Finally Dad said, "Why would you ask that?"
"I'm tangled up in something."
"And it involves Arthur Bradford?"
"Yes," Myron said.
"Then get untangled. Fast."
Dad lifted one of those traveling coffee cups to his lips and craned his neck. The cup was empty.
"Bradford told me to ask you about him," Myron said. "He and this guy who works for him."
Dad's neck snapped back into place. "Sam Richards?" His tone was quiet, awe-filled. "He's still alive?"
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ."
Silence. Then Myron asked, "How do you know them?"
Dad opened his drawer and fumbled about for something. Then he yelled for Eloise. She came to the door. "Where's the Tylenol?" he asked her.
"Bottom right-hand drawer. Left side toward the back. Under the box of rubber bands." Eloise turned to Myron. "Would you like a Yoo-Hoo?" she asked.
"Yes, please." Stocking Yoo-Hoos. He had not been to his father's office in almost a decade, but they still stocked his favorite drink. Dad found the bottle and played with the cap. Eloise closed the door on her way out.
"I've never lied to you," Dad said.
"I know."
"I've tried to protect you. That's what parents do. They shelter their children. When they see danger coming, they try to step in the way and take the hit."
"You can't take this hit for me," Myron said.
Dad nodded slowly. "Doesn't make it any easier."
"I'll be okay," Myron said. "I just need to know what I'm up against."
"You're up against pure evil." Dad shook out two tablets and swallowed them without water. "You're up against naked cruelty, against men with no conscience."
Eloise came back in with the Yoo-Hoo. Reading their faces, she silently handed Myron the drink and slipped back out. In the distance a forklift started beeping out the backup warning.
"It was a year or so after the riots," Dad began. "You're probably too young to remember them, but the riots ripped this city apart. To this day the rip has never healed. Just the opposite, in fact. It's like one of my garments." He gestured to the boxes below. "The garment rips near the seam, and then nobody does anything so it just keeps ripping until the whole thing falls apart. That's Newark. A shredded garment.
"Anyway, my workers finally came back, but they weren't the same people. They were angry now. I wasn't their employer anymore. I was their oppressor. They looked at me like I was the one who dragged their ancestors across the ocean in chains. Then troublemakers started prodding them. The writing was already on the wall, Myron. The manufacturing end of this business was going to hell. Labor costs were too high. The city was just imploding on itself. And then the hoodlums began to lead the workers. They wanted to form a union. Demanded it, actually. I was against the idea, of course."
Dad looked out his glass wall at the endless rows of boxes. Myron wondered how many times his father had looked out at this same view. He wondered what his father had thought about when looking out, what he dreamed about over the years in this dusty warehouse. Myron shook the can and popped the top. The sound startled Dad a bit. He looked back at his son and managed a smile.
"Old Man Bradford was hooked in to the mobsters who wanted to set up the union. That's who was involved in this: mobsters, hoodlums, punks who ran everything from prostitutes to numbers; all of a sudden they're labor experts. But I still fought them. And I was winning. So one day Old Man Bradford sends his son Arthur to this very building. To have a chat with me. Sam Richards is with him--the son of a bitch just leans against the wall and says nothing. Arthur sits down and puts his feet on my desk. I'm going to agree to this union, he says. I'm going to support it, in fact. Financially. With generous contributions. I tell the little snotnose there's a word for this. It's called extortion. I tell him to get the hell out of my office."
Beads of sweat popped up on Dad's forehead. He took a hankie and blotted them a few times. There was a fan in the corner of the office. It oscillated back and forth, teasing you with moments of comfort followed by stifling heat. Myron glanced at the family photos, focusing in on one of his parents on a Caribbean cruise. Maybe ten years ago. Mom and Dad were both wearing loud shirts and looked healthy and tan and much younger. It scared him.
"So what happened then?" Myron asked.
Dad swallowed away something and started speaking again. "Sam finally spoke. He came over to my desk and looked over the family photos. He smiled, like he was an old friend of the family. Then he tossed these pruning shears on my desk."
