The Final Detail

I just explained

What difference would it make? Clu is dead now. The drug test isn't relevant.

There might be a connection.

Between his death and a drug test?

Yes.

I'm not sure I agree.

I'd still like to check it out. I have that right.

What right?

If the drug test was inconclusive, it changes things.

Changes what Then Sophie stopped, smiled a bit, and nodded to herself. I think I see now.

Myron said nothing.

You mean in terms of his contract, don't you?

I have to go, he repeated.

She leaned back and recrossed her arms. Well, Myron, I have to hand it to you. You are

definitely an agent. Trying to squeeze one more commission out of a corpse, eh?

Myron let the insult roll off. If Clu was clean, his contract would still be valid. You'd owe the

family at least three million dollars.

So this is a shakedown? You're here for money?

He glanced at the picture of the young girl again. He remembered the diskette, the laugh, the

blood. Right now, he said, I'd just like to talk with the team doctor.

Sophie Mayor looked at him like he was a turd on the carpet. Get out of my office, Myron.

Will you let me speak to the doctor?

You don't have any legal standing here.

I think I do.

You don't, believe me. The blood money has run dry here. Get out, Myron. Now.

He took one more look at the photograph. Now was not the time to argue the point. He hurried

out the door.

Chapter 18

Myron was starting to hurt. The Tylenol alone wasn't doing the trick. He had Tylenol with codeine in his back pocket, but he did not dare. He needed to stay sharp, and that stuff put him to sleep faster than, er, sex. He quickly cataloged the sore spots. His sliced-up shin hurt most, followed closely by his bruised ribs. The rest of the aches were an almost welcome distraction. But the pain made him conscious of every movement.

When he got back to his office, Big Cyndi handed him a huge pile of message slips.

How many reporters have called? he asked.

I stopped counting, Mr. Bolitar.

Any messages from Bruce Taylor?

Yes.

Bruce covered the Mets, not the Yankees. But every reporter wanted in on this story. Bruce was

also something of a friend. He would know about Sophie Mayor's daughter. The question was, of

course, how to raise the subject without getting him overly curious.

Myron closed his office door, sat down, dialed a number. A voice answered on the first ring.

Taylor.

Hey, Brucie.

Myron? Jesus Christ. Hey, I appreciate you calling me back.

Sure, Bruce. I love to cooperate with my favorite reporter.

Pause. Then: Uh-oh.

What? Myron said.

This is too easy.

Pardon.

Okay, Myron, let's skip the part where you break down my defenses with your supernatural

charisma. Cut to it.

I want to make a deal.

I'm listening.

I'm not willing to make a statement yet. But when I do, you get first crack. An exclusive.

An exclusive? Sheesh, Myron, you really do know your media lingo, don't you?

I could have said scoop. It's one of my favorite words.

Okay, Myron, great. So in return for your not telling me anything, you get what?

Just some information. But you don't read into anything that I ask and you don't report on it.

You're just my source.

More like your bitch, Bruce said.

If that's what you're into.

Not today, dear, I have a headache. So let me get this straight. You tell me nothing. I report

nothing. In return I get to tell you everything. Sorry, big guy, no deal.

Bye-bye, Brucie.

Whoa, whoa, Myron, hold up. Christ, I'm not a general manager. Don't pull that negotiating

crap on me. Look, let's stop tugging each other's chains here. This is what we do: You give me something. A statement, anything. it can be as innocuous as you want to make it. But I want to be the first with a statement from Myron Bolitar. Then I tell you what you want, I keep quiet, you give me the exclusive scoop or whatever before everyone else. Deal? Deal, Myron said. Here's your statement: Esperanza Diaz did not kill Clu Haid. I stand behind her one hundred percent.

Was she having an affair with Clu?

That's my statement, Bruce. Period.

Okay, line, but what's this about your being out of the country at the time of the murder?

A statement, Bruce. As in, 'no further comment.' As in, 'I'll be answering no questions today.'

Hey, it's already public knowledge. I just want a confirmation. You were in the Caribbean,

right?

Right.

Where in the Caribbean?

No comment.

Why not? Were you really in the Cayman Islands?

No, I was not in the Caymans.

Then where?

See how reporters work? No comment.

I called you immediately following Clu's positive drug test. Esperanza said you were in town

but would not comment.

And I still won't, Myron said. Now it's your turn, Bruce.

Come on, Myron, you're giving me nothing here.

We had a deal.

Yeah, all right, sure, I want to be fair, he said in a tone that made it clear he would start up

again later. Ask away.

Casual, casual. He couldn't just ask about Sophie Mayor's daughter. Subtlety. That was the key. Myron's office door opened, and Win swept into the room. Myron signaled with one finger. Win nodded and opened a closet door. There was a full-length mirror on the inside back. Win stared at his reflection and smiled. A nice way of passing the time.

What were the rumors about Clu? Myron asked.

You mean before the positive test results?

Yes.

Time bomb, Bruce said.

Explain.

He was pitching great, no question. And he looked good. Thinned down, seemed focused. But

then a week or so before the drug test, he started looking like hell Christ, you must have seen it,

right? Or were you out of the country then too?

Just go on, Bruce.

What else can I tell you? With Clu you've seen it a hundred times before. The guy breaks your

heart. His arm was touched by God. The rest of him was, well, just touched, if you follow my

meaning.

So there were signs before the positive test?

Yeah, I guess. In hindsight, sure there were lots of signs. I hear his wife threw him out. He was

unshaven, red-eyed, that kind of thing.

It didn't have to be drugs, Myron said.

True. It could have been booze.

Or maybe it was just the strain of marital discord.

Look, Myron, maybe some guys like Orel Hershiser get the benefit of the doubt. But when it

comes to Clu Haid or Steve Howe or some other perennial screwup, you figure it's substance abuse, and eleven times out of ten you're right.

Myron looked over at Win. Win had finished patting the blond locks and was now using the

mirror to practice his different smiles. Right now he was working on roguish.

Subtle, Myron reminded himself, subtle . Bruce?

Yeah?

What can you tell me about Sophie Mayor?

What about her?

Nothing specific.

Just curious, huh?

Right, curious.

Sure you are, Bruce said.

How much damage did Clu's drug test do to her?

Tremendous damage. But you know this. Sophie Mayor stuck her neck out, and for a while she

was a genius. Then Clu fails the drug test, and presto, she's an idiotic bimbo who should let the

men run things.

So tell me about her background.

Background?

Yes. I want to get a feel for her.

Why? Bruce asked. Then: Ah, what the hell. She's from Kansas, I think, or Iowa or Indiana or

Montana. Someplace like that. An aged Ivory Girl type. Loves fishing, hunting, all that nature stuff. She was also something of a math prodigy. Came East to go to MIT. That's where she met Gary Mayor. They got married and lived most of their lives as science professors. He taught at Brandeis; she taught at Tufts. They developed a software program for personal finance in the early eighties and suddenly went from middle-class professors to millionaires. They took the company public in '94 and changed the m to a b.

The m to a b?

Millionaire to billionaire.

Oh.

So the Mayors did what lots of superwealthy people do: They bought a sports franchise. In this

case, the Yankees. Gary Mayor grew up loving them. It was going to be a nice toy for him, but of course he never got to enjoy it. Myron cleared his throat. And they, uh, have children? Senor Subtle-ol They had two. You know Jared. He's actually a pretty good kid, smart, went to your alma mater, Duke. But everyone hates him because he got the job through nepotism. His main responsibility is to keep an eye on Mommy's investment. My understanding is that he's actually pretty good at that and that he leaves the baseball to the baseball guys.

Uh-huh.

Theyalso have a daughter. Or had a daughter.

With great effort, Win sighed, closed the closet door. So difficult to pull himself away from a

mirror. He sat across from Myron looking, as always, completely at ease. Myron cleared his

throat and said into the phone, What do you mean, had a daughter?

The daughter's very estranged. Don't you remember the story?

Vaguely. She ran away, right?

Right. Her name was Lucy. She took off with a boyfriend, some grunge musician, a few weeks

before her eighteenth birthday. This was, I don't know, ten, fifteen years ago. Before the Mayors

had any money.

So where does she live now?

Well, that's the thing. No one knows.

I don't understand.

She ran away, that much is known for sure. She left them a note, I think. She was going to hit

the road with her boyfriend and seek her fortune, the usual teenage stuff. Sophie and Gary Mayor were typical East Coast college professors who read too much Dr. Spock, so they gave their daughter 'space,' figuring of course that she'd come back.

But she didn't.

Duh.

And they never heard from her?

Duh again.

But I remember reading about this a few years ago. Didn't they start a search for her or

something?

Yeah. First off, the boyfriend came back after a few months. They'd broken up and gone their

separate ways. Big shock, right? Anyway, he didn't know where she went. So the Mayors called

the police, but they treated it like no big deal. Lucy was eighteen by this time, and she had

clearly run away on her own. There was no evidence of foul play or anything and remember that

this was before the Mayors had beaucoup bucks.

And after they became rich?

Sophie and Gary tried to find her again. They made it like a search for the missing heiress. The tabloids loved it for a while. There were some wild reports but nothing concrete. Some say Lucy moved overseas. Some say she's living in a commune somewhere. Some say she's dead. Whatever. They never found her, and there was still no sign of foul play, so the story eventually petered out.

Silence. Win looked at Myron and arched an eyebrow. Myron shook his head.

So why the interest? Bruce asked.

I just want to get a feel for the Mayors.

Uh-huh.

No big deal.

Okay, I buy that. Not.

It's the truth, Myron lied. And how about using a more up-to-date reference? No one says not

anymore.

They don't? Pause: Guess I gotta watch more MTV. But Vanilla Ice is still hip, right?

Ice, ice, baby.

Fine, okay, we'll play it your way for now, Myron. But I don't know anything else about Lucy

Mayor. You can try a search on Lexis. The papers might have more detail.

Good idea, thanks. Listen, Bruce, I got another call coming in.

What? You're just going to cut me loose?

That was our deal.

So why all the questions about the Mayors?

Like I said, I want to get a feel for them.

Does the phrase what a crock mean anything to you?

Good-bye, Bruce.

Wait. Pause. Then Bruce said, Something serious is going down here, right?

Clu Haid has been murdered. Esperanza's been arrested for the crime. I'd say that's pretty

serious.

There's more to it. Tell me that much. I won't print it, I promise.

Truth, Bruce? I don't know yet.

And when you do?

You'll be the first to know.

You really think Esperanza's innocent? Even with all that evidence?

Yes.

Call me, Myron. If you need anything else. I like Esperanza. I want to help if I can.

Myron hung up. He looked over at Win. Win seemed in deep thought. He was tapping his chin

with his index finger. They sat in silence for several seconds.

Win stopped tapping and asked, Whatever happened to the King Family?

You mean the ones with the Christmas specials?

Win nodded. Every year you were supposed to watch the King Family Christmas Special. There

must have been a hundred of the buggers big Kings with beards, little Kings in knickers,

Mommy Kings, Daddy Kings, Uncle and Aunt and Cousin Kings. Then one year poof

they're gone. All of them. What happened?

I don't know.

Strange, isn't it?

I guess.

And what did the King clan do the rest of the year?

Prepared for the next Christmas special?

What a life, no? Win said. Christmas passes, and you start thinking about next Christmas.

You live in a snow globe of Christmas.

I guess.

I wonder where they are now, all those suddenly unemployed Kings. Do they sell cars?

Insurance? Are they drug dealers? Do they get sad every Christmas?

Yeah, poignant point, Win. By the way, did you come down here for a reason?

Discussing the King Family isn't reason enough? Weren't you the one who came up to my

office because you didn't understand the meaning of a Sheena Easton song?

You're comparing the King Family to Sheena Easton?

Yes, well, in truth, I came up here to inform you that I quashed the subpoenas against Lock-Horne.

Myron shouldn't have been surprised. The power of payoffs, he said with a shake of his head.

It never fails to amaze me.

Payoff is such an offensive term, Win said. I prefer the more politically correct assisting the contribution-challenged He sat back, crossed his legs in that way of his, folded his hands on his lap. He gestured at the phone and said, Explain.

