The Final Detail

Usually when you threaten

I never threatened Zorra. I threatened Pat. I said I may kill Zorra. But what would have been the

point? Should Zorra suffer because a drugged-out psychotic like Billy Lee Palms hangs up a

phone? Methinks not.

Myron shook his head. You're a constant surprise.

Win stopped. And lately you're a constant screwup. You got lucky. Zorra said she'd be willing

to use her life to guarantee your safety. I recognized that she couldn't do it. It's why I told you not

to go.

I didn't think I had a choice.

Now you know better.

Maybe.

Win put a stilling hand on Myron's arm. You're not over her yet. Esperanza has a point when

she tells you that.

Myron nodded. Win dropped his arm.

Take this, Win said, handing him a small bottle. Please.

Trial-size mouthwash. Count on Win. They made their way inside the Biker Wannabee. Myron

stopped in the bathroom, rinsed out his mouth, splashed water on his face, checked the wound. It hurt. He looked in the mirror. His face was still tan from his three weeks with Terese, but Win was right: He looked like hell.

He met up with Win outside the bathroom door. You said two reasons before, that there were

two reasons you wanted me to come back here.

Reason two, Win said. Nancy or Thrill, if you prefer. She was worried about you. I thought

it best if you saw her.

When they reached the corner booth, Zorra and Thrill were busy chatting like, well, two single

women at a bar.

Zorra smiled at Myron. Zorra is sorry, dreamboat.

Not your fault, Myron said.

Zorra means that they're dead, Zorra said. Zorra would have liked a few hours alone with

them first.

Yeah, Myron said. Pity.

Zorra already told Win all Zorra knows, which is very little. Zorra is just a beautiful hired gun.

She likes to know as little as possible.

But you worked for Pat?

He-she nodded, but the wig did not. Zorra was a bouncer and bodyguard. Do you believe that?

Zorra Avrahaim having to settle for work as a common bouncer?

Yeah, times are tough. So what was Pat into?

A little of everything. Mostly drugs.

And how were Billy Lee and Pat connected?

Billy Lee claimed to be his uncle. Zorra shrugged. But that could have been a lie.

Did you ever meet Clu Haid?

No.

Do you know why Billy Lee was hiding?

He was terrified. He thought someone was trying to kill him.

That someone being me?

So it seemed.

Myron couldn't figure that one out. He asked a few more questions, but there was nothing else to

leam. Win offered his hand. Zorra took it and stepped out of the booth. She handled the high

heels well. Not everyone does.

Zorra kissed Win on the cheek. Thanks for not killing Zorra, dreamboat,

Win bowed slightly. A pleasure, madame. Win the charmer. I'll walk you out.

Myron slid into the booth next to Thrill Without saying a word, she grabbed his face with both

hands and kissed him hard. He kissed her back. Win and his mouthwash. What a guy.

When they came up for air, Thrill said, You do know how to show a girl a good time.

Ditto.

You also scared the hell out of me.

I didn't mean to.

She searched his face. Are you okay?

I will be.

Part of me wants to invite you back to my place.

He said nothing, lowering his eyes. She kept her eyes on his face.

This is it, isn't it? she said. You won't call, will you?

Myron said, You're beautiful, intelligent, fun

And about to get the big kiss-off.

It's not you.

Oh, that's original. Don't tell me. It's you, right?

He tried a smile. You know me so well.

I'd like to.

I'm damaged goods, Nancy.

Who isn't?

Tm just over a long-term relationship

Who said anything about a relationship? We could just go out, right?

No.

What?

I don't work that way, he said. I can't help it. I go out with someone, I start picturing kids and

a backyard barbecue and a rusted hoop in the driveway. I try to size up all that stuff right away.

She looked at him. Christ, you're strange.

Hard to argue.

She started fiddling with a mixing straw. And you can't imagine me in any of those domestic

settings?

Just the opposite, Myron said. That's the problem.

I see. At least I think I see. She shifted in her seat. I better go.

I'll take you home.

No, I'll get a taxi.

That's not necessary.

I think it is. Good night, Myron.

She walked away. Myron stood. Win moved up next to him. They watched her disappear out the

door.

You'll make sure she gets home safely? Myron asked.

Win nodded. I already called a car service for her.

Thanks.

Silence. Then Win put his hand on Myron's shoulder.

May I make one observation at this juncture? Win asked.

Shoot.

You're a total moron.

They stopped at the doctor's apartment on the Upper West Side. He restitched the wound, making a tsk-tsk noise as he sewed. When they reached Win's apartment at the Dakota building, the two friends settled into the Louis the Someteenth decor with, their favorite beverages. Myron chugged on a Yoo-Hoo; Win sipped an amber liquor.

Win flipped channels with a remote control. He stopped on CNN. Myron looked at the screen and thought of Ter-ese on that island by herself. He checked the time. This was normally Terese's anchor slot. A bad dye job filled in. Myron wondered when or if Terese would be back on the air. And he wondered why he kept thinking about her.

Win turned the TV off. Need a refill?

Myron shook his head. So what did Sawyer Wells tell you?

Not very much, I'm afraid. Clu was a drug addict. He tried to help him. Blah, blah, blah. Sawyer

is leaving the Yankees, you know.

I didn't.

He credits them with raising him out of obscurity. But alas, now it's time for dear Sawyer to

take hold of his reins and motivate more minions. He's going to start touring soon.

Like a rock star?

Win nodded. Complete with overpriced T-shirts.

Are they black?

I don't know. But at the end of each performance he encores after frenzied fans flick their Bics

and shout, 'Freebird!'

That's so 1977.

Isn't it? But I did a little checking. Guess who's sponsoring the tour.

Budweiser, the undisputed King of Beer?

Close, Win said. His new publisher. Riverton Press.

As in Vincent Riverton, former owner of the New York Yankees?

The very.

Myron whistled, processed it, came up with nothing. With all the buyouts in publishing,

Riverton owns half the books in town. Probably means nothing.

Probably, Win agreed. If you have more questions, Sawyer is giving a seminar tomorrow at

the Cagemore Auditorium at Reston University. He imnted me to attend. I'm allowed to bring a

date.

I don't put out on the first date.

And you're proud of that?

Myron took a deep chug. Maybe he was getting older, but Yoo-Hoo didn't have the same kick anymore. He craved a venti-size skim iced latte with a splash of vanilla, though he hated ordering it in front of other men. I'm going to try to find out about Clu's autopsy tomorrow.

