Promise Me

CHAPTER 29

Myron considered his next move — let them keep talking or confront them now? He checked his watch. The bell was about to sound. Both Harry Davis and Randy Wolf would probably head inside then, lost to him for the day.

Showtime.

When Myron was about ten feet away from them, Randy spotted him. The boy’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition. Randy stepped away from Harry Davis. Davis turned to see what was going on.

Myron waved. “Hi, guys.”

Both froze as though caught in headlights.

“My father said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Randy said.

“But your father never got to know the real me. I’m actually quite a sweetheart.” Myron waved to the confused teacher. “Hi, Mr. D.”

He was almost on them when he heard a voice behind him.

“That’s far enough.”

Myron turned around. Two cops in full uniform stood in front of them. One was tall and lanky. The other was short with long, dark, curly hair and a bushy mustache. The shorter one looked like he’d just stepped out of a VH1 special on the eighties.

The tall one said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“This is public property. I’m walking on it.”

“Are you smarting off to me?”

“You think that’s smarting off?”

“I’ll ask you again, wise guy. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To class,” Myron said. “There’s a bitch of an algebra final coming up.”

The tall one looked at the short one. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis stared without saying a word. Some of the students began to point and gather. The bell rang. The taller officer said, “Okay, nothing to see here. Break it up, get to class now.”

Myron pointed at Wolf and Davis. “I need to talk to them.”

The taller officer ignored him. “Get to class.” Then looking at Randy, he added: “All of you.”

The crowd thinned and then vanished. Randy Wolf and Harry Davis were gone too. Myron was alone with the two officers.

The tall one came up close to Myron. They were about the same height, but Myron had at least twenty or thirty pounds on him. “You stay away from this school,” he said slowly. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t ask questions.”

Myron thought about that. Don’t ask questions? That was not the kind of thing you say to a suspect. “Don’t ask who questions?”

“Don’t ask anybody anything.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“You think I should be more specific?”

“That would help, yes.”

“Are you being a smart guy again?”

“Just looking for clarification.”

“Hey, asswipe.” It was the shorter cop with the VH1-eighties look. He took out his nightstick and held it up. “This clarification enough for you?”

Both cops smiled at Myron.

“What’s the matter?” The shorter cop with the bushy mustache was slapping the nightstick against his palm. “Cat got your tongue?”

Myron looked first at the tall cop, then back at the short one with the mustache. Then he said: “Darryl Hall called. He wants to know if the reunion tour is still on.”

That made the smiles vanish.

The taller officer said, “Put your hands behind your back.”

“What, are you going to tell me he doesn’t look like John Oates?”

“Hands behind your back now!”

“Hall and Oates? ‘Sarah Smile’? ‘She’s Gone’?”

“Now!”

“It’s not an insult. Many chicks dug John Oates, I’m sure.”

“Turn around now!”

“Why?”

“I’m cuffing you. We’re taking you in.”

“On what charge?”

“Assault and battery.”

“On whom?”

“Jake Wolf. He told us you trespassed on his residence and attacked him.”

Bingo.

His cop-needling had worked. Now he knew why these guys were on him. It wasn’t about him being a suspect in Aimee’s disappearance. It was the pressure brought upon them by one Big Jake Wolf.

Of course, the plan hadn’t gone perfectly. They were arresting him now.

The John Oates cop snapped on the cuffs, making the obvious move of having them pinch his skin. Myron checked out the taller one. He looked a little nervous now, his eyes darting about. Myron figured that was a good thing.

The shorter one dragged him by the cuffs back to the same gray Chevy that had been tailing him since he’d left his house. He pushed Myron into the backseat, trying to hit his head on the doorframe, but Myron was ready and ducked it. In the front seat, Myron spotted a camera with a telephoto lens, just as Win had said.

Hmm. Two cops taking pictures, following him from his house, stopping him from talking to Randy, cuffing him — Big Jake had some juice.

The taller one stayed outside and paced. This was all going a little too fast for him. Myron decided that he could play that. The short one with the bushy mustache and dark curly hair slid into the seat next to Myron and grinned.

“I really liked ‘Rich Girl,’ ” Myron said to him. “But ‘Private Eyes’—I mean, what was up with that song? ‘Private eyes, they’re watching you.’ I mean, don’t all eyes watch you? Public, private, whatever?”

The short guy’s fuse blew faster than anticipated. He took a swing at Myron’s gut. Myron was still ready. One of the lessons Myron had learned over the years was how to take a punch. It was crucial if you were going to get into any physical confrontation. In a real fight, you almost always get hit, no matter how good you are. How you reacted psychologically often decided the outcome. If you don’t know what to expect, you shrivel up and cower. You get too defensive. You let the fear conquer you.

If the blow is a headshot, you need to play the angles. Don’t let the punch land square, especially on the nose. Even slight head tilts can help. Instead of four knuckles landing, maybe it will only be two or one. That makes a huge difference. You also have to relax your body, let it go. You should turn away from the strike, literally roll with the punch. When a blow is aimed at your abdomen, especially when your hands are cuffed behind your back, you need to clench the stomach muscles, shift, and bend at the waist so it doesn’t wallop the breadbasket. That was what Myron did.

The blow didn’t hurt much. But Myron, noting the taller guy’s nervousness, put on a performance that would have made De Niro take notes.

“Aarrrggggghhh!”

“Damn, Joe,” the tall one said, “what the hell are you doing?”

“He was making fun of me!”

Myron stayed bent over and faked loss of breath. He wheezed, he retched, he started coughing uncontrollably.

“You hurt him, Joe!”

“I just knocked the wind out of him. He’ll be fine.”

Myron coughed more. He faked like he couldn’t breathe. Then he added convulsions. He rolled back his eyes and started bucking like a fish on the dock.

“Calm down, dammit!”

Myron stuck his tongue out, gagged some more. Somewhere, a casting agent was speed-dialing Scorsese.

“He’s choking!”

“Medicine!” Myron managed.

“What?”

“Can’t breathe!”

“Dammit, get the cuffs off him!”

“Can’t breathe!” Myron gasped and made his body wrack. “Heart medicine! In my car!”

The taller one opened the door. He grabbed the keys from his partner and unlocked the cuffs. Myron kept up with the convulsions and eye rolls.

“Air!”

The tall one was wide-eyed. Myron could see what he was thinking: out of hand. This was getting too out of hand.

“Air!”

The tall one stepped aside. Myron rolled out of the car. He got up and pointed to his car. “Medicine!”

“Go,” the taller one said.

Myron ran to his car. The two officers, dumbfounded, just watched. Myron had expected that. They were just here to scare him off. They had not expected any back talk. They were town cops. The citizens of this happy suburb obeyed them without question. But this guy hadn’t bowed to them. They’d lost their cool and assaulted a man. This could mean huge trouble. They both just wanted it to end. So did Myron. He had learned what he needed to — Big Jake Wolf was scared and trying to hide something.

So when Myron reached his car, he slid into the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, started it up, and simply drove off. He glanced in his rearview mirror. He figured that the odds were on his side, that the two cops would not chase him.

They didn’t. They just stood there.

In fact, they looked relieved to just let him go.

He had to smile. Yep, there was no question about it now.

Myron Bolitar was baaack.