So Myron did. He filled him in on everything, especially on the Lucy Mayor incident. When

Myron was finished, Win said, Puzzling.

Agreed.

But I am not sure I see a connection.

Someone mails me a diskette with Lucy Mayor's image on it and a little while later Clu is

murdered. You think that's just a coincidence?

Win mulled that over. Too early to tell, he concluded. Let's do a little recap, shall we?

Go ahead.

Let's start with a straight time line: Clu gets traded to New York, he pitches well, he gets

thrown out by Bonnie, he starts collapsing, he fails a drug test, he desperately searches for you, he comes to me and withdraws two hundred thousand dollars, he strikes Esperanza, he gets murdered. Win stopped. That sound fair?

Yes.

Now let's explore some possible tangents from this line.

Let's.

One, our old fraternity chum Billy Lee Palms appears to be missing. Clu purportedly contacted

him shortly before the murder. Aside from that, is there any reason to tie Billy Lee into all this?

Not really. And according to his mother, Billy Lee isn't the most dependable tool in the shed.

So maybe his disappearance has nothing to do with this.

Maybe.

But that would be yet another bizarre coincidence Win said.

It would at that.

Fine, let's move on for the moment. Tangent two, this Take A Guess nightspot.

All we know is that Clu called them.

Win shook his head. We know a great deal more.

For example?

They overreacted to your visit. Tossing you out would have been one thing. Roughing you up a bit would have been one thing. But this sort of interrogation complete with knife slashes and electrocution that's overkill.

Meaning?

Meaning that you struck a nerve, poked the hive, stirred the nest, choose your favorite cliche.

So they're connected into all this.

Logical, Win said, again doing his best Spock.

How?

Heavens, I haven't a clue.

Myron chewed it over a bit. I had thought maybe Clu and Esperanza hooked up there.

And now?

Let's say they did hook up there. What would be the big deal about that? Why the overkill?

So it's something else.

Myron nodded. Any more tangents?

The big one, Win said. The disappearance of Lucy Mayor.

Which happened more than ten years ago.

And we must confess that her connection is tenuous at best.

So confessed, Myron said.

Win steepled his fingers and raised the pointers. But the diskette was addressed to you.

Yes.

Ergo we cannot be sure that Lucy Mayor is connected to Clu Haid at all

Right.

but we can be sure that Lucy Mayor is somehow connected to you.

Me? Myron made a face. I can't imagine how.

Think hard. Perhaps you met her once.

Myron shook his head. Never.

You might not have known. The woman has been living in some sort of clandestine state for a

very long time. Perhaps she was someone you met in a bar, a one-night stand.

I don't one-night stand.

That's right, Win said. Then with flat eyes: God, I wish I were you.

Myron waved him off. But suppose you're right. Suppose I did meet her but didn't know it. So

what? She decides to repay me by sending me a diskette of her face melting into a puddle of

blood?

Win nodded. Puzzling.

So where does that leave us?

Puzzled.

The speaker buzzed. Myron said, Yes?

Big Cyndi said, Your father is on line one, Mr. Bolitar.

Thank you. Myron picked up the receiver. Hi, Dad.

Hey, Myron. How are you?

Good.

You readjusting to being home?

Yeah, I am.

Happy to be back?

Dad was stalling. Yeah, Dad, I'm great.

All this stuff with Esperanza. It must be keeping you hopping, huh?

I guess so, yeah.

Soooo, Dad said, stretching out the word, think you have time for lunch with your old man?

There was a strain in the voice.

Sure, Dad.

How about tomorrow? At the club?

Myron bit back a groan. Not the club. Sure. Noon, okay?

Good, son, that'll be fine.

Dad didn't call him son very often. More like never. Myron switched hands. Anything wrong,

Dad?

No, no, he said too quickly. Everything's fine. I just want to talk to you about something.

About what?

It'll keep, no biggie. See you tomorrow.

Click.

Myron looked at Win. That was my father.

Yes, I picked up on that when Big Cyndi said your father was on the line. It was further

reemphasized when you said 'Dad' four times during the conversation. I'm gifted that way.

He wants to have lunch tomorrow.

Win nodded. And I care because ?

Just telling you.

I'll write about it in my diary tonight, Win said. In the meantime, I had another thought, vis-a

vis Lucy Mayor.

I'm listening.

If you recall, we were trying to figure out who was being injured in all this.

I recall.

Clu obviously. Esperanza. You. I.

Yes.

Well, we must add a new person: Sophie Mayor.

Myron thought about it. Then he started nodding. That could very well be the connection. If you

wanted to destroy Sophie Mayor, what would you do? First, you'd do something to undermine

any support she had with the Yankee fans and management.

Clu Haid, Win said.

Right. Then you might hit her in what has to be a vulnerable spot her missing daughter. I

mean, if someone sent her a similar diskette, can you imagine the horror?

Which raises an interesting question, Win said.

What?

Are you going to tell her?

About the diskette?

No, about recent troop movements in Bosnia. Yes, the diskette.

Myron thought about it but not for very long. I don't see where I have any choice. I have to tell

her.

Perhaps that too is part of the theoretical plan to wear her down, Win said. Perhaps someone

sent you the diskette knowing it would get back to her.

Maybe. But she still has the right to know. It's not my place to decide what Sophie Mayor is

strong enough to handle.

Too true. Win rose. I have some contacts trying to locate the official reports on Clu's

murder autopsy, crime scene, witness statements, labs, what have you. But everyone is tightlipped.

I got a possible source, Myron said.

Oh?

The Bergen County medical examiner is Sally Li. I know her.

Through Jessica's father?

Yes.

Go for it, Win said.

Myron watched him head for the door. Win?

Yes?

You have any thoughts on how I should break the news to Sophie Mayor?

None whatsoever.

Win left then. Myron stared at the phone. He picked it up and dialed Sophie Mayor's phone

number. It took some time, but a secretary finally patched him through to her. Sophie sounded

less than thrilled to hear his voice.

She opened sharply. What?

We need to talk, Myron said. There was distortion on the line. A cell or car phone probably.

We already talked.

This is different.

Silence. Then: I'm in the car right now, about a mile from my house out on the Island. How

important is this?

Myron picked up a pen. Give me your address, he said. I'll be right over.

Chapter 19

On the street the man was still reading a newspaper. Myron's elevator trip down to the lobby featured mucho stops. Not atypical. No one spoke, of course, everyone busying themselves by staring up at the descending flashing numbers as though awaiting a UFO landing. In the lobby he joined the stream of suits and flowed out onto Park Avenue, salmons fighting upstream against the tide until, well, they died. Many of the suits walked with heads high, their expressions kick-ass-runway-model; others walked with backs bent, flesh versions of the statue on Fifth Avenue of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders,

but for them the world was simply too heavy.

Whoa, again with the deep.

Perfectly situated on the corner of Forty-sixth and Park, standing reading a newspaper but

positioned in such way as to watch all entering or leaving the Lock-Home building, was the same

man Myron had noticed standing there when he entered.

Hmm.

Myron took out his cell phone and hit the programmed button.

Articulate, Win said.

I think I got a tail.

Hold please. Maybe ten seconds passed. Then: The newspaper on the corner.

Win keeps a variety of telescopes and binoculars in his office. Don't ask.

Yep.

Good Lord, Win said. Could he be any more obvious?

Doubt it.

Where's the pride in his work? Where's the professionalism?

Sad.

That, my friend, is the whole problem with this country.

Bad tails?

It's an example. Look at him. Does anybody really stand on a street corner and read a

newspaper like that? He might as well cut out two eyeholes.

Uh-huh, Myron said. You got some free time?

But of course. How would you like to play it?

Back me up, Myron said.

Give me five.

Myron waited five minutes. He stood there and studiously avoided looking at the tail. He checked his watch and huffed a bit as though he expected someone and was getting impatient. When the five minutes passed, Myron walked straight over to the tail.

The tail spotted his approach and ducked into the newspaper.

Myron kept walking until he stood directly next to the tail. The tail kept his face in the newspaper. Myron gave him Smile 8. Big and toothy. A televangelist being handed a hefty check. Early Wink Martindale. The tail kept his eyes on the newspaper. Myron kept smiling, his eyes wide as a clown's. The tail ignored him. Myron inched closer, leaned his uber-wattage smile within inches of the taiPs face, wriggled his eyebrows.

The tail snapped closed the newspaper and sighed. Fine, hotshot, you made me. Congratulations.

Still with the Wink Martindale smile: And thank you for playing our game! But don't worry, we won't let you go home empty-handed! You get the home version of Incompetent Tail and a year's subscription to Modern Doofus Yeah, right, see you around.

Wait! Final Jeopardy! round. Answer: He or she hired you to follow me.

Bite me.

Ooo, sorry, you needed to put that in the form of a question.

The tail started walking away. When he looked back, Myron gave him the smile and a big wave. This has been a Mark Goodson-Bill Todman production. Good-bye, everybody! More waving.

The tail shook his head and continued down the street, joining another stream of people. Lots of people in this stream; Win happened to be one of them. The tail would probably find a clearing and then call his boss. Win would listen in and learn all. What a plan.

Myron headed to his rented car. He circled the block once. No more tails. At least none as obvious as the last. No matter. He was driving out to the Mayor estate on Long Island. It didn't much matter if anyone knew.

He spent his time in the car working on the cell phone. He had two arena football players indoor football on a smaller field, for those who don't know both of whom were hoping to scratch a bench spot on an NFL roster before the waiver wire closed down. Myron called teams, but nobody was interested. Lots of people asked him about the murder. He brushed them off. He knew his efforts were fairly futile, but he stuck to it. Big of him. He tried concentrating on his work, tried to lose himself in the numb bliss of what he did for a living. But the world kept creeping in. He thought about Esperanza in jail. He thought about Jessica in California. He thought about Bonnie Haid and her fatherless boys at home. He thought about Clu in formaldehyde. He thought about his father's phone call. And strangely, he kept thinking about Terese alone on that island. He blocked out the rest.

When he reached Muttontown, a section of Long Island that had somehow escaped him in the past, he turned right onto a heavily wooded road. He drove about two miles, passing maybe three driveways. He finally reached a simple iron gate with a small sign that read THE MAYORS. There were several security cameras and an intercom. He pressed the button. A woman's voice came on and said, May I help you?

Myron Bolitar to see Sophie Mayor. Please drive up. Park in front of the house. The gate opened. Myron drove up a rather steep hill. Tall hedges lined both sides of the driveway, giving the aura of being a rat in a maze. He spotted a few more security cameras. No sign of the house yet. When he reached the top of the hill, he hit upon a clearing. There was a slightly overgrown grass tennis court and croquet field. Very Norma Desmond. He made another turn. The house was dead straight ahead. It was a mansion, of course, though not as huge as some Myron had seen. Vines clung to pale yellow stucco. The windows looked leaded. The whole scene screamed Roaring Twenties. Myron half expected Scott and Zelda to pull up behind him in a slick roadster.

This part of the driveway was made up of small loose pebbles rather than pavement. His tires crunched them as it drew closer. There was a fountain in the middle of the circular drive, about fifteen feet in front of the door. Neptune stood naked with a triton in his hand. The fountain, Myron realized, was a smaller version of the one in the Piazza della Signoria in Florence. Water spouted up but not very high or with much enthusiasm, as if someone had set the water pressure on light urination.

Myron parked the car. There was a perfectly square swimming pool on his right, complete with lily pads floating on the top. A poor man's Giverny. There were statues in the gardens, again something from old Italy or Greece or the like. Venus de Milo-like except with all the limbs.

He got out of the car and stopped. He thought about what he was about to unearth, and for a brief moment he considered turning back. How, he wondered again, do I tell this woman about her missing daughter melting on a computer diskette?

No answer came to him.

The door opened. A woman in casual clothes led him through a corridor and into a large room with high tin ceilings and lots of windows and a semidisappointing view of more white statues and woods. The interior was art deco, but it didn't try too hard. Nice. Except, of course, for the hunting trophies. Taxidermy birds of some sort sat on the shelves. The birds looked upset. Probably were. Who could blame them?

Myron turned and stared at a mounted deer. He waited for Sophie Mayor. The deer waited too. The deer seemed very patient.

