Promise Me

CHAPTER 20

Randy Wolf lived in the new Laurel Road section. The brand-new estates of brushed brick had more square footage than Kennedy Airport. There was a faux wrought-iron gate. The gate was open enough for Myron to walk through. The grounds were over-landscaped, the lawn so green it looked like someone had gone overboard with spray paint. There were three SUVs parked in the driveway. Next to them, gleaming from a fresh waxing and seemingly perfect sun placement, sat a little red Corvette. Myron started humming the matching Prince tune. He couldn’t help it.

The familiar whack of a tennis ball drifted in from the backyard. Myron headed toward the sound. There were four lithe ladies playing tennis. They all wore ponytails and tight tennis whites. Myron was a big fan of women in tennis whites. One of the lithe ladies was about to serve when she noticed him. She had great legs, Myron observed. He checked again. Yep, great.

Ogling tan legs probably wasn’t a clue, but why chance it?

Myron waved and gave the woman serving his best smile. She returned it and signaled to the ladies to excuse her for a moment. She jogged toward him. Her dark ponytail bounced. She stopped very close to him. Her breathing was deep. Sweat made the tennis whites cling. It also made them a little see-through — again Myron was just being observant — but she didn’t seem to care.

“Something I can do for you?”

She had one hand on her hip.

“Hi, my name is Myron Bolitar.”

Commandment Four from the Bolitar Book on Smoothness: Wow the ladies with a dazzling first line.

“Your name,” she said. “It rings a bell.”

Her tongue moved around a lot when she talked.

“Are you Mrs. Wolf?”

“Call me Lorraine.”

Lorraine Wolf had that way of speaking where everything sounded like a double entendre.

“I’m looking for your son, Randy.”

“Wrong reply,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“You were supposed to say that I looked too young to be Randy’s mother.”

“Too obvious,” Myron said. “An intelligent woman like you would have seen right through that.”

“Nice recovery.”

“Thanks.”

The other ladies gathered by the net. They had towels draped around their necks and were drinking something green.

“Why are you looking for Randy?” she asked.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Well, yes, I figured that out. But maybe you could tell me what this is about?”

The back door opened with an audible bang. A large man — Myron was six-four, two-fifteen and this guy had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him — stepped out the door.

Big Jake Wolf, Myron deducted, was in da house.

His black hair was slicked back. He had a mean squint going.

“Wait, isn’t that Steven Seagal?” Myron asked, sotto voce.

Lorraine Wolf smothered a giggle.

Big Jake stomped over. He kept glaring at Myron. Myron waited a few seconds, then he winked and gave Big Jake the Stan Laurel, five-finger wave. Big Jake did not look pleased. He marched to Lorraine’s side, put his arm around her, tugged her tight against his hip.

“Hi, honey,” he said, his eyes still on Myron.

“Well, hi, back!” Myron said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Then why were you looking at me?”

Big Jake frowned and pulled his wife closer. Lorraine cringed a little, but she let him. Myron had seen this act before. Raging insecurity, he suspected. Jake released his glare long enough to kiss his wife’s cheek before retightening his grip. Then he started glaring again, holding his wife firmly against his side.

Myron wondered if Big Jake was going to pee on her to mark his territory.

“Go back to your game, honey. I’ll handle this.”

“We were just finishing anyway.”

“Then why don’t you ladies go inside and have a drink, hmm?”

He let her go. She looked relieved. The ladies walked down the path. Myron again checked their legs. Just in case. The women smiled at him.

“Hey, what are you looking for?” Big Jake snapped.

“Potential clues,” Myron said.

“What?”

Myron turned back to him. “Never mind.”

“So what do you want here?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar.”

“So?”

“Good comeback.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You some kind of comedian?”

“I prefer the term ‘comic actor.’ Comedians are always typecast.”

“What the…?” Big Jake stopped, got his bearings. “You always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Stop by uninvited?”

“It’s the only way people will have me,” Myron said.

Big Jake squinted a little more. He wore tight jeans and a silk shirt that had one too many buttons open. There was a gold chain enmeshed in chest hair. “Stayin’ Alive” wasn’t playing in the background, but it should have been.

“Wild stab in the dark here,” Myron said. “The red Corvette. It’s yours, right?”

He glared some more. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to your son, Randy.”

“Why?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Biel family.”

That made him blink. “So?”

“Are you aware that their daughter is missing?”

“So?”

“That ‘so’ line. It never gets old, Jake, really. Aimee Biel is missing and I’d like to ask your son about it.”

“He has nothing to do with that. He was home Saturday night.”

“Alone?”

“No. I was with him.”

“How about Lorraine? Was she there too? Or was she out for the evening?”

Big Jake didn’t like Myron using his wife’s first name. “None of your business.”

“Be that as it may, I’d still like to talk to Randy.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want Randy mixed up in this.”

“In what?”

“Hey,” he pointed at Myron, “I don’t like your attitude.”

“You don’t?” Myron gave him the wide game-show-host smile and waited. Big Jake looked confused. “Is this better? Rosier, am I right?”

“Get out.”

“I would say, ‘Who’s going to make me,’ but really, that would be sooo expected.”

Big Jake smiled and stepped right up to Myron. “You wanna know who’s going to make you?”

“Wait, hold on, let me check the script.” Myron mimed flipping pages. “Okay here it is. I say, ‘No, who?’ Then you say, ‘I am.’ ”

“Got that straight.”

“Jake?”

“What?”

“Are any of your children home?” Myron asked.

“Why? What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Lorraine, well, she already knows you’re a little man,” Myron said, not moving an inch, “but I’d hate to beat your ass in front of your kids.”

