The Final Detail

Mom

But the meaningless chatter died down in a hurry then. When Myron hung up seconds later, he sat back. The guilt came again, bathing hifri in something ice cold. His parents were not young anymore. He hadn't thought about that before he ran. He hadn't thought about a lot of things.

I shouldn't have done that to them, Myron said. Or you.

Win shifted in his seat major body language for him. Candi wiggled back into view. She

lowered a screen and hit a switch. A Woody Allen film came on. Love and Death. Ambrosia of

the mind. They watched without speaking. When it was over, Candi asked Myron if he wanted to

take a shower before they landed.

Excuse me? Myron said.

Candi giggled, called him a Big Silly, and wiggled away.

A shower?

There's one in the back, Win said. I also took the liberty of bringing you a change of clothes.

You are a friend.

I am indeed, Big Silly.

Myron showered and dressed, and then everyone buckled their seat belts for approach. The plane

descended without delay, the landing so smooth it could have been choreographed by the Temptations. A stretch limousine was waiting for them on the dark tarmac. When they got off the plane, the air felt strange and unfamiliar, as though he'd been visiting another planet rather than another country. It was also raining hard. They ran down the steps and into the already-open limo doors.

They shook off the wet. I assume that you'll be staying with me, Win said.

Myron had been living in a loft down on Spring Street with Jessica. But that was before. If it's

okay.

It's okay.

I could move back in with my folks

I said, it's okay.

I'll find my own place.

No rush, Win said.

The limousine started up. Win steepled his fingers. He always did that. It looked good on him.

Still holding the steeple, he bounced his forefingers against his lips. I'm not the best one to discuss these matters with, he said, but if you want to talk about Jessica or Brenda or whatever He released the steeple, made a waving motion with his right hand. Win was trying.

Matters of the heart were not his forte. His feelings on romantic entanglement could objectively

be labeled appalling.

Don't worry about it, Myron said.

Fine then.

Thanks, though.

Quick nod.

After more than a decade struggling with Jessica years of being in love with the same woman,

having one major breakup, finding each other again, taking tentative steps, growing, finally

moving in together again it was over.

I miss Jessica, Myron said.

I thought we weren't going to talk about it.

Sorry.

Win shifted in his seat again. No, go on. Like he'd rather have an anal probe.

It's just that I guess part of me will always be enmeshed in Jessica.

Win nodded. Like something in a machinery mishap.

Myron smiled. Yeah. Like that.

Then slice off the limb and leave it behind.

Myron looked at his friend.

Win shrugged. I've been watching Sally Jessy on the side.

It shows, Myron said.

'The episode entitled 'Mommy Took Away My Nipple Ring,' Win said. I'm not afraid to say

it made me cry.

Good to see you getting in touch with your sensitive side. As if Win had one. So what next?

Win checked his watch. I have a contact at the Bergen County house of detention. He should be

in by now. He hit the speakerphone and pressed in some numbers. They listened to the phone

ring. After two rings a voice said, Schwartz.

Brian, this is Win Lockwood.

The usual reverent hush when you first hear that name. Then: Hey, Win.

I need a favor.

Shoot.

Esperanza Diaz. Is she there?

Brief pause. You didn't hear it from me, Schwartz said.

Hear what?

Good, okay, long as we understand each other, he said. Yeah, she's here. They dragged her

through here in cuffs a coupla hours ago. Very hush-hush.

Why hush-hush?

Don't know.

When is she being arraigned?

Tomorrow morning, I guess.

Win looked at Myron. Myron nodded. Esperanza would be held overnight. This was not a good

thing.

Why did they arrest her so late?

Don't know.

And you saw them drag her in cuffs?

Yep.

Didn't they let her surrender on her own?

Nope.

Again the two friends looked at each other. The late arrest. The handcuffs. The overnight.

Someone in the DA's office was pissed off and trying to make a point. Very not a good thing.

What else can you tell me? Win asked.

Not much. Like I said, they're being quiet on this one. The DA hasn't even released it to the

media yet. But he will. Probably before the eleven o'clock news. Quick statement, no time for

questions, that kind of thing. Hell, I wouldn't know about it if I wasn't a big fan.

A big fan?

Of professional wrestling. See, I recognized her from her old wrestling days. Did you know

Esperanza Diaz used to be Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess?

Win glanced at Myron. Yes, Brian, I know.

Really? Brian was big-time excited now. Little Pocahontas was my absolute fave, bar none.

An awesome wrestler. Top drawer. I mean, she used to enter the ring in this skimpy suede bikini,

right, and then she'd start grappling with other chicks, bigger chicks really, writhing around on

the floor and stuff swear to God, she was so hot my fingernails would melt.