Go ahead, a voice said.

Myron turned around. It was Sophie Mayor. She was wearing dirt-smeared jeans and a plaid shirt, the very essence of the weekend botanist.

Never short of a witty opening gambit, Myron countered, Go ahead and what?

Make the snide remark about hunting.

I didn't say anything.

Come, come, Myron. Don't you think hunting is barbaric?

Myron shrugged. I never really thought about it. Not true, but what the hey.

But you don't approve, do you?

Not my place to approve.

How tolerant. She smiled. But you of course would never do it, am I right?

Hunt? No, it's not for me.

You think it's inhumane. She gestured with her chin to the mounted deer. Killing Bambi's

mother and all.

It's just not for me.

I see. Are you a vegetarian?

I don't eat much red meat, Myron said.

I'm not talking about your health. Do you ever eat any dead animals?

Yes.

So do you think it's more humane to kill, say, a chicken or a cow than it is to kill a deer?

No.

Do you know what kind of awful torture that cow goes through before it's slaughtered?

For food, Myron said.

Pardon?

Slaughtered for food.

I eat what I kill, Myron. Your friend up there she nodded to the patient deer she was

gutted and eaten. Feel better?

Myron thought about that. Uh, we're not having lunch, are we?

That got a small chuckle. I won't go into the whole food chain argument, Sophie Mayor said.

But God created a world where the only way to survive is to kill. Period. We all kill. Even the

strict vegetarians have to plow fields. You don't think plowing kills small animals and insects?

I never really thought about it. Hunting is just more hands-on, more honest. When you sit down and eat an animal, you have no appreciation for the process, for the sacrifice made so that you could survive. You let someone else do the killing. You're above even thinking about it. When I eat an animal, I have a fuller understanding. I don't do it casually. I don't depersonalize it.

Okay, Myron said, while we're on the subject, what about those hunters who don't kill for

food?

Most do eat what they kill.

But what about those who kill for sport? I mean, isn't that part of it?

Yes.

So what about that? What about killing merely for sport? As opposed to what, Myron? Killing for a pair of shoes? Or a nice coat? Is spending a full day outdoors, coming to understand how nature works and appreciating her bountiful glory, is that worth any less than a leather pocketbook? If it's worth killing an animal because you prefer your belt made of animal skin instead of something man-made, is it not worth killing one because you simply enjoy the thrill of it?

He said nothing. I'm sorry to ride you about this. But the hypocrisy of it all drives me somewhat batty. Everyone wants to save the whale, but what about the thousands of fish and shrimp a whale eats each day? Are their lives worthless because they aren't as cute? Ever notice how no one ever wants to save ugly animals? And the same people who think hunting is barbaric put up special fences so the deer can't eat their precious gardens. So the deers overpopulate and die of starvation. Is that better? And don't even get me started on those so-called ecofeminists. Men hunt, they say, but women are too genteel. Of all the sexist nonsense. They want to be environmentalists? They want to stay as close to a state of nature as possible? Then understand the one universal truth

about nature: You either kill or you die.

They both turned and stared at the deer for a moment. Proof positive.

You didn't come here for a lecture, she said.

Myron had welcomed this delay. But the time had come. No, ma'am.

Ma'am? Sophie Mayor chuckled without a hint of humor. That sounds grim, Myron.

Myron turned and looked at her. She met his gaze and held it.

Call me Sophie, she said.

He nodded. Can I ask you a very personal, maybe hurtful question, Sophie?

You can try.

Have you heard anything from your daughter since she ran away?

No.

The answer came fast. Her gaze remained steady, her voice strong. But her face was losing color.

Then you have no idea where she is?

No idea.

Or even if she's

Alive or dead, she finished for him. None.

Her voice was so monotone it seemed on the verge of a scream. There was a quaking near her

mouth now, a fault line starting to give way. Sophie Mayor stood and waited for his explanation,

afraid perhaps to say any more.

I got a diskette in the mail, he began.

She frowned. What?

A computer diskette. It came in the mail. I put it in my A drive, and it just started up. I didn't

have to hit any keys.

Self-starting program, she said, suddenly the computer expert. That's not complicated

technology.

Myron cleared his throat. A graphic came on. It started out as a photograph of your daughter.

Sophie Mayor took a step back.

It was the same photograph that's in your office. On the right side of the credenza.

That was Lucy's junior year of high school, she said. The school portrait.

Myron nodded, though he didn't know why. After a few seconds her image started melting on

the screen.

Melting?

Yes. It sort of dissolved into a puddle of, uh, blood. Then a sound came on. A teenage girl

laughing, I think.

Sophie Mayor's eyes were glistening now. I don't understand.

Neither do I.

This came in the mail?

Yes.

On a floppy disk?

Yes, Myron said. Then he added for no reason: A three-and-a-half-inch floppy.

When?

It arrived in my office about two weeks ago.

Why did you wait so long to tell me? She put a hand up. Oh, wait. You were out of the

country.

Yes.

So when did you first see it?

Yesterday.

But you saw me this morning. Why didn't you tell me then?

I didn't know who the girl was. Not at first anyway. Then when I was in your office, I saw the

photograph on the credenza. I got confused. I wasn't sure what to say.

She nodded slowly. So that explains your abrupt departure.

Yes. I'm sorry.

Do you have the diskette? My people will analyze it.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew it. I don't think it'll be any help.

Why not?

I took it to a police lab. They said it automatically reformatted itself.

So the diskette is blank?

Yes.

It was as though her muscles had suddenly decided to flee the district. Sophie Mayor's legs gave

way. She dropped to a chair. Her head lolled into her hands. Myron waited. There were no

sounds. She just sat there, head in hands. When she looked up again, the gray eyes were tinged

with red.

You said something about a police lab.

He nodded.

You used to work in law enforcement.

Not really.

I remember Clip Arnstein saying something about it.

Myron said nothing. Clip Arnstein was the man who had drafted Myron in the first round for the

Boston Celtics. He also had a big mouth.

You helped Clip when Greg Downing vanished, she continued.

Yes.

I've been hiring private investigators to search for Lucy for years. Supposedly the best in the world. Sometimes we seem to get close but Her voice drifted off, her eyes far away. She looked at the diskette in her hand as if it had suddenly materialized there. Why would someone send this to you?

I don't know.

Did you know my daughter?

No.

Sophie took a couple of careful breaths. I want to show you something. Wait here a minute. It

took maybe half that time. Myron had just begun to stare into the eyes of some dead bird, noting with some dismay how closely they resembled the eyes of some human beings he knew, and Sophie was back. She handed him a sheet of paper.

Myron looked at it. It was an artist's rendering of a woman nearing thirty years of age.

It's from MIT, she explained. My alma mater. A scientist there has developed a software

package that helps with age progression. For missing people. So you can see what they might look like today. He made this up for me a few months ago. Myron looked at the image of what the teenage Lucy might look like as a woman heading toward thirty. The effect was nothing short of startling. Oh, it looked like her, he guessed, but talk about ghosts, talk about life being a series of what-ifs, talk about the years slipping away and then smacking you in the face. Myron stared at the image, at the more conservative haircut, the small frown lines. How painful must it be for Sophie Mayor to look at this?

Does she look familiar at all? Sophie asked.

Myron shook his head. No, I'm sorry.

You're sure?

As sure as you can be in these situations.

Will you help me find her?

He wasn't sure how to answer. I can't see how I can help.

Clip said you're good at these things.

I'm not. But even if I were, I can't see what I can do. You've hired experts already. You have the

cops--

The police have been useless. They view Lucy as a runaway, period.

Myron said nothing.

Do you think it's hopeless? she asked.

I don't know enough about it.

She was a good girl, you know. Sophie Mayor smiled at him, her eyes misty with time travel. Headstrong, sure. Too adventurous for her own good. But then again I raised Lucy to be independent. The police. They think she was simply a troubled kid. She wasn't. Just confused. Who isn't at that age? And it wasn't as if she ran off in the middle of the night without telling anyone.

Against his better judgment Myron asked, Then what happened?

Lucy was a teenager, Myron. She was sullen and unhappy, and she didn't fit in. Her parents were college math professors and computer geeks. Her younger brother was considered a genius. She hated school. She wanted to see the world and live on the road. She had the whole rock V roll fantasy. One day she told us she was going off with Owen.

Owen was her boyfriend?

She nodded. An average musician who fronted a garage band, certain that his immense talent was being held back by them. She made a lemon-sucking face. They wanted to run off and get a record deal and become famous. So Gary and I said okay. Lucy was like a wild bird trapped in a small cage. She wouldn't stop flapping her wings no matter what we did. Gary and I felt we had no choice in the matter. We even thought it might be good for her. Lots of her classmates were backpacking through Europe. What was the difference?

She stopped and looked up at him. Myron waited. When she didn't say anything, he said, And?

And we never heard from her again.

Silence.

She turned back to the mounted deer. The deer looked back at her with something akin, it seemed, to pity.

Myron said, But Owen came back, right?

Yes. She was still staring at the deer. He's a car salesman in New Jersey. He plays in a wedding band on weekends. Can you imagine? He dresses up in a cheap tuxedo and belts out Tie a Yellow Ribbon' and 'Celebration' and introduces the bridal party. She shook her head at the irony. When Owen came back, the police questioned him, but he didn't know anything. Their story was so typical: They went out to Los Angeles, failed miserably, started fighting, and broke up after six months. Owen stayed out there another three months, certain this time it had been Lucy who was holding back his immense talent. When he failed again, he came back home with his tail between his legs. He said he hadn't seen Lucy since their breakup.

The police checked it out?

So they said. But it was a dead end.

Do you suspect Owen?

No, she said bitterly. He's too big a nothing.

Have there been any solid leads at all?

Solid? She thought about it. Not really. Several of the investigators we've hired think she

joined a cult.

Myron made a face. A cult?

Her personality fit the profile, they said. Despite my attempts to make her independent, they

claim she was just the opposite someone needing guidance, alone, suggestible, alienated from

friends and family.

I don't agree, Myron said.

She looked at him. You said you never met Lucy.

The psychological profile may be right, but I doubt she's with a cult.

What makes you say that?

Cults like money. Lucy Mayor is the daughter of an extraordinarily wealthy family. Maybe you

didn't have money when she first would have joined, but believe me, they'd know about you by

now. And they would have been in touch, if for no other reason than to extort vast sums. She started blinking again. Her eyes closed, and she turned her back to him. Myron took a step forward and then stopped, not sure what to do. He chose discretion, kept his distance, waited.

The not knowing, Sophie Mayor said after some time had passed. It gnaws at you. All day, all night, for twelve years. It never stops. It never goes away. When my husband's heart gave out, everyone was so shocked. Such a healthy man, they said. So young. Even now I don't know how I'll get through the day without him. But we rarely spoke about Lucy after she disappeared. We just lay in bed at night and pretended that the other one was asleep and stared at the ceiling and imagined all the horrors only parents with missing children can conjure up.

More silence.

Myron had no idea what to say. But the silence was growing so thick he could barely breathe.

I'm sorry, he said.

She didn't look up.

Til go to the police, he said. Tell them about the diskette.

What good will that do?

They'll investigate.

They already have, I told you. They think she's a runaway.

But now we have this new evidence. They'll take the case more seriously. I can even go to the

media. It'll jump-start their coverage.

She shook her head. Myron waited. She stood and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans.

The diskette, she said, was sent to you.

Yes.

Addressed to you.

Yes.

So, she said, someone is reaching out to you.

Win had said something similar. You don't know that, Myron said. I don't want to douse your

hopes, but it could be nothing more than a prank.

It's not a prank.

You can't be sure.

If it was a prank, it would have been sent to me. Or Jared. Or someone who knew her. It wasn't.

It was sent to you. Someone is reaching out to you specifically. It might even be Lucy.

He took a deep breath. Again I don't want to douse your

Don't patronize me, Myron. Just say what you want to say.

Okay if it were Lucy, why would she send an image of herself melting into a puddle of

blood?

Sophie Mayor did not wince, but she came close. I don't know. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's

not her. Maybe it's her killer. Either way, they're seeking you out. It's the first solid lead in years.

