipwitz put his hands on his hips and uied to look threatening. ' 'This is the last time I'll ask you nicely.

Leave the premises."

"That wasn't nice."

"Excuse me?"

"You said it was the last time you'd ask me nicely,"

Myron explained. "Then you said, 'Leave the premises.'

You didn't say please. You didn't say, 'Kindly leave the premises.' Where's the nice in that?"

"I see," Lipwitz said. Beads of sweat dotted his face.

It was hot and the man was, after all, in tails. "Please kindly leave the premises."

"Nope. But now, at least, you're a man of your word."

Stuart Lipwitz took several deep breaths. "You want to know about the boy, don't you? The one in the picture."

"You bet."

"And if I tell you if he was here, will you leave'?"

"Much as it would pain me to leave this quaint locale, I would somehow tear myself away."

"That, sir, is blackmail."

Myron looked at him. "I would say 'blackmail is such an ugly word,' but that would be too clichT. So instead I'll just say 'Yup.' "

"But" Lipwitz started stammering "that's against the law!"

"As opposed to, say, prostitution and drug dealing and whatever other sleazy activity goes on in this fleabag?"

Stuart Lipwitz's eyes widened. "Fleabag? This is the Court Manor Inn, sir. We are a respectable "

"Stuff it, Stu. I got pictures to take." Another car pulled up. Gray Volvo station wagon. Nice family car. A

man about fifty years old was neatly attired in a business suit. The young girl in the passenger seat must have shopped as the mall girls had recently taught him at Sluts "R" Us.

Myron smiled and leaned toward the window. "Whoa, sir, vacationing with your daughter?"

The man splashed on a classic deer-caught-in-theheadlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. "Hey, Mel, he thinks I'm your daughter!?' She whooped again.

Myron raised the camera. Smart Lipwitz tried to step in his way, but Myron swept him away with his free hand.

"It's Souvenir Day at the Court Manor," Myron said. "I

can put the picture on a coffee mug if you'd like. Or maybe a decorative plate?"

The man in the business suit reversed the car. They were gone several seconds later.

Stuart Lipwitz's face reddened. He made two fists.

Myron looked at him. "Now Stuart . . ."

"I have powerful friends`," he said.

"Ooooo. I'm getting scared again."

"Fine. Be that way." Stuart turned away and stormed up the drive. Myron smiled. The kid was a tougher nut to crack than he'd anticipated, and he really didn't want to do this all day. But let's face it: There were no other leads and besides, playing with Big Stu was fun.

Myron waited for more customers. He wondered what Stu was up to. Something frantic, no doubt. Ten minutes later, a canary yellow Audi pulled up and a large black man slid out. The black man was maybe an inch shorter than Myron, but he was built. His chest could double as a jai alai wall and his legs resembled the trunks of redwoods. He glided when he moved not the bulky moves one usually associated with the overmuscled.

Myron did not like that.

The black man had sunglasses on and wore a red Hawaiian shirt with blue jean shorts. His most noticeable feature was his hair. The kinks had been slicked straight and parted on the side, like old photographs of Nat King Cole.

Myron pointed at the top of the man's head. "Is that hard to do?" he asked.

"What?" the black man said. "You mean the hair?"

Myron nodded. "Keeping it straight like that."

"Nah, not really. Once a week I go to a guy named Ray. In an old-fashioned barbershop, as a matter of fact.

The kind with the pole in front and everything." His smile was almost wistful. "Ray takes care of it for me.

Also gives me a great shave. With hot towels and everything." The man stroked his face for emphasis.

"Looks smooth," Myron said.

"Hey, thanks. Nice of you to say. I find it relaxing, you know? Doing something just for me. I think it's important.

To relieve the stress."

Myron nodded. "I hear you."

"Maybe I'll give you Ray's number. You could stop by and check it out."

"Ray," Myron repeated. "I'd like that."

The black man stepped closer. "Seems we have a little situation here, Mr. Bolitar."

"How did you know my name?"

He shrugged. Behind the sunglasses, Myron sensed that he was being sized up. Myron was doing the same.

Both were trying to be subtle. Both knew exactly what the other was doing.

"I'd really appreciate it if you would leave," he said very politely.

"l'm afraid I can't do that," Myron said. "Even though you did ask nicely."The black man nodded. He kept his distance. "Let's see if we can work something out here, okay?"

"Okeydokey."

"I got a job to do here, Myron. You can appreciate that, can't you?"

"Sure can," Myron said.

"And so do you."

"That's right."

The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. "Look, I know you won't be easy. And you know I won't be easy. lf push comes to shove, I don't know which one of us will win."

"I will," Myron said. "Good always triumphs over evil."

The man smiled. "Not in this neighborhood."

"Good point."

"I'm also not sure it's worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we're both probably past the provinghimself, macho-bullshit stage."

Myron nodded. "We're too mature."

"Right." " +

"lt seems then," Myron continued, "that we've hit an impasse."

"Guess so," the black man agreed. "Of course, I

could always take out a gum and shoot you."

Myron shook his head. "Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved."

"Yeah. I didn't think you'd go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know."

"You're a pro," Myron agreed. "You'd feel remiss if you didn't at least try. Hell, I'd have felt cheated."

"Glad you understand."

"Speaking of which," Myron said, "aren't you a tad high-level to be dealing with this situation?"

"Can't say I disagree." The black man walked closer to Myron. Myron felt his muscles tighten; a notunpleasant anticipatory chill steeled him.

"You look like a guy who can keep his mouth shut,"

the man said.

Myron said nothing. Proving the point.

"The kid you had in that picture, the one that got Leona Helmsley's panties in a bunch? He was here."

"When?"

The black man shook his head. "That's all you get.

I'm being very generous. You wanted to know if the kid was here. The answer is yes."

"Nice of you," Myron said.

"I'm just trying to make it simple. Look, we both know that Lipwitz is a dumb kid. Acts like this urinal is the Beverly Wilshire. But the people who come here, they don't want that. They want to be invisible. They don't even want to look at themselves, you know what I'm saying'?"

Myron nodded.

"So I gave you a freebie. The kid in the picture was here."

"Is he still here?"

"You're pushing me, Myron."

"Just tell me that."

"No. He only stayed that one night." He spread his hands. "Now you tell me, Myron. Am I being fair with you?"

"Very."

He nodded. "Your turn."

"I guess there's no way you'll tell me who you're working for."

The black man made a face. "Nice meeting you, Myron."

"Same here."

They shook hands. Myron got into his car and drove away.

He had almost reached Merion when the cellular rang.

He picked up and said hello.

"Is this, like, Myron?"

Mall girl. "Hi, yes. Actually this is Myron, not just like him."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What's up?"

"That skank you were, like, looking for last night?"

"Right."

"He's, like, back at the mall."

"Where at the mall?"

"The food court. He's on line at the McDonald's."

Myron spun the car around and hit the gas pedal.