The Final Detail

I asked you

Name means nothing to me.

Big Cyndi said, Please, Pat.

He shot her a look. You heard me, Big C. I don't know him.

Myron pressed it. Never heard of Clu Haid?

That's right.

How about the New York Yankees?

I haven't followed them since the Mick retired.

Myron put the photograph of Clu Haid on the bar. Ever seen him in here?

Someone called out for a draft. Pat drew it. When he came back, he spoke to Big Cyndi. This

guy a cop?

No, Big Cyndi said.

Then the answer is no.

And if I was a cop? Myron asked.

Then the answer would be no sir. Myron noticed that Pat had never so much as glanced at

the photograph. I might also add a little song and dance about how I'm too busy to notice faces

in here. And how most peopie, especially celebrities, don't show their real faces in here anyway. I see, Myron said. He reached into his wallet, took out a fifty. And if I showed you a photograph of Ulysses S. Grant?

The jukebox changed songs. The Flying Machine started crooning for Rosemarie to smile a little smile for me, Rosemarie. The Flying Machine. Myron had remembered the group's riame. What did that say about a man?

Keep your money, Pat said. Keep your picture. Keep your questions. I don't like trouble.

And this guy means trouble?

I haven't even looked at the picture, pal. And I don't plan to. Take a hike.

Big Cyndi stepped in. Pat, she said, please can't you help she batted her eyelashes; picture

two crabs on their backs in the blazing sun for me?

Hey, Big C, I love you, you know that. But suppose I came into Leather-N-Lust with pictures?

You gonna be anxious to help?

Big Cyndi thought about that. I guess not.

There you go. I got customers.

Fine, Myron said. He picked up the photograph. Then maybe I'll stick around. Pass the

picture around the room. Ask some questions. Maybe I'll stake this place out. Indiscreetly. Take

photos of people entering and leaving this fine establishment.

Pat shook his head, smiled a bit. You're one dumb son of a bitch, you know that.

I'll do it, Myron said. I don't want to, but I'll camp out on your doorstep with a camera.

Pat gave Myron a long look. Hard to read. Part hostile maybe. Mostly bored. Big C, head out of

here for a few minutes.

No.

Then I don't talk.

Myron turned to her, nodded. Big Cyndi shook her head. Myron pulled her aside. What's the

problem?

You shouldn't make threats in here, Mr. Bolitar.

I know what I'm doing.

I warned you about this place. I can't leave you alone.

You'll be right outside. I can take care of myself.

When Big Cyndi frowned, her face resembled a freshly painted totem pole. I don't like it.

We have no choice.

She sighed. Picture Mount Vesuvius bubbling up a bit of lava. Be careful.

I will.

She lumbered toward the exit. The place was packed and Big Cyndi took up a wide berth. Still,

people parted with a speed that would have made Moses jot notes. When she was all the way out

the door, Myron turned back to Pat. Well?

Well, you're a dumb asshole.

It happened without warning. Two hands snaked under Myron's arms, the fingers locking behind

his neck. A classic full nelson. The hold was tightened, pushing back his arms like chicken

wings. Myron felt something hot rip across his shoulder blades.

A voice near his ear whispered, Care to dance, dream-boat?

When it came to hand-to-hand combat, Myron was no Win, but he was no slouch either. He thus knew that if the peipetrator was good, there was no way to break a full nelson. That was why they were illegal in real wrestling matches. If you were standing, you could try to stomp on the person's instep. But only a moron fell for that, and a moron would not have had the speed or the strength to get this far. And Myron was not standing.

Myron's elbows were high up in the air, marionette fashion, his face helplessly exposed. The powerful arms locking him were covered in cardigan. Soft yellow cardigan, as a matter of fact. As in a soft yellow cardigan sweater. Jesus. Myron struggled. Nothing doing. The cardigan-clad arms pulled Myron's head back and then snapped it toward the bar, face first. Myron could do nothing but close his eyes. He tucked his chin just enough to keep his nose from taking the brunt of the blow. But his head bounced off the varnished teak in a way it was never intended to, jarring his skull. Something on his forehead split open. His head swam. He saw stars.

Another set of hands scooped up Myron's feet. He was in the air now and moving and very dizzy. Hands emptied his pockets. A door opened. Myron was carried through it into a dark room. The grip was released, and Myron fell like a potato sack onto his tailbone. The whole process, from the onset of the full nelson to the moment he was dumped on the floor, took all of eight seconds.

