Joe and Bone quickly came over and looked down at Myron.
"You okay?" Joe asked.
Myron nodded.
"You won't forget about sending us that autographed picture, will you? Cousin Brucie never sent one."
"I'll send you two," Myron said.
Chapter 8
He convinced Joe and Bone not to call the cops. They didn't take much convincing. Most people do not like activities that involve law enforcement. They helped Myron into a taxi. The driver wore a turban and listened to country music. Multiculturalism. Myron spit out Jessica's Soho address and collapsed into the ripped cushions. The driver wasn't interested in conversation. Good.
Myron mentally checked over his body. Nothing broken. The ribs would be bruised at worst. Nothing he couldn't play through. The head was another matter. Tylenol with codeine would help tonight, then he could move down to Advil or something in the morning. There was nothing much you could do for head trauma but give it time and control the pain.
Jessica met him at the door in her bathrobe. He felt, as he often did around her, a little short of breath. She skipped admonishments, drew a bath, helped him undress, crawled in behind him. The water felt good against his skin. He leaned back on her as she wrapped washcloths around his head. He let loose a deep, totally content breath.
"When did you go to medical school?" he asked.
From behind him Jessica kissed his cheek. "Feeling better?"
"Yes, Doctor. Much better."
"You want to tell me about it?"
He did. She listened in silence, her fingertips gently massaging his temples. Her touch was soothing. Myron imagined there were better things in life than being in this tub leaning back against the woman he loved, but for the life of him he couldn't think of any. The pain began to dull and slacken.
"So who do you think they were?" she asked.
"No idea," Myron said. "I imagine they're hired goons."
"And they wanted to know where Greg was?"
"Seems so."
"If two goons like that were looking for me," she said, "I might disappear too."
That thought had crossed Myron's mind too. "Yes."
"So what's your next step?"
He smiled and closed his eyes. "What? No lectures? No telling me it's too dangerous?"
"Too cliche," she said. "Besides, there's something else here."
"What do you mean?"
"Something about all this you're not telling me."
"I--"
She put a finger over his lips. "Just tell me what you plan on doing next."
He settled back down. Scary how easily she read him. "I have to start talking to people."
"Like?"
"His agent. His roommate, a guy named Leon White. Emily."
"Emily. That would be your old college sweetheart?"
"Uh huh," Myron said. Quick subject change before she started reading him again. "How was your evening with Audrey?"
"Fine. We mostly talked about you."
"What about me?"
Jessica began to stroke his chest. The touch slowly drifted away from being merely soothing. Her fingertips caressed his chest with a feather touch. Gently. Too gently. She was strumming him like Perlman on a violin.
"Uh, Jess."
She shushed him. Her voice was soft. "Your ass," she said.
"My ass?"
"Yep, that's what we talked about." To emphasize the point her hand cupped a cheek. "Even Audrey had to admit it was edible, running up and down the court like that."
"I have a mind too," Myron said. "A brain. Feelings."
She lowered her mouth toward his ear. When her lips touched the lobe, he felt a jolt. "Who cares?"
"Uh, Jess..."
"Shhh," she said as her other hand slid down his chest. "I'm the doctor here, remember?"
Chapter 9
The ringing phone jabbed at the base of nerves in the back of his skull. Myron's eyes blinked open. Sunlight knifed through the slit in the curtain. He checked next to him in the bed--first with his hands, then with his eyes. Jessica wasn't there. The phone continued to blare. Myron reached for it.
"Hello."
"So this is where you are."
He closed his eyes. The ache in his head multiplied tenfold. "Hi, Mom."
"You don't sleep in your home anymore?"
His home was the basement of his parents' house, the same house in which he'd been raised. More and more he was spending his nights at Jessica's. It was probably a good thing. He was thirty-two; he was fairly normal; he had plenty of money. There was no reason to still be living with Mommy and Daddy.
"How's your trip?" he asked. His mother and father were on some tour of Europe. One of those bus tours that hit twelve cities in four days.