Through this Sally Li?

Myron nodded. She's been in court, but she's supposed to be back at the morgue tomorrow

morning.

Think she'll tell you anything?

I don't know.

You may have to turn on the charm again, Win said. Is this Sally Li of the heterosexual

persuasion?

She is now, Myron said. But once I turn on the charm

All bets are off, yes.

Charm so potent, Myron said, he can turn a woman against men.

You should print that on your business card. Win did that snifter circle, palm up and under the

glass. Before our old chum Billy Lee perished, did he reveal anything of import?

Not really, Myron said. Just that he thought I was the one who killed Clu and now wanted to

kill him.

Hmm.

Hmm what?

Once again, your name rears its ugly head.

He was a strung-out addict.

I see, Win said. So he was just ranting?

Silence.

Somehow, Myron said, I keep ending up in the middle of this.

So it seems.

But I can't imagine why.

Life's little mysteries.

I also can't figure out how Billy Lee fits into any of this: into Clu's murder, into Esperanza's

affair with Bonnie, into Clu getting thrown off the team, into Clu signing with FJ, into any of it.

Win put down his snifter and stood. I suggest we sleep on it.

Good advice. Myron crawled under the covers and plunged immediately into slumber land. It was several hours later after the REM and alpha sleep cycles, when he started rising to consciousness and his brain activity started going haywire that it came to him. He thought again about FJ and about his having tailed Myron. He thought about what FJ had said, about how he had even seen Myron at the cemetery before Myron disappeared with Terese in the Caribbean.

And a big click sounded in his head.

Chapter 27

He called FJ at nine in the morning. FJ's secretary said that Mr. Ache could not be disturbed. Myron told her it was urgent. Sorry, Mr. Ache was out of the office. But, Myron reminded her, you just said he could not be disturbed. He cannot be disturbed, the secretary countered, because he is not in the office. Ah.

Tell him I want to meet with him, Myron said. And it has to be today.

I can't promise you

Just tell him.

He looked at his watch. He was meeting Dad at the Club at noon. It gave him time to try to rendezvous with Sally Li, chief medical examiner for Bergen County. He called her office and told her he wanted to talk.

Not here, Sally said. You know the Fashion Center?

It's one of the malls on Route Seventeen, right?

On the Ridgewood Avenue intersection, yeah. There's a sub shop outside the Bed, Bath and Beyond. Meet me there in an hour.

Bed, Bath and Beyond is part of the Fashion Center?

Must have something to do with the Beyond part.

She hung up. He got in the rental car and started out to Paramus, New Jersey. Motto: There's No Such Thing as Too Much Commerce. The town of Paramus was like a muggy, jam-packed elevator with some jerk holding the door-open button and shouting, Come on, we can squeeze in one more strip mall.

Nothing about the Fashion Center was particularly fashionable; the mall was in fact so unhip that teenagers didn't even hang out there. Sally Li sat on a bench, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. She wore green hospital scrubs and rubber sports sandals with no socks footwear sported by many a coroner because it made cleaning off blood and guts and other human debris easy with a simple garden hose.

Okay, a little background here: For the past decade or so, Myron had been involved in an onagain, off-again romance with Jessica Culver. More recently they'd been in love. They'd moved in together. And now it was over. Or so he thought. He was not sure what exactly had happened. Objective observers might point to Brenda. She came along and changed a lot of things. But Myron was not sure.

So what's that have to do with Sally Li?

Jessica's father, Adam Culver, had been the Bergen County chief medical examiner until he was murdered several years ago. Sally Li, his assistant and close friend, had taken his place. That was how Myron knew her.

He approached. Another no-smoking mall?

No one uses the word no anymore, Sally said. They say free instead. This isn't a no-smoking mall; it's a smoke-free zone. Next they'll call underwater an air-free zone. Or the Senate a brainfree zone.

So why did you want to meet here?

Sally sighed, sat up. Because you want to know about Clu Raid's autopsy, right?

Myron hesitated, nodded.

Well, my superiors and I use that term knowing I don't even have equals would frown upon

seeing us together. In fact, they'd probably try to fire my ass.

So why take the risk? he asked.

First off, I'm going to change jobs. I'm going back West, probably UCLAl Second, I'm cute,

female, and what they now call Asian-American. It makes it harder to fire me. I might make a stink and the politically ambitious hate to look like they're beating up a minority. Third, you're a good guy. You figured out the truth when Adam was killed. I figure I owe you. She took the cigarette out of her mouth, put it back in the package, took out another one, put it in her mouth. So what do you want to know?

Just like that?

Just like that.

Myron said, I thought I'd have to turn on my charm.

Only if you want to get me naked. She waved a hand. Ah, who am I kidding? Go ahead,

Myron, fire away.

Injuries? Myron asked.

Four bullet wounds.

I thought there were three.

So did we at first. Two to the head, both at close range, either one of which would have been

fatal. The cops thought there was only one. There was another in the right calf, and another in the

back between the shoulder blades.

Longer range?

Yeah, I'd say at least five feet. Looked liked thirty-eights, but I don't do ballistics.

You were at the scene, right?

Yup.

Could you tell if there was forced entry?

The cops said no.

Myron sat back and nodded to himself. Let me see if I got the DA's theory right. Correct me if

I'm wrong.

I look forward to it.

They figure Clu knew the killer. He let him or her in voluntarily, they talked or whatever, and

something went wrong. The killer draws a gun, Clu runs, the killer fires two shots. One hits his

calf, the other his back. Could you tell which came first?

Which what?

The calf shot or the back shot.

No, Sally said.

Okay, so Clu goes down. He's hurt but not dead. The killer puts the gun to Clu's head. Bang,

bang.

Sally arched an eyebrow. I'm impressed.

Thanks.

As far as it goes.

Pardon?

She sighed and shifted on the bench. There are problems.

Such as?

The body was moved.

Myron felt his pulse pick up. Clu was killed someplace else?

No. But his body was moved. After he was killed.

I don't understand.

The lividity wasn't affected, so the blood didn't have time to settle. But he was dragged around

on the floor, probably immediately after death, though it could be up to an hour later. And the

room was tossed.

The killer was searching for something, Myron said. Probably the two hundred thousand

dollars.

