Think Twice

Chapter Four

When Myron first returned to the Lock-Horne Building after his too-long hiatus, he would constantly get into the elevator and, out of habit, press the fourth-floor button, his old one. Today he did it on purpose. His old office now housed FFD — Fisher, Friedman and Diaz, a hyperaggressive female-led victims’ rights law firm. Created by the charismatic and media-savvy Sadie Fisher, FFD advocated for the abused, the bullied, the battered, taking on this new digital era, trying to get the laws updated and the victims protected.

The front page of their website reads:

The new kick-ass law firm was, alas, busy because insecure and violent men (being factual here and not PC/sexist: The vast majority of stalkers and abusers are men, the vast majority of their targets are women) were very much in vogue. As Win put it when he invested in FFD, “Insecure, enraged men are a growth industry.”

The receptionist wasn’t at her desk, so Myron knocked on the office door.

A familiar voice said, “Come in.”

Myron opened the door. Esperanza Diaz had her back to him. She was on the phone. She stood looking out the same window in the same office she used when this space had been MB Reps. Esperanza had started off as Myron’s receptionist and assistant, but by the time they sold the agency, Esperanza had finished law school, passed the bar, and become his full partner. Eight months ago, not long before Myron decided that it was time to launch his sports-and-entertainment agency comeback, Win introduced Esperanza to Sadie Fisher. The two hit it off, and Fisher and Friedman added Diaz to their name. Now Esperanza, perhaps the best ass-kicker Myron knew, had a whole new arena to kick ass in.

She hung up and turned to him. “Hey, Myron.”

“Hey.”

Esperanza came toward him. She wore pearls and bold colors. Her blouse and skirt were both super-tight. All the senior partners at FFD were dressed likewise. It had been Sadie Fisher’s idea. When Sadie first started representing women who had been sexually harassed or assaulted, she had been told to “tone down” the outfits, to wear clothing that was both drab and shapeless. Sadie hated that. It was more victim blaming and she wouldn’t stand for that.

Now the lawyers on this floor did the opposite.

“Working a case?” Myron asked.

“Our client is a second-year law student at Stanford.”

“Good school.”

“Right. Her stalker, a horrendous guy who threatened to kill her on more than one occasion, was accepted to the same law school and insists on going. I’m getting the judge to issue an order of protection.”

“Think you’ll get it?”

She shrugged. “Just normal news at FFD. In not-so-normal news, is Greg Downing really alive?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“I never liked him,” Esperanza said.

“I know.”

“You forgave him. I never did.”

“Look, I hurt him—”

“And he hurt you. I know. I’ve heard you say that before. It’s bullshit. You took him on as a client because you wanted to show everyone how magnanimous you could be.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Esperanza. Tell me how you feel.”

“Greg destroyed your dream—”

“He didn’t know how bad the injury was going to be.”

“—and now he’s faked his own death and murdered someone.”

“Uh, you may be jumping the gun.”

“Whatever. I don’t want to be part of this.”

“Oh,” Myron said. “Okay.”

“Don’t make that face. I hate when you make that face.”

“What face?”

“The Helpless Bambi one.”

Myron blinked and pouted, playing it up.

“Ugh,” she said. “Look, I got your message, and I did a deep dive on this Bo Storm for you.” Esperanza sat behind her desk and started typing on her laptop. “By the way, how was seeing Emily?”

“How do you think?”

“Not as bad as usual, I imagine. You’re happily married now. It’s all in the rearview mirror now.”

“True. Except.”

“Yeah. Jeremy. I get it.” Esperanza kept typing. “First off, Bo Storm isn’t his real name.”

Myron put his hand to his heart. “Gasp. Oh. Gasp. I’m. So. Surprised.”

“Yeah, I’m starting with the obvious because after that, it all gets pretty strange.”

“In what way?”

“Bo Storm has been off the radar for five years. I mean totally.”

“Since Greg supposedly ran overseas.”

“Right. He closed it all down. Not just his Instagram account. Bo had a pretty decent OnlyFans following. Good subscriber base, maybe because his rates were cheap.”

“When you say OnlyFans and subscriber base—”

She looked up at him. “You don’t know what I mean?”

“I don’t.”

“You pay for access to see him naked.”

“Oh.”

“And in sex scenes with other men.”

“Oh.”

“Do you really not know this?”

Myron shook his head. “And when you say ‘his rates were cheap...’”

“His monthly subscription fee was only $1.99 — but really I think he just used the OnlyFans to advertise his wares.”

