"Fruitcake." They moved past him.
"Tell you what," Myron said. "You tell me who you're working for and I promise not to tell your boss."
They kept walking.
"Promise," Myron said.
They headed out the door. Another day, another friend. Myron had that knack.
Myron followed them out to the street. Fishnet and Jim hurried west.
Win appeared from the shadows across the street. "This way," he said.
They cut through an alley and arrived at the lot before Fishnet and Jim. It was an outdoor lot. The parking attendant was in a little booth watching a Roseanne rerun on a minuscule black-and-white TV. Win pointed out the Cadillac. They ducked behind an Oldsmobile parked two cars away and waited.
Fishnet and Jim approached the booth. They were still looking down the street. Jim was panicking. "How did he find us, Lee? Huh?"
"I don't know."
"What we gonna do?"
"Nothing. We'll change cars. Try again."
"You got another car, Lee?"
"No," Fishnet said. "We'll rent one."
They paid, got a receipt and their keys. Fishnet had insisted on parking the car himself.
"This," Win said, "should be fun."
When they arrived at the Cadillac, Fishnet put his key in the lock. He stopped, looked down, and began screaming.
"Shit! Goddamn fuck!"
Myron and Win stepped out of the shadows.
"Language, language," Myron said.
Fishnet stared down at his car in disbelief. Win had drilled a hole under the lock to break in. He didn't use that particular method when neatness counted, but this was an occasion when he thought it necessary. On top of that, Win's hand had "accidentally" slipped, scratching both driver's-side doors.
"You!" Fishnet shouted. He pointed at Myron, his face red and apoplectic. "You!"
Win turned to Myron. "Quite the vocabulary."
"Yeah, but it's the threads that really make me swoon."
"You!" Fishnet said. "You did this to my car?"
"Not him," Win said. "Me. And may I say you keep the inside lovely. I felt terrible about spilling that maple syrup all over the velour seats."
Fishnet's eyes popped. He looked inside, placed his hand on the inside, and screamed. The scream was deafening. It was so loud, the parking lot attendant almost stirred.
Myron looked at Win. "Maple syrup?"
"Log Cabin."
"I've always been an Aunt Jemima man myself," Myron said.
"To each his own."
"You find anything inside the car?"
"Not very much," Win said. "In the glove compartment were several parking stubs." He handed them to Myron. Myron took a quick glance.
"So," Myron called out, "who are you guys working for?"
Fishnet started walking over. "My car!" he shouted, his face red. "You...my car! My car!"
Win sighed. "Can we get past this, please? Tres dull."
"You motherfucker! You..." Fishnet's hands were fists again. He stepped closer, smiling now at Win. It was an ugly smile in every way. "I'm going to break your fucking face, pretty boy."
Win looked at Myron. "Pretty boy?"
Myron shrugged.
Jim stood next to Fishnet. Neither one was armed with a gun, Myron could tell. They might have a blade hidden somewhere, but he wasn't worried.
Fishnet moved to within a yard of Win. Nothing unusual there. The bad guys always honed in on Win. He was smaller than Myron by nearly six inches and thirty-five pounds. Best of all, Win looked like a wimpy rich boy who raised his finger only to call for the butler--everything the discerning bully could want in a punching bag.
Fishnet took one more step and cocked his fist. Whoever had hired these guys had not briefed them well.
The punch whizzed toward Win's nose. He sidestepped it. Sometimes Myron thought Win moved like a cat. But that wasn't accurate. It was more ghostlike. One nanosecond he was there, the next he was two feet to the left. Fishnet tried again. Win blocked it this time. He grabbed Fishnet's fist with one hand and connected with a knife-hand strike to Fishnet's neck. Fishnet backed off, woozy. Jim stepped forward.
"Don't even think about it," Myron said.
Jim ran.
Myron Bolitar. The Intimidator.