Don't know about that. But there were blood smears all over the place.

What do you mean, smears?

Look, I'm an ME. I don't interpret crime scenes. But the place was a mess. Overturned furniture

and bookshelves, drawers emptied out, and blood everywhere. On the walls. And on the floor.

Like he'd been dragged like a rag doll.

Maybe he was dragging himself around. After he was shot in the leg and back.

Could be, I guess. Of course it's hard to drag yourself across walls unless you're Spider-Man.

Myron's blood chilled a few degrees. He tried to sort and sift and process. How did all this fit?

The killer was on a rampage to find the cash. Okay, that makes sense. But why drag around the

body? Why smear the walls with blood?

We're not finished, Sally said.

Myron blinked as though coming out of a trance.

I also ran a full tox screen on the deceased. Know what I found?

Heroin?

She shook her head. El Zippo.

What?

Nada, nothing, the big zero.

Clu was clean?

Not even a Turns.

Myron made a face. But that could have been temporary, right? I mean, the drugs might have

just been out of his system.

Nope.

What do you mean, nope?

Let's keep the science simple here, shall we? If a guy abuses drugs or alcohol, it shows up

somewhere. Enlarged heart, liver damage, lung modules, whatever. And it did. There was no question that Clu Haid had liked some pretty potent chemicals. Had, Myron. Had. There are other tests hair tests, for example that give you a more recent snapshot. And those were clean. Which means he'd been off the stuff for a while.

But he failed a drug test two weeks ago.

She shrugged.

Are you telling me that test was fixed?

Sally held up both hands. Not me. I'm telling you that my data disputes that data. I never said

anything about a fix. It could have been an innocent error. There are such things as false

positives.

Myron's head swam. Clu had been clean. His body had been dragged around after being shot

four times. Why? None of this made any sense.

They chatted a few more minutes, mostly about the past, and headed for the exit ten minutes later. Myron started back to his car. Time to see Dad. He tried the new cellular count on Win to have extras lying about his apartment and called Win.

Articulate, Win answered.

Clu was right. The drug test was fixed.

Win said, My, my.

Sawyer Wells witnessed the drug test.

More my, my.

What time is he doing the motivational talk at Res-ton?

Two o'clock, Win said.

In the mood to get motivated?

You have no idea.

Chapter 28

The Club.

Brooklake Country Club, to be more exact, though there was no brook, no lake, and they were not in the country. It was, however, most definitely a club. As Myron's car made its way up the steep drive, the clubhouse's white Greco-Roman pillars rising through the clouds, childhood memories popped up in fluorescent flashes. It was how he always saw the place. In flashes. Not always pleasant ones.

The Club was the epitome of nouveau-riche, Myron's wealthy brethren proving that they could be just as tacky and exclusive as their goyish counterparts. Older women with perpetual tans on large, freckled chests sat by the pool, their hair shellacked into place by fake French hairdressers to the point where the strands resembled frozen fiber optics, never allowing it, God forbid, to touch the water, sleeping, he imagined, without putting their heads down lest they shatter the dos like so much Venetian glass; there were nose jobs and liposuction and face-lifts so extreme that the ears almost touched in the back, the overall effect bizarrely sexy in the same way you might find Yvonne De Carlo on The Munsters sexy; women fighting off old age and on the surface winning, but Myron wondered if they doth protest too much, their fear just a little too bare in the scar-revealing, harsh overhead lights of the dining room.

Men and women were separated at the Club, the women animatedly playing mah-jongg, the men silently chewing on cigars over a hand of cards; women still had special tee times so as not to interfere with the breadwinners' i.e., their husbands' precious leisure moments; there was tennis too, but that was more for fashion than exercise, giving everyone an excuse to wear sweatsuits that rarely encountered sweat, couples sometimes sporting matching ones; a men's grill, a women's lounge, the oak boards memorializing golf champions in gold leaf, the same man winning seven years in a row, now dead, the large locker rooms with masseur's tables, the bathrooms with combs sitting in blue alcohol, the pickle-and-cole-slaw bar, cleat marks on the rug, the Founders Board with his grandparents' names still on it, immigrant dining room help, all referred to by their first names, always smiling too hard and at the ready.

What shocked Myron now was that people his age were members. The same young girls who had sneered at their mothers' idleness now abandoned their own foundering careers to raise the kids read: hire nannies came here to lunch and bore each other silly with a continuous game of one-upmanship. The men Myron's age had manicures and long hair and were well fed and too well dressed, kicking back with their cellular phones and casually swearing to a colleague. Their kids were there too, dark-eyed youngsters walking through the clubhouse with hand-held video games and Walkmans and too regal a bearing.

All conversations were inane and depressed the hell out of Myron. The grandpas in Myron's day had the good sense not to talk much to one another, just discarding and picking up what was dealt, occasionally grumbling about a local sports team; the grandmothers interrogated one another, measuring their own children and grandchildren against the competition, seeking an opponent's weakness and any conversational opening to jab forward with tales of offspring heroics, no one really listening, just preparing for the next frontal assault, familial pride getting confused with self-worth and desperation.

The main clubhouse dining room was as expected: waaaay too overstated. The green carpeting, the curtains that resembled corduroy leisure suits, the gold tablecloths on huge round mahogany, the floral centerpieces piled too high and with no sense of proportion, not unlike the plates traipsing down the buffet line. Myron remembered attending a sports-themed bar mitzvah here as a child: jukeboxes, posters, pennants, a Wiffle ball batting cage, a basket for foul shots, an artist wanna-be stuck sketching sports-related caricatures of thirteen-year-old boys thirteen-year-old boys being God's most obnoxious creation short of television lawyers and a wedding band complete with an overweight lead singer who handed the kids silver dollars shrouded in leather pouches that were emblazoned with the band's phone number.

But this view these flashes were too quick and thus simplistic. Myron knew that. His remembrances were all screwed up about this place the derision blending with the nostalgia but he also remembered coming here as a child for family dinners, his clip-on tie slightly askew, sent by Mom into the inner sanctum of the men's card room to find his grandfather, the undisputed family patriarch, the room reeking of cigar smoke, his pop-pop greeting him with a ferocious embrace, his gruff compatriots who wore golf shirts that were too loud and too tight, barely acknowledging the interloper because their own grandkids would do the same soon, the card game trickling down, participant by participant.