Thank you for the visual, Win said. Anything else, Brian?

No.

Do you know who her attorney of record is?

No. Then: Oh, one other thing. She's got someone, well, sort of with her.

Sort of with her, Brian?

Outside. On the front steps of the courthouse.

I'm not sure I'm following you, Win said.

Out in the rain. Just sitting there. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was Little Pocahontas's old

tag team partner, Big Chief Mama. Did you know Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas were

Intercontinental tag team champions three years running?

Win sighed. You don't say.

Whatever Intercontinental means. I mean, what is that, Intercontinental? And I'm not talking

about recently. Five, eight years ago, at least. But, man, they were awesome. Great wrestlers.

Today, well, the league has no class anymore.

Grappling bikini-clad women, Win said. They just don't make them like they used to.

Right, exactly. Too many fake, inflated breasts nowadays, at least that's how I see it. One of

them is going to land on her stomach and bam, her boob is going to blow out like a worn tire. So I don't follow it much anymore. Oh, maybe if I'm flipping the channels and something catches my eye, I might watch a little You were talking about a woman out in the rain?

Right, Win, right, sorry. Anyway, she's out there, whoever she is. Just sitting there. The cops

went by before and asked her what she was doing. She said she was going to wait for her friend.

So she's there right now?

Yep.

What does she look like, Brian?

Like the Incredible Hulk. Only scarier. And maybe greener.

Win and Myron exchanged glances. No doubt. Big Chief Mama aka Big Cyndi.

Anything else, Brian?

No, not really. Then: So you know Esperanza Diaz?

Yes.

Personally?

Yes.

Silent awe. Jesus, you lead some life, Win.

Oh, indeed.

Think you can get me her autograph?

I'll do my best, Brian.

A picture autograph maybe? Of Little Pocahontas in costume? I'm a really big fan.

So I gather, Brian. Good-bye.

Win hung up and sat back. He looked over at Myron. Myron nodded. Win picked up the

intercom and gave the driver directions to the courthouse.

Chapter 4

By the time they arrived at the courthouse in Hackensack, it was nearly 10:00 P.M. Big Cyndi sat in the rain, shoulders hunched; at least Myron thought it was Big Cyndi. From a distance, it looked like someone had parked a Volkswagen Bug on the courthouse steps.

Myron stepped out of the car and approached. Big Cyndi?

The dark heap let loose a low growl, a lioness warning off an inferior animal who'd wandered

astray.

It's Myron, he said.

The growl deepened. The rain had plastered Big Cyndi's hair spikes to her scalp, as if she were

sporting an uneven Caesar coif. Today's color was hard to decipher Big Cyndi liked diversity in her follicular tint but it didn't look like any hue found in the state of nature. Big Cyndi sometimes liked to combine dyes randomly and see what happened. She also insisted on being called Big Cyndi. Not Cyndi. Big Cyndi. She had even had her name legally changed. Official documents read: Cyndi, Big.

You can't stay here all night, Myron tried.

She finally spoke. Go home.

What happened?

You ran away. Big Cyndi's voice was childlike, lost.

Yes.

You left us alone.

I'm sorry about that. But I'm back now.

He risked another step. If only he had something to placate her with. Like a half gallon of

Haagen-Dazs. Or a sacrificial goat.

Big Cyndi started to cry. Myron approached slowly, semileading with his right hand in case she

wanted to sniff it. But the growls were all gone now, replaced by sobs. Myron put his palm on a

shoulder that felt like a bowling ball.

What happened? he asked again.

She sniffled. Loudly. The sound almost dented the limo's fender. I can't tell you.

Why can't you?

She said not to.

Esperanza?

Big Cyndi nodded.

She's going to need help, Myron said.

She doesn't want your help.

The words stung. The rain continued to fall. Myron sat on the step next to her. Is she angry

about my leaving?

I can't tell you, Mr. Bolitar. I'm sorry.

Why not?

She told me not to.

Esperanza can't bear the brunt of this on her own, Myron said. She's going to need a lawyer.

She has one.

Who?

Hester Crimstein.

Big Cyndi gasped as though she realized she'd said too much, but Myron wondered if the slip

had been intentional.

How did she get Hester Crimstein? Myron asked.

I can'i say any more, Mr. Bolitar. Please don't be mad at me,

Tra not mad, Big Cyndi. I'm just concerned.

Big Cyndi smiled at him then. The sight made Myron bite back a scream. It's nice to have you

back, she said.

Thank you.

She put her head on his shoulder. The weight made him teeter, but he remained relatively

upright. You know how I feel about Esperanza, Myron said.