Myron started to feel cold.
His father kept talking, his eyes wide and unfocused. "'Imagine what they could do to a human being,' Sam says to me. 'Imagine snipping away a piece at a time. Imagine not how long it would take to die but how long you could keep someone alive.' That's it. That's all he said. Then Arthur Bradford started laughing, and they both left my office."
Dad tried the cup of coffee again, but it was still empty. Myron held up the Yoo-Hoo, but Dad shook his head.
"So I go home and try to pretend that everything is hunky-dory. I try to eat. I try to smile. I play with you in the yard. But I can't stop thinking about what Sam said. Your mother knew something was wrong, but for once even she didn't push it. Later I go to bed. I can't sleep at first. It was like Sam said: I kept imagining. About cutting off little pieces of a human being. Slowly. Each cut causing a new scream. And then the phone rang. I jumped up and looked at my watch. It was three in the morning. I picked up the phone, and no one spoke. They were there I could hear them breathing. But nobody spoke. So I hung up the phone and got out of bed."
Dad's breathing was shallow now. His eyes were welling up. Myron rose toward him, but Dad held up a hand to stop him.
"Let me just get through this, okay?"
Myron nodded, sat back down.
"I went into your room." His voice was more monotone now, lifeless and flat. "You probably know that I used to do that a lot. Sometimes I would just sit in awe and watch you sleep."
Tears started racing down his face. "So I stepped in the room. I could hear your deep breathing. The sound comforted me immediately. I smiled. And then I walked over to tuck you in a little better. And that's when I saw it."
Dad put a fist to his mouth as though stifling a cough. His chest started hitching. His words came in a sputter.
"On your bed. On top of the cover. Pruning shears. Someone had broken into your room and left pruning shears on your bed."
A steel hand started squeezing Myron's insides.
Dad looked at him with reddening eyes. "You don't fight men like that, Myron. Because you can't win. It's not a question of bravery. It's a question of caring. You have people you care about, that are connected to you. These men don't even understand that. They don't feel. How do you hurt a person who can't feel?"
Myron had no answer.
"Just walk away," Dad said. "There's no shame in that."
Myron stood up then. So did Dad. They hugged, gripping each other fiercely. Myron closed his eyes. His father cupped the back of his head and then smoothed his hair. Myron snuggled in and stayed there. He inhaled the Old Spice. He traveled back, remembering how this same hand had cradled his head after Joey Davito had hit him with a pitch.
Still comforting, he thought. After all these years, this was still the safest place to be.
Pruning shears.
It couldn't be a coincidence. He grabbed his cellular and called the Dragons' practice site. After a few minutes Brenda came on the line.
"Hey," Brenda said.
"Hey."
They both fell silent.
"I love a smooth-talking man," she said.
"Uh-huh," Myron said.
Brenda laughed. The sound was melodious, plucking at his heart.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"Good," she said. "Playing helps. I've also been thinking about you a lot. That helps too."
"Mutual," Myron said.
Killer lines, one after another.
"Are you coming to the opener tonight?" Brenda asked.
"Sure. You want me to pick you up?"
"No, I'll take the team bus."
"Got a question for you," Myron said.
"Shoot."
"What are the names of the two boys who had their Achilles tendons sliced in half?"
"Clay Jackson and Arthur Harris."
"They were cut with pruning shears, right?"
"Right."
"And they live in East Orange?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I don't think Horace was the one who hurt them."
"Then who?"
"Long story. I'll tell you about it later."
"After the game," Brenda suggested. "I'll have some media stuff to do, but maybe we can grab a bite and go back to Win's."
"I'd like that," Myron said.
Silence.
Brenda said, "I sound too eager, don't I?"
"Not at all."
"I should be playing harder to get."
"No."
"It's just that"--she stopped, started again--"it feels right, you know?"
He nodded into the phone. He knew. He thought about what Esperanza had said, about how he "used to" leave himself totally exposed, keeping his feet planted with nary a worry of getting beaned on the head.