And if we make it loud and public, I fear that whoever sent this will go back into hiding. I can't

risk that.

I don't know what I can do, Myron said.

I'll pay you whatever you want. Name a price. A hundred thousand? A million?

It's not the money. I just don't see where I can help.

You can investigate.

He shook his head. My best friend and business partner is in jail for murder. My client was shot

in his own home. I have other clients who rely on me for their job security.

I see, she said. So you don't have time, is that it?

It's not a question of time. I really have nothing to go on. No clue, no connection, no source.

There's nothing to start with here.

Her eyes pinned him down. You can start with you. You're my clue, my connection, my

source. She reached out and took his hand. Her flesh was cold and hard. All I'm asking is that

you look closer.

At what?

Maybe, she said, at yourself.

Silence. They stood there, she holding his hand.

That sounds good, Sophie, but I'm not sure what it means.

You don't have children, do you?

No, Myron said. But that doesn't mean ? don't sympathize.

So let me ask you, Myron: What would you do if you were me? What would you do if the first

real clue in ten years just walked in your door?

The same thing you're doing.

So under the mounted deer, he told her he would keep his eyes open. He told her he would think

about it. He told her he would try to figure out the connection.

Chapter 20

Back at the office Myron strapped on the Ultra Slim phone headset and started making phone calls. Very Jerry Maguire. Not just in appearance but in the fact that clients were abandoning him left and right. And he hadn't even written a mission statement.

Win called. Newspaper Tail's name is Wayne Tunis. He lives in Staten Island and works in construction. He placed one call to a John McClain, telling him that he had been spotted. That's it. They're pretty careful.

So we don't yet know who hired him?

That would be correct.

When in doubt, Myron said, we should go with the obvious choice.

Young FJ?

Who else? He's been following me for months.

Course of action?

I'd like to get him off my back.

May I recommend a well-placed bullet through the back of the skull?

We've got enough problems without adding one more.

Fine. Course of action?

We confront him.

He usually hangs out at a Starbucks on Forty-ninth Street, Win said.

Starbucks?

The old mob espresso bars have gone the way of leisure suits and disco music.

Both of them are coming back.

No, Win said, bizarre mutations of them are coming back.

Like coffee bars in place of espresso bars?

Then you understand.

So let's pay FJ a visit

Give me twenty minutes, Win said before hanging up.

As soon as Myron hit the disconnect, Big Cyndi buzzed his line.

Mr. Bolitar?

Yes?

A Miss or Mr. Thrill is on the phone, Big Cyndi said.

Myron closed his eyes. You mean from last night?

Unless you know someone else named Thrill, Mr. Bolitar.

Take a message.

Both her words and tone suggest urgency, Mr. Bolitar.

Suggest urgency? Fine. Patch her or him through.

Yes, Mr. Bolitar.

There was a click.

Myron?

Uh, yeah, hi, Thrill.

That was some exit you made last night, big fella, Thrill said. You really know how to

impress a girl.

Yeah, I usually don't jump through a plate glass window until the second date.

So how come you haven't called me?

I've been really busy.

I'm downstairs, Thrill said. Tell the guard to let me up.

It's not a good time. Like I said before

Men rarely say no to Thrill. I must be losing my touch.

It's not that, he said. It's just that the timing is all wrong.

Myron, my name isn't really Thrill.

I hate to burst your bubble, but I kinda suspected it read something else on your birth

certificate.

No, that's not what I mean. Look, let me up. We need to talk about last night. About something that happened after you left. So he shrugged and called down to the guard at the front desk and told him to let up anyone identifying themselves as Thrill. The guard was puzzled but said okay. The headset was still

strapped on so Myron speed-dialed a sports apparel company. Before dashing to the Caribbean, Myron had been on the verge of landing a sneaker deal for a track and field client with said company. But now he was being put on hold. An assistant to an assistant finally came on the line. Myron asked him about the deal. It had fallen through, he was told. Why? he asked.

Ask your client, the assistant said. Oh, and ask his new agent too.

Click.

Myron closed his eyes and pulled off his headset. Damn.

There was a knock on his office door. The alien sound caused a ripple of pain. Esperanza had

never knocked. Never. She prided herself on interrupting him. She would sooner give up a limb

than knock.

Come in.

The door opened. Someone stepped inside and said, Surprise.

Myron tried not to stare. He took off the headset. You're ?

Thrill, yup.

Nothing was the same. Gone was the Cat Woman costume, the blond wig, the high heels, the, uh,

prodigious bosom. Thrill was still female, thank heavens. Still quite attractive in her conservative

navy suit with matching blouse, her hair done in a pixie style, her eyes less luminous behind

round tortoiseshell glasses, her makeup now applied with a far lighter hand. Her figure was

thinner, more toned, less, uh, shapely. Nothing to complain about, mind you. Just different.

To answer your first question, she said, when I dress like Thrill, I wear the aptly named

Raquel Wonder Breast Enhancements.

Myron nodded. That the stuff that looks like flattened Silly Putty?

The very. You jam them in your bra. Guess you've seen the infomercial on TV.

Seen it? I bought the video.

Thrill laughed. Last night her laugh not to mention her walk, her movements, her tone of voice,

her choice of words had been a double entendre. In the light of day the sound was melodic and

almost childlike.

I also strap on the aptly named Miracle Bra, she continued. To lift it all up high.

Any higher, Myron said, and they could have doubled as earrings.

Too true, she said. The legs and ass, however, are mine. And for the record, I do not have a

penis.

So noted.

Can I sit down?

Myron looked at his watch. I hate to be a pest

You'll want to hear, this, believe me. She sat in the chair in front of his desk. Myron folded his arms and leaned his butt on the desk's lip. My real name is Nancy Sinclair. I don't dress like Thrill for kicks. I'm a journalist, and I'm doing a story on Take A Guess. An insider's look at what goes on, what kind of people go there, what makes them tick. In order to get people to open up, I go undercover as Thrill.

So you do all this for a story?

I do all what?

Dress up and, uh His gestures were unintelligible.

Not that I see where it's even vaguely any of your concern, but the answer is no. 1 dress a part. I

strike up conversations. I flirt. Period. I like to watch people's reaction to me.

Oh. Then Myron cleared his throat and said, Just, uh, out of curiosity, I'm not going to be in

your story, am I? I mean, I've really never been there before and I was

Relax. I recognized you as soon as you came in the door.

You did?

I follow basketball. I got season tickets to the Dragons.

I see. The Dragons were New Jersey's pro basketball team. Myron had tried a comeback with

them not long ago.

That's why I approached you.

To see if I was into, uh, gender ambiguity?

Everyone else there is. Why not you?

But I explained to you that I was there to ask about someone.

Clu Haid, right. Still, your reaction to me was interesting.

I found you to be a witty conversationalist, Myron said.

Uh-huh.

And I also have a Julie-Newmar-as-Cat-Woman fetish.

You'd be surprised how many people have that same fetish.

No, I don't think I would be, Myron said. So why are you here, Nancy?

Pat saw us talking last night.

The bartender?

He's also one of the owners. He has shares in a couple of places in the city.

And?

And after the smoke cleared from your exit, Pat pulled me aside.

Because he saw us talking?

Because he saw me giving you my phone number.

So?

So I'd never done that before.

I'm flattered.

Don't be. I'm just making a point. I come on to a ton of girls and guys and whatever in there.

But I never give out a phone number.

So why did you give it to me?

Because I was curious to see if you'd call. You rebuffed Thrill, so you clearly weren't there for

sex. I wondered what you were up to.

Myron frowned. That was the only reason?

Yes.

Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.

So what did Pat want?

He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.

Tonight?

Yes.

How did he know I'd call?

Again the smile. Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call

But Thrill does?

Bosoms are empowerment. And if you didn't, he told me I could look up your business number

in the phone book.

Which is what you did.

Yes. He also promised me you wouldn't be hurt.

How comforting. And your interest in all this?

Isn't it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you're tying this week's

murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.

I don't think I can help you.

Cow dooky.

Cowdooky?

She shrugged.

What else did Pat say to you? Myron asked.

Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.

If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.

Thrill, not the brightest bulb on the tree, didn't pick up on that.

But Nancy Sinclair did.

She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. Tat was also huddled up with Zorra.

Who?

That's their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.

Like Veronica Lake?

She nodded. He's absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.

Pardon?

He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in

the back room with him.

Made sense. Myron hadn't made him miss. Zorra Zorra? just wanted to brand him. I have

one.

He's seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover.

Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the

stories I've heard are true, he's killed dozens.

Just what he needed Cross-Dressing Mossad. Did they talk about Clu at all?

No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.

Me?

Yes.

They think I killed Clu?

I don't think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill

him.

Who?

No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.

They didn't say who?

If they did, I didn't hear them. She smiled. So do we have a date?

Guess so.

You're not scared?

I'll have backup.

Someone good?

Myron nodded. Oh, yeah.

Then I better go(home and strap up my breasts.

Need any help?

My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.

And if you can't?

I have your phone number, she said. See you tonight.

Chapter 21

Win frowned. Nonsurgical breast enhancements?

Yes. They're an accessory of some sort.

An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?

In a way. Then thinking about it, Myron added, But they're probably more noticeable.

Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.

False advertising, Win said.

Pardon?

Breast enhancements. It's false advertising. There should be a law.

Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington where are they when it comes to the real

issues?

Then you understand.

I understand that you're a snorting pig.

A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One. Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the

side. Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?

The catsuit, Myron said.

I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit

Hey, c'mon, I just ate a muffin.

Exactly.

Fine, I'm a pig too. Happy?

Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because

of what they do to a woman's self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable

beauty on a woman size four dresses with D cups.

The key word here being perhaps.

Win smiled. Love me for all my faults.

What else is there?

Win adjusted his tie. FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks.

Shall we?

Let's. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.

Sounds almost like a plan, Win said. They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the comer. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, Yeah, baby, like that, and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man

crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.

About tonight, Win said.

Yes.

You trust this Thrill?

She checks out.

There is of course a chance that they'll just shoot you when you show up.

I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn't want the trouble in his own place.

So you think they're extending this invitation to buy you a drink?

Could be, Myron said. With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I'm considered

something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.

Win chose not to argue.

They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When

they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. Young FJ is at a table with someone, Win reported. Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.

Myron nodded. Shall we?

You first, Win said. Let me trail.

Myron had stopped questioning Win's methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside

and headed toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.

FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers' direction. Hans and Franz froze.

Hi, FJ, Myron said. FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. Ah, Myron, he said with what he must have been sure was savoirfaire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. Please,

Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.

Oh?

You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit. FJ tossed Myron the snake smile.

Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. I guess it's kismet, huh, Myron? Your

coming here. Pure kismet.

FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.

Kismet, Myron repeated. Good one.

FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, / got a million like that. Please sit, Myron.

Myron pulled out a chair.

Care for a drink?

An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.

FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar. He's new, FJ confided.

Who?

The guy working the espresso machine. The last guy who worked here made a wonderful latte.

But he quit for moral reasons.

Moral reasons?

They started selling Kenny G CDs, FJ said. Suddenly he couldn't sleep at night. It was tearing

him apart. Suppose an impressionable kid bought one? How could he live with himself? Pushing

caffeine was okay. But Kenny G the man had scruples.

Myron said, Commendable.

Win chose that moment to enter. FJ spotted him and looked over at Hans and Franz. Win did not

hesitate. He beelined straight toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz went to work. They stepped in

Win's path and expanded their chests to dimensions large enough to apply for a parking permit.

Win kept walking. Both men wore turtlenecks so high and loose they looked like something

awaiting circumcision.

Hans managed a smirk. You Win?

Yes, Win said, me Win.

You don't look so tough. Hans looked at Franz. He look tough to you, Keith?

Keith said, Not so tough.

Win did not break stride. Almost casually and without the slightest warning, he struck Hans with

the knife-edge of his hand behind the ear. Hans's whole body stiffened and then collapsed as

though someone had ripped the skeleton out of him. Franz gaped at the sight. But not for long. In the same motion Win pirouetted and struck Franz in the oft vulnerable throat. An awful gurgling noise shot out of Franz's lips, as though he were choking on a slew of small bones. Win reached for the carotid artery, found it, and squeezed with his pointer and thumb. Franz's eyes closed, and he too slid into Nighty-Night Land.