Yes, Big Cyndi said. You love her. And she loves you.

So let me help.

Big Cyndi lifted her head off his shoulder. Blood circulated again. I think you should leave

now.

Myron stood. Come on. We'll give you a ride home.

No, I'm staying.

It's raining and it's late. Someone might try to attack you. It's not safe out here.

I can take care of myself, Big Cyndi said.

He had meant that it wasn't safe for the attackers, but he let it pass. You can't stay out here all

night.

I'm not leaving Esperanza alone.

But she won't even know you're here.

Big Cyndi wiped the rain from her face with a hand the size of a truck tire. She knows.

Myron looked back at the car. Win was leaning against the door now, arms crossed, umbrella

resting on his shoulder. Very Gene Kelly. He nodded at Myron.

You're sure? Myron asked.

Yes, Mr. Bolitar. Oh, and I'll be late for work tomorrow. I hope you understand.

Myron nodded. They stared at each other, the rain cascading down their faces. A bowl of

laughter made both of them turn to the right and look at the fortresslike structure that contained the holding cells. Esperanza, the person closest to them both, was incarcerated in there. Myron stepped toward the limousine. Then he turned back around.

Esperanza wouldn't kill anyone he said.

He waited for Big Cyndi to agree or at least nod her head. But she didn't. She hunched the

shoulders back up and disappeared within herself.

Myron slid back into the car. Win followed, handing Myron a towel. The driver started up.

Hester Crimstein is her attorney. Myron said.

Ms. Court TV?

The same.

Ah, Win said. And what's the name of her show again?

Crimstein on Crime Myron said.

Win frowned. Cute.

She had a book with the same title. Myron shook his head. This is weird. Hester Crimstein

doesn't take many cases anymore. So how did Esperanza land her?

Win tapped his chin with his forefinger. I'm not positive, he said, but I believe Esperanza had

a fling with her a couple of months back.

You're kidding.

Well, yes, I am such a mirthful fellow. And wasn't that just the funniest line?

Wiseass. But it made sense. Esperanza was as perfect a bisexual as you could find perfect because everyone, no matter what his or her sex or preference, found her immensely attractive. If you're going to go all ways, might as well have universal appeal, right?

Myron mulled this over a few moments. Do you know where Hester Crimstein lives? he asked.

Two buildings up from me on Central Park West.

So let's pay her a visit.

Win frowned. Why?

Maybe she can fill us in.

She won't talk to us.

Maybe she will.

What makes you say that?

For one thing, Myron said, I'm feeling particularly charming.

By God. Win leaned forward. Driver, step on the gas.

Chapter 5

Win lived at the Dakota, one of Manhattan's swankiest buildings. Hester Crimstein lived two blocks north at the San Remo, an equally swanky building. Occupants included Diane Keaton and Dustin Hoffman, but the San Remo was perhaps best known as the building that had rejected Madonna's application for residence.

There were two entranceways, both with doormen dressed like Brezhnev strolling Red Square. Brezhnev One announced in a clipped tone that Ms. Crimstein was not present. He actually used the word present too; people don't often do that in real life. He smiled for Win and looked down his nose at Myron. This was no easy task Myron was at least six inches taller and required Brezhnev to tilt his head way back so that his nostrils looked like the westbound entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Why, Myron wondered, do servants of the rich and famous act snootier than their masters? Was it simple resentment? Was it because they were looked down upon all day and thus needed on occasion to be the one doing the looking down? Or more simply were people attracted to such jobs insecure asswipes?

Life's little mysteries.

Are you expecting Ms. Crimstein back tonight? Win asked.

Brezhnev opened his mouth, stopped, cast a wary eye as if he feared Myron might defecate on the Persian rug. Win read his face and led him to the side, away from the lowly member of the unwashed.

She should be back soon, Mr. Lockwood. Ah, so Brezhnev had recognized Win. No wonder. Ms. Crimstein's aerobics class concludes at eleven.

Exercising at eleven o'clock at night. Welcome to the nineties, where leisure time is sucked away like something undergoing liposuction.

There were no waiting or sitting areas at the San Remo most of your finer buildings did not encourage even approved guests to loiter so they moved outside to the street. Central Park was across the roadway. Myron could see, well, trees and a stone wall, and that was about it. Lots of taxis sped north. Win's stretch limousine had been dismissed they both figured they could walk the two blocks to Win's place but there were four other stretch limousines sitting in a no parking zone. A fifth pulled up. A silver stretch Mercedes. Brezhnev rushed to the car door like he really had to pee and there was a bathroom inside.