Jake’s breathing turned into a snort. He didn’t back up, but he was having trouble holding the eye contact. “Ah, you ain’t worth it.”

Myron rolled his eyes, but he bit back the that’s-the-next-line-in-the-script rejoinder. Maturity.

“Anyway, my son broke up with that slut.”

“By slut, you mean…?”

“Aimee. He dumped her.”

“When?”

“Three, four months ago. He was done with her.”

“They went to the prom together last week.”

“That was for show.”

“For show?”

He shrugged. “I’m not surprised any of this happened.”

“Why do you say that, Jake?”

“Because Aimee was no good. She was a slut.”

Myron felt his blood tick. “And why do you say that?”

“I know her, okay? I know the whole family. My son has a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth in the fall, and I want nothing getting in the way of that. So listen to me, Mr. Basketball. Yeah, I know who you are. You think you’re such hot stuff. Big, tough basketball stud who never made it to the pros. Big-time All-American who crapped out in the end. Who couldn’t hack it once the going got tough.”

Big Jake grinned.

“Wait, is this the part where I break down and cry?” Myron asked.

Big Jake put his finger on Myron’s chest. “You just stay the hell away from my son, you understand me? He has nothing to do with that slut’s disappearance.”

Myron’s hand shot forward. He grabbed Jake by the balls, and squeezed. Jake’s eyes flew open. Myron positioned his body so that nobody could see what he was doing. Then he leaned in so he could whisper in Jake’s ear.

“We’re not going to call Aimee that anymore, are we, Jake? Feel free to nod.”

Big Jake nodded. His face was turning purple. Myron closed his eyes, cursed himself, let go. Jake sucked in a deep breath, staggered back, dropped to one knee. Myron felt like a dope, losing control like that.

“Hey, look, I’m just trying to—”

“Get out,” Jake hissed. “Just… just leave me alone.”

And this time, Myron obeyed.

From the front seat of a Buick Skylark, the Twins watched Myron walk down the Wolfs’ driveway.

“There’s our boy.”

“Yep.”

They weren’t really twins. They weren’t even brothers. They didn’t look alike. They did share a birthday, September 24, but Jeb was eight years older than Orville. That was part of how they got the name — having the same birthday. The other was how they met: at a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Some would claim that it was a sadistic turn of fate or ridiculously bad star alignment that brought them together. Others would claim that there was a bond there, two lost souls that recognized a kindred spirit, as if their streak of cruelty and psychosis were some kind of magnet that drew them to each other.

Jeb and Orville met in the bleachers at the Dome in Minneapolis when Jeb, the older Twin, got into a fight with five beer-marinated head cases. Orville stepped in and together they put all five in the hospital. That was eight years ago. Three of the guys were still in comas.

Jeb and Orville stayed together.

These two men, both life-loners, neither married, never in a long-term relationship, became inseparable. They moved around from city to city, town to town, always leaving havoc in their wake. For fun, they would enter bars and pick fights and see how close they could come to killing a man without actually killing him. When they destroyed a drug-dealing motorcycle gang in Montana, their rep was cemented.

Jeb and Orville did not look dangerous. Jeb wore an ascot and smoking jacket. Orville had the Woodstock thing going on — a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, pink-tinted glasses, and a tie-dyed shirt. They sat in the car and watched Myron.

Jeb began singing, as he always did, mixing English songs with his own Spanish interpretation. Right now he was singing the Police’s “Message in a Bottle.”

“I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, mensaje en una botella…”

“I like that one, dude,” Orville said.

“Thank you, mi amigo.”

“Man, you were younger, you should do that American Idol. That Spanish thing. They’d love that. Even that Simon judge who hates everything.”

“I love Simon.”

“Me too. The dude is far out.”

They watched Myron get into his car.

“So, like, what do you think he was doing at this house?” Orville asked.

Singing: “You ask me if our love would grow, yo no se, yo no se.”

“The Beatles, right?”

“Bingo.”

“And yo no se. I don’t know.”

“Right again.”

“Groovy.” Orville checked the car’s clock. “Should we call Rochester and tell him what’s shaking?”

Jeb shrugged. “Might as well.”

Myron Bolitar started driving. They followed. Rochester picked up on the second ring.

“He, like, left that house,” Orville said.

Rochester said, “Keep following him.”

“Your dollars,” Orville said with a shrug. “But I think it’s a waste, man.”

“He may give you a clue where he stashed the girls.”

“If we, like, snatch his ass now, he’ll give us all the clues he knows.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Orville smiled and gave Jeb a thumbs-up sign.

“I’m at his house,” Rochester said. “That’s where I want you to take him.”

“Are you at or in?”

“At or in what?”

“His house.”

“I’m outside. In my car.”

“So you don’t know if he’s got a plasma TV.”

“What? No, I don’t know.”

“If we’re going to be working him awhile, it’d be righteous if he had one. In case it gets to be a drag, you know what I’m saying? The Yankees are playing against Boston. Jeb and me dig watching in HD. That’s why I’m asking.”

There was another moment of hesitation.

“Maybe he has one,” Rochester said.

“That would be groovy. That DLP technology is good too. Anything with high-def, I guess. By the way, do you, like, got a plan or anything?”

“I’m going to wait until he comes back home,” Dominick Rochester said. “I’ll tell him I want to talk to him. We go inside. You go inside.”

“Radical.”

“Where is he going now?”

Orville checked the navigator on the car. “Hey, like, unless I’m mistaken, we’re heading back to Bolitar’s crib right now.”