A light was snapped on. Myron touched his forehead and felt something sticky. Blood. He looked up at his attackers.

Two women.

No, cross-dressers. Both with blond wigs. One had gone with early-eighties Mall Girl hair lots of height and teased more than a bed-wetter. The other one the one with the soft yellow cardigan sweater (monogrammed, for those who cared) had hair like Veronica Lake on a particularly nasty bender.

Myron started to get to his feet. Veronica Lake let out a squeal and threw a side kick. The kick was fast and landed hard on his chest. Myron heard himself make a noise like pluuu and landed back on his rear. His hand automatically reached for his cellular. He'd hit the memory button and call Win. Then stall.

The phone was gone.

He looked up. Mall Girl had it. Damn. He took in his surroundings. There was a great view of the bar and Pat the bartender's back. He remembered the mirror. Of course. One-way glass. The patrons saw a mirror. The people back here saw, well, everything. Hard to steal from the till when you never knew who was watching.

The walls were corked and thus soundproof. The floor was cheap linoleum. Easier to clean, he guessed. Despite that, there were specks of blood on it. Not his. These specks were old and dried. But they were there. No mistaking them for something else. And Myron knew why. In a word: intimidation.

This was a classic pounding room. Lots of places have them. Especially sports arenas. Not so much now as in the old days. There was a time when an unruly fan was more than just escorted out of the stadium. The security guards took him into a back room and pounded on him a bit. It was fairly safe. What could the unruly fan claim after the fact? He was drunk off his rocker, had probably gotten into a fight in the stands, whatever. So the security boys added a few extra bruises for good measure. Who's to say where the bruises came from? And if the unruly fan threatened to press charges or make noise, stadium officials could whack him back with charges of public drunkenness and assault and whatever else they could dream up. They could also produce a dozen security guards to back their story and none to back the unruly fan's.

So the fan let it drop. And the pounding rooms remained. Probably still do in some places.

Veronica Lake giggled. It was not a pretty sound. Care to dance, dreamboat? he-she asked

again.

Let's wait for a slow song, Myron said.

A third cross-dresser stepped into the room. A redhead. He-she looked a lot like Bonnie

Franklin, the plucky mother on the old sitcom One Day at a Time. The resemblance was, in fact,

rather uncanny the perfect mix of determination and cutes. Spunky. Scrappy.

Where's Schneider? Myron asked.

No reply.

Veronica Lake said, Stand up, dreamboat.

The blood on the floor, Myron said.

What?

It's a nice touch, but it's overkill, don't you think?

Veronica Lake lifted her right foot and pulled on her heel. It came off. Sort of. The heel was a

covering actually. A sheath. For a steel blade. Veronica showed it to Myron with an impressive

display of martial art high kicks, the blade gleaming in the light.

Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl started giggling.

Myron kept the fear at bay and looked steadily at Veronica Lake. Are you new at crossdressing? he asked.

Veronica stopped kicking. What?

I mean, aren't you taking the whole stiletto heel thing too far?

Not his best joke, but anything to stall. Veronica looked at Mall Girl. Mall Girl looked at Bonnie

Franklin. Then Veronica suddenly threw a sweep kick, leading with the blade heel. Myron saw the glint of steel shoot toward him. He rolled back, but the blade still sliced through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a little cry and looked down wide-eyed. The cut wasn't deep, but he was bleeding.

The three spread out, making fists. Bonnie Franklin had something in her hand. A black club maybe. Myron did not like this. He tried to spring to his feet, but again Veronica threw a kick. He leaped high, but the blade still hit his lower leg. He actually felt the blade get caught on the shin bone before scraping itself off.

Myron's heart was pounding now. More blood. Jesus Christ. Something ^bout seeing your own

blood. His breathing was too fast. Keep cool he reminded himself. Think.

He faked left to the spot where Bonnie Franklin stood with the baton. Then he coiled right, his

fist at the ready. Without hesitating, he threw a punch at the advancing Mall Girl. His knuckles

landed flush below the eye and Mall Girl went down.

That was when Myron felt his heart stop.