The couple at the other table exited quickly. Win smiled down at the unconscious bruisers. Then he glanced at Myron. Myron shook his head. Win shrugged and turned to the guy manning the coffee bar.

Barista, Win said. One caffe mocha.

What size?

Grande, please.

Skim or whole milk?

Skim. I'm watching my figure.

Right away.

Win joined Myron and FJ. He sat and crossed his legs. Nice sports coat, FJ.

Glad you like it, Win.

It really brings out the demonic red in your eyes.

Thank you.

So where were we?

Myron played along. I was just about to tell FJ that I'm getting a little tired of the tail.

And I was just about to tell Myron that I'm getting tired of him meddling in my affairs, FJ said.

Myron looked at Win. Meddling? Does anybody really use that word anymore?

Win thought about it. The old man at the end of every Scooby Doo.

Right. You meddling kids, stuff like that.

You will never guess who does the voice for Shaggy, Win said.

Who?

Casey Kasem.

Get out, Myron said. The top-forty radio guy?

The very same.

Live and learn.

On the floor Hans and Franz started to stir. Win showed FJ the gun he had semihidden in his one hand. For the safety of all concerned, Win said, please ask your employees to refrain from moving.

FJ told them. He was not scared. His father was Frank Ache. That was protection enough. The

muscles here were for show.

You've been following me for weeks now, Myron said. I want it to end.

Then I suggest that you stop interfering with my company.

Myron sighed. Fine, FJ, I'll bite. How am I interfering with your company?

Did you or did you not visit Sophie and Jared Mayor this morning? FJ asked.

You know I did.

For what purpose?

It had nothing to do with you, FJ.

Wrong answer.

Wrong answer?

You visited the owner of the New York Yankees even though you currently represent no one

who plays for the team.

So?

So why were you there?

Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged. Not that I need to explain myself to you, FJ, but just to

assuage your paranoid delusions, T was there about Clu Haid.

What about him?

I was asking about his drug tests.

FJ's eyes narrowed. That's interesting.

Glad you think so, FJ.

You see, I'm just a new guy trying to learn this confusing business.

Uh-huh.

I'm young and inexperienced.

Win said, Ah, how often I've heard that line.

Myron just shook his head.

FJ leaned forward, his scaly features coming closer. Myron feared his tongue would dart out and sniff him. I want to learn, Myron. So please tell me: What possible significance could Clu's drug test results have now?

Myron quickly debated answering and decided, What's the harm? If I can show the drug test

was faulty, his contract would still be active.

FJ nodded, seeing the thought trail now. You'd be able to get his contract paid out.

Right.

Do you have reason to believe that the test was faulty?

I'm afraid that's confidential, FJ. Agent-client privilege or whatever you want to call it. I'm sure

you understand.

I do, FJ said.

Good.

But you, Myron, are not his agent.

I am still responsible for his estate's financial well-being. Clu's death doesn't alter my

obligation.

Wrong answer.

Myron looked at Win. Again with the wrong answer?

You are not responsible. FJ reached to the floor and pulled a briefcase into view. He snapped it

open with as much flair as possible. His finger danced through a stack of papers before withdrawing the one he sought. He handed it to Myron and smiled. Myron looked into FJ's eyes, and again he was reminded of the eyes of that mounted deer.

Myron skimmed it over. He read the first line, felt a thump, checked the signature. What the

hell is this?

FJ's smile was like a dripping candle now. Exactly what it looks like. Clu Haid changed

representation. He fired MB SportsReps and hired TruPro.

He remembered what Sophie Mayor had said in her office, about his having no legal standing.

He never told us.

Never told us, Myron, or never told you ?

What the hell does that mean?

You weren't around. Perhaps he tried to tell you. Perhaps he told your associate.

So he just happened by you, FJ?

How I recruit is none of your business. If you kept your clients happy, the best recruitment

efforts wouldn't work.

Myron checked the date. This is quite a coincidence, FJ.

What's that?

He dies two days after he signs with you.

Yes, Myron, I agree. I don't think it was a coincidence. Fortunately for me, it means that I had

no motive to kill him. Unfortunately for the sizzling Esperanza, the opposite is true.

Myron glanced over at Win. Win was staring down at Hans and Franz. They were both awake now, face to the floor, hands behind their heads. Customers occasionally came into the coffee bar. Some saw the two men on the floor and exited right away. Others were unfazed, walking past as though Hans aiid Franz were just two more Manhattan panhandlers.

Very convenient, Myron said.

What's that?

Clu signing with you so close to his death. On the surface it eliminates you as a serious

suspect.

On the surface?

It draws attention away from you, makes it look like his death hurts your interests.

It does hurt my interests.

Myron shook his head. He had failed a drug test. His contract was null and void. He's thirty-five

years old with several suspensions. As a monetary commodity Clu was fairly worthless.

Clu had overcome adversity before, FJ said.

Not like this. He was through.

If he stayed with MB, yes, that's probably true. But TruPro has influence. We would have found

a way to relaunch his career.

Doubtful. But all this raised some interesting questions. The signature looked real, the contract

legit. So maybe Clu had left him. Why? Well, lots of reasons. His life was being flushed down

the toilet while Myron lollygagged in the sands of the Caribbean. Okay, but why TruPro? Clu

knew their reputation. He knew what the Aches were all about. Why would he choose them?

Unless he had to.

Unless Clu was in debt to them. Myron remembered the missing two hundred thousand dollars.

Could Clu have been in debt to FJ? Had he gotten in too deep so deep he had to sign with TruPro? But if that was the case, why not take out more money? He still had more in the account.

No, maybe this was far simpler. Maybe Clu got himself in big trouble. He looked to Myron for help. Myron wasn't there. Clu felt abandoned. He had no one. In desperation he turned to his old friend Billy Lee Palms. But Billy Lee was too messed up to help anyone. He looked again for Myron. But Myron was still gone, possibly avoiding him. Clu was weak and alone, and FJ was there with promises and power.

So maybe Clu didn't have an affair with Esperanza after all. Maybe Clu told her he was leaving the agency and she got upset and then he got upset. Maybe Clu gave her a good-bye smack in that garage.

Hmm.

But there were problems with that scenario too. If there was no affair, how do you explain

Esperanza's hairs at the crime scene? How do you explain the blood in the car, the gun in the

office, and Esperanza's continued silence?

FJ was still smiling.

Let's cut to it, Myron said. How do 1 get you off my back?

Stay away from my clients.

The same way you stayed away from mine?

Tell you what, Myron. FJ sipped more shaving cream. If I desert my clients for six weeks, I

give you carte blanche to pursue them with as much gusto as you can muster.

Myron looked at Win. No solace. Scary as it might sound, FJ had a point.

Esperanza has been indicted for Clu's murder, Myron said. I'm involved until she's cleared.

Outside of that, I'll stay out of your business. And you stay out of mine.

Suppose she's not cleared, FJ said.

What?

Have you considered the possibility that Esperanza did indeed kill him?

You know something I don't, FJ?

FJ put his hand to his chest. Me? The most innocent lamb ever to lie next to a lion. What

would I know? He finished his coffee whatever and stood. He looked down at his goons, then at Win. Win nodded. FJ told Hans and Franz to get up. They did. FJ ordered them out the door. They went out, heads high, chests out, eyes up, but still looking like a pair of whipped dogs.

If you find anything that might help me get Clu's contract reinstated, you'll let me know?

Yeah, Myron said. I'll let you know.

Great. Then let's stay in touch, Myron.

Oh, Myron said. Let's.

Chapter 22

They took the subway to Yankee Stadium. The 4 train was fairly empty this time of the day.

After they found seats, Myron asked, Why did you beat up those two mus-cleheads?

You know why, Win said.

Because they challenged you?

I hardly call what they mustered a challenge.

So why did you beat them up?

Because it was simple.

What?

Win hated repeating himself.

You overreacted, Myron said. As usual.

No, Myron, I reacted perfectly.

Meaning?

I have a reputation, do I not?

As a violent psycho, yes.

Exactly a reputation that I've culled and created through what you call overreacting. You trade

off that reputation sometimes, do you not?

I guess I do.

It helps us?

I guess so.

Guess nothing, Win said. Friends and foes believe I snap too easily overreact, as you put it.

That I'm unstable, out of control. But that's nonsense, of course. I'm never out of control. Just the

opposite. Every attack has been well thought out. The pros and cons have been weighed,

And in this case, the pros won?

Yes.

So you knew you were going to beat up those two before we entered?

I considered it. Once I realized that they were unarmed and that taking thern out would be easy,

I made the final decision.

lust to enhance your reputation?

In a word, yes. My reputation keeps us safe. Why do you think FJ was ordered by his father not

to kill you?

Because I'm a ray of sunshine? Because I make the world a better place for all?

Win smiled. Then you understand.

Does it bother you at all, Win?

Does what?

Attacking someone like that.

They're goons, Myron, not nuns.

Still. You just walloped them without provocation.

Oh, I see. You don't like the fact that I sucker-punched them. You would have preferred a fairer

fight?

I guess not. But suppose you miscalculated?

Highly unlikely.

Suppose one of them was better than you thought and didn't go down so easily. Suppose you

had to maim or kill one.

They're goons, Myron, not nuns.

So you would have done it?

You know the answer to that.

I guess I do.

Who would have mourned their passing? Win asked. Two scums in the night who freely

chose a profession that bullies and maims.

Myron did not answer. The train stopped. Passengers exited. Myron and Win stayed in their

seats.

But you enjoy it, Myron said.

Win said nothing.

You have other reasons, sure, but you enjoy violence.

And you don't, Myron?

Not like you.

No, not like me. But you feel the rush.

And I usually feel sick after it's all over.

Well, Myron, that's probably because you're such a fine humanitarian.

They exited the subway at 161st Street and walked in silence to Yankee Stadium. Four hours to game time, but there were already several hundred fans lining up to watch the warm-ups. A giant Louisville Slugger bat cast a long shadow. Cops aplenty stood near clusters of unfazed ticket scalpers. Classic detente. There were hot dog carts, some with gasp! Yoo-Hoo umbrellas. Yum. At the press entrance Myron flashed his business card, the guard made a call, they were let in.

They traveled down the stairs on the right, reached the stadium tunnel, and emerged into bright sunshine and green grass. Myron and Win had just been discussing the nature of violence, and now Myron thought again about his dad's phone call. Myron had seen his father, the most gentle man he had ever known, grow violent only once. And it was here at Yankee Stadium.

When Myron was ten years old, his father had taken him and his younger brother, Brad, to a game. Brad was five at the time. Dad had secured four seats in the upper tier, but at the last minute a business associate had given him two more seats three rows behind the Red Sox bench. Brad was a huge fan of the Red Sox. So Dad suggested that Brad and Myron sit by the dugout for a few innings. Dad would stay in the upper tier. Myron held Brad's hand, and they walked down to the box seats. The seats were, in a word, awesome.

Brad started cheering his five-year-old lungs out. Cheering like mad. He spotted Carl Yastrzemski in the batter's box and started calling out, Yaz! Yaz! The guy sitting in front of them turned around. He was maybe twenty-five and bearded and looked a bit like a church image of Jesus. That's enough, the bearded guy snapped at Brad. Quiet down.

Brad looked hurt.

Don't listen to him, Myron said. You're allowed to yell.

The bearded man's hands moved fast. He grabbed the ten-year-old Myron by his shirt, bunching the Yankee emblem in his seemingly giant fist, and pulled Myron closer to him. There was beer on his breath. He's giving my girlfriend a headache. He shuts up now.

Fear engulfed Myron. Tears filled his eyes, but he wouldn't let them escape. He remembered being shocked, scared, and mostly, for some unknown reason, ashamed. The bearded man glared at Myron another few seconds and then pushed him back. Myron grabbed Brad's hand and rushed back to the upper tier. He tried to pretend everything was all right, but ten-year-olds are not great actors, and Dad could read his son as if he lived inside his skull What's wrong? Dad asked.