"I'll see you at the game," he said.
Then he hung up.
He sat and closed his eyes and thought about Brenda. For a moment he didn't push the thoughts away. He let them cascade over him. His body tingled. He started smiling.
Brenda.
He opened his eyes and came out of it. He switched on the car phone again and dialed Win's number.
"Articulate."
"I need some backup," Myron said.
"Bitching," Win said.
They met up at the Essex Green Mall in West Orange.
"How far is the ride?" Win asked.
"Ten minutes."
"Bad area?"
"Yes."
Win looked at his precious Jag. "We'll take your car."
They got into the Ford Taurus. The late-summer sun still cast long, thin shadows. Heat rose from the sidewalk in lazy tendrils, dark and smoky. The air was so thick that an apple falling from a tree would take several minutes to hit the ground.
"I looked into the Outreach Education scholarship," Win said. "Whoever set up the fund had a great deal of financial acumen. The money was dumped in from a foreign source, more specifically the Cayman Islands."
"So it's untraceable?"
"Almost untraceable," Win corrected. "But even in places like the Caymans a greased palm is a greased palm."
"So who do we grease?"
"Already done. Unfortunately the account was in a dummy name and closed four years ago."
"Four years ago," Myron repeated. "That would be right after Brenda received her last scholarship. Before she started medical school."
Win nodded. "Logical," he said. Like he was Spock.
"So it's a dead end."
"Temporarily, yes. Someone could prowl through old records, but it will take a few days."
"Anything else?"
"The scholarship recipient was to be chosen by certain attorneys rather than any educational institution. The criteria were vague: academic potential, good citizenship, that type of thing."
"In other words, it was fixed so the attorneys would select Brenda. Like we said before, it was a way of funneling her money."
Another nod. "Logical," he repeated.
They started moving from West Orange into East Orange. The transformation was gradual. The fine suburban homes turned into gated condo developments. Then the houses came back--smaller now, less land, more worn and crowded together. Abandoned factories started popping up. Subsidy housing too. It was a butterfly in reverse, turning back into a caterpillar.
"I also received a call from Hal," Win said. Hal was an electronics expert they had worked with during their days working for the government. He'd been the one Myron had sent to check for phone taps.
"And?"
"All the residences contained telephone listening devices and traces--Mabel Edwards's, Horace Slaughter's, and Brenda's dorm room."
"No surprise," Myron said.
"Except for one thing," Win corrected. "The devices in the two households--that is, Mabel's and Horace's homes--were old. Hal estimated that they had been present for at least three years."
Myron's head started spinning again. "Three years?"
"Yes. It's an estimate, of course. But the pieces were old and in some cases crusted over from dirt."
"What about the tap on Brenda's phone?"
"More recent. But she's only lived there a few months. And Hal also found listening devices in Brenda's room. One under her desk in her bedroom. Another behind a sofa in the common room."
"Microphones?"
Win nodded. "Someone was interested in more than Brenda's telephone calls."
"Jesus Christ."
Win almost smiled. "Yes, I thought you might find it odd."
Myron tried to enter the new data into his brain. "Someone has obviously been spying on the family for a long time."
"Obviously."
"That means that it has to be somebody with resources."
"Indeed."
"Then it has to be the Bradfords," Myron said. "They're looking for Anita Slaughter. For all we know, they've been looking for twenty years. It's the only thing that makes sense. And you know what else this means?"
"Do tell," Win said.
"Arthur Bradford has been conning me."
Win gasped. "A less than truthful politician? Next you'll tell me there's no Easter Bunny."
"It's like we thought from the start," Myron said. "Anita Slaughter ran because she was scared. And that's why Arthur Bradford is being so cooperative. He wants me to find Anita Slaughter for him. So he can kill her."
"And then he'll try to kill you," Win added. He studied his hair in the visor mirror. "Being this handsome. It is not easy, you realize."
"And yet you suffer without complaint."