There was a zapping sound and the back of his knee exploded. Myron spun in pure agony. His

body jolted. Searing pain burst out of the nerve bundle behind the knee and traveled everywhere

in an electric surge. He looked behind him. Bonnie Franklin had merely touched him with the

baton. His legs seized up, lost power. He collapsed back to the floor and writhed fish-on-boatdeck fashion. His stomach clenched. Nausea consumed him.

That was the lowest setting, Bonnie Franklin said, voice high-pitched little girl. Just gets the

cow's attention.

Myron looked up, trying to stop his body from quaking. Veronica lifted his leg and placed the

heel blade near his face. One quick stomp and he was done. Bonnie showed him the cattle prod

again. Myron felt a fresh shiver go through him. He looked through the one-way glass. No sign

of Big Cyndi or any cavalry.

Now what?

Bonnie Franklin did the talking. Why are you here?

He focused on the cattle prod and how to avoid experiencing its wrath again. I was asking about

someone, he said.

Mall Girl had recovered. She-he stood up over him holding her-his face. He hit me! Her tone

was a little deeper now, the shock and hurt dropping the feminine facade a bit.

Myron stayed still.

You bitch!

Mall Girl grimaced and threw a kick as though Myron's rib cage were a football. Myron saw the

kick coming, saw the heel blade, saw the cattle prod, closed his eyes, and let it land.

He fell back.

Bonnie Franklin continued with the questions. Who were you asking about?

No secret. Clu Haid.

Why?

Because I wanted to know if he'd been here.

Why?

Telling them he was looking for his killer might not be the wisest course of action, especially if said killer was in the room. He was a client of mine.

So?

Bitch! It was Mall Girl again. Another kick. It again landed on the bottom tip of the rib cage and hurt like hell. Myron swallowed away some bile that had worked its way up. He looked through the one-way glass again. Still no Big Cyndi. Blood flowed from the knife wounds to his chest and leg. His insides still trembled from the electric shock. He looked into the eyes of Veronica Lake. The calm eyes. Win had them too. The great ones always do.

Who do you work for? Bonnie asked.

No one.

Then why would you care if he came here?

I'm just trying to put some things together, he said.

What things?

Just general stuff.

Bonnie Franklin looked at Veronica Lake. Both nodded. Then Bonnie Franklin made a show of turning up the cattle prod. 'General stuff is an unacceptable response.

Panic squeezed Myron's gut. Wait

No, I think not. Bonnie reached toward him with the cattle prod.

Myron's eyes widened. No choice really. He had to try it now. If the prod hit him again, he'd have nothing left. He just had to hope Veronica would not kill him.

He had been planning the move for the past ten seconds. Now he rolled all the way back over his neck and head. He landed on his feet and without warning shot himself forward as though from a cannon. The three cross-dressers backed off, prepared for the attack. But an attack would be suicide. Myron knew that. There were three of them, two armed, at least one very good. Myron could never beat them. He needed to surprise them. So he did. By not going for them.

He went instead for the one-way glass.

His legs had pushed off full throttle, propelling him rocket-ship fashion toward the glass. By the time his three captors realized what he was doing, it was too late. Myron squeezed his eyes shut, made two fists, and hit the glass with his full weight, Superman style. He held nothing back. If the glass did not give, he was a dead man.

The glass shattered on impact.

The sound was enormous, all-consuming. Myron flew through it, glass clattering to the floor around him. When he landed, he tucked himself into a tight ball. He hit the floor and rolled. Tiny shards of mirror bit into his skin. He ignored the pain, kept rolling, crashing hard into the bar. Bottles fell.

Big Cyndi had talked about the place's reputation. Myron was counting on that. And the Take A

Guess clientele did not disappoint.

A pure New York melee ensued.

Tables were thrown. People screamed. Someone flew over the bar and landed on top of Myron.

More glass shattered. Myron tried to get to his feet, but it wasn't happening. From his right, he

saw a door open. Mall Girl emerged.

Bitch!'

Mall Girl started toward him, carrying Bonnie's cattle prod. Myron tried to scramble away, but

he couldn't get his bearings. Mall Girl kept coming, drawing closer.

And then Mall Girl disappeared.

It was like a scene from a cartoon, where the big dog punches Sylvester the Cat, and Sylvester

flies across the room and the oversize fist stays there for a few seconds.

In this case the oversize fist belonged to Big Cyndi.