Fishnet regained his footing. He charged Win, head lowered, attempting a tackle. Big mistake. Win hated it when an opponent tried to use superior size against him. Win had introduced Myron to tae kwon do during their freshman year at Duke, but he'd been studying it himself since he was five years old. He'd even spent three years in the Far East studying under some of the world's greatest masters.
"Aaaarrrrghhh!" Fishnet shouted.
Again Win stepped to the side, like the smoothest matador against the clumsiest bull. Win connected on a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus and followed up with a palm strike to the nose. There was a sharp crack and blood flowed. Fishnet screamed and went down. He did not get up again.
Win bent down. "Who are you working for?"
Fishnet looked at the blood in his hand. "You broke my nose!" His voice was nasally.
"Wrong answer," Win said. "Let me repeat the question. Who are you working for?"
"I ain't saying nothing!"
Win reached down, gripped the broken nose with two fingers. Fishnet's eyes bulged.
"Don't," Myron said.
Win looked up at him. "If you can't take it, leave." He turned his attention back to Fishnet. "Last chance. Then I start twisting. Who hired you?"
Fishnet said nothing. Win gave the nose a quick squeeze. The small bones grated against one another, making a sound like rain on a skylight. Fishnet bucked in agony. Win stifled his scream with his free hand.
"Enough," Myron said.
"He hasn't said anything yet."
"We're the good guys, remember?"
Win made a face. "You sound like an ACLU lawyer."
"He doesn't have to say anything."
"What?"
"He's a two-bit scum. He'd sell out his mother for a nickel."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he's more terrified of opening his mouth than the pain."
Win smiled. "I can change him."
Myron held up one of the parking lot stubs. "This lot is at Fifty-fourth and Madison. It's under TruPro's building. Our pal here is working for the Ache brothers. They're the only ones who could put that kind of scare into a guy." Fishnet's face was pure white.
"Or Aaron," Win said.
Aaron.
"What about him?" Myron asked.
"The Aches could be using Aaron. He could put that kind of scare into a guy."
Aaron.
"He isn't working for Frank Ache anymore," Myron said. "At least, that's what I heard."
Win looked down at Fishnet. "The name Aaron mean anything to you?"
"No," he shouted. Quickly. Too quickly.
Myron lowered his head toward Fishnet. "Start talking or I'll tell Frank Ache you told us all about it."
"I didn't say nothing about no Frank Ache!"
"Triple negative," Win said. "Very impressive."
There were two Ache brothers. Herman and Frank. Herman, the elder, was the boss, a sociopath responsible for countless murders and misery. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, Frank ran TruPro.
"I didn't say nothing," Fishnet repeated. He was petting his nose like it was an abused dog. "Not a goddamn word."
"But how's Frank to know?" Myron asked. "You see, I'll tell Frank you sang like the tastiest of stool pigeons. And you know what? He'll believe me. How else would I know Frank hired you?"
Fishnet's face went from pale-white to a sort of seaweed-green.
"But if you cooperate," Myron said, "we'll all pretend this never happened. That I never spotted your tail. You'll be safe. Frank will never have to know about your little screwup."
Fishnet didn't have to think too long. "What do you want?"
"One of Ache's
men hired you?"
"Yeah."
"Aaron?"
"No. Just some guy."
"What were you hired to do?"
"Follow you. Report wherever you went."
"For what reason?"
"I don't know."
"When did you get hired?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"What time?"
"I don't remember. Two, three o'clock. I was told you were at the tennis match and to get over there right away."
That would have been almost immediately after Valerie's murder.
"That's all I know. I swear to God. That's it."
"Bull," Win said. But Myron waved him off. Fishnet knew nothing more of any real significance.
"Let him go," Myron said.
13
Myron woke up early. He grabbed some cold cereal from the pantry. Something called Nutri-Grain. Yummy name. He read on the back of the box about the importance of fiber. Snore.