An old man, bald except for a white crown of hair, stumbled out, his mouth twisted poststroke. A woman resembling a prune followed. Both were expensively dressed and maybe a hundred years old. Something about them troubled Myron. They looked wizened, yes. Old, certainly. But there was more to it, Myron sensed. People talk about sweet little old people, but these two were so blatantly the opposite, their eyes beady, their movements shifty and angry and fearful. Life had sapped them, sucked out all the goodness and hope of youth, leaving them with a vitality based on something ugly and hateful. Bitterness was the only thing left. Whether the bitterness was directed at God or at their fellowman, Myron could not say.

Win nudged him. He looked to his right and saw a figure he recognized from TV as Hester Crimstein coming toward them. She was on the husky side, at least by today's warped Kate Mossian standards, and her face was fleshy and cherubic. She wore Reebok white sneakers, white socks, green stretch pants that would probably make Kate snicker, a sweatshirt, a knit hat with frosted blond hair sticking out the back. The old man stopped when he saw the attorney,

grabbed the prune lady's hand, hurried inside.

Bitch! the old man managed through the good side of his face.

Up yours too, Lou, Hester called out after him.

The old man stopped, looked like he wanted to say something more, limped off.

Myron and Win exchanged a glance and approached.

Old adversary, she said in way of explanation. You ever hear the old adage that only the good

die young?

Uh, sure.

Hester Crimstein gestured with both hands at the old couple like Carol Merrill showing off a

brand-new car. There's your proof. Couple years back I helped his children sue the son of a

bitch. You never saw anything like it. She tilted her head. Ever notice how some people are

like jackals?

Pardon?

They eat their young. That's Lou. And don't even get me started on that shriveled-up witch he

lives with. Five-dollar whore who hit the jackpot. Hard to believe looking at her now.

I see, Myron said, though he didn't. He tried to push ahead. Ms. Crimstein, my name is

Myron Bolitar, she interrupted. By the way, that's a horrid name. Myron. What were your

parents thinking?

A very good question. If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here.

Yes and no, Hester said.

Yes and no?

Well, I know who you are because I'm a sports nut. I used to watch you play. That NCAA

championship game against Indiana was a frigging classic. I know the Celtics drafted you in the

first round, what, eleven, twelve years ago?

Something like that.

But frankly and I mean no offense here I'm not sure you had the speed to be a great pro,

Myron. The shot, sure. You could always shoot. You could be physical. But what are you, sixfive?

About that.

You would have had a tough time in the NBA. One woman's opinion. But of course the fates

took care of that by blowing out your knee. Only an alternate universe knows the truth. She

smiled. Nice chatting with you. She looked over at Win. You too, gabby boy. Good night.

Wait a second, Myron said. I'm here about Esper-anza Diaz.

She faked a gasp of surprise. Really? And here I thought you just wanted to reminisce about

your athletic career.

He looked at Win. The charm, Win whispered.

Myron turned back toward Hester. Esperanza is my friend, he said.

So?

So I want to help.

Great. I'll start sending you the bills. This case is going to cost a bundle. I'm very expensive,

you know. You can't believe the upkeep of this building. And now the doormen want new

uniforms. Something in mauve, I think.

That's not what I meant.

Oh?

I'd like to know what's going on with the case.

She scrunched up her face. Where have you been the last few weeks?

Away.

Where away?

The Caribbean.

She nodded. Nice tan.

Thanks.

But you could have gotten it at a tanning booth. You look like the kind of guy who hangs out at

tanning booths.

Myron looked at Win again. The charm, Luke, Win whispered, doing his best Alec Guinness

as Obi-Wan Ke-nobi. Remember the charm.

Ms. Crimstein

Anyone who can verify your whereabouts in the Caribbean, Myron?

Pardon me?

Hearing problems? I asked if anyone can verify your whereabouts at the time of the alleged

murder.

Alleged murder. The guy is shot three times in his home, but the murder is only alleged.

Lawyers. Why do you want to know that?

Hester Crimstein shrugged. The alleged murder weapon was allegedly found at the offices of

one MB SportsReps. That's your company, is it not?

It is.

And you use the company car where the alleged blood and alleged fibers were allegedly found.

Win said, The key word here is alleged.

Hester Crimstein looked at Win. It speaks.

Win smiled.

Myron said, You think I'm a suspect?

Sure, why not? It's called reasonable doubt, sweet buns. I'm a defense attorney. We're big on

reasonable doubt.

Much as I'd like to help, there was a witness to my whereabouts.

Who?

Don't worry about it.

Another shrug. You're the one who said you wanted to help. Good night. She looked at Win.

By the way, you're the perfect man good-looking and nearly mute.

Careful, Win said to her.

Why?