"That is my way." Win took one last look before snapping the visor back in place.
Clay Jackson lived in a row of houses whose backyards sat above Route 280. The neighborhood looked like working poor. The homes were all two-family, except for several corner residences that doubled as taverns. Tired neon Budweiser signs flickered through murky windows. Fences were all chain-link. So many overgrown weeds had popped through the sidewalk cracks that it was impossible to tell where pavement ended and lawn began.
Again all the inhabitants appeared to be black. Again Myron felt his customary and seemingly inexplicable discomfort.
There was a park across the street from Clay Jackson's house. People were setting up for a barbecue. A softball game was going on. Loud laughter exploded everywhere. So did a boom box. When Myron and Win got out of the car, all eyes swerved in their direction. The boom box went suddenly silent. Myron forced up a smile. Win remained completely unbothered by the scrutiny.
"They're staring," Myron said.
"If two black men pulled up to your house in Livingston," Win said, "what sort of reception would they receive?"
Myron nodded. "So you figure the neighbors are calling the cops and describing two 'suspicious youths' prowling the streets?"
Win raised an eyebrow. "Youths?"
"Wishful thinking."
"Yes, I'd say."
They headed up a stoop that looked like the one on Sesame Street. A man poked through a nearby garbage can, but he looked nothing like Oscar the Grouch. Myron knocked on the door. Win started with the eyes, the gliding movement, taking it all in. The softballers and barbecuers across the street were still staring. They did not seem pleased with what they saw.
Myron knocked again.
"Who is it?" a woman's voice called.
"My name is Myron Bolitar. This is Win Lockwood. We'd like to see Clay Jackson if he's available."
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"Could you hold on a second?"
They held on for at least a full minute. Then they heard a chain rattle. The knob turned, and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was black and maybe forty years old. Her smile kept flickering like one of those neon Budweiser signs in the tavern windows. "I'm Clay's mother," she said. "Please come in."
They followed her inside. Something good was cooking on the stove. An old air-conditioning unit roared like a DC-10, but it worked. The coolness was most welcome, though short-lived. Clay's mother quickly hustled them through a narrow corridor and back out the kitchen door. They were outside again, in the backyard now.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asked. She had to yell over the sounds of traffic.
Myron looked at Win. Win was frowning. Myron said, "No, thank you."
"Okay." The smile flickered faster now, almost like a disco strobe light. "Let me just go get Clay. I'll be right back." The screen door slammed shut.
They were alone outside. The yard was tiny. There were flower boxes bursting with colors and two large bushes that were dying. Myron moved to the fence and looked down at Route 280. The four-lane highway was moving briskly. Car fumes drifted slowly in this humidity, hanging there, not dissipating; when Myron swallowed, he could actually taste them.
"This isn't good," Win said.
Myron nodded. Two white men show up at your house. You don't know either one. You don't ask for ID. You just show them in and leave them out back. Something was definitely not right here.
"Let's just see how it plays out," Myron said.
It did not take long. Eight large men came from three different directions. Two burst through the back door. Three circled in from the right side of the house. Three more from the left. They all carried aluminum baseball bats and let's-kick-some-ass scowls. They fanned out, encircling the yard. Myron felt his pulse race. Win folded his arms; only his eyes moved.
These were not street punks or members of a gang. They were the softball players from across the street, grown men with bodies hardened by daily labor--dockworkers and truck loaders and the like. Some held their bats in a ready-to-swing position. Others rested them on their shoulders. Still others bounced them gently against their legs, like Joe Don Baker in Walking Tall.
Myron squinted into the sun. "You guys finish your game?" he asked.
The biggest man stepped forward. He had an enormous iron-cauldron gut, calloused hands, and the muscular yet unchiseled arms of someone who could crush Nautilus equipment like so many Styrofoam cups. His Nike baseball cap was set on the largest size, but it still fitted him like a yarmulke. His T-shirt had a Reebok logo. Nike cap, Reebok T-shirt. Confusing brand loyalties.