"You think I called at the Vienna Hilton's long distant rates to chitchat about our itinerary?"
"Guess not."
"You know how much it cost to call from a hotel in Vienna? With all their surcharges and taxes and everything?"
"A lot, I'm sure."
"I have the rates right here. I'll tell you exactly. Hold on. Al, what did I do with those rates?"
"Mom, it's not important."
"I had it a second ago. Al?"
"Why don't you tell me when you get home?" Myron suggested. "It'll give me something to look forward to."
"Save the fresh remarks for your friends, okay? You know very well why I'm calling."
"I don't, Mom."
"Fine, then I'll tell you. One of the other people on this tour--the Smeltmans, very nice couple. He's in the jewelry business. Marvin, his name is. I think. They have a shop in Montclair. We used to drive by it all the time when you were a kid. It's on Bloomfield Avenue, near that movie theater. Remember?"
"Uh huh." He had no idea what she was talking about but it was easier.
"So the Smeltmans talked to their son on the phone last night. He called them, Myron. He had their itinerary and everything. Just called his parents to make sure they were having a nice time, that kind of thing."
"Uh huh." Mom was in decompensation mode. There was no way to stop it. She could go in a heartbeat from the modern, intelligent woman he knew her to be to something out of summer stock Fiddler on the Roof. Right now she was Golda heading toward Yenta.
"Anyway, the Smeltmans brag how they're on the same trip with Myron Bolitar's parents. Big deal, right? Who knows you anymore? You haven't played in years. But the Smeltmans are big basketball fans. Go figure. Their son used to watch you play or something, I don't know. So anyway, the son--I think his name is Herb or Herbie or Ralph, something like that--he tells them you're playing professional basketball. That the Dragons signed you. He says you're making a comeback or something, what do I know? Your father is so embarrassed. I mean, complete strangers are talking about it and your own parents don't even know. We thought the Smeltmans were crazy."
"It's not what you think," Myron said.
"What's not what I think?" she countered. "You shoot around in the driveway a little. Okay, no big deal. But I don't understand. You never even mentioned you were playing again."
"I'm not."
"Don't lie to me. You scored two points last night. Your father called Sports Phone. You know what it cost to call Sports Phone from here?"
"Mom, it's no big deal."
"Listen to me, Myron, you know your father. The man pretends it doesn't mean anything. He loves you no matter what, you know that. But he hasn't stopped smiling since he heard. He wants to fly home right now."
"Please don't."
"Don't," she repeated, exasperated. "You tell him, Myron. The man is loo-loo, you know that. A crazy person. So tell me what's going on."
"It's a long story, Mom."
"But it's true? You're playing again?"
"Only temporarily."
"What does that mean, 'only temporarily'?"
Jessica's Call Waiting clicked in. "Mom, I gotta go. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier."
"What? T
hat's it?"
"I'll tell you more later."
Surprisingly she backed off. "You be careful with your knee."
"I will."
He changed over to the other line. It was Esperanza. She didn't bother with hello.
"It's not Greg's blood," she said.
"What?"
"The blood you found in the basement," she said. "It's AB positive. Greg's blood type is O negative."
Myron had not expected to hear this. He tried to reconcile it in his head. "Maybe Clip was right. Maybe it was one of Greg's kids."
"Impossible," she said.
"Why?"
"Didn't you take basic biology in high school?"
"Eighth grade. But I was too busy staring at Mary Ann Palmiero. What?"
"AB is rare. In order for a kid to have it, his parents have to be A and B or it's impossible. In other words, if Greg is O, then his kids can't be AB."
"Maybe it's a friend's," Myron tried. "Maybe one of the kids had a friend over."
"Sure," Esperanza said. "That's probably it. The kids have some friends over. One of them bleeds all over the place and nobody cleans it up. Oh and then by a strange coincidence Greg vanishes."
Myron threaded the phone cord through his fingers like his hand was a loom. "Not Greg's blood," he repeated. "Now what?"
Esperanza didn't bother responding.