Bodies flew. Glasses flew. Chairs flew. Big Cyndi ignored it all. She scooped Myron up and

threw him over her shoulder like a firefighter. They rushed outside as police sirens clawed through the milky night air.

Chapter 16

Back at the Dakota, Win tsk-tsked and said, You let a couple of girls beat you up?

They weren't girls.

Win took a sip of cognac. Myron gulped some Yoo-Hoo. Tomorrow night, Win said, we'll go

back to this bar. Together.

It was not something Myron wanted to think about right now. Win called a doctor. It was after

two in the morning, but the doctor, a gray-haired man straight from central casting, arrived in

fifteen minutes. Nothing broken, he declared with a professional chuckle. Most of the medical

treatment consisted of cleaning out the cuts from the heel blade and window bits. The two heel

slices the one on his stomach was shaped like a Z required stitches. All in all, painful but

relatively harmless.

The doctor tossed Myron some Tylenol with codeine, closed up his medical bag, tipped his hat,

departed. Myron finished his Yoo-Hoo and stood slowly. He wanted to take a shower, but the doctor had told him to wait until the morning. He swallowed a couple of tablets and hit the sheets. When he fell asleep, he dreamed about Brenda.

In the morning he called Hester Crimstein at her apartment. The machine picked up. Myron said

it was urgent. Midway through his message Hester took the calL

I need to see Esperanza, he told the attorney. Now.

Surprisingly, the attorney hesitated for only a moment before saying, Okay.

I killed someone, Myron said.

Esperanza sat across from him.

I don't mean I actually fired a gun. But I might as well have. In many ways what I did was

worse.

Esperanza kept her eyes on him. This happened right before you ran away?

Within a couple of weeks, yes.

But that's not why you left.

His mouth felt dry. I guess not.

You ran away because of Brenda.

Myron did not answer.

Esperanza crossed her anus. So why are you sharing this little tidbit with me?

I'm not sure.

I am, she said.

Oh?

It's something of a ploy. You hoped that your big confession would help me open up.

No, Myron said.

Then?

You're the one I talk to about things like this.

She almost smiled. Even now?

I don't understand why you're shutting me out, he said. And okay, maybe I do hold out some

hope that talking about this will help us return to I don't know some kind of sense of

normalcy. Or maybe I just heed to talk about this. Win wouldn't understand. The person I killed

was evil incarnate. It would have presented him with a moral dilemma no more complex than

choosing a tie.

And this moral dilemma haunts you?

The problem is, Myron said, it doesn't.

Esperanza nodded. Ah.

The person deserved it, he went on. The courts had no evidence.

So you played vigilante.

In a sense.

And that bothers you? No, wait, it doesn't bother you.

Right.

So you're losing sleep over the fact that you're not losing sleep.

He smiled, spread his hands. See why I come to you?

Esperanza crossed her legs and looked up in the air. When I first met you and Win, I wondered

about your friendship. About what first attracted you to each other. I thought maybe Win was a

latent homosexual.

Why does everyone say that? Can't two men just

I was wrong, she interrupted. And don't get all defensive, it'll make people wonder. You guys

aren't gay. I realized that early on. Like I said, it was just a thought. Then I wondered if it was

simply the old adage Opposites attract.' Maybe that's part of it. She stopped.

And? Myron prompted.

And maybe you two are more alike than either one of you wants to believe. I don't want to get

too deep here, but Win sees you as his humanity. If you like him, he reasons, how bad can he be?

You, on the other hand, see him as a cold dose of reality. Win's logic is scary, but it's oddly appealing. There is a little part in all of us that likes what he does, the same side of us that thinks the Iranians might be on to something when they cut off a thief's hand. You grew up with all that suburban liberal crap about the disad-vantaged. But now real-life experience is teaching you that some people are just plain evil. It shifts you a little closer to Win.

So you're saying I'm becoming like Win? Gee, that's comforting.

I'm saying your reaction is human. I don't like it. I don't think it's right. You may indeed be

sinking into a quagmire. Bending the rules is getting easier and easier for you. Maybe the person

you killed deserved it, but if you want to hear that, if you want absolution, go to Win.

Silence.

Esperanza's fingers fluttered near her mouth, debating between biting the nails and plucking her

lower lip. You've always been the finest person I know, she said. Don't let anybody change that, okay?

He swallowed, nodded.