Win pointed at Myron with his thumb. Any minute now he's going to turn on the charm and

reduce your willpower to rubble.

She looked at Myron and burst out laughing.

Myron tried again. So what happened? he asked.

Excuse me?

I'm her friend.

Yeah, I think you already said that.

I'm her best friend. I care about her.

Fine. Tomorrow I'll pass her a note during study hall, find out if she likes you too. Then you can

meet at Pop's and share a soda.

That's not what I Myron stopped, gave her the slow, slightly put-out-but-here-to-help smile.

Smile 18: the Michael Landon model, except he couldn't crinkle the eyebrow. I'd just like to

know what happened. You can appreciate that.

Her face softened, and she nodded. You went to law school, right?

Yes.

At Harvard no less.

Yes.

So maybe you were absent the day they went over a little something we call attorney-client

privilege. I can recommend some wonderful books on the subject, if you'd like. Or maybe you

can watch any episode of Law & Order. They usually talk about it right before the old DA

grouses to Sam Waterston that he's got no case and should cut a deal.

So much for charm. You're just covering your ass, Myron said.

She looked behind her and down. Then she frowned. No easy task, I assure you.

I thought you were supposed to be a hotshot attorney.

She sighed, crossed her arms. Okay, Myron, let's hear it. Why am I covering my ass? Why am I

not the hotshot attorney you thought I was?

Because they didn't let Esperanza surrender. Because they dragged her in in cuffs. Because

they're holding her overnight instead of getting her through the system in the same day. Why?

She dropped her hands to her sides. Good question, Myron. Why do you think?

Because someone there doesn't like her high-profile attorney. Someone in the DA's office

probably has a hard-on for you and is taking it out on your client.

She nodded. Good possibility. But I have another one.

What?

Maybe they don't like her employer.

Me?

She started for the door. Do us all a favor, Myron. Stay out of this. Just keep away. And maybe

get yourself a lawyer.

Hester Crimstein spun around and disappeared inside then. Myron turned toward Win. Win was

bent at the waist, squinting at Myron's crotch. What the hell are you doing?

Still squinting. I wanted to see if she left you with even a sliver of a testicle.

Very funny. What do you think she meant about them not liking her employer?

Not a clue, Win said. Then: You mustn't blame yourself.

What?

For your charm's seemingly lackluster performance. You forgot a crucial component in all this.

That being?

Ms. Crimstein had an affair with Esperanza.

Myron saw where he was going with this. Of course. She must be a lesbian.

Precisely. It's the only rational explanation for her ability to resist you.

That, or a really bizarre paranormal event.

Win nodded. They started walking down Central Park West.

This is also further proof of a very frightening adage, Win said.

What's that?

Most women you encounter are lesbians.

Myron nodded. Almost every one.

Chapter 6

They walked the two blocks to Win's place, watched a little television, went to bed. Myron lay in the dark exhausted, but sleep remained elusive. He thought about Jessica. Then he tried to think about Brenda, but the automatic defense mechanism deflected that one. Still too raw. And he thought about Terese. She was alone on that island tonight for the first time. During the day the island's solitude was peaceful and quiet and welcome; at night the solitude felt more like dark isolation, the island's black walls closing in, silent and cloying as a buried coffin. He and Terese had always slept wrapped in each other's arms. Now he pictured her lying in that deep blackness alone. And he worried about her.

He woke up the next morning at seven. Win was already gone, but he'd scribbled a note that he'd meet up with Myron at the courthouse at nine. Myron grabbed a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, discerned with a digging left hand that Win had already extracted the free toy inside, showered, dressed, checked his watch. Eight o'clock. Plenty of time to reach the courthouse in time.

He took the elevator down and crossed the famed Dakota courtyard. He had just reached the corner of Seventy-second Street and Central Park West when he spotted the three familiar figures. Myron felt his pulse quicken. FJ, short for Frank Junior, was bookended by two huge guys. The two huge guys looked like lab experiments gone very wrong, as if someone had potently mixed genetic glandular excess with anabolic steroids. They wore tank tops and those drawstring weightlifting pants that looked suspiciously like ugly pajama' bottoms.

Young FJ silently smiled at Myron with thin lips. He sported a purple-blue suit so shiny it looked like someone had sprayed it with a sealant. FJ didn't move, didn't say anything, just smiled at Myron with unblinking eyes and those thin lips.

Today's word, boys and girls, is reptilian.

FJ finally took a step forward. Heard you were back in town, Myron.

Myron bit back a rejoinder it wasn't a very cutting one, something about the nice welcoming party and kept his mouth shut.

Remember our last conversation? FJ continued.

Vaguely.

I mentioned something about killing you, right?