These same people he so easily picked apart were the first generation fully out of Russia or Poland or Ukraine or some other shtetl-laced combat zone. They'd hit the New World running running away from the past, the poverty, the fear and they just ran a bit too far. But under the hair and the jewelry and the gold lame, no mother bear would ever be so quick to kill for her cubs, the women's hard eyes still seeking out the pogrom in the distance, suspicious, always expecting the worst, bracing themselves to take the blow for their children.

Myron's dad sat in a yellow, pseudo-leather swivel chair in the brunch room, fitting in with this crowd about as well as a camel-riding mufti. Dad did not belong here. Never had. He didn't play golf or tennis or cards. He didn't swim and he didn't brag and he didn't brunch and he didn't talk stock tips. He wore his work clothes of all things: charcoal gray slacks, loafers, and a white dress shirt over a sleeveless white undershirt. His eyes were dark, his skin pale olive, his nose jutting forward like a hand waiting to be shook.

Interestingly enough, Dad was not a member of Brook-lake. Dad's parents, on the other hand, had been founding members, or in the case of Pop-pop, a ninety-two-year-old quasi vegetable whose rich life had been dissolved into useless fragments by Alzheimer's, still was. Dad hated the place, but he kept up the membership for the sake of his father. That meant showing up every once in a while. Dad looked at it as a small price to pay.

When Dad spotted Myron, he rose, more slowly than usual, and suddenly the obvious hit Myron: The cycle was beginning anew. Dad was the age Pop-pop had been back then, the age of the people they'd made fun of, his ink-black hair wispy, static gray now. The thought was far from comforting.

Over here! Dad called, though Myron had seen him. Myron threaded his way through the brunchers, mostly overkept women who constantly pendulumed between chewing and chatting, bits of coleslaw caught in the corners of their glossy mouths, water glasses stained with pink lipstick. They eyed Myron as he walked by for three reasons: under forty, male, no marriage band. Measuring his son-in-law potential. Always on the lookout, though not necessarily for their own daughters, the yenta from the shtetl never too far away.

Myron hugged his father and as always kissed his cheek. The cheek still felt wonderfully rough, but the skin was loosening. The scent of Old Spice wafted gently in the air, as comforting as any hot chocolate on the coldest of days. Dad hugged him back, released, then hugged him again. No one noticed the display of affection. Such acts were not uncommon here.

The two men sat. The paper place mats had an overhead diagram of the golf course's eighteen holes and an ornate letter B in the middle. The club's logo. Dad picked up a stubby green pencil, a golf pencil, to scribble down their order. That was how it worked. The menu had not changed in thirty years. As a kid Myron always ordered either the Monte Cristo or Reuben sandwich. Today he asked for a bagel with lox and cream cheese. Dad wrote it down.

So, Dad began. Getting acclimated to being back?

Yeah, I think so.

Hell of a thing with Esperanza.

She didn't do it.

Dad nodded. Your mother tells me that you've been subpoenaed.

Yep. But I don't know anything.

You listen to your aunt Clara. She's a smart lady. Always has been. Even in school, Clara was

the smartest girl in the class.

I will.

The waitress came by. Dad handed her the order. He turned back to Myron and shrugged. It's

getting near the end of the month, Dad said. I have to use your pop-pop's minimum before the thirtieth. I didn't want the money to go to waste.

This place is fine.

Dad made a face signaling disagreement. He grabbed some bread, buttered it, then pushed it

away. He shifted in his chair. Myron watched him. Dad was working up to something.

So you and Jessica broke up?

In all the years Myron had been dating Jessica, Dad had never inquired about their relationship

past the polite questions. It just wasn't his way. He'd ask how Jessica was, what she was up to,

when her next book was coming out. He was polite and friendly and greeted her warmly, but he'd

never given a true indication of how he really felt about her. Mom had made her own feelings on

the subject crystal clear: Jessica was not good enough for her son, but then again, who was? Dad

was like a great newscaster, the kind of guy who asks questions without giving the viewer any

hint of how he was really leaning on the issue.

I think it's over, Myron said.

Because Dad stopped, looked away, looked back ofBrenda?

I'm not sure.

I'm not big on giving advice. You know that. Maybe I should have been. I read those life

instruction books fathers write for their children. You ever see those? Yes.

All kinds of wisdom in there. Like: Watch a sunrise once a year. Why? Suppose you want to sleep in? Another one: Overtip a breakfast waitress. But suppose she's grumpy? Suppose she's really bad? Maybe that's why I never dealt with it. I always see the other side.

Myron smiled.

So I was never big on advice. But I have learned one thing for sure. One thing. So listen to me

because this is important.

Okay.

The most important decision you'll ever make is who you marry, Dad said. You can take

every other decision you'll ever make, add them together, and it still won't be as important as that one. Suppose you choose the wrong job, for example. With the right wife, that's not a problem. She'll encourage you to make a change, cheer you on no matter what. You understand?

Yes.

Remember that, okay?

Okay.

You have to love her more than anything in the world. But she has to love you just as much.

Your priority should be her happiness, and her priority should be yours. That's a funny thing caring about someone more than yourself. It's not easy. So don't look at her as just a sexual object or as just a friend to talk to. Picture every day with the person. Picture paying bills with that person, raising children with that person, being stuck in a hot room with no airconditioning and a screaming baby with that person. Am I making sense?

Yes. Myron smiled and folded his hands on the table. Is that how it is with you and Mom? Is

she all those things to you?

All those things, Dad agreed, plus a pain in the tuchus

Myron laughed.

If you promise not to tell your mother, I'll let you in on a little secret.

What?

He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. When your mother walks in the room even now,

even after all these years, if she were to, say, stroll by us right now my heart still does a little

two-step. You understand what I'm saying?

I think so, yeah. That used to happen with Jess.

Dad spread his hands. Enough then.

Are you saying Jessica is that person?

Not my place to say one way or the other.

Do you think I'm making a mistake?

Dad shrugged. You'll figure that out, Myron. I have tremendous confidence in you. Maybe that's why I never gave you much advice. Maybe I always thought you were smart enough without me.

Bull.

Or maybe it was easier parenting, I don't know.

Or maybe you led by example, Myron said. Maybe you led gently. Maybe you showed rather

than told.

Yeah, well, whatever.

They fBll into silence. The women around them chatted up their white noise.

Dad said, I turn sixty-eight this year.

I know.