You're not bending the rules anymore, she continued. You're decimating them. Just yesterday

you told me you'd lie under oath to protect me.

That's different.

Esperanza looked straight at him. Are you sure about that?

Yes. I'll do whatever I have to to protect you.

Including breaking laws? That's my point, Myron.

He shifted in his chair.

And one other thing, she said. You're using this whole moral dilemma thing to distract

yourself from two truths you don't want to face.

What truths?

One, Brenda.

And two?

Esperanza smiled. Skipped over one pretty fast.

And two? he repeated.

Her smile was gentle, understanding. Two, it gets your mind off why you're really here.

And why's that?

You're starting to do more than wonder if I killed Clu. And you're trying to find a way to rationalize it away if I did. You killed once, ergo it may be justifiable if I killed too. You just want to hear a reason.

He hit you, Myron said. In the parking garage.

She said nothing.

The radio said they found pubic hairs in his apartment

Don't go there, she said.

I have to.

Just stay out.

I can't.

I don't need your help.

There's more to it than that. I'm involved in this.

Only because you want to be.

Did Clu tell you I was in danger?

She said nothing.

He told my parents that. And Jessica. I thought at first it was hyperbole. But maybe it's not. I

got this weird diskette in the mail. There was an image of a young girl.

You're ranting, she said. You think you're ready for this, but you're not. Learn something from your past mistakes. Keep away from this. But it won't keep away from me, Myron said. Why did Clu say I was in danger? Why did he hit you? What happened at the Take A Guess bar?

She shook her head. Guard.

The guard opened the door. Esperanza kept her eyes down. She turned and left the room without

looking back at Myron. Myron sat alone for a few seconds, gathered his thoughts. He checked

his watch. Nine forty-five. Plenty of time to get to Yankee Stadium for his eleven o'clock

meeting with Sophie and Jared Mayor. He had barely left the room when a man approached him.

Mr. Bolitar?

Yes.

This is for you.

The man handed him an envelope and disappeared. Myron opened it. A subpoena from the Bergen County district attorney's office. Case heading: People of Bergen County v. Esperanza Diaz. Well, well. Esperanza and Hester had been right not to tell him anything.

He stuffed it into his pocket. At least now he wouldn't have to lie.

Chapter 17

Myron did what every good boy should do when he gets into legal trouble: He called his mommy.

Your aunt Clara will handle the subpoena, Mom said.

Aunt Clara wasn't really his aunt, just an old friend from the neighborhood. On the High Holy Days she still pinched Myron's cheek and cried out, What apuniml Myron sort of hoped she wouldn't do that in front of the judge: Your Honor, I ask you to look at this face: Is that a punim or is that a puniml Okay, Myron said.

I'll call her, she'll call the DA. In the meantime you say nothing, understand?

Yes.

See now, Mr. Smarty Pants? See what I was telling you now? About Hester Crimstein being right?

Yeah, Mom, whatever.

Don't whatever me. They've subpoenaed you. But because Esperanza wouldn't tell you anything, you can't hurt her case.

I see that, Mom.

Good. Now let me go call Aunt Clara

She hung up. And Mr. Smarty Pants did likewise.

Bluntly put, Yankee Stadium was located in a cesspool section of the ever-eroding Bronx. It didn't much matter. Whenever you first caught sight of the famed sports edifice, you still fell into an immediate church hush. Couldn't help it. Memories swarmed in and burrowed down. Images flashed in and out. His youth. A small child crammed standing on the 4 train, holding Dad's seemingly giant hand, looking up into his gentle face, the pregame anticipation tingling through every part of him. Dad had caught a fly ball when Myron was five years old. He could still see it sometimes the arc of white rawhide, the crowd standing, his dad's arm stretching to an impossible height, the ball landing on the palm with a happy smack, the warm beam coming off Dad's face when he handed the prized possession to his son. Myron still had that ball, browning in the basement of his parents' house.