It might have come up, Myron said. I don't remember. So many tough guys, so many threats.

The Bookends tried to scowl, but even their faces were overmuscled, and the movement took too much effort. They settled back into the steady frowns and lowered the eyebrows a bit.

Actually, I was going to carry through with it, FJ continued. About a month ago. I followed you out to some graveyard in New Jersey. I even sneaked up behind you with my gun out. Funny thing, no?

Myron nodded. Like Henny Youngman wrote it.

FJ tilted his head. Don't you want to know why I didn't kill you?

Because of Win.

The sound of his name was like a cold glass of water in the faces of both Bookends. The two giants actually stepped back but recovered quickly with a few flexes. FJ remained unruffled. Win doesn't scare me, he said.

Even the dumbest animal, Myron said, has an innate survival mechanism.

FJ's eyes met Myron's. Myron tried to maintain contact, but it was hard. There was nothing behind FJ's eyes but rot and decay; it was like staring into the broken windows of an abandoned building. Sticks and stones, Myron. Sticks and stones. I didn't kill you because, well, you already looked so miserable. It was as though how to put this? as though killing you would have been an act of mercy. Like I said before, funny, right?

You should consider stand-up, Myron agreed.

FJ chuckled and waved a well-manicured hand at nothing in particular. Anyway, bygones. My father and uncle like you, and yes, we see no reason to antagonize Win unnecessarily. They don't want you dead, so neither do I.

His father and uncle were Frank and Herman Ache, two of New York's legendary leading leg breakers. The elder Aches had grown up on the streets, slaughtered more people than the next guy, moved up the ladder. Herman, the older brother and big cheese, was in his sixties now and liked to pretend he wasn't scum by surrounding himself with the finer things in life: restricted clubs that didn't want him, nouveau-riche art exhibits, well-coiffed charities, midtown French maitre d's who treated anyone who tipped with less than a Jackson like something they couldn't scrape off the soles of their shoes. In other words, a higher-income scum. Herman's younger brother, Frank, the psycho who had produced the equally psycho offspring who now stood in front of Myron, remained what he had always been: an ugly hatchet man who considered K mart velour sweatsuits haute couture. Frank had calmed down over the last few years, but it never quite worked for him. Life, it seemed, had little meaning for Frank Senior without someone to torture or maim.

What do you want, FJ?

I have a business proposition for you.

Gee, I just know this is really going to interest me.

I want to buy you out.

The Aches ran TruPro, a rather large sports representation firm. TruPro had always been devoid of any semblance of scruples, recruiting young athletes with as much moral restraint as a politician planning a fund-raiser. But then their owner stacked up debts. Bad debts. The debts that attract the wrong kind of fungus. The appropriately named Ache brothers, the fungi in question, moved in and, like the parasitic entities they were, ate away all signs of life and were now gnawing on the carcass.

Still, being a sports agent was a legit way of making a living, sort of, and Frank Senior, wanting for his son what all fathers wanted, handed young FJ the reins straight out of business school. In theory FJ was supposed to run TruPro as legitimately as possible. His father had killed and maimed so that his son wouldn't have to yep, the classic American dream with, granted, a rather deranged twist. But FJ seemed incapable of freeing himself from the old familial shackles. Why was a question that fascinated Myron. Was FJ's evil genetic, passed down from his father like a prominent nose, or was he, like so many other children, simply trying to gain his father's acceptance by proving the acorn could be as ferociously psychotic as the oak?

Nature or nurture. The argument rages on.

MB SportsReps is not for sale, Myron said.

I think you're being foolish.

Myron nodded. I'll file that under One Day I Might Even Care.'

The Bookends sort of grumbled, took a step forward, and cracked their necks in unison. Myron

pointed to one, then the other. Who does your choreography?

They wanted to be insulted you could just tell except neither one of them knew what the

word choreography meant.

FJ asked, Do you know how many clients MB Sports-Reps lost in the last few weeks?

A lot?

I'd say a quarter of your list. A couple of them went with us.

Myron whistled, feigned nonchalant, but he was not happy to hear this. I'll get them back.

You think so? FJ again smiled the reptilian smile; Myron almost expected a forked tongue to

dart out between his lips. Do you know how many more are going to leave when they hear

about Esperanza's arrest?

A lot?

You'll be lucky to have one left.

Hey, then I'll be like Jerry Maguire. Did you see that movie? Show me the money? I love black

people? Myron gave FJ his best Tom Cruise earnest. You. Complete. Me.

FJ remained cool. I'm willing to be generous, Myron.

I'm sure you are, FJ, but the answer is still no.

I don't care how clean your rep used to be. Nobody can survive the sort of money scandal you're

about to go through.