Myron hesitated. Dad asked again. Myron finally told him what happened. And something happened to Myron's father, something Myron had never seen before or since. There was an explosion in his eyes. His face turned red; his eyes went black.

Til be right back, he said.

Myron watched the rest through binoculars. Dad moved down to the seat behind the Red Sox dugout. His father's face was still red. Myron saw Dad cup his hands around his mouth, lean forward, and start screaming for all he was worth. The red in his face turned to crimson. Dad kept screaming. The bearded man tried to ignore him. Dad leaned into his ear a la Mike Tyson and screamed some more. When the bearded man finally turned around, Dad did something that shocked Myron to the core. He pushed the man. He pushed the man twice and then gestured toward the exit, the international sign inviting another man to step outside. The guy with the beard refused. Dad pushed him again.

Two security guards raced down the steps and broke it up. No one was tossed. Dad came back to the upper tier. Go back down, Dad said. He won't bother you again.

But Myron and Brad shook their heads. They liked the seats up here better.

Win said, Time traveling again, are we?

Myron nodded.

You realize, of course, that you are far too young for so many reflective spells.

Yeah, I know.

A group of Yankee players were sitting on the outfield grass, legs sprawled, hands back, still kids under the collars waiting for their Little League game to start. A man in a too-nicely-fitted suit was talking to them. The man gestured wildly, smiling and enthusiastic and as enraptured with life as the new bom-again on the block. Myron recognized him. Sawyer Wells, the motivational speaker ne con man of the moment. Two years ago Wells was an unknown charlatan, spouting the standard reworded dogma about finding yourself, unlocking your potential, doing something for yourself as though people weren't self-centered enough. His big break came when the Mayors hired him to do talks for their workforce. The speeches were, if not original, successful, and Sawyer Wells caught on. He got a book deal cleverly monikered The Wells Guide to Wellness along with an infomercial, audi-otapes, video, a planner, the full selfhelp schematic. Fortune 500 companies started hiring him. When the Mayors took over the Yankees, they brought him on board as a consulting motivational psychologist or some such drivel.

When Sawyer Wells spotted Win, he almost started panting.

He smells a new client, Myron said.

Or perhaps he's never seen anyone quite this handsome before.

Oh, yeah, Myron said. That's probably it.

Wells turned back to the players, shouted out a bit more enthusiasm, spasmed with gestures, clapped once, and then bade them good-bye. He looked back over at Win. He waved. He waved hard. Then he started bounding over like a puppy chasing a new squeaky toy or a politician chasing a potential contributor.

Win frowned. In a word, decaf.

Myron nodded.

You want me to befriend him? Win asked.

He was supposedly present for the drug tests. And he's also the team psychologist. He probably hears a lot of rumors.

Fine, Win said. You take the roommate. I'll take Sawyer. Enos Cabral was a good-looking wiry Cuban with a flame-throwing fastball and breaking pitches that still needed work. He was twenty-four, but he had the kind of looks that probably got him carded at any liquor store. He stood watching batting practice, his body slack except for his mouth. Like most jelief pitchers, he chewed gum or tobacco with the ferocity of a lion gnawing on a recently downed gazelle.

Myron introduced himself.

Enos shook his hand and said, I know who you are.

Oh?

Clu talked about you a lot. He thought I should sign with you.

A pang. Clu said that?

I wanted a change, Enos continued. My agent. He treats me well, no? And he made me a rich

man.

I don't mean to knock the importance of good representation, Enos, but you made you a rich

man. An agent facilitates. He doesn't create.

Enos nodded. You know my story?

The thumbnail sketch. The boat trip had been rough. Very rough. For a week everyone had

assumed they had been lost at sea. When they finally did pop up, only two of the eight Cubans were still alive. One of the dead was Enos's brother Hector, considered the best player to come out of Cuba in the past decade. Enos, considered the lesser talent, was nearly dead of dehydration.

Just what I've read in the papers, Myron said.

My agent. He was there when I arrived. I had family in Miami. When he heard about the Cabral

brothers, he loaned them money. He paid for my hospital stay. He gave me money and jewelry

and a car. He promised me more money. And I have it.

So what's the problem?

He has no soul.

You want an agent with a soul?

Enos shrugged. I'm Catholic, he said. We believe in miracles.

They both laughed.

Enos seemed to be studying Myron. Clu was always suspicious of people. Even me. He had something of a hardshell.

I know, Myron said.

But he believed in you. He said you were a good man. He said that he had trusted you with his

life and would gladly do so again.

Another pang. Clu was also a lousy judge of character.

I don't think so.

Enos, I wanted to talk to you about Clu's last few weeks.

He raised an eyebrow. I thought you came here to recruit me.

No, Myron said. Then: But have you heard the expression killing two birds with one stone?

Enos laughed. What do you want to know?

Were you surprised when Clu failed the drug test?

He picked up a bat. He gripped and regripped it in his hands. Finding the right groove. Funny.

He was an American League pitcher. He would probably never have the opportunity to bat. I have trouble understanding addictions, he said. Where I come from, yes, a man may try to drink away his world, if he can afford it. You live in such stink, why not leave, no? But here, when you have as much as Clu had He didn't finish the thought. No point in stating the obvious.

One time Clu tried to explain it to me, Enos continued. 'Sometimes,' he said, 'you don't want

to escape the world; sometimes you want to escape yourself.' He cocked his head. Do you believe that? Not really, Myron said. Like a lot of cute phrases, it sounds good. But it also sounds like a load of self-rationalization.

Enos smiled. You're mad at him.

I guess I am.

Don't be. He was a very unhappy man, Myron. A man who needs so much excess there is

something broken inside him, no?

Myron said nothing.

Clu tried. He fought hard, you have no idea. He wouldn't go out at night. If our room had a

minibar, he'd make them take it out. He didn't hang out with old friends because he was afraid of what he might do. He was scared all the time. He fought long and hard.

And he lost, Myron added.

I never saw him take drugs. I never saw him drink.

But you noticed changes.

Enos nodded. His life began to fall apart. So many bad things happened.

What bad things?

The organ music revved immediately into high gear, the legendary Eddie Layton opening up

with his rendition of that ballpark classic The Girl from Ipanema. Enos lifted the bat to his

shoulder, then lowered it again. I feel uncomfortable talking about this.

I'm not prying for the fun of it. I'm trying to find out who killed him.

The papers said your secretary did it.

They're wrong.

Enos stared at the bat as though there were a message hidden beneath the word Louisville. Myron

tried to prompt him.

Clu withdrew two hundred thousand dollars not long before he died, Myron said. Was he

having financial problems?

If he did, I didn't see it.

Did he gamble?

I didn't see him him gamble, no.

Do you know that he changed agents?

Enos looked surprised. He fired you?

Apparently he was going to.

1 didn't know, he said. I know he was looking for you. But no, I didn't know that.

So what was it then, Enos? What made him cave?

He lifted his eyes and blinked into the sun. The perfect weather for a night game. Soon fans

would arrive, and memories would be made. Happened every night in stadiums around the

world. It was always some kid's first game.

His marriage, Enos said. That was the big thing, I think. You know Bonnie?

Yes.

Clu loved her very much.

He had an odd way of showing it.

Enos smiled. Sleeping with all those women. I think he did it more to hurt himself than anyone

else.

That sounds like another one of those big, fat rationalizations, Enos. Clu may have made selfdestruction an art form. But that's not an excuse for what he put her through.

I think he'd agree with that. But Clu hurt himself most of all.

Don't kid yourself. He hurt Bonnie too.

Yes, you're right, of course. But he still loved her. When she threw him out, it hurt him so

much. You have no idea.

What can you tell me about their breakup?

Another hesitation. Not much to tell. Clu felt betrayed, angry.

You know that Clu had fooled around before.

Yes.

So what made it different this time? Bonnie was used to his straying. What made her finally

snap? Who was his girlfriend?

Enos looked puzzled. You think Bonnie threw him out over a girl?

She didn't?

Enos shook his head.

You're sure.

It was never about girls with Clu. They were just part of the drugs and alcohol. They were easy

for him to give up.

Myron was confused. So he wasn't having an affair?

No, Enos said. She was.

That was when it clicked. Myron felt a cold wave roll through him, squeezing the pit of his

stomach. He barely said good-bye before he hurried away.

Chapter 23

He knew Bonnie would be home.

The car had barely come to a full stop when he shot out the driver's door. There were perhaps a dozen other vehicles parked on the street. Mourners. The front door was opened. Myron headed inside without knocking. He wanted to find Bonnie and confront her and end this. But she wasn't in the living room. Just mourners. Some approached him, slowing him down. He offered his condolences to Clu's mother, her face ravaged with grief. He shook other hands, trying to swim through the thick sea of grief-stricken and glad-handers and find Bonnie. He finally spotted her outside in the backyard. She sat alone on the deck, her knees tucked under her chin, watching her children play. He steeled himself and pushed open the sliding glass doors.

The porch was cedarwood and overlooked a large swing set. Clu's boys were on it, both dressed in red ties and untucked short-sleeve shirts. They ran and laughed. Miniature versions of their dead father, their smiles so like his, their features eternal echoes of Clu's. Bonnie watched them. Her back was to Myron, a cigarette in her hand. She did not turn around as he approached.

Clu didn't have the affair, Myron said. You did.

Bonnie inhaled deeply and let it out. Great timing, Myron.

That can't be helped.

Can't we talk about this later?

Myron waited a beat. Then: I know who you were sleeping with.

She stiffened. Myron looked down at her. She finally turned and met his gaze.

Let's take a walk, Bonnie said.

She reached out a hand, and Myron helped her to her feet.

They walked down the backyard to a wooded area. The din of traffic filtered through a sound barrier up the hill. The house was spanking new, large and innately nouveau-riche. Airy, lots of windows, cathedral ceilings, small living room, huge kitchen flowing into huge California room, huge master bedroom, closets large enough to double as Gap outlets. Probably went for about eight hundred thou. Beautiful and sterile and soulless. Needing to be lived in a bit. Properly aged like a fine Merlot.

I didn't know you smoked, he said.

You don't know a lot of things about me, Myron.

Touche. He looked at her profile, and again he saw that young coed heading into the fraternity basement. He flashed back to that very moment, to the sound of Clu's sharp intake of air when he first laid eyes on her. Suppose she'd come down a little later, after Clu had passed out or hooked up with another woman. Suppose she had gone to another frat party that night. Dumb thoughts life's arbitrary forks in the road, the series of what ifs but there you go.

So what makes you think I was the one having an affair? she said.

Clu told Enos.

Clu lied.

No, Myron said.

They kept walking. Bonnie took a last drag and tossed the cigarette on the ground. My

property, she said. I'm allowed.

Myron said nothing.

Did Clu tell Enos who he thought I was sleeping with?

No.

But you think you know who this mystery lover is.

Yes, Myron said. It's Esperanza.

Silence.

Would you believe me if I insisted you were wrong? she said.

You'd have a lot of explaining to do.

How's that?

Let's start with you coming to my office after Esperanza was arrested.

Okay.

You wanted to know what they had on her that was the real reason. I wondered why you

warned me away from finding the truth. You told me to clear my friend but not dig too hard.

She nodded. And you think I said that because I didn't want you to know about this affair?

Yes. But there's more. Like Esperanza's silence, for one thing. Win and I theorized that she

didn't want us to know about her affair with Clu. It would look bad on several levels to be having an affair with a client. But to be having an affair with a client's wife? What could be dumber than that?

That's hardly evidence, Myron.

I'm not finished. You see, all the evidence that points to an affair between Esperanza and Clu

actually points to an affair between you two. The physical evidence, for example. The pubic

hairs and DNA found at the Fort Lee apartment. I started thinking about that. You and Clu lived

there for a short time. Then you moved into this house. But you still had the lease on the

apartment. So before you threw him out, it was empty, right?

Right.

What better place to meet for a tryst? It wasn't Clu and Esperanza meeting there. It was you two.

Bonnie said nothing.

The E-Z Pass records most of the bridge crossings were on days when the Yankees were out of town. So Esperanza wasn't coming out to see Clu. She was coming out to see you. I checked the office phone records. She never called the apartment after you threw Clu out only this house. Why? Clu wasn't living here. You were.

