Fade away
by

Harlan Coben

For Larry and Craig,

the coolest brothers a guy could ever have.
If you don't believe me, just ask them.
Acknowledgement

The author wishes to thank the following for their help: Anne Armstrong Cohen,
MD; James Bradbeer, Jr, of Lilly Pulitzer; David Gold, MD;
Maggie Griffin; Jacob Hoye; Lidsay Koehler; David Pepe of Pro Agents,
Inc.; Peter Roisman of Advantage International; and, of course, Dave
Bolt. Any errors - factual or otherwise - are totally their fault. The author
is not to blame.

'Just behave.'

'Me?' Myron said. 'I'm always a delight.'

Myron Bolitar was being led through the corridor of the darkened
Meadowlands Arena by Calvin Johnson, the New Jersey Dragons new
general manager. Their dress shoes clacked sharply against the tile and
echoed through empty Harry M. Stevens food stands, Carvel Ice Cream
carts, pretzel vendors, souvenir booths. The smell of sporting-event hot
dogs - that sort of rubbery, chemically, yet nostalgically delicious aroma wafted
from the walls. The stillness of the place consumed them; there is
nothing more hollow and lifeless than an empty sports arena.

Calvin Johnson stopped in front of a door leading to a luxury box. 'This
may all seem a bit strange,' he said. 'Just go with the flow, okay?'

'Okay.'

Calvin reached for the knob and took a deep breath. 'Clip Arnstein, the
owner of the Dragons, is in there waiting for us.'

'And yet I'm not trembling,' Myron said.

Calvin Johnson shook his head. 'Just don't be an ass.'

Myron pointed to his chest. I wore a tie and everything.'

Calvin Johnson opened the door. The luxury box faced midcourt. Several
workers were putting down the basketball floor over the hockey ice. The
Devils had played the night before. Tonight was the Dragons' turn. The box
was cosy. Twenty-four cushioned seats. Two television monitors. To the
right was a wood-paneled counter for the food - usually fried chicken, hot
dogs, potato knishes, sausage and pepper sandwiches, that sort of stuff. To
the left was a brass cart with a nicely stocked bar and minifridge. The box
also had its own bathroom - this so the corporate high rollers would not
have to urinate with the great unwashed.

Clip Arnstein faced them, standing. He wore a dark blue suit with a red
tie. He was bald with patches of gray over both ears. He was burly, his chest
still a barrel after seventy-some-odd years. His large hands had brown spots
and fat blue veins like garden hoses. No one spoke. No one moved. Clip
glared hard at Myron for several seconds, examining him from head to toe.

'Like the tie?' Myron asked.

Calvin Johnson shot him a warning glance.

The old man made no movement toward them. 'How old are you now,
Myron?'

Interesting opening question. 'Thirty-two.'

'You playing any ball?'

'Some,' Myron said.

'You keep in good shape?'

'Want me to flex?'

'No, that won't be necessary.'

No one offered Myron a seat and no one took one. Of course the only
chairs in here were the spectator seats, but it still felt weird to stand in a
business setting where you're supposed to sit. Standing suddenly became
difficult. Myron felt antsy. He didn't know what to do with his hands. He
took out a pen and held it, but that didn't feel right. Too Bob Dole. He
stuck his hands in his pockets and stood at a weird angle, like the casual guy
in the Sears circular.

'Myron, we have an interesting proposition for you,' Clip Arnstein said.

'Proposition?' Always the probing interrogatory.

'Yes. I was the one who drafted you, you know.'

'I know.'

'Ten, eleven years ago. When I was with the Celtics.'

'I know.'

'First round.'

'I know all this, Mr Arnstein.'

'You were a hell of a prospect, Myron. You were smart. You had an
unbelievable touch. You were loaded with talent.'

'I coulda been a contenda,' Myron said.

Arnstein scowled. It was a famous scowl, developed over some fifty-plus
years in professional basketball. The scowl had made its first appearance
when Clip played for the now-defunct Rochester Royals in the forties. It
grew more famous when he coached the Boston Celtics to numerous
championships. It became a legendary trademark when he made all the
famous trades ('clipping' the competition, ergo the nickname) as team
president. Three years ago Clip had become majority owner of the New
Jersey Dragons and the scowl now resided in East Rutherford, right off Exit
16 of the New Jersey Turnpike. His voice was gruff. 'Was that supposed to
be Brando?'