"How the hell am I supposed to investigate something like this without getting anyone suspicious?" he went on. "I have to ask people questions, right? They're going to want to know why."
"I feel very sorry for you," Esperanza said in a tone that made clear she was anything but. "I got to get to the office. You coming in?"
"Maybe this afternoon. I'm going to see Emily this morning."
"Is that the old girlfriend Win told me about?"
"Yes," Myron said.
"Don't take any chances. Put on a condom now." She hung up.
Not Greg's blood? Myron didn't get it. As he drifted off to sleep last night he had worked up a neat little theory that went something like this: The hoods were searching for Greg. Maybe they had roughed him up a bit, made him bleed a little. Just to show him they meant serious business. Greg had reacted by running away.
It all sort of fit. It explained the blood in the basement. It explained why Greg suddenly took off. Yep, all a very nice and neat equation: One beating plus one death threat equaled a man on the run.
Problem was, the blood in the basement was not Greg's. Kinda put a damper on the theory. If Greg had been beaten in the basement, then it would have been his blood. Greg would have bled his own blood, not someone else's. In fact, it was very difficult to bleed someone else's blood. Myron shook his head. He needed a shower. A bit more deducing like this and the slaughtered-chicken theory would begin to pick up steam.
Myron soaped himself up, then turned his back to the shower and let the water cascade over his shoulders and down his chest. He toweled off and got dressed. Jessica was on the word processor in the other room. He had learned never to disturb her when the keyboard was clacking. He left a quick note and slipped out. He grabbed the 6 train up to midtown and walked to the Kinney lot on 46th Street. Mario tossed him the keys without glancing up from his paper. He picked up the FDR north at 62nd Street and took it to the Harlem River Drive. There was a slowdown for right lane construction, but he made it to the George Washington Bridge in pretty good time. He took Route 4 through a place called Paramus, which was actually a giant mall pretending to also be a township. He veered to the right and passed the Nabisco building on Route 208. He was hoping for a factory Ritz-whiff, but today he got nothing.
As he pulled up to Emily's house, deja vu swatted him in the back of the head like a father's warning blow. He had been here before, of course, during college breaks in their courting days. The house was brick and modern and fairly huge. It sat in a well-groomed cul-de-sac. The backyard was fenced. He remembered that there was a swimming pool in the back. He remembered that there was also a gazebo. He remembered making love with Emily in the gazebo, their clothes wrapped around ankles, the humidity coating their skin with a thin layer of sweat. The sweet bird of youth.
He parked the car, pulled the key out of the ignition, and just sat there. He had not seen Emily in more than ten years. Much had happened in the ensuing years, but he still feared her reaction to seeing him. The mental image of Emily opening the door, screaming "Bastard," then slamming it in his face was one of the reasons he hadn't worked up the nerve to call first.
He looked out the car window. There was no movement on the street. Then again there were only ten houses. He debated his approach and came up with nothing. He checked his watch, but the time didn't register in his head. He sighed. One thing was for sure: he couldn't sit here all day. This was a nice neighborhood, the kind where someone would spot him and call the police. Time to get a move on. He opened the door and stepped out. The development was at least fifteen years old but it still looked new. All the yards were just a little too sparse. Not enough trees and shrubbery yet. The grass looked like a guy with a bad hair transplant.
Myron walked up the brick path. He checked his palms. They were wet. He rang the doorbell. Part of him flashed back to earlier visits, his mind playing along with the long, still-familiar chime of the bell. The door opened. It was Emily.
"Well, well, well," she said. Myron could not tell if the tone was one of surprise or sarcasm. Emily had changed. She looked a little thinner, a bit more toned. Her face was less fleshy too, accentuating the cheekbones. Her hair was cut shorter and styled. "If it isn't the good one I let get away."
"Hi, Emily." Mr. Big Opening.
"Here to propose?" she asked.
"Been there, done that."
"But you didn't mean it, Myron. I wanted sincerity back then."
"And now?"
"Now I realize sincerity is overrated." She flashed him a smile.