She took out another cigarette and struck a match.

And lastly, the fight in the garage when Clu struck Esperanza. That bothered the hell out of me. Why would he hit her? Because she broke off an affair? That didn't make sense. Because he wanted to find me or was crazed from taking drugs? Again, no. I couldn't figure it out. But now the answer is obvious. Esperanza was having an affair with his wife. He blamed her for breaking up the marriage. Enos said the breakup shook him to the core. What could be worse for a psyche as fragile as Clu's than his wife having an affair with a woman?

Her voice was sharp. Are you blaming me for his death?

Depends. Did you kill him?

Would it help if I said no?

It would be a start.

She smiled, but there was no joy in it. Like the house, it was beautiful and sterile and almost soulless. Do you want to hear something funny? she said. Clu's beating the drugs and the drinking didn't help our marriage it ended it. For so long Clu was I don't know a work in progress. I blamed his shortcomings on the drugs and drinking and all that. But once he finally exorcised his demons, what was left was just she lifted her palms and shrugged just him. I saw Clu clearly for the first time, Myron, and you know what I realized? I didn't love him.

Myron said nothing.

And don't blame Esperanza. It wasn't her fault. I held on purely for the sake of my kids, and when Esperanza came along Bonnie stopped, and this time her smile seemed more genuine. You want to hear something else funny? I'm not a lesbian. I'm not even a bisexual. It's just she treated me tenderly. We had sex, sure, but it was never about sex. I know that sounds weird, but her gender was irrelevant. Esperanza is just a beautiful person, and I fell in love with that. Does that make sense?

You know how this looks, Myron said.

Of course I know how it looks. Two dykes got together and offed the husband. Why do you think we're trying so hard to keep it secret? The weakness in their case right now is motive. But if they find out we were lovers Did you kill him?

What do you expect me to say to that, Myron?

I'd like to hear it.

No, we didn't kill him. I was leaving him. Why would I throw him out and start filing papers if I

planned on killing him?

To prevent a scandal that would surely hurt your kids.

She made a face. Come on, Myron.

So how do you explain the gun in the office and the blood in the car?

I can't.

Myron thought about it. His head hurt from the physical altercation or this latest revelation, he

couldn't say. He tried to concentrate through the haze. Who else knows about the affair?

Just Esperanza's lawyer, Hester Crimstein.

No one else?

No one. We were veiy discreet.

You're sure?

Yes. Why?

Because, Myron said, if I were going to murder Clu and I wanted to frame someone for it, his

wife's lover would be my first choice.

Bonnie saw where he was heading. So you think the killer knew about us?

It might explain a lot.

I didn't tell anyone. And Esperanza said she didn't either.

Pow. Right between the eyes. You couldn't have been too careful, Myron said.

What makes you say that?

Clu found out, didn't he?

She thought about it, nodded.

Did you tell him? he asked.

No.

What did you say when you threw him out?

She shrugged. That there was no one else. That was true in a sense. It wasn't about Esperanza.

So how did he find out?

I don't know. I assumed he became obsessed. That he followed me.

And he found out the truth?

Yes.

And then he went after Esperanza and attacked her?

Yes.

And before he has a chance to tell anyone else about this, before it has a chance of getting out

and hurting either of you, he ends up dead. And the murder weapon ends up with Esperanza. And Clu's blood ends up in the car she's been driving. And the E-Z Pass records show Esperanza came back to New York an hour after the murder.

Again, yes.

Myron shook his head. It doesn't look good, Bonnie.

That's what I've been trying to tell you, she said. If even you won't believe us, how do you

think a jury is going to react?

There was no need to answer. They headed back to the house then. The two young boys were

still at play, oblivious of what was going on around them. Myron watched for a moment.

Fatherless, he thought, shuddering at the word. With one last look he turned and walked away.

Chapter 24

Thrill, not Nancy Sinclair, met him outside a bar called the Biker Wannabee. Honesty in advertising. Nice to see.

Howdy, Myron said. Tex Bolitar.

Her smile was full of pornographic promise. Totally into Thrill mode now. Howdy yourself,

pardner, she cooed. With some women, every syllable is cooed. How do I look?

Mighty tasty, ma'am. But I think I prefer you as Nancy.

Liar.

Myron shrugged, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. This whole thing reminded him of

when Barbara Eden would play her evil sister on / Dream of Jeannie. He was often torn back then too, not sure if Larry Hagman should stay with Jeannie or run off with the enticingly evil sister. But hey, talk about your great dilemmas.

I thought you were bringing backup, Thrill said.

I am.

Where is he?

If things go well, you won't see him.

How mysterious.

Isn't it?

They headed inside and grabbed a corner booth in the back. Yep, biker wanna-be. Lots of guys

aiming for that hairy, Vietnam vet-cum-hit-the-road look. The jukebox played God Only Knows (What I'd Be Without You) the Beach Boys, but unlike anything else the Beach Boys did. The song was a plaintive wail, and despite its pop misgivings, it always struck Myron to the bone, the trepidation of what the future might hold so naked in Brian's voice, the words so hauntingly simple. Especially now.

Thrill was studying his face. You okay? she asked.

Fine. So what happens next?

We order a drink, I guess.

Five minutes passed. Lonely Boy came on the jukebox. Andrew Gold. Serious seventies AM

bubble gum. Chorus: Oh, oh, oh oh what a lonely boy oh what a lonely boy oh what a lonely boy. By the time the chorus was repeated for the eighth time, Myron had it down pat so he sang along. Megamemory. Maybe he should do an infomercial.

Men at nearby tables checked out Thrill, some surreptitiously, most not. Thrill's smile was practically a leer now, sinking deeper into the role.

You get into this, Myron said.

It's a part, Myron. We're all actors on a stage and all that.

But you enjoy the attention.

So?

So I was just saying.

She shrugged. I find it fascinating.

What's that?

What a large bosom does to a man. They get so obsessed.

You just reached the conclusion that men are mammary-obsessed? I hate to break this to you,

Nancy, but the research has been done.

But it's weird when you think about it.

I try not to.

Bosoms do weird things to men, no doubt, she said, but I don't like what they do to women

either.

How's that?

Thrill put her palnds on the table. Okay, everyone knows that we women put too much of our

self-worth into our bodies. Old news, right?

Right.

I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And unlike my more feminist sisters, I don't blame

men for this.

You don't?

Mademoiselle, Vogue, Bazaar, Glamour those are run by women and have a totally female

clientele. They want to change the image, start there. Why ask the men to change a perception

that women themselves won't change?

Refreshing viewpoint, Myron noted.

But bosoms do funny things to people. Men, okay, that's obvious. They become brain-dead. It's

as if the nipples shoot out like two grapefmit spoons, dig into their frontal lobe, and scrape away

all cognitive thought.

Myron looked up, the imagery giving him pause.

But for women, well, it starts when you're young. A girl develops early. Adolescent boys start

lusting after her. How do her girlfriends react? They take it out on her. They're jealous of the

attention or feeling inadequate or whatever. But they take it out on the young girl who can't help what her body is going through. With me?

Yes. Even now. Look at the glances the women in here give me. Pure hatred. You get a group of women together and a chesty counterpart walks by and they all sigh, Oh, please.' Professional women, for example, feel the urge to dress down not just because of leering men but because of women. Because of how women treat them. A businesswoman sees a big-chested businesswoman with a better title well, she got the job because of her tits. Plain and simple. Might be true, might not be. Is this animosity spawned again from dofrnant jealousy or a misplaced feeling of inadequacy or because they unfairly equate bosoms with stupidity? Any way you look at it, it's an ugly thing.

I never really thought about it, Myron said.

And finally I don't like what it does to me.

Your reaction to seeing a big chest or having one?

The latter.

Why?

Because the big-breasted woman gets used to it. She takes it for granted. She uses them to her

advantage.

So?

What do you mean, so?

All attractive people do that, Myron said. It's not just bosoms. If a woman is beautiful, she

knows it and uses it. Nothing wrong with that. Men use it too, if they can. Sometimes I'm

ashamed to admit this even I shake my little tush to get my way.

Shocking.

Well, not really. Because it never works.

I think you're being modest. But either way, don't you see anything wrong with that?

With what?

With using a physical attribute to get your way.

I didn't say there was nothing wrong with it. I'm simply noting that what you're talking about is

not merely a mammarial phenomenon.

She made a face. Mammarial phenomenon?

Myron shrugged, and mercifully the waitress came over. Myron made a point of not looking

anywhere near her chest, which was tantamount to telling yourself not to scratch that irksome

itch. The waitress had a pen behind her ear. Her overtreated hair aimed for on-the-farm

strawberry blond but landed far closer to fell-at-the-4H-fair cotton candy.

Get you? she saicl. Skipping the preliminaries like Hello and What can I ?

Rob Roy, Thrill said.

The pen came out of the ear holster, jotted it down, back in the holster. Wyatt Earp. You? she

said to Myron.

Myron doubted that they had any Yoo-Hoo. A diet soda, please.

She looked at him as if he'd ordered a bedpan.

Maybe a beer, Myron said.

She clacked her gum. Bud, Michelob, or some pansy brew?

Pansy would be fine, thank you, Myron said. And do you have any of those little cocktail

umbrellas?

The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.

They chatted for a while. Myron had just started relaxing and yes, even enjoying himself when

Thrill said, Behind you. By the door.

He was not much in the mood for clandestine games. They wanted him here for a reason. No

sense beating around the bush. He turned without an iota of subtlety and spotted Pat the

bartender and Veronica Lake aka Zorra dressed again in a cashmere sweater peach-toned, for

those keeping score long skirt, and a strand of pearls. Zorra, the Steroid Debutante. Myron

shook his head. Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl were nowhere to be seen.

Myron gave a big wave, Over here, fellas!

Pat scowled, feigning surprise. He looked toward Zorra, She-Man of the Saber Heel. Zorra

showed nothing. The great ones never do. Myron always wondered if their blaseness was an act

or if, in truth, nothing really surprised them. Probably a bit of both.

Pat strode toward their table, acting as though he were shocked shocked! that Myron was in

his bar. Zorra followed, more gliding than walking, the eyes soaking in everything. Like Win,

Zorra moved economically albeit in stylish red pumps no motion wasted. Pat was still

scowling when he reached the table.

What the hell are you doing here, Bolitar? Pat asked.

Myron nodded. Not bad, but it could use work. Do me a favor. Try it again. But add a little gasp

first. Gasp, what the hell are you doing here, Bolitar? Like that. Better yet, why not give a wry

shake of your head and say something like 'All the gin joints in all the world, you have to walk

into mine two nights in a row.'

Zorra was smiling now.

You're crazy, Pat said.

Pat. It was Zorra. He looked at Pat and shook his head just once. The shake said, Stop with the

games.

Pat turned to Thrill. Do me a favor, hon.

Thrill offered up breathless. Sure, Pat.

Go powder your nose or something, okay?

Myron made a face. Go powder your nose? He looked pleadingly at Zorra. Zorra's small shrug

was semiapologetic. What next, Pat? You going to threaten to make me sleep with the fishes?

Make me an offer I can't refuse. I mean, go powder your nose?

Pat was fuming. He looked over at Thrill. Please, hon.

No problem, Pat. She slid out of the booth. Pat and Zorra immediately took her place. Myron

frowned at the change in scenery.

We need some information, Pat said.

Yeah, I picked up on that last night, Myron said.

That got out of control. I'm sorry.

I bet.

Hey, we let you go, right?

As soon as I was electrocuted with a cattle prod, slashed twice with a heel blade, kicked in the

ribs, and then jumped through a glass mirror. Yeah, you let me go.

Pat smiled. If Zorra here didn't want you to escape, you wouldn't have escaped. Get my

meaning?

Myron looked at Zorra. Zorra looked at Myron. Myron said, A peach sweater with red pumps?

Zorra smiled, shrugged.

Zorra here could have killed you easy as pie, Pat continued.

Right, fine, Zorra is a tough guy, you're super-generous to me. Get to it.

Why were you asking about Clu Haid?

Sorry to disappoint you, but I was telling you the truth last night. I'm trying to find his killer.

So what does my club have to do with that?