Not a young man anymore.

Myron shook his head. Not old either.

True enough.

More silence.

I'm selling the business, Dad said.

Myron froze. He saw the warehouse in Newark, the place Dad had worked for as long as Myron

could remember. The schmata business in Dad's case, undergarments. He could picture Dad with his ink-black hair in his glass-walled warehouse office, barking out orders, sleeves rolled up, Eloise, his long-time secretary, fetching him whatever he needed before he knew he needed it.

I'm too old for it now, Dad went on. So I'm getting out. I spoke to Artie Bernstein. You remember Artie?

Myron managed a nod.

The man's a rat bastard, but he's been dying to buy me out for years. Right now his offer is

garbage, but I still might take it.

Myron blinked. You're selling?

Yes. And your mother is going to cut back at the law firm.

I don't understand.

Dad put a hand on Myron's arm. We're tired, Myron.

Myron felt two giant hands press down on his chest.

We're also buying a place in Florida.

Florida?

Yes.

You're moving to Florida? Myron's Theory on East Coast Jewish Life: You grow up, you get

married, you have kids, you go to Florida, you die.

No, maybe part of the year, I don't know. Your mother and I are going to start traveling a little more. Dad paused. So we'll probably sell the house. They'd owned that house Myron's entire life. Myron looked down at the table. He grabbed a wrapped Saltine cracker from the bread basket and tore open the cellophane.

Are you okay? Dad asked.

I'm fine, he said. But he wasn't fine. And he couldn't articulate why, even to himself.

The waitress served them. Dad was having a salad with cottage cheese. Dad hated cottage

cheese. They ate in silence. Myron kept feeling tears sting his eyes. Silly.

There's one other thing, Dad said.

Myron looked up. What?

It's not a big deal really. I didn't even want to tell you, but your mother thought I should. And

you know how it is with your mother. When she has something in her mind, God himself

What is it, Dad?

Dad fixed his eyes on Myron's. I want you to know this has nothing to do with you or your

going to the Caribbean.

Dad, what?

While you were gone Dad shrugged and started blinking; he put down his fork, and there

was the faintest quiver in his lower lip I had some chest pains.

Myron felt his own heart sputter. He saw Dad with the ink-black hair at Yankee Stadium. He saw

Dad's face turning red when he told him about the bearded man. He saw Dad rise and storm off

to avenge his sons.

When Myron spoke, his voice sounded tinny and far away. Chest pains?

Don't make a thing of it.

You had a heart attack?

Let's not blow it out of proportion. The doctors weren't sure what it was. It was just some chest pains, that's all. I was out of the hospital in two days.

The hospital? More images: Dad waking up with the pains, Mom starting to ciy, calling an ambulance, rushing to the hospital, the oxygen mask on his face, Mom holding his hand, both their faces devoid of any color .

And then something broke open. Myron couldn't stop himself. He got up and half sprinted to the bathroom. Someone said hello to him, called out his name, but he kept moving. He pushed open the bathroom door, opened a stall, locked himself in, and nearly collapsed.

Myron started to cry.

Deep, bone-crushing cries, full-body sobs. Just when he thought he couldn't cry anymore. Something inside him had finally given way, and now he sobbed without pause or letup.

Myron heard the bathroom door open. Someone leaned against the stall door. Dad's voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper. I'm fine, Myron.

But Myron again saw Dad at Yankee Stadium. The ink-black hair was gone, replaced with the gray, fly-away wisps. Myron saw Dad challenge the bearded man. He saw the bearded man rise, and then he saw Dad clutch his chest and fall to the ground.

Chapter 29

Myron tried to shake it off. No choice really. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. And he couldn't stop worrying. Worrying had never been his style in the past, even when a crisis loomed. All of a sudden he had the worry-queasies in his stomach. It was true what they said: The older you become, the more you are like your parents. Soon he'd be telling a kid not to stick his elbow out the car window or he'd lose it.

Win met him in front of the auditorium. He was in classic Win pose, eyes level, arms crossed, totally relaxed. He wore designer sunglasses and looked ultrasleek. GQ casual.

Problem? Win said.

No.

Win shrugged.

I thought we were going to meet inside, Myron said.

That would mean I'd have to listen to more of Sawyer Wells.

That bad?

Imagine, if you will, a Mariah Carey-Michael Bolton duet, Win said.

Eeuw.

Win checked his watch. He should be finishing up now. We must be brave.

They headed inside. The Cagemore Center was a sprawling facility that featured oodles of concert and lecture halls that could be cut to any size by sliding walls back and forth. There was a summer camp for young children in one room. Win and Myron stopped and listened to the children sing Farmer in the Dell. The sound made Myron smile.

the farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho-the-dairy-o, the farmer in the dell

Win turned to Myron. What's a dell? Win asked.

No idea.

Win shrugged and moved on to the main auditorium. There was a table out front selling Sawyer Wells paraphernalia. Cassettes, videos, books, magazines, posters, pennants (though what one does with a Sawyer Wells pennant went beyond Myron's capacity to imagine) and yep, T-shirts. Groovy titles too: The Wells Guide to Wellness, The Wells Rules for Wellness, Key to Wellness: It's All About You. Myron shook his head.

The auditorium was packed, the crowd so silent they'd put the Vatican to shame. Up on the stage, jittering to and fro like Robin Williams in his stand-up comic days, was the self-help guru himself. Sawyer Wells was resplendent in a business suit with the jacket off, shirt cuffs turned once, fancy suspenders cutting into his shoulders. A good look for a self-help guru: The expensive suit makes you reek of success while the jacket off and rolled-up sleeves give you the air of a regular guy. A perfectly balanced ensemble.

It's all about you, Sawyer Wells told the enraptured audience. If you remember nothing else today, remember that. It's all about you. Make everything about you. Every decision is about you. Everything you see, everything you touch is a reflection of you. No more than that it is you. You are everything. And everything is you.

Win leaned toward Myron. Isn't that a song?

The Stylistics, I think. Circa early seventies.

I want you to remember that, Sawyer continued. Visualize. Visualize everything as you. Your

family is you. Your job is you. When you're walking down the slreet, that beautiful tree is you.

That blooming rose is you.

Win said, That dirty commode at the bus terminal.

Myron nodded. You.

