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Chapter 17

Esperanza met Myron in the back corner of Baumgart’s.

Baumgart’s restaurant was an old Jewish soda fountain/deli that had been purchased by Chinese immigrant Peter Chin. Wanting to do something both different and wise, Peter had kept all the old touches and added an Asian fusion (whatever that meant) menu and some neon lights and hip décor. Now you could order Kung Bao Chicken or a Pastrami Reuben, the Chinese Eggplant Combo or a Turkey Club.

Peter came over and bowed toward Esperanza. “You do my restaurant a great honor with your presence, Ms. Diaz.”

Myron said, “Ahem.”

“And you don’t completely kick its reputation to the curb.”

“Good one,” Myron said.

“Did you see it?” Peter asked.

“See what?”

Beaming now, Peter pointed behind him. “Look at my wall of honor!”

Like many restaurants, Baumgart’s hung up framed autographed photographs of the celebrities who had dined there. It was an eclectic mix of New Jersey celebrity. Brooke Shields was up there. So was Dizzy Gillespie. Grandpa “Al Lewis” Munster was on the same wall, along with several stars from The Sopranos, a few New York Giants players, local news anchors, a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, and an author Myron had once read.

There, hung dead center between a rapper and a villain from the old Batman TV show, was a photograph of Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz dressed in her suede bikini. The bikini top was starting to slide down her shoulder. Esperanza posed in the ring, sweaty and proud and looking up.

Myron turned to her. “You stole that pose from Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C.”

“I did.”

“I had that poster on my wall when I was a kid.”

“So did I,” Esperanza said.

Peter was still beaming. “Great, right?”

“You know,” Myron said, “I was a professional basketball player.”

“For about three minutes.”

“You’re so nice to your customers.”

“Part of my charm. Your food will be out soon.”

Peter left them alone. Esperanza was killer in an aqua blouse. She wore gold hoop earrings and a thick bracelet. Her cell phone buzzed. She took a look and closed her eyes.

“What?” Myron asked.

“Tom.”

“He’s texting you?”

“No, it’s my attorney. Tom canceled all settlement talks.”

“So he’s going full frontal.”

“Yep.”

“I’d like to help.”

She shook him off. “We’re not here to discuss Tom.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t.”

Nicole the waitress came over with appetizer-sized Cold Sesame Noodles and a Sizzling Duck Crepe. Serious yum. They both went quiet for a moment and ate. Way back when, Myron Bolitar had founded a sports agency cleverly dubbed MB SportsReps. The M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar, the SportsReps because he repped athletes. Marketing-it’s a gift, really.

Esperanza came on as his receptionist/assistant/confidante/assorted other hats. She went to school at night to get her law degree. Eventually she moved up to full partner, though she didn’t insist on changing the name to MBED because, really, that would be confusing. They did drop “Sports” from the name when they started representing actors and musicians and the like, so that in the end, the company had been called MB Reps.

Big Cyndi took over as receptionist and, well, agency bouncer. Things went along pretty swimmingly until they all fell apart. When Tom started this slash-n-burn custody hearing a year ago-back then he’d claimed Esperanza was an unfit mother because she worked too hard-Esperanza had been so freaked-out by the threat that she asked Myron to buy her out. Myron hesitated, but then when Win disappeared, the thought of continuing without both of them was too disheartening. They ended up selling MB Reps to a mega-agency that took their clients and got rid of the name altogether.

“So I went to the Alpine police station,” Esperanza said, “to see what they were doing with the Moore-Baldwin case.”

“And?”

“They wouldn’t talk.”

Myron stopped eating. “Wait, they wouldn’t talk to you?”

“That’s right.”

He thought about that. “Did you flash cleavage?”

“Two buttons’ worth.”

“And that didn’t work?”

“The new police chief is female,” Esperanza said. “And straight.”

“Still,” Myron said.

“I know, right? I was a little insulted.”

“Maybe I should try,” Myron said. “I’m told I have a terrific ass.”

Esperanza frowned.

“I could meet her. Turn the charm on full blast.”

“And have her disrobe right in the station?”

“You may have a point.”

Esperanza rolled her eyes without actually rolling her eyes. “I don’t think she can help us anyway. The local force has had a lot of turnover since Rhys and Patrick were kidnapped.”

“I doubt they’ll handle the case this time anyway.”

“I’m sure it’ll get kicked up to state or federal, but Big Cyndi did a little digging. The guy who ran the case ten years ago is retired. His name is Neil Huber.”

“Wait, I know that name.”

“He’s a state senator in Trenton now.”

“No. Something else…”

“He used to be a high school basketball coach.”

Myron snapped. “That’s it. We played Alpine when I was in high school.”

“So maybe you should be the one who talks to him,” Esperanza said. “Do your male sports bro-connect thing.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Myron said.

“Or wiggle your once-terrific ass.”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Myron said. Then: “Wait, ‘once-terrific’?”

Myron waited outside the nightclub.