Basketball was Myron's sport of choice, and football was probably his favorite to watch on TV. Tennis was the game of princes, golf the game of kings. But baseball was magic. Early childhood memories are faint, but almost every boy can recall his first major-league baseball game. He can remember the score, who hit a home run, who pitched. But mostly he remembers his father. The smell of his after-shave is wrapped up in the smells of baseball the freshly cut grass, the summer air, the hot dogs, the stale popcorn, the spilled beer, the overoiled glove complete with baseball breaking in the pocket. He remembers the visiting team, the way Yaz tossed grounders to warm up Petrocelli at short, the way the hecklers made gentle fun of Frank Howard's TV commercials for Nestle's Quik, the way the game's greats rounded second and slid headfirst into third. You remember your sibling keeping stats, studying the lineups the way rabbinical scholars study the Talmud, baseball cards gripped in your hand, the ease and pace of a slow summer afternoon, Mom spending more time sunning herself than watching the action. You remember Dad buying you a pennant of the visiting team and later hanging it on your wall in a ceremony equal to the Celtics raising a banner in the old Boston Garden. You remember the way the players in the bullpen looked so relaxed, big wads of chew distorting their cheeks. You remember your healthy, respectful hate for the visiting team's superstars, the pure joy of going on Bat Day and treasuring that piece of wood as though it'd come straight from Honus Wagner's locker.

Show me a boy who didn't dream of being a big leaguer before age seven, before Training League or whatever slowly began to thin the herd in one of life's earliest lessons that the world can and will disappoint you. Show me a boy who doesn't remember wearing his Little League cap to school when the teachers would allow it, keeping it pitched high with a favorite baseball card tucked inside, wearing it to the dinner table, sleeping with it on the night table next to his bed. Show me a boy who doesn't remember playing catch with his father on the weekends or, better, on those precious summer nights when Dad would rush home from his job, shake off his work clothes, put on a T-shirt that was always a little too small, grab a mitt, and head into the backyard before the final rays faded away. Show me a boy who didn't stare in awe at how far his father could hit or throw a baseball no matter how bad an athlete his father was, no matter how spastic or what have you and for that shining moment Dad was transformed into a man of unimaginable ability and strength.

Only baseball had that magic.

The new majority owner of the New York Yankees was Sophie Mayor. She and her husband, Gary, had shocked the baseball world by buying the team from the longtime unpopular owner Vincent Riverton less than a year ago. Most fans had applauded. Vincent Riverton, a publishing mogul, had a love-hate relationship with the public (mostly hate) and the Mayors, a technonouveau-riche pair who had found their fortune through computer software, promised a more hands-off approach. Gary Mayor had grown up in the Bronx and promised a return to the days of the Mick and DiMaggio. The fans were thrilled.

But tragedy struck pretty fast. Two weeks before the deal to buy was finalized, Gary Mayor died of a sudden heart attack. Sophie Mayor, who had always been an equal, if not dominating, partner in the software business, insisted on going ahead with the transaction. She had public support and sympathy, but Gary and his roots had been the rope tethering her to the public. Sophie was a midwest-emer, and with her love of hunting mixed with her background as a math genius, she hit the prenatally suspicious New Yorkers as being something of a kook.

Soon after taking over the helm, Sophie made her son Jared, a man with virtually no baseball experience, co-general manager. The public frowned. She made a quick trade, gutting the Yankee farm system on the chance that Clu Haid still had a good year or two left. The public cried. She had stood firm. She wanted a World Series in the Bronx immediately. Trading for Clu Haid was the way to get it. The public was skeptical.

But Clu pitched amazingly well during his first month with the team. His fastball was back over ninety, and his curves were breaking as if they were accepting signals from a remote control. He got better with each outing, and the Yankees grabbed first place. The public was appeased. For a little while anyway, Myron guessed. He had stopped paying attention, but he could imagine the backlash against the Mayor family when Clu tested positive for drugs.

Myron was led immediately into Sophie Mayor's office. She and Jared both stood to greet him. Sophie Mayor was probably mid-fifties, what was commonly called a handsome woman, her hair gray and neat, her back straight, her handshake firm, her arms tawny, her eyes twinkling with hints of mischief and cunning. Jared was twenty-fiveish. He wore his hair parted on the right with no hint of style, wire-rimmed glasses, a blue blazer, and a polka dot bow tie. Youths for George Will.

The office was sparsely decorated, or maybe it just appeared that way because the scene was dominated by a moose head hanging on a wall. A dead moose actually. A live moose is so hard to hang. Quite the decorating touch. Myron tried not to make a face. He almost said, You must have hated this moose, a la Dudley Moore in Arthur but refrained. With age comes maturity.

Myron shook Jared's hand, then turned toward Sophie Mayor.