Myron longed for his childhood cereals: Cap'n Crunch, Froot Loops, Quisp. Quisp cereal. Who could forget Quisp, the cute alien who competed on TV commercials with some coal-miner loser named Quake? Quisp vs. Quake. Extraterrestrial vs. Mr. Blue-collar. Interesting concept. What happened to those two rivals? Has even lovable Quisp gone the way of the Motels?
Myron sighed. He was far too young for such bouts of nostalgia.
Esperanza had managed to track down an address for Curtis Yeller's mother. Deanna Yeller lived alone in a recently purchased house in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, a suburb outside Philadelphia. Myron made his way to his car. If he started out now, there would be time to drive to Cherry Hill, meet with Deanna Yeller, and get back to New York in time for Duane's match.
But would Deanna Yeller be home? Best to make sure.
Myron picked up the car phone and dialed. A woman's voice--probably Deanna Yeller--answered. "Hello?"
"Is Orson there?" Myron asked.
Warning: Clever deductive technique coming up. Those desiring professional pointers should pay strict attention.
"Who?" the woman asked.
"Orson."
"You have the wrong number."
"I'm sorry." Myron hung up.
Deduction: Deanna Yeller was home.
He pulled up to a modest but modern home on a classic New Jersey suburban street. Every house was more or less the same. Different colors maybe. The kitchen might be on the right instead of the left. But genetically they were clones. Nice. A sprinkling of kids on the street. A sprinkling of multicolored bicycles. Couple of squirrels. A far cry from west Philadelphia. It made him wonder.
Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy.
Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. "Can I help you?"
"Mrs. Yeller?"
She nodded slowly, as though not sure.
"My name is Myron Bolitar. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The smile fled completely. "What about?" Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.
"Your son."
"I ain't got a son."
"Curtis," Myron said.
Her eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"
"No."
"I ain't got the time. I'm on my way out."
"It won't take long."
She put her hands on her hips. "What's in it for me?"
"Pardon me?"
"Curtis is dead."
"I realize that."
"So what good is talking about it gonna do? He still gonna be dead, right?"
"Please, Mrs. Yeller, if I could just come in for a moment."
She thought about it a second or two, glanced around, then shrugged in tired surrender. She checked her watch. Piaget, Myron noticed. Could be a fake, but he doubted it.
The decor was basic. Lot of white. Lot of pinewood. Torchere lamps. Very Ikea. There were no photographs on the shelves or coffee table. Nothing personal at all. Deanna Yeller didn't sit. She didn't invite Myron to either.
Myron offered up his warmest, most trustworthy smile. One part Harry Smith, two parts John Tesh.
She crossed her arms. "What the hell you grinning at?"
Yep, another minute and she'd be curled up in his lap.
"I want to ask you about the night Curtis died," Myron said.
"Why? What's this got to do with you?"
"I'm investigating."
"Investigating what?"
"What really happened the night your son died."
"You a private eye?"
"No. Not really."
Silence.
"You got two minutes," she said. "That's it."
"According to the police your son drew a gun on a police officer."
"So they say."
"Did he?"
She shrugged. "Guess so."
"Did Curtis own a gun?"
Another shrug. "Guess he did."
"Did you see it that night?"
"I don't know."
"Did you ever see it before that night?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
Boy, was this helpful. "Why would your son and Errol break into the Old Oaks Club?"
She made a face. "You serious?"
"Yes."
"Why you think? To rob the place."
"Did Curtis do that a lot?"
"Do what?"
"Rob places."
Another shrug. "Places, people, whatever." Her tone was matter-of-fact. No shame, no embarrassment, no surprise, no revulsion.
"Curtis didn't have a record," Myron said.
Yet another shrug. Her shoulders would tire soon. "Guess I raised a smart boy," she said. "Until that night, anyhow." She made a show of looking at her watch again. "I gotta go now."
"Mrs. Yeller, have you heard from your nephew Errol Swade?"
"No."
"Do you know where he went after your son was shot?"
"No."
"What do you think happened to Errol?"