"You look good, Emily," he said. Get Myron on a roll and it's one good line after another.
"So do you," she said. "But I'm not going to help you."
"Help me what?"
She made a face. "Come on in."
He followed her inside. The house was full of skylights and cathedral ceilings and white painted walls. Airy. The front foyer was done in some expensive tile. She led Myron to the living room. He sat on a white couch. The floors were beechwood. It was exactly the same as it was ten years ago. Either they had gotten the exact same couches again or their house guests had been exceptionally well behaved. There wasn't a spot on them. The only mess was a pile of newspapers in the corner. Mostly daily tabloids, from the looks of it. A New York Post front-page headline read SCANDAL! in huge 72 point print. Specific.
An old dog traipsed into the room on rigid legs. It looked like he was trying to wag his tail, but the result was a pitiful sway. He managed to lick Myron's hand with a dry tongue.
"Look at that," Emily said. "Benny remembers you."
Myron stiffened. "This is Benny?"
She nodded.
Emily's family had bought the overactive puppy for her younger brother Todd when Myron and Emily had first started dating. Myron was there when they brought the puppy home from the breeder. Little Benny had stumbled around with blinking eyes and then peed on this very floor. No one cared. Benny quickly got used to people. He greeted everyone by jumping on them, believing in a way only a dog could that no one would ever do him harm. Benny was not jumping now. He looked very old. He looked a brief step away from death. A sudden sadness swept through Myron.
"You looked good last night," Emily said. "It was nice seeing you back on the court."
"Thanks." The quips never stop.
"Are you thirsty?" she asked. "I could make you some lemonade. Like in a Tennessee Williams play. Lemonade for the gentleman caller, except I doubt Amanda Wingfield used a Crystal Light mix." Before he could answer she disappeared around the corner. Benny looked up at Myron, struggling to see through milky cataracts. Myron scratched the dog
's ear. The tail picked up a bit of velocity. Myron smiled sadly at Benny. Benny moved closer, as if he understood how Myron felt and appreciated the sentiment. Emily returned with two glasses of lemonade.
"Here," she said. She handed him a glass and sat down.
"Thank you." Myron took a sip.
"So what's next on your agenda, Myron?"
"Next?"
"Another comeback?"
"I don't understand."
Emily gave him the smile again. "First you replace Greg on the court," she said. "Maybe next you'll want to replace him in the bedroom."
Myron almost gagged on his lemonade, but he managed to smother the sound. Going for the shock. Classic Emily. "Not funny," he said.
"I'm just having a little fun," she said.
"Yes, I know."
She put her elbow on the back of the couch and propped up her head with her hand. "I see you're dating Jessica Culver," she said.
"Yep."
"I like her books."
"I'll tell her."
"But we both know the truth."
"What's that?"
She leaned forward now and took a slow sip from her glass. "Sex with her isn't as good as it was with me."
More classic Emily. "You're sure about that?" he said.
"Very sure," she replied. "I'm not being immodest. I'm sure your Ms. Culver is quite skilled. But with me it was new. It was discovery. It was impossibly hot. Neither of us can ever recapture that rapture with anyone else. It'd be impossible. It would be like going back in time."
"I don't compare," Myron said.
With a smile and a tilt of the head, she said, "Bullshit."
"You don't want me to compare."
The smile was unfazed. "Come, come now, Myron. You're not going to give me that spiritual crap, are you? You're not going to tell me it's better because you share a deep and beautiful relationship and thus the sex is beyond something physical? That line would be so unbecoming on you."
Myron did not respond. He didn't know what to say and he didn't feel very comfortable with the conversation. "What did you mean before?" he asked, shifting gears. "When you said you wouldn't help me."
"Exactly what I meant."
"What won't you help with?"
Again the smile. "Was I ever stupid, Myron?"
"Never," he said.
"Do you really think I believed that comeback story? Or the one about Greg being"--she made quote marks in the air--"'in seclusion' for an ankle injury? Your visit here just confirms my suspicion."
"What suspicion?"