Sophie pounced. Where the hell have you been, Myron?

Excuse me?

She pointed to a chair. Sit.

Like he was a dog. But he obeyed. Jared too. Sophie stayed on her feet and glowered down at

him.

In court yesterday they said something about your being in the Caribbean, she continued.

Myron made a noncommittal uh-huh sound.

Where were you?

I was away.

Away?

Yes.

She looked over at her son, then back at Myron. For how long?

Three weeks.

But Miss Diaz told me you were in town.

Myron said nothing.

Sophie Mayor made two fists and leaned toward him. Why would she tell mfe that, Myron?

Because she didn't know where I was.

In other words, she lied to me.

Myron did not bother replying.

So where were you? she pressed.

Out of the country.

The Caribbean?

Yes.

And you never told anyone?

Myron shifted in his chair, trying to find an opening or gain some sort of footing here. I don't

mean to sound rude, he said, but I don't see how my whereabouts are any of your business.

You don't? A sharp chortle passed her lips. She looked at her son as if to say, Do you believe

this guy?, then redirected her laser grays back toward Myron. I relied on you, she said.

Myron said nothing.

I bought this team and I decided to be hands-off. I know software. I know computers. I know

business. I really don't know much about baseball. But I made one decision. I wanted Clu Haid. I had a feeling about him. I thought he still had something left. So I traded for him. People thought I was nuts three good prospects for one has-been. I understood that concern. So I went to you, Myron, remember?

Yes.

And you assured me he was going to stay clean.

Wrong, Myron said. I said he wanted to stay clean.

Wanted, was going to What is this, a lesson in semantics?

He was my client, Myron said. It's my job to worry about his interests.

And damn mine?

That's not what I said.

Damn integrity and ethics too? Is that the way you work, Myron?

That's not it at all. Sure, we wanted this trade to happen

You wanted it badly, she corrected him.

Fine, we wanted it badly. But I never promised you he'd stay clean because it's not something I

or anyone else can guarantee. I assured you we would try our hardest. I made it part of the deal. I gave you the right to randomly test him at any time.

You gave me the right? I demanded it! And you fought me on it every step of the way. We shared the risk, Myron said. I made his salary contingent on his staying clean. I let you put in a strict morals clause.

She smiled, crossed her arms. You know who you sound like? Those hypocritical car commercials where General Motors or Ford tout all the pollution-saving devices they've put on their cars. As though they did it on their own. As though they woke up one day more concerned with the environment than the bottom line. They leave out the fact that the government forced them to put on those devices, that they fought the government tooth and nail the whole way.

He was my client, Myron said again.

And you think that's an all-purpose excuse?

It's my job to get him the best deal.

Keep telling yourself that, Myron.

I can't stop a man from returning to an addiction. You knew that.

But you said you'd watch him. You said you'd work on keeping him straight.

Myron swallowed and shifted in his chair again. Yes.

But you didn't watch him, Myron, did you?

Silence.

You took a vacation and didn't tell anyone. You left Clu alone. You acted irresponsibly, and so

I blame you in part for his falling off the wagon. Myron opened his mouth, closed it. She was right, of course, but he didn't have the luxury of wallowing in that right now. Later. He'd think about his role in this later. The pain from last night's beating was angrily stirring from its snooze. He reached into his pocket and shook out a couple of extra-strength Tylenols. Satisfied or maybe satiated Sophie Mayor sat down. Seeing the pills, she asked, Would you like some water?

Please.

She nodded at Jared. Jared poured Myron a glass of water and handed it to him. Myron thanked

him and swallowed the tablets. The placebo effect jumped in, and he immediately felt better.

Before Sophie Mayor could strike again, Myron tried to shift gears. Tell me about Clu's failed

drug test, he said.

Sophie Mayor looked puzzled. What's to tell?

Clu claimed he was clean.

And you believe that?

I want to look into it

Why?

Because when Clu was caught in the past, he begged forgiveness and promised to get help. He

never pretended a test result was wrong.

She crossed her arms. And that's evidence of what exactly?

Nothing. I'd just like tq ask a few questions.

Ask away then.

How often did you test him?

Sophie looked over at her son. His cue. Jared spoke for the first time since greeting Myron at the

door. At least once a week, he said.

Urine tests? Myron asked.

Yes, Jared said.

And he passed them all? I mean, except for the last one.