New York City’s Meatpacking District traditionally runs from West Fourteenth Street down to Gansevoort Street on the far west side of the island. In the 1900s it was known for, what else, slaughterhouses, but with the rise of supermarkets and refrigerated trucks, the area began to fall into disrepair. In the 1980s and 1990s, drugs and street prostitution were the main industry down there. It was a place where transsexuals and BDSM practitioners could thrive side by side with the Mafia and NYPD corruption. Nightclubs catering to what was then considered “subculture” began to open.

But like most of Manhattan, the Meatpacking District underwent another transformation. It started in part because people are drawn to the illicit-to the sleaze, if you will-but then, of course, the rich who crave danger want to go out on that edge with the most comfortable safety harness possible. So gentrification took hold. High-end boutiques offered commerce with trendy exposed brick. The grungy nightclubs became overrun with hipsters. The restaurants started to cater to whatever they started calling yuppies. The old rusted elevated railroad tracks became a tree-lined promenade called the High Line.

The Meatpacking District was now clean and safe and you could bring your kids, and yet when something like that happens, where does the sleaze go?

Myron checked his watch. It was midnight when the man finally lurched out of the trendy Subrosa nightclub. He was drunk. He’d grown a beard and wore flannel and, oh man, was that really a man bun? He had his arm draped like a strap around a young-too young-woman. The words “midlife crisis” weren’t tattooed on his forehead, but they should have been.

They started stumbling down the road. The man took out his car keys and pressed the remote button. His BMW beeped its location. Myron crossed the street and made his approach.

“Hello, Tom.”

The man, Esperanza’s ex, spun toward him. “Myron? Is that you?”

Myron stood and waited. Tom seemed to sober up a bit. He stood up a little straighter. “Get in the car, Jenny,” he said.

“It’s Geri.”

“Right, sorry. Get in the car. I’ll be with you in a second.”

The girl teetered on her heels. It took three tries but she managed to open the passenger door and fall inside.

“What do you want?” Tom asked.

Myron pointed at his head. “Is that really a man bun?”

“So you’re here to make jokes?”

“Nope.”

“Did Esperanza send you?”

“Nope,” Myron said. “She has no idea I’m here. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her.”

The passenger door opened. Geri said, “I don’t feel so good.”

“Don’t you dare throw up in my car.” Tom turned to Myron. “So what do you want?”

“I want to encourage you to make peace with Esperanza. For her sake. And for your son’s.”

“You know she left me, right?”

“I know your marriage didn’t work.”

“And you think it was my fault?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” More young people spilled out of the nightclub, laughing and cursing in the obnoxious way of the greatly intoxicated. Myron shook his head. “Don’t you think you’re too old for this, Tom?”

“Yeah, well, I was married and settled, you know.”

“Let it go,” Myron said. “Stop lying about her.”

“Or what?”

Myron said nothing.

“What, you think I’m afraid of you?”

Geri said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not in the car, honey, okay?” Tom turned back to Myron. “I’m working on something here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“She’s hot, right?”

“Hot,” Myron agreed. “And about to vomit. Yeah, I’m all turned on.”

“Listen, Myron, no offense. You’re a good guy. You’re not much of an intimidator. Just piss off, okay?”

“Esperanza is a good mother, Tom. We both know that.”

“It isn’t about that, Myron.”

“Yeah, well, it should be.”

“I don’t want to sound immodest,” Tom said, “but do you know why I’m a big success?”

“Because your daddy is rich and gave you lots of money?”

“No. It’s because I go for the jugular. It’s because I win.”

Never fails. Scratch a guy who always talks about what a winner he is or how he’s “self-made” or how he’s pulled himself up by the bootstraps, and underneath you’ll always find a little boy who had everything handed to him. It was like they needed a blind spot to justify their tremendous luck. Something like: I can’t have all of this because of fate or chance-I must be special.

“I’m asking you to be reasonable, Tom.”

“That’s your message to me?”

“It is.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. I’m on the verge of victory. You”-he pointed at Myron-“are proof of that. She’s getting desperate. Tell her I said to kiss my ass.”

“I told you already: Esperanza doesn’t know I’m here. I just think you should do the right thing.”

“For her sake?”

“For her sake. For Hector’s sake. And for your sake.”

“For mine?”

“I think it would be best.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit what you think. Go home, Myron.”

Myron nodded. “Will do.”

Tom waited. Myron started to cross the street, but he stopped and did his best Columbo turn. “Oh, one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Myron tried not to smile. “I saw Win.”

The street went silent. Even the music spilling out of the nightclub seemed to hush.

“You’re lying.”

“No, Tom, I’m not. He’s coming home. And when he does, I’m sure he’ll want to pay you a visit.”

Tom stood there, frozen. Geri, still inside the car, finally lost it and threw up in the loudest way possible. Windows rattled. Tom still didn’t move.

Myron let the smile come to his face as he waved good-bye. “Have a great night.”