'Eerie, isn't it? Like Marlon's actually in the room.'

Clip Arnstein's face suddenly softened. He nodded slowly, giving Myron
the doelike, father-figure eyes. 'You make jokes to cover the pain,' he said
gravely. 'I understand that.'

Dr Joyce Brothers.

'Is there something I can do for you, Mr Arnstein?'

'You never played in a single professional game, did you, Myron?'

'You know very well I didn't.'

Clip nodded. 'Your first preseason game. Third quarter. You already had
eighteen points that game. Not bad for a rookie in his first scrimmage. That
was when fate took over.'

Fate took the form of big Burt Wesson of the Washington Bullets. There
had been a collision, a searing pain, and then nothing.

'Awful thing,' Clip said.

'Uh huh.'

'I always felt bad about what happened to you. Such a waste.'

Myron glanced at Calvin Johnson. Calvin was looking off, arms crossed,
his smooth black features a placid pool. 'Uh huh,' Myron said again.

'That's why I'd like to give you another chance.'

Myron was sure he'd heard wrong. 'Pardon?'

'We have a slot open on the team. I'd like to sign you.'

Myron waited. He looked at Clip. Then he looked at Calvin Johnson.
Neither one was laughing. 'Where is it?' Myron asked.

'What?'

'The camera. This is one of those hidden camera shows, right? Is this the
one with Ed McMahon? I'm a big fan of his work.'

'It's not a joke, Myron.'

'It must be, Mr Arnstein. I haven't played competitive ball in ten years. I
shattered my knee, remember?'

'All too well. But as you said, it was ten years ago. I know you went
through rehabilitation to rebuild it.'

'And you also know I tried a comeback. Seven years ago. The knee
wouldn't hold up.'

'It was still too early,' Clip said. 'You just told me you're playing again.'

'Pick-up games on weekends. It's a tad different than the NBA.'

Clip dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. 'You're in shape.
You even volunteered to flex.'

Myron's eyes narrowed, swerving from Clip to Calvin Johnson, back to
Clip. Their expressions were neutral. 'Why do I have the feeling,' Myron
asked, 'that I'm missing something here?'

Clip finally smiled. He looked over to Calvin Johnson. Calvin Johnson
forced up a return smile.

'Perhaps I should be less' - Clip paused, searched for the word 'opaque.'
'That might be helpful.'

'I want you on the team. I don't much care if you play or not.'

Myron waited again. When no one continued, he said, 'It's still a bit
opaque.'

Clip let loose a long breath. He walked over to the bar, opened a small
hotel-style fridge, and removed a can of Yoo-hoo. Stocking Yoohoos.
Hmm. Clip had been prepared. 'You still drink this sludge?'

'Yes,' Myron said.

He tossed Myron the can and poured something from a decanter into
two glasses. He handed one to Calvin Johnson. He signaled to the seats by
the glass window. Exactly midcourt. Very nice. Nice leg room too. Even
Calvin, who was six-eight, was able to stretch a bit. The three men sat next
to one another, all facing the same way, which again felt weird in a business
setting. You were supposed to sit across from one another, preferably at a
table or desk. Instead they sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the work crew
pound the floor into place.

'Cheers,' Clip said.

He sipped his whiskey. Calvin Johnson just held his. Myron, obeying the
instructions on the can, shook his Yoohoo.

'If I'm not mistaken,' Clip continued, 'you're a lawyer now.'

'I'm a member of the bar,' Myron said. 'I don't practice much law.'

'You're a sports agent.'

'Yes.'

'I don't trust agents,' Clip said.

'Neither do I.'

'For the most part, they're bloodsucking leeches.'

'We prefer the term "parasitic entities,"' Myron said. 'It's more PC.'

Clip Arnstein leaned forward, his eyes zeroing in on Myron's. 'How do I
know I can trust you?'

Myron pointed at himself. 'My face,' he said. 'It screams trustworthiness.'