You see the boss, the leader, the breadwinner, the successful, fulfilled person. That person is

you. No one can lead you because the leader is you. You stand in front of your opponent, and

you know you can win because you are your opponent. And you know how to beat you.

Remember you are your opponent. Your opponent is you.

Win frowned. But don't you know how to beat you too?

It's a paradox, Myron agreed.

You fear the unknown, Sawyer Wells ranted. You fear success. You fear taking chances. But

now you know that the unknown is you. Success is you. Taking chances is you. You don't fear

you, do you?

Win frowned.

Listen to Mozart. Take long walks. Ask yourself what you did today. Do that every night.

Before you go to sleep, ask yourself if the world is better because of you. After all, it's your

world. You are the world.

Win said, If he breaks into a rendition of 'We Are the World,' I'm using my gun.

But you are your gun, Myron countered.

And he is my gun too.

Right.

Win considered that. So if he is my gun and my gun kills him, it's a suicide.

Take responsibility for your actions, Wells said. That's one of the Wells Rules for Wellness.

Take responsibility. Cher once said, 'Excuses won't lift your butt, 'kay?' Listen to that. Believe

that with all your heart.

The man was quoting Cher. The crowd was nodding. There is no God.

Confess something about yourself to a friend something awful, something you'd never want anyone to know. You'll feel better. You'll still see that you're worthy of love. And since your friend is you, you are really just telling yourself. Have an interest in everything. Thirst for knowledge. That's another rule. Remember that it's all about you. When you learn about other things, you are actually learning about yourself. Get to know you better.

Win looked at Myron, his face pained.

Let's wait outside, Myron said.

But luck was with them. Two sentences later Sawyer Wells was done. The crowd went ballistic.

They stood, they applauded, they hooted like an old Arsenio Hall audience.

Win shook his head. Four hundred dollars a pop.

That what this thing costs?

He is your money.

People approached the stage, stretching their hands toward the heavens in the vain hope that

Sawyer Wells might reach out and touch them. Myron and Win watched. The table with the

Wells paraphernalia was swarmed now like rotting fruit with buzzing flies.

The citified version of a tent revival, Win noted.

Myron nodded.

Eventually Sawyer Wells waved and ran offstage. The crowd continued to cheer and purchase.

Myron half expected a voice-over to announce that Elvis had left the building. Win and Myron

swam through the crowd.

Come, Win said. I have backstage passes.

Please tell me you're joking.

He wasn't. They actually said Backstage Pass on them. A plainclothes security guard scowled

at them and scrutinized the passes as if they were the Zapruder film. Satisfied, he let them past

the velvet rope. Yep, velvet rope. Sawyer Wells spotted Win and bounced toward them. So glad you could come, Win! He turned to Myron and stuck out his hand. Hi, I'm Sawyer Wells.

Myron shook it. Myron Bolitar.

Sawyer's smile flickered but stayed on. Nice to meet you, Myron.

Myron decided to try a frontal assault. Why did you fix Clu Haid's drug test so it would appear

he was taking heroin?

The smile was still there, but it wasn't sitting right. Pardon?

Clu Haid. The name ring a bell?

Of course. As I told Win yesterday, I worked very hard with him.

Worked how?

To keep him off drugs. I have an extensive background as a drug counselor. That's how I was

trained. To help addicts.

Not so different from what you're doing now, Myron said.

Pardon?

People with addictive personalities need an addiction. If it's not booze or drugs, maybe it's

religion or self-help mumbo jumbo. They're simply swapping addictions; we hope to one less

damaging.

Sawyer Wells overnodded. That's a really interesting viewpoint, Myron.

Gee, thanks, Sawyer.

I learned much about human frailty, about our lack of self-esteem, from addicts like Clu Haid.

As I said, I worked very hard with him. His failure hurt me greatly.

Win said, Because it was your failure.

Pardon?

You are everything, and everything is you, Win said. You are Clu Haid. He failed, ergo you

failed.

Sawyer Wells maintained the smile. But it was different when he looked at Win. His gestures

were tighter too, more controlled. He was one of those guys who tried to imitate the person with

whom he was conversing. Myron hated that. I see you came in at the end of my seminar, Win.

Did I misunderstand your message?

No, it's not that. But a man creates his own world. That's my point. You are what you create,

what you perceive. Take responsibility. That's the most important component of the Wells Guide to Wellness. You take responsibility for your own actions. And you admit fault. You know what the two most beautiful sentences in the world are?

Win opened his mouth, stopped, looked at Myron, shook his head. Too easy, he said.

I am responsible,' Sawyer continued. 'It's my fault.' He turned toward Myron. Say it,

Myron.

What?

Come on. It's exhilarating. Say, ? am responsible. It's my fault.' Stop passing the buck in your

life. Say it. Come on, I'll say it with you. Win, you too.

Myron and Sawyer said, I am responsible. It's my fault. Win remained silent.

Feel better? Sawyer said.

It was almost like sex, Myron said.

It can be powerful, yes.

Yeah, uh-huh. Look, Sawyer, I'm not here to critique your seminar. I want to know about Clu's

drug test. It was fixed. We have evidence that proves that fact. You helped administer that test. I

want to know why you made it look like Clu was on drugs.

I don't know what you're talking about.

The autopsy shows conclusively that Clu hadn't taken drugs for at least two months before his

death. Yet you tested him positive two weeks ago.

Maybe the test was faulty, Sawyer said.

Win tsk-tsked. Say, ? am responsible. It's my fault'

Stop passing the buck in your life, Myron added.

Come on, Sawyer. It's exhilarating.

That's not funny, Sawyer said.

Wait, Win said. You are everything, thus you are the drug test.

And you are a positive guy, Myron added.

Ergo the test result was positive.

Sawyer said, I think I've had just about enough.

You're finished, Wells, Myron said. I'll blab to the papers.

I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about a fixed test.

Want to hear my theory? Myron said.

No.

You're leaving the Yankees and going to work for Vincent Riverton, right?

Tm not working exclusively for anyone. His conglomerate publishes my book.

He's also Sophie Mayor's archenemy.

You don't know that, Sawyer said.

He lived for owning the team. When she took over, he was pissed. She ends up being

everything New York wants in an owner because she minds her own business. She makes only

one move, acquiring Clu Haid, and it's a beauty. Clu pitches better than anyone dared hope. The

Yankees start heading for greatness. Then you step in. Clu fails a drug test. Sophie Mayor looks

incompetent. The Yankees tumble.