It wasn't a money scandal, but Myron was not in the mood to issue corrections. Are we finished,

FJ?

Sure. FJ gave him one last scaly smile. The smile seemed to jump off his face, crawl toward

Myron, and then slither its way up his back. But why don't we get together and have lunch?

Any time, Myron said. You have a cellular?

Of course.

Call my partner right away and set it up.

Isn't she in jail?

Myron snapped his fingers. Drat.

FJ found that amusing. I mentioned that some of your old clients are now using my services.

So you did.

If you contact any of them he paused, thought it over I'd feel obliged to retaliate. Do I

make myself clear? FJ was maybe twenty-five years old, less than a year out of Harvard Business School. He had gone undergrad to Princeton. Smart kid. Or powerful father. Either way, rumor had it that when a Princeton professor was about to accuse FJ of plagiarism, the professor disappeared and only his tongue was found on the pillow of another professor who had considered leveling the same

charges.

Crystal, FJ.

Great, Myron. Then we'll talk again.

If Myron still had his tongue.

The three men slid into their car and drove off without another word. Myron slowed his heart

rate and checked his watch. Court time.

Chapter 7

The courtroom in Hackensack looked very much like the ones you see on television. Shows like The Practice and Law & Order and even Judge Judy capture the physical appearance pretty well. They can't of course capture the essence emanating from the little things: the faint, underlying stench of fear-induced sweat, the overuse of disinfectant, the slightly sticky feel to all the benches and tables and handrails what Myron liked to call the ooze factors.

Myron had his checkbook ready so bail could be posted immediately. He and Win had gone over it last night and figured the judge would come in around fifty to seventy-five grand. Esperanza had no record and a steady job. Those factors would play in her favor. If the money was higher, no problem. Myron's pockets might be only semideep, but Win's net worth was on par with the GNP of a small European country.

There were droves of reporters parked outside, tons of vans with wrapped cables and satellite dishes, and of course phallic antennas, stretching toward the heavens as though in search of the elusive god of higher ratings. Court TV was there. News 2 New York. ABC News. CNN. Eyewitness News. Every city in every region of the country had an Eyewitness News. Why? What was so appealing about that name? There were also the new sleazoid TV shows, like Hard Copy, Access Hollywood, Current Affair, though the distinction between them and the local news was becoming murky to the point of nonexistent. Hey, at least Hard Copy and the like were somewhat honest about the fact that they served no redeeming social value. And they didn't subject you to weathermen.

A couple of reporters recognized Myron and called out. Myron put on his game face serious, unyielding, concerned, confident and no-commented his way through them. When he entered the courtroom, he spotted Big Cyndi first no surprise since she stuck out like Louis Farrakhan at B'nai B'rith. She was jammed into the aisle of a row empty except for Win. Not unusual. If you wanted to save seats, send Big Cyndi; people did not relish excusing themselves to squeeze past her. Most opted to stand. Or go home even.

Myron slid into Big Cyndi's row, actually high-stepping over two knees that looked like batting helmets, and sat between his friends.

Big Cyndi had not changed from last night or even washed up. The steady rain had rinsed out some of the hair dye; purple and yellow streaks had dried on the front and back of her neck. Her makeup, always applied in amounts thick enough to make a plaster bust, had also suffered under the rain's onslaught, her face now resembling multicolored menorah candles left too long in the sun.

In some major cities, murder arraignments were commonplace and handled in factory-line fashion. Not so here in Hackensack. This was big time a murder case involving a celebrity. There would be no rush.

The bailiff started calling cases.

I had a visitor this morning, Myron whispered to Win.

Oh?

FJ and two goons.

Ah, Win said. Was the cover boy for Modern Mobster voicing his usual medley of colorful

threats?

Yes.

Win almost smiled. We should kill him.

No.

You're just putting off the inevitable.

He's Frank Ache's son, Win. You just don't kill Frank Ache's son.

I see. Then you'd rather kill somebody from a better family?

Win logic. It made sense in the scariest way possible. Let's just see how it plays out, okay?

Don't put off until tomorrow what must be exterminated today.

Myron nodded. You should write one of those life-instruction books. They fell into silence. Cases went by a breaking and entering, a couple of assaults, too many car thefts. Every suspect looked young, guilty, and angiy. Always scowling. Tough guys. Myron tried not to make a face, tried to remember innocent until proven guilty, tried to remember that Esperanza too was a suspect. But it didn't help much.

Finally Myron saw Hester Crimstein sweep into the courtroom, decked out in her best professional civvies: a sleek beige suit, cream blouse, and a tad overcoiffed, over-frosted hair. She took her spot at the defense table, and the room fell silent. Two guards led Esperanza through an open door. Myron saw her, and something akin to a mule kicked him in the chest.