Before I got dragged into the back room, I would have said, 'Nothing.' But now, well, that's

what I'd like to know.

Pat looked at Zorra. Zorra did not move. Pat said, We want to take you for a ride.

Damn.

What?

You'd gone nearly three minutes without a mob cliche. Then you come up with the take a ride

bit. It's sad really. Can I powder my nose first?

You want to crack wise or you want to come with us?

I can do both, Myron said. I'm rather multi-talented.

Pat shook his head. Let's go. Myron started to slide out the booth.

No, Zorra said.

Everyone stopped. What's wrong? Pat said.

Zorra looked at Myron. We are not interested in hurting you, Zorra said.

More reassurances.

But we can't let you know where you're going, dreamboat. You'll have to be blindfolded.

You're kidding, right?

No.

Fine, blindfold me. Let's go.

No, Zorra said again.

What now?

Your friend Win. Zorra assumes he's close by.

Who?

Zorra smiled. He-she wasn't pretty. Lots of transves tiies are. Lots of times you can't even tell.

But Zorra had a five o'clock shadow (a look Myron found to be less than alluring in a woman),

big hands with hairy knuckles (ditto), a skewered wig (call him picky), a rather masculine,

whispery voice (comme ci, comme ?a) and despite the outer trappings, Zorra looked like, well, a

guy wearing a dress. Don't insult Zorra's intelligence, dreamboat.

You see him?

If Zorra could, Zorra said, then someone has grossfy overexaggerated his reputation.

So what makes you so sure Win's here?

You're doing it again, Zorra said.

Doing what?

Insulting Zorra's intelligence.

Nothing like a psycho who refers to himself in the third person.

Please ask him to come forward, Zorra said. We have no interest in hurting anyone. But Zorra

knows that your colleague will follow wherever you go. Then Zorra will have to follow him. It

will lead to conflict. None of us wants that.

Win's voice came from Myron's cell phone. Must have taken off the mute. What guarantee do

we have that Myron will return?

Myron lifted the cell phone into view.

You and Zorra will sit and enjoy a drink, dreamboat, Zorra said into the phone. Myron will

travel with Pat.

Travel where? Myron asked.

We can't tell you.

Myron frowned. Is this cloak-and-dagger stuff really necessary?

Pat leaned back now, letting Zorra handle it. You have questions, we have questions, Zorra

said. This meeting is the only way to satisfy both.

So why can't we talk here?

Impossible.

Why?

You have to go with Pat.

Where?

Zorra cannot tell you.

Who are you taking me to see?

Zorra cannot tell you that either.

Myron said, Does the fate of the free world rest in Zorra's maintaining silence?

Zorra adjusted his lips, forming what he probably read someplace was known as a smile. You

mock Zorra. But Zorra has kept silent before. Zorra has seen horrors you cannot imagine. Zorra

has been tortured. For weeks on end. Zorra has felt pain that makes what you felt with that cattle

prod seem like a lover's kiss.

Myron nodded solemnly. Wow, he said.

Zorra spread his hands. Hairy knuckles and pink nail polish. Hold me back. We can always

choose to part ways, dreamboat.

From the cell phone Win said, Good idea.

Myron lifted the receiver. What?

If we agree to their terms, Win said, I cannot guarantee they won't kill you.

Zorra guarantees it, Zorra said. With her life.

Myron said, Excuse me?

Zorra stays here with Win, Zorra went on, the glint in the overmascaraed eye sparkling anew.

Something was there, and it was not lucidity. Zorra will be unarmed. If you don't return in

perfect health, Win kills Zorra.

Heck of a guarantee, Myron said. Ever thought about becoming a car mechanic?

Win entered the bar now. He walked straight toward the table, sat down, hands under it. If you'd

be so kind, Win said to Zorra and Pat, please put all hands on the table.

They did.

And, Ms. Zorra, if you wouldn't mind kicking off your heels?

Sure, dreamboat. Win kept his eyes on Zorra. Zorra kept his on Win. There would be no

blinking here. Win said, I still cannot guarantee his safety. Yes, I have the option of killing you

if he does not return. But for all I know, Pat the Bunny here doesn't give a rodent's buttocks

about you.

Hey, Pat said, you have my word.

Win just looked at him for a moment. Then he turned back to Zorra. Myron goes armed. Pat

drives. Myron keeps the gun on him.

Zorra shook his head. Impossible.

Then we have no deal.

Zorra shrugged. Then Zorra and Pat must bid you adieu.

They rose to leave. Myron knew that Win wouldn't call them back. He whispered to Win, I need

to know what's going on here.

Win shrugged. It's a mistake, he said, but it's your call.

Myron looked up. We agree, he said.

Zorra sat back down. Under the table Win kept the gun on him.

Myron keeps his cell phone on, Win said. I listen to every word.

Zorra nodded. Fair enough.

Pat and Myron started to leave.

Oh, Pat? Win said.

Pat stopped.

Win's voice was how's-the-weather casual. If Myron isn't returned, I may or may not kill Zorra.

I will decide at the appropriate time. Either way, I will use all my considerable influence and money and time and effort to find you. I will offer rewards. I will search. I will not sleep. I will find you. And when I do, I won't kill you. Do you understand?

Pat swallowed, nodded. Go, Win said.

Chapter 25

When they reached the car, Pat frisked him. Nothing. Then he handed Myron a black hood. Put this on.

Myron made a face. Tell me you're joking.

Put it on. Then lie down in the backseat. Don't look up.

Myron rolled his eyes, but he did as he was asked. His six-four frame wasn't all that comfortable, but he made do. Big of him. Pat got in the front seat and started the car.

Quick suggestion, Myron said.

What did you say?

Next time you do this, try vacuuming out the car first. It's disgusting back here.

Pat drove. Myron tried to concentrate, listening for sounds that would give him a clue where they were going. That always worked on TV. The guy would hear, say, a boat horn and know he'd gone to Pier 12 or something, and they'd all rush in and find him. But all Myron heard were, not surprisingly; traffic noises: the occasional horn, cars passing or being passed, loud radios, that kind of thing. He tried to keep track of turns and distances but quickly realized the futility. What did he think he was, a human compass?

The drive lasted maybe ten minutes. Not enough time to leave the city. Clue: He was still in Manhattan. Gee, that was helpful. Pat turned off the engine.

You can sit up, he said. But keep the hood on. You sure the hood goes with this ensemble? I want to look my best for Mr. Big.

Someone once tell you were funny, Bolitar? You're right. Black goes with everything. Pat sighed. When nervous, some people run. Some hide. Some grow silent. Some get chatty. And some make dumb jokes.

Pat helped Myron out of the car and led him by the elbow. Myron again tried to pick up sounds. The cooing of a seagull maybe. That too always seemed to happen on TV. But in New York seagulls didn't coo as much as phlegm cough. And if you heard a seagull in New York, it was more likely you were near a trash canister than a pier. Myron tried to think of the last time he had seen a seagull in New York. There was a picture of one on a sign for his favorite bagel store. Caption: If a bird flying over the sea is a seagull, what do you call a bird flying over the bay? Clever when you think about it.

The two men walked where to, Myron had no idea. He stumbled on uneven pavement, but Pat kept him upright. Another clue. Find the spot in Manhattan with uneven pavement. Christ, he practically had the guy cornered.

They walked up what felt like a stoop and entered a room with heat and humidity slightly more stifling than a Burmese forest fire. Myron was still blindfolded, but light from what might be a bare bulb filtered through the cloth. The room reeked of mildew and steam and dried sweat like the most popular sauna at Jack La Lanne's gone to seed. It was hard to breathe through the hood. Pat put a hand on Myron's shoulder.

Sit, Pat said before pushing down slightly.

Myron sat. He heard Pat's footsteps, then low voices. Whispers actually. Mostly from Pat. An argument of some sort. Footsteps again. Coming closer to Myron. A body suddenly cut off the bare lightbulb, bathing Myron in total darkness. One more step. Someone stopped directly over him.

Hello, Myron, the voice said.

There was a tremor there, an almost manic twang in the tone. But there was no doubt. Myron

was not great with names and faces, but voices were imprints. Memories flooded in. After all

these years his recall was instantaneous.

Hello, Billy Lee.

The missing Billy Lee Palms, to be exact. Former frat brother and Duke baseball star. Former

best bud of Clu Haid. Son of Mrs. My-Life-Is-but-a-Wallpaper-Tapestry.

Mind if I take the hood off now? Myron asked.

Not at all.

Myron reached up and grabbed the top of the hood. He pulled it off. Billy Lee was standing over

him. Or at least he assumed it was Billy Lee. It was as if the former pretty boy had been kidnapped and replaced with this fleshier counterpart. Billy Lee's formerly prominent cheekbones looked malleable, tallow skin in mid-shed clung to sagging features, his eyes sunken deeper than any pirate treasure, his complexion the gray of a city street after a rainfall. His hair was greasy and jutting all over the place, as unwashed as any MTV video jockey's.

Billy Lee was also holding what looked liked a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from Myron's

face.

He's holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from my face, Myron said

for the benefit of the cell phone.

Billy Lee giggled. That sound too was familiar.

Bonnie Franklin, Myron said.

What?

Last night. You were the one who hit me with the cattle prod.

Billy Lee spread his hands impossibly wide. Bingo, baby!

Myron shook his head. You definitely look better with the makeup, Billy Lee.

Billy Lee giggled again and retrained the shotgun on Myron. Then he held out his free hand.

Give me the phone. Myron hesitated but not for long. The sunken eyes, once Myron could see them, were wet and unfocused and tinged with a dull red. Billy Lee's body was one tremor. Myron checked out the short sleeves and saw the needle tracks. Billy Lee looked like the wildest and most unpredictable

of animals: a cornered junkie. Myron handed him the phone. Billy Lee put it to his ear.

Win?

Win's voice was clear. Yes, Billy Lee.

Go to hell.

Billy Lee giggled again. Then he clicked off the phone, untethering them from the outside world,

and Myron felt the dread rise in his chest.

Billy Lee stuck the phone in Myron's pocket and looked over at Pat. Tie him to the chair.

Pat said, What?

Tie him to the chair. There's rope right behind it.

Tie him how? I look like a goddamn Boy Scout?

Just wrap it around him and tie a knot. I want to slow him down in case he gets dumb before I

kill him.

Pat moved toward Myron. Billy Lee kept an eye on Myron.

Myron said, It's not really a good idea to upset Win.

Win doesn't scare me.

Myron shook his head.

What?

I knew you were strung out, Myron said. But I didn't realize how badly.

Pat started winding the rope around Myron's chest. Maybe you should call him back, Pat said.

If the San Andreas quaked like his voice, they'd be calling for an evacuation. We don't need him

searching for us too, you know what I'm saying?

Don't worry about it, Billy Lee said.

And Zorra's still there

Don't worry about it! Screaming this time. A shrill, awful scream. The shotgun bounced

closer to Myron's face. Myron tensed his body, preparing to make a move before the rope was

knotted. But Billy Lee jumped back suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that Myron was in

the room.

Nobody spoke. Pat tightened the rope and tied it in a knot. Not well done, but it'd serve its stated purpose i.e., slow him down so that Billy Lee would have plenty of time to blow Myron's head off.

You trying to kill me, Myron?

Strange question. No, Myron said.

Billy Lee's fist slammed into the lower part of Myron's belly. Myron doubled over, the air gone,

his lungs spasming in the pure, naked need for oxygen. He felt tears push into his eyes.

Don't lie to me, asshole.

Myron fought for breath.

Billy Lee sniffed, wiped his face with his sleeve. Why are you trying to kill me?

Myron tried to respond, but it took too long. Billy Lee hit him hard with the butt of the shotgun,

exactly on the Z spot Zorra had sliced into him the night before. The stitches split apart, and blood mushroomed onto Myron's shirt. His head began to swim. Billy Lee giggled some more. Then he raised the butt of the shotgun over his head and started it in an arc toward Myron's head.

Billy Lee! Pat shouted.

Myron saw it coming, but there was no escape. He managed to tilt the chair with his toes and roll

back. The blow glanced the top of his head, scraping his scalp. The chair teetered over, and

Myron's head banged against the wooden floor. His skull tingled.