Sawyer seemed to recoup a bit. Something in what Myron had just said had given him a new

lease. Odd. That makes no sense whatsoever.

What part?

All of it, Sawyer said, chest back out. Sophie Mayor has been good to me. I was working as a

drug counselor at the Sloan State and Rockwell rehab centers when she gave me my chance to

move up. Why would I want to hurt her?

You tell me.

I have no idea. I firmly believed that Clu was on drugs. If he wasn't, then the test was faulty.

You know the results are double-tested. There was no mistake. Someone had to fix it.

It wasn't me. Maybe you should speak to Dr. Stilwell.

But you were there? You admit that?

Yes, I was there. And I will no longer dignify your questions with answers. With that Sawyer

Wells abruptly spun and stormed off.

I don't think he liked us, Myron said.

But if it's all about you, then we are he.

So he doesn't like himself?

Sad, isn't it?

Not to mention confusing, Myron said.

They headed for the exit.

So where to, O Motivated One? Win asked.

Starbucks.

Latte time?

Myron shook his head. Confront FJ time.

Chapter 30

FJ was not there. Myron called his office again. The same secretary told him that FJ was still unavailable. Myron repeated that it was imperative that he speak to Francis Ache Junior as soon as humanly possible. The secretary remained unimpressed.

Myron returned to his office. Big Cyndi wore a bright green spandex bodysuit with a slogan across the chest this on a woman who could barely squeeze into a caftan. The fabric screamed in pain, the letters in the slogan so elongated that Myron couldn't read them, kinda like what happens to Silly Putty after you press it against a newspaper headline and stretch it out. Lots of clients have been calling, Mr. Bolitar, Big Cyndi said. They are not pleased by your absence.

I'll take care of it, he said.

She gave him the messages. Oh, and Jared Mayor called, she said. He seemed very anxious to

talk to you.

Okay, thanks.

He called Jared Mayor first. He was in his mother's office at Yankee Stadium. Sophie switched

on the speakerphone.

You called? Myron said.

I was hoping you could give us an update, Jared said.

I think someone is setting up your mother.

Sophie said, Setting me up how?

Clu's drug test was a fix. He was clean.

I know you want to believe that

I have proof, Myron said.

Silence.

What kind of proof? Jared asked.

There's no time for that now. But trust me on this. Clu was clean.

Who would have fixed the test? Sophie asked.

That's what I want to know. The logical suspects are Dr. Stilwell and Sawyer Wells.

But why would they want to hurt Clu?

Not Clu, Sophie. You. It fits in with everything else we have. Raising the specter of your missing daughter, taking your big baseball trade and turning it against you I think someone's out to hurt you.

You're jumping to conclusions, Sophie said.

Could be.

Who would want to hurt me?

I'm sure you've made your share of enemies. How about Vincent Riverton, for one?

Riverton? No. Our whole takeover was far more amicable than the press portrayed it.

Still, I wouldn't rule him out.

Listen, Myron, I don't really care about any of this. I just want you to find my daughter.

They're probably connected.

How?

Myron changed ears. You want me to be blunt, right?

Absolutely.

Then I have to remind you what the odds are that your daughter is still alive.

Slim, she said.

Very slim.

No, I'll stay with slim. In fact, I think it's better than slim.

Do you really believe Lucy is alive someplace?

Yes.

She's out there somewhere, waiting to be found?

Yes.

Then the big question, Myron said, is why.

What do you mean?

Why isn't she home? he asked. Do you think someone's been holding her hostage all these

years? I don't know.

Well, what other choices are there? If Lucy is still alive, why hasn't she come home? Or phoned home? What is she hiding from?

Silence.

Sophie broke it. You think someone has resurrected my daughter's memory as part of some

vendetta against me?

Myron was not sure how to answer. I think it's a possibility we have to consider.

I appreciate your bluntness, Myron. I want you to remain honest with me. Don't hold back. But

I'll also keep my hope. When your child disappears into thin air, it creates a huge void. I need

something to fill that void, Myron. So until I find out otherwise, I'll fill it with hope.

Myron said, I understand

Then you'll keep looking.

There was a knock on the door. Myron put his hand over the phone and said to come in. Big

Cyndi opened the door. Myron gestured to a chair. She took it. In the bright green she looked a

bit like a planet.

I'm not sure what I can do, Sophie.

Jared will investigate Clu's drug test, she said. If there was anything amiss, he'll find out

about it. You keep your eyes open for my daughter. You may be right about Lucy's fate. Then

again you may be wrong. Don't give up.

Before he could reply, the line was disconnected. Myron put the phone back in the cradle.

Well? Big Cyndi asked.

She still has hope.

Big Cyndi scrunched up her face. There's a fine line between hope and delusion, Mr. Bolitar,

she said. I think Ms. Mayor may have crossed it.

Myron nodded. He shifted in his chair. Something I can do for you? he asked.

She shook her head. Her head was a nearly perfect cube and reminded Myron of the old game of

Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots. Not sure what else to do, Myron folded his hands and put them on his desk. He wondered how many times he had been alone with Big Cyndi like this. Less than a handful for sure. Wrong to say, but she made him uncomfortable.

After some time had passed, Big Cyndi said, My mother was a big, ugly woman.

Myron had no comeback for that one.

And like most big, ugly women, she was a shrinking violet. That's how it is with big, ugly

women, Mr. Bolitar. They get used to standing alone in the corner. They hide. They become angry and defensive. They keep their heads down, and they let themselves be treated with disdain and disgust and She stopped suddenly, waved a meaty paw. Myron sat still.

I hated my mother, she said. I swore that I would never be like that.

Myron risked a small nod.

That's why you have to save Esperanza.

I'm not sure I see the connection.

She's the only one who sees past this.

Past what?

She thought about that one for a moment. What's the first thing you think when you see me, Mr.

Bolitar?

I don't know.

People like to stare, she said.

Hard to blame them, don't you think? Myron said. I mean, the^way you dress and stuff.

She smiled. I'd rather see shock on their faces than pity, she said. And I'd rather they see

brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared or sad. Do you understand?

I think so.

I'm not standing alone in the corner anymore. I've done enough of that.

Myron, unsure what to say, settled for a nod.

When I was nineteen, I started wrestling professionally. And of course I was cast as a villain. I

sneered. I made faces. I cheated. I hit opponents when they weren't looking. It was all an act, of

course. But that was my job.