“Wares?”

“Prostitution. It’s not just for us ladies. From what I’ve been able to find out, Bo worked at a gay sports bar called” — she raised her gaze and met Myron’s eye — “Man United.”

Myron looked at her. She continued to look at him.

“That’s actually a pretty funny name,” Myron said.

“Agreed,” Esperanza said.

“Do you have a real name for Bo?”

“Not yet but get this: I’m using this advanced facial recognition image search. You know what that is?”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“I put in a photo of someone’s face. It scours the entire internet and finds other photos that person is in.”

“Yikes. Talk about Big Brother.”

“It’s not new technology, Myron. It’s been around for years.”

“Okay, so what did you find?”

“Bo is in a bunch of posted photos from the clubs. Parties, tourists, that kind of thing. So far, I’ve found two things that are relevant for you. One, there are no recent photographs of him. Nothing at all in the last five years.”

“So,” Myron said, “since he stopped posting—”

“No one has posted a photo of him anywhere. That’s right. And that’s rare. You really have to try to stay that off the radar.”

Myron took that in. “What’s the other thing?”

“There is one crowd shot of Bo that you’ll find very intriguing.”

“Crowd shot?”

“As in, he’s in a crowd. As in, a sporting event. As in, your friend Bo attended an NBA basketball game.”

Myron froze. “As in, a game coached by Greg Downing?”

Esperanza nodded. “Greg’s Milwaukee Bucks in Phoenix playing the Suns. Six years ago. I zoomed it in for you and printed it out.”

She handed him a photograph. Yep, crowd shot. Bo sat behind the Bucks’ bench next to an uber-tan, uber-blonde woman packed into a tight tank top.

“Can’t be a coincidence,” Myron said.

“Man, you’re good.”

He smiled. He was happy that Esperanza had found such satisfaction in this new job, but he missed working with her on a day-to-day basis. MB Reps wasn’t MB Reps without Esperanza.

“So how do we find Bo Storm after all this time?” Myron asked. “Maybe Man United had his real name for payroll?”

“Already tried that. They’re under new ownership and got rid of all the old records.”

An idea came to Myron. “Explain that facial recognition search thing you did.”

“It’s fairly self-explanatory.”

“So if you had a photo of me—”

“I could put it through the search engine and theoretically it would find every photograph with you in it on the web.”

“Open up Bo’s dormant Instagram page for a second.”

Esperanza did. Myron started scrolling through it. He stopped and pointed. “This guy,” Myron said. “He’s in at least a dozen of Bo’s photos.”

She read the captions out loud: “‘Me and Jord doing our thang.’ ‘Jord and me at the club.’ Hmm, both of these guys are hot. Gay guys keep in such great shape. A lot of shots of them at the club shirtless.”

“Yeah, but not that.” Myron scrolled some more. “Here’s one of Bo and Jord at a barbecue in a yard.”

“Still shirtless.”

“And look — ‘Having the boys over for the Super Bowl.’”

“Still shirtless,” Esperanza repeated, making a face. “Who watches the Super Bowl shirtless?”

“Can we put this Jord guy through your search engine?”

Esperanza nodded. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Every once in a while.”

“Give me an hour, okay?”

“Okay.”

Myron just sat there and stared at her.

Esperanza said, “I got something stuck in my teeth?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I miss this. Don’t you miss this?”

She said nothing.

He leaned forward. “Come back to MB Reps.”

She still said nothing.

“I’ll even add your initials into the title.”

Esperanza arched an eyebrow. “MBED Reps?”

“Sure.”

“That’s a terrible name,” she said. “Then again, so is MB Reps.”

“Fair.”

“I’m doing good work here.”

“I know.”

“Sadie is amazing.”

“I know that too. So do both. Half time here with Sadie, half time back with me.”

“Do good,” she said, “and bad.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

She shook her head.

“What?”

“I love you,” she said. “You know that.”

“I love you too.”

“You’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.”

“Same.”

“With Win. I get it.”

“What’s your point?”

“You don’t like change, Myron.”

Now it was Myron’s turn to stay quiet.

“Where’s Terese?” Esperanza asked.

That was Myron’s wife.

“She’s in Atlanta.”

“Where she’s working.”

“Yes.”

“While you’re in New York.”

“She’s coming to visit.”

Silence.

“It’ll be fine,” Myron said.

“Will it?”

“I love Terese,” Myron said.