"He's dead." Again matter-of-fact. "I don't know what you want here, but this thing is finished. Finished a long time ago. No one cares anymore."
"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you care?"
"It's done. Closed."
"You were there when the police shot your son?"
"No. I got there right after." Her voice sort of faded away.
"And you saw your son on the ground?"
She nodded.
Myron handed her his business card. "If you remember anything else..."
She didn't take it. "I won't."
"But if you do..."
"Curtis is dead. Nothing you can do can change that. Best to just forget it."
"It's that easy?"
"Been six years. Not like anybody misses Curtis."
"How about you, Mrs. Yeller? Do you miss him?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Not like Curtis was a good kid or nothing. He was trouble."
"Doesn't mean he should have been killed," Myron said.
She looked up at him, held his gaze. "Don't matter. Dead is dead. Can't change that."
Myron said nothing.
"Can you change that, Mr. Bolitar?" she asked, challenging.
"No."
Deanna Yeller nodded, turned away, picked up her purse. "I have to go now," she said. "Best if you leave now too."
14
Henry Hobman was the only one in the players' box.
"Hi, Henry," Myron said.
No one was playing yet, but Henry was still in his coach repose. Without turning away from the court, Henry muttered, "Heard you had a meeting with Pavel Menansi last night."
"So?"
"You unhappy with Duane's coaching?"
"No."
&n
bsp; Henry almost nodded. End of conversation.
Duane and his opponent, a French Open finalist named Jacques Potiline, came onto the court. Duane looked himself. No signs of strain. He gave Myron and Henry a big smile, nodded. The weather was perfect for tennis. The sun was out, but a cool breeze gently purled through Stadium Court, staving off the humidity.
Myron glanced around courtside. There was a rather buxom blonde in the next box. She was packed into a white tank top. The word for today, boys and girls, is cleavage. Plenty of men ogled. Not Myron, of course. He was far too worldly. The blonde suddenly turned and caught Myron's eye. She smiled coyly, gave him a little wave. Myron waved back. He wasn't going to do anything about it, but yowzer!
Win materialized in the chair next to Myron. "She's smiling at me, you know."
"Dream on."
"Women find me irresistible," Win said. "They see me, they want me. It's a curse I live with every day of my life."
"Please," Myron said. "I just ate."
"Envy. It's so unattractive."
"So go for it, stud."
Win looked over at her. "Not my type."
"Gorgeous blondes aren't your type?"
"Her chest is too big. I have a new theory on that."
"What theory?"
"The bigger the breasts, the lousier the lay."
"Pardon me?"
"Think about it," Win said. "Well-endowed women--I am referring here to ones with mega-fronts--have a habit of laying back and relying on their, er, assets. The effort isn't always what it should be. What do you think?"
Myron shook his head. "I have several reactions," he replied, "but I think I'll stick with my initial one."
"Which is?"
"You're a pig."
Win smiled, sat back. "So how was your visit with Ms. Yeller?"
"She's hiding something too."
"Well, well. The plot doth thicken."
Myron nodded.
"In my experience," Win said, "there is only one thing that can silence the mother of a dead boy."
"And that is?"
"Cash. A great deal of it."
Mr. Warmth. But in truth the same thought had crossed Myron's mind. "Deanna Yeller lives in Cherry Hill now. In a house."
Win leapt on that one. "A single widow from the dumps of west Philadelphia moving to the 'burbs? Pray tell, how does she afford it?"
"Do you really think she's being bought?"
"Is there another explanation? According to what we know, the woman has no solid means of support. She spent her life in an impoverished area. Now all of a sudden she's Miss Better Homes and Gardens."
"Could be something else."
"For example?"
"A guy."
Win made a scoffing noise. "A forty-two-year-old ghetto woman does not find that kind of sugar daddy. It just doesn't happen."
Myron said nothing.
"Now," Win continued, "add into that equation Kenneth and Helen Van Slyke, the grieving parents of another dead child."