Myron sat back and listened.

One night I was scheduled to fight Esperanza Little Pocahontas, I should say. It was the first

time we'd met. She was already the most beloved wrestler on the circuit. Cute and pretty and

small and all the things all the things that I'm not. Anyway, we were performing in some high

school gym outside Scranton. The script was the usual. A back-and-forth match. Esperanza

winning with her skill. Me cheating. Twice I was supposed to nearly have her pinned when the

crowd would go wild and she'd start stamping her foot, like the cheers were giving her strength,

and then everyone would start clapping in unison with her stomps. You know how it works,

right?

Myron nodded.

She was supposed to pin me with a backflip at the fifteen-minute mark. We executed it

perfectly. Then as she was raising her hands in victory, I was supposed to sneak up on her and

whack her in the back with a metal chair. Again it went perfectly. She collapsed to the canvas.

The crowd gasped. I, the Human Volcano that's what I was called then raised my hands in victory. They started booing and throwing things. I sneered. The announcers acted all concerned for poor Little Pocahontas. They brought out the stretcher. Again you've seen the same act a million times on cable.

He nodded again.

So there was another match or two, and then the crowd was ushered out. I decided not to change until I got back to the motel. I left for the bus a few minutes before the other girls. It was dark, of course. Nearly midnight. But some of the spectators were still out there. They confronted me. There must have been twenty of them. They started shouting at me. I decided to play back. I did my ring sneer and flexed her voice caught and that was when a rock hit me square in the mouth.

Myron kept perfectly still.

I started bleeding. Then another rock hit me in the shoulder. I couldn't believe what was happening. I tried to head back inside, but they circled around me. I didn't know what to do. They started moving in closer. I ducked down. Someone hit me over the head with a beer bottle. My knees hit the pavement. Then someone kicked me in the stomach and someone else pulled my hair.

She stopped. Her eyes blinked a few times and she looked up and away. Myron thought about reaching out to her, but he didn't. Later he'd wonder why.

And that's when Esperanza stepped in, Big Cyndi said after a few moments had passed. She jumped over someone in the crowd and landed right on me. The morons thought she was there to help beat me up. But she just wanted to put herself between me and the blows. She told them to stop. But they wouldn't listen. One of them pulled her away so they could keep beating me. I felt another kick. Someone yanked my hair so hard my neck snapped back. I really thought they were going to kill me.

Big Cyndi stopped again and took a deep breath. Myron stayed where he was and waited.

You know what Esperanza did then? she asked.

He shook his head.

She announced that we were going to be tag team partners. Just like that. She shouted that after she'd been taken off on the stretcher, I'd visited her and we realized that we were actually longlost sisters. The Human Volcano was now going to be called Big Chief Mama and we were going to be partners and friends. Some of the spectators backed off then. Others looked wary. It's a trap!' they warned her. 'The Human Volcano is setting you up!' But Esperanza insisted. She helped me to my feet and by then the police showed up and the moment was over. The crowd dispersed pretty easily.

Big Cyndi threw up her thick arms and smiled. The end.

Myron smiled back. So that's how you two became tag team partners?

That's how. When the president of FLOW heard about the incident, he decided to capitalize on it. The rest, as they say, is history.

They both sat back in silence, still smiling. After some time had passed, Myron said, I had my heart broken six years ago.

Big Cyndi nodded. By Jessica, right? Right. I walked in on her with another man. A guy named Doug. He paused. He could not believe he was telling her this. And it still hurt. After all this time it still hurt. Jessica left me then. Isn't that weird? I didn't throw her out. She just left. We didn't speak for four years until she came back and we started up again. But you know about that.

Big Cyndi made a face. Esperanza hates Jessica.

Yeah, I know. She doesn't exactly go to pains to hide that fact.

She calls her Queen Bitch.

When she's in a good mood, Myron said. But that's why. Up until we broke up that first time,

she was more or less indifferent. But after that

Esperanza doesn't forgive easily, Big Cyndi said. Not when it comes to her friends.

Right. Anyway, I was devastated. Win was no help. When it comes to matters of the heart, well,

it's like explaining Mozart to a deaf man. So about a week after Jess left me, I moped into the office. Esperanza had two airplane tickets in her hand. 'We're going away,' she said. 'Where?' I asked. 'Don't worry about it,' she said. ? already called your folks. I told them we'd be gone for a week.' Myron smiled. My parents love Esperanza.

That should tell you something, Big Cyndi said.

I told her I didn't have any clothes. She pointed to two suitcases on the floor. ? bought you all

you'll need.' I protested, but I didn't have much left, and you know Es-peranza.

Stubborn, Big Cyndi said.

To put it mildly. You know where she took me?

Big Cyndi smiled. On a cruise. Esperanza told me about it.

Right. One of those big new ships with four hundred meals a day. And she made me go to every

dumb activity. I even made a wallet. We drank. We danced. We played friggin' bingo. We slept

in the same bed and she held me and we never so much as kissed.

They sat for another long moment, both smiling again.

We never asked her for help, Big Cyndi said. Esperanza just knows and does the right thing.

And now it's our turn, Myron said.

Yes.

She's still hiding something from me.

Big Cyndi nodded. I know.

Do you know what it is?

No, she said.

Myron leaned back. We'll save her anyway, he said.

At eight o'clock Win called down to Myron's office. Meet me at the apartment in an hour. I

have a surprise for you.

I'm not much in the mood for surprises, Win.

Click.

Great. He tried FJ's office again. No answer. He didn't much like waiting. FJ was a key in all

this, he was sure of it now. But what choice did he have? It was getting late anyway. Better to go

home and be surprised by whatever Win had in store and then get some rest.

The subway was still crowded at eight-thirty; the so-called Manhattan rush hour had grown to

more like five or six. People worked too hard, Myron decided. He got off and walked to the

Dakota. The same doorman was there. He had been given instructions to let Myron in at any

time, that indeed Myron was now officially a resident of the Dakota, but the doorman still made

a face like there was a bad odor whenever he passed.

Myron took the elevator up, fumbled for his key, and opened the door.

Win?

He's not here.

Myron turned. Terese Collins gave him a small smile.

Surprise, she said.

He gaped. You left the island?

Terese glanced in a nearby mirror, then back at him. Apparently.