“I know you do,” Esperanza said, but there was a tinge of sadness there. “Let’s find Greg, okay? Then we can talk more about the rest of this.”

An hour later, Myron got a call from Esperanza. “I got something on Bo’s online buddy Jord,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m coming up to show you.”

Two minutes later, Myron heard Big Cyndi squeal, a sound that makes children cringe and your cat hide under the couch. But it was, Myron knew, a squeal of delight. Esperanza, he deduced, had arrived. Myron stepped into the foyer as Big Cyndi wrapped her tremendous arms around Esperanza. It would be grossly inadequate to call what Big Cyndi gave those she loved merely a “hug.” Big Cyndi’s embraces were all-encompassing, all-consuming, like your entire body was being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.

Myron watched and smiled. Years ago, Big Cyndi and Esperanza had been a hugely popular pro wrestling tag-team champion for the famed league known as FLOW, which stood for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (they had originally been called the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling, but a TV network had an issue with the acronym). Their monikers were Big Chief Mama (Big Cyndi) and Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess (Esperanza). Both women were Latina, not Native American, but no one seemed to care. Yeah, it was a different era. The size difference between the partners — Big Cyndi was six foot six and flirting with three hundred pounds while Esperanza was maybe five two and sported a minuscule suede bikini with fringes — made for a comical and dramatic appearance. Pro wrestling is never about the wrestling. It’s about the plot and the characters. It’s a morality play, almost biblical in its storytelling. Little Pocahontas would always be skillfully and honestly winning a match when their bad-guy opponents did something illegal and sleezy — the dreaded foreign object, throwing sand in her eyes, whatever — and the crowd would scream and cry and boo and worry because Little Pocahontas would suddenly be in extreme distress, getting mercilessly beaten, until Big Chief Mama jumped back in the ring, erupted, threw the bad guys off her, and then, again using creativity and skill, the two would come back in the match for the miracle win.

Somehow this was massively entertaining.

Eventually Esperanza wanted out of the wrestling game. She came to work for MB SportsReps as Myron’s assistant and, as mentioned earlier, worked her way up to partner. When they needed a third in the office to take over the reception desk, they hired Big Cyndi.

Still holding Esperanza, Big Cyndi started sobbing. She wore a tremendous amount of garish makeup, and when she cried like this, her makeup ran everywhere, so that her face resembled a box of crayons left in the blazing sun on a concrete surface. That was Big Cyndi. She lived life loud and embraced it all. She drew stares, no way around it, but Myron remembered years ago, when he still didn’t quite get her, Big Cyndi explained: “I’d rather see shock on their faces than pity, Mr. Bolitar. And I’d rather they see brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared.”

“It’s okay,” Esperanza said soothingly, stroking Big Cyndi’s back. “You just saw me this morning, remember?”

“But that was down there,” Big Cyndi replied. She said the word “there” as though it were something cursed. “But now you’re here, with us, back where you belong...”

It was true, Myron realized. This was the first time Esperanza had been up to see their new digs. She had probably stayed away on purpose.

“It’s nice to see you here,” Myron added.

Esperanza made a face. Then she said, “Bo’s friend Jord? His real name is Jordan Kravat.”

“So you found him.”

“So to speak. He’s dead.”

“Whoa.”

“Murdered.”

“Double whoa.” Myron tried to take that in. “When?”

“Guess.”

“Five years ago.”

“You’re good.”

“Before or after Bo vanished?”

“Right around the same time.”

“So Bo’s friend Jordan is murdered—”

“I think Bo and Jordan were more than friends.”

“Oh. Okay. Either way, Jordan gets murdered, and Bo vanishes.”

“And Greg decides to go off the grid,” Esperanza added.

“Obvious question: Was Bo a suspect?”

“They convicted someone else. A local organized crime boss went down for it.”

Myron considered that. “Still. The timing. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“One more wrinkle.”

“I’m listening.”

“You remember that Bo worked out of a gay sports bar?”

“Man United,” Myron said.

“Right. The bar was owned by Donna Kravat. That’s Jordan Kravat’s mother.”

Myron felt that thrum when pieces are starting to land on the table. He had no idea how they fit. None whatsoever yet. But pieces were landing and they mattered and that was a start. Shake the box. Get the pieces out and onto the table. Then you can begin to put them together.

“We got an address on the mom?”

“We do. She’s still in Vegas.”

“I should probably fly out then.”

“I saw Win on my way up.”

“Did you mention Vegas?”

“I did. He’s already got the jet gassed up and ready to go.”