Esperanza was dressed in a court-issued fluorescent orange jumpsuit. Forget gray or stripes if a prisoner wanted to escape, he was going to stick out like a neon light in a monastery. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. Myron knew that Esperanza was petite maybe five-two, a hundred pounds but he had never seen her look so small. She kept her head high, defiant. Classic Esperanza. If she was afraid, she wasn't showing it.

Hester Crimstein put a comforting hand on her client's shoulder. Esperanza nodded at her. Myron tried desperately to catch her eye. It took a couple of moments, but eventually Esperanza turned his way, looking straight at him with a slight, resigned, I'm-okay smile. It made Myron feel better.

The bailiff called out, The People versus Esperanza Diaz.

What's the charge? the judge asked.

The assistant district attorney, a fresh-faced kid who barely looked old enough to sport a pubic

hair, stood by a pedestal. Murder in the second degree, Your Honor.

How do you plead?

Esperanza's voice was strong. Not guilty.

Bail?

The fresh-faced kid said, Your Honor, the People request that Ms. Diaz be remanded without bail.

Hester Crimstein shouted, What? as if she had just heard the most irrational and dangerous words any human being had ever uttered under any circumstance.

Fresh Face was unfazed. Miss Diaz is accused of killing a man by shooting him three times. We have strong evidence

They have nothing, Your Honor. Circumstantial nothings.

Miss Diaz has no family and no real roots in the community, Fresh Face continued. We believe that she presents a substantial flight risk.

That's nonsense, Your Honor. Miss Diaz is a partner in a major sports representation firm in Manhattan. She is a law school graduate who is currently studying for the bar. She has many friends and roots in the community. And she has no record whatsoever.

But, Your Honor, she has no family

So what? Crimstein interrupted. Her mother and father are dead. Is that now a reason to punish a woman? Dead parents? This is outrageous, Your Honor.

The judge, a woman in her early fifties, sat back. Your request to deny bail does seem extreme, she said to Fresh Face.

Your Honor, we believe that Miss Diaz has an unusual amount of resources at her disposal and very good reasons to flee the jurisdiction.

Crimstein kept up with the apoplectic. What are you talking about?

The murder victim, Mr. Haid, has recently withdrawn cash funds in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. That money is missing from his apartment. It's logical to assume that the money was taken during the commission of the murder What logic? Crimstein shouted. Your Honor, this is nonsense.

Counsel for the defense mentioned that Miss Diaz has friends in the community, Fresh Face continued. Some of them are here, including her employer, Myron Bolitar. He pointed to Myron. All eyes turned. Myron stayed very still. Our investigation shows that Mr. Bolitar has been missing for at least a week, perhaps in the Caribbean, even in the Cayman Islands.

So what? Crimstein shouted. Arrest him if that's a crime.

But Fresh Face was not done. And next to him is Miss Diaz's friend Windsor Lockwood of Lock-Home Securities. When all eyes turned to Win, he nodded and gave a small regal wave. Mr. Lockwood was the victim's financial adviser and held the account where the two hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn.

So arrest him too, Crimstein ranted. Your Honor, this has nothing to do with my client, except maybe to prove her innocence. Miss Diaz is a hardworking Hispanic woman who struggled her way through law school at night. She has no record and should be freed immediately. Short of that, she has a right to reasonable bail.

Your Honor, there's just too much cash floating around, Fresh Face said. The missing two hundred thousand dollars. Miss Diaz's possible connection with both Mr. Bolitar and, of course, Mr. Lockwood, who comes from one of the wealthiest families in the region Wait a second, Your Honor. First, the district attorney suggests that Miss Diaz has stolen and hidden away this alleged missing money and will use it to run. Then he suggests that she'll ask Mr. Lockwood, who is no more than a business associate, for the funds. Which is it? And while the district attorney's office is busy trying to manufacture some kind of money conspiracy, why would one of the already wealthiest men in the country deem it appropriate to conspire with a poor Hispanic woman to steal? The whole idea is ludicrous. The prosecution has no case, so they've come up with this money nonsense that sounds as plausible as an Elvis sighting Enough, the judge said. She leaned back and strummed her fingers on the big desk. She stared at Win for a second, then back at the defense table, The missing money troubles me, she said.

Your Honor, I assure you that my client knows nothing about any money.

I'd be surprised if your position were different, Ms. Crimstein. But the facts presented by the district attorney are sufficiently tropblesome. Bail denied.

Crimstein's eyes widened. Your Honor, this is an out-rage

No need to shout, Counselor. I hear you just fine.