Yes.

Myron shook his head. Every week? And no other positives? Just that one?

That's right.

He looked back at Sophie. Didn't you find that odd?

Why? she countered. He'd been trying to stay clean, and he fell off the wagon. It happens

every day, doesn't it?

It did, Myron guessed, and still something about it didn't sit right with him. But Clu knew you

were testing him?

I assume so, yes. We'd been testing him at least once a week.

And how were the tests conducted?

Sophie again looked over at Jared. Jared asked, What do you mean?

Step by step, Myron said. What did he do?

Sophie took that one. He peed in the cup, Myron. It's pretty simple.

It was never pretty simple. Did someone watch him urinate?

What?

Did someone actually witness Clu peeing or did he step into a stall? Myron said. Was he

naked when he did it or did he have on shorts

What difference does any of that make?

Plenty. Clu had spent his lifetime beating these tests. If he knew they were coming, he'd be prepared.

Prepared how? Sophie asked. Lots of ways, depending on the sophistication of the test, Myron said. If the testing was more primitive, you can put motor oil on your fingers and let the urine hit them while urinating. The phosphates throw the results out of whack. Some testers know this, so they check for phosphates. If the tester lets the guy urinate in a stall, he can strap clean urine onto his inner thigh and use that. Or the testee keeps the clean urine hidden in a condom or small balloon. He stores it in the lining of his boxer shorts maybe. Or between his toes. Under his armpit. In his mouth even.

Are you serious?

It gets worse. If the testee gets tipped off a strict test is coming up one where the

administrators are watching every move he makes he'll drain his bladder and use a catheter to

pump in clean urine.

Sophie Mayor looked horror-stricken. He pumps someone else's urine into his bladder?

Yes, Myron said.

Jesus. Then she pinned him down with her eyes. You seem to know quite a bit about this,

Myron.

So did Clu.

What are you saying?

It raises some questions, that's all.

He probably got caught by surprise.

Maybe, Myron said. But if you were testing him every week, how surprised could he have

been?

He might have just messed up, Sophie went on. Drug addicts have a way of doing that.

Could be. But I'd like to speak with the person who administered the test.

Dr. Stilwell, Jared said. He's the team doctor. He handled it. Sawyer Wells assisted him.

Sawyer Wells, as in the self-help guru?

He's a psychologist specializing in human behavior and an excellent motivational therapist,

Jared corrected.

Motivational therapist. Uh-huh. Are either of them around now?

No, I don't think so. But they'll be here later. We have a home game tonight.

Who on the team was especially friendly with Clu? A coach, a player?

I really wouldn't know, Jared said.

Who did he room with on the road?

Sophie almost smiled. You really were out of touch, weren't you?

Cabral, Jared said. Enos Cabral. He's a Cuban pitcher.

Myron knew him. He nodded, glancing about, and that was when he saw it. His heart lurched,

and it took all his willpower not to scream.

He had just been sweeping the room with his eyes, taking the room in but not really seeing

anything, just the normal thing everyone does, when an object snagged his gaze as though on a

rusted hook. Myron froze. On the credenza. On the right side of the credenza, mixed in with the

other framed photos and the trophies and those latex cubes that encased civic awards and the first

issue of Mayor Software stock and the like. Right there. A framed photograph.

A framed photograph of the girl on the computer diskette.

Myron tried to maintain a calm facade. Deep breath in, deep breath out. But he could feel his

pulse quicken. His mind fought through the haze, searching for a temporary clearing. He scanned his internal memory banks. Okay, slow down. Breathe. Keep breathing.

No wonder the girl had looked familiar to him. But what was her deal? More memory bank scanning. She was Sophie Mayor's daughter, of course. Jared Mayor's sister. What was her name again? His recollections were vague. What had happened to her? A runaway, right? Ten, fifteen years ago. There had been an estrangement or something. Foul play was not suspected. Or was it? He didn't remember.

Myron?

He needed to think. Calmly. He needed space, time. He couldn't just blurt out, Oh, I got this

weird diskette with an image of your daughter melting in blood on it. He had to get out of here.

Do some research. Think it through. He stood, clumsily looking at his watch.

I have to go, he said.

What?

I'd like to speak with Dr. Stilwell as soon as possible, he said.

aSophie's eyes stayed on him. I don't see the relevance.