Clip did not smile. He leaned a little closer. 'What I'm about to tell you
must remain confidential.'

'Okay.'

'Do you give me your word it won't go any farther than this room?'

'Yes.'

Clip hesitated, glanced at Calvin Johnson, shifted in his seat. 'You know,
of course, Greg Downing.'

Of course. Myron had grown up with Greg Downing. From the time they
had first competed as sixth graders in a town league less than twenty miles
from where Myron now sat, they were instant rivals. When they reached
high school, Greg's family moved to the neighboring town of Essex Fells
because Greg's father did not want his son sharing the basketball spotlight
with Myron. The personal rivalry then began to take serious flight. They
played against each other eight times in high school, each winning four
games. Myron and Greg became New Jersey's hottest recruits and both
matriculated at big-time basketball colleges with a storied rivalry of their
own - Myron to Duke, Greg to North Carolina.

The personal rivalry soared.

During their college careers, they had shared two Sports Illustrated covers.
Both teams won the ACC twice, but Myron picked up a national
championship. Both Myron and Greg were picked first-team Ail-American,

both at the guard spots. By the time they both graduated, Duke and North
Carolina had played each other twelve times. The Myron-led Duke had won
eight of them. When the NBA draft came, both men went in the first round.

The personal rivalry crashed and burned.

Myron's career ended when he collided with big Burt Wesson. Greg
Downing sidestepped fate and went on to become one of the NBA premier
guards. During his ten-year career with the New Jersey Dragons Downing
had been named to the All-Star team eight times. He led the league twice in
three-point shooting. Four times he led the league in free-throw percentage
and once in assists. He'd been on three Sports Illustrated covers and had
won an NBA championship.

'I know him,' Myron said.

'Do you talk to him much?' Clip Arnstein asked.

'No.'

'When was the last time you spoke?'

I don't remember.'

'Within the last few days?'

'I don't think we've spoken in ten years,' Myron said.

'Oh,' Clip said. He took another sip. Calvin had still not touched his
drink. 'Well, I'm sure you heard about his injury.'

'Something with his ankle,' Myron said. 'It's day to day. He's in seclusion
working on it.'

Clip nodded. 'That's the story we gave the media anyway. It's not exactly
the truth.'

'Oh?'

'Greg isn't injured,' Clip said. 'He's missing.'

'Missing?' Again the probing interrogatory.

'Yes.' Clip took another sip. Myron sipped back, not an easy task with
Yoohoo.

'Since when?' Myron asked.

'Five days now.'

Myron looked at Calvin. Calvin remained placid but he had that kind of
face. During his playing days, his nickname had been Frosty because he
never displayed emotion. He was living up to his name now.

Myron tried again. 'When you say Greg is missing--

'Gone,' Clip snapped. 'Disappeared. Into thin air. Without a trace.
Whatever you want to call it.'

'Have you called the police?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

Clip gave him the wave-off again. 'You know Greg. He's not a
conventional guy.'

The understatement of the millennium.

'He never does the expected,' Clip said. 'He hates the fame. He likes to be

on his own. He's even disappeared before, though never during a playoff drive.'

'So?'

'So there's a good chance he's just being his usually flaky self,' Clip
continued. 'Greg can shoot like a dream, but let's face facts: the man is a
couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. You know what Downing does after
games?'

Myron shook his head.

'He drives a cab in the city. That's right, a goddamn yellow taxi cab in
New York City. Says it keeps him close to the common man. Greg won't do
appearances or endorsements. He doesn't do interviews. He doesn't even do
the charity thing. He dresses like something out of a seventies sitcom. The
man is a nut job.'

'All of which makes him immensely popular with the fans,' Myron said.
'Which sells tickets.'

'I agree,' Clip said, 'but that just underlines my point. If we call the cops it
could damage both him and the team. Can you imagine the media circus if
this got out?'

'It would be bad,' Myron admitted.

'Exactly. And suppose Greg is just hanging out in French Lick or
whatever hickville town he goes to in the off-season, fishing or something?
Christ, we'd never hear the end of it. On the other hand, suppose he's up to
something.'

'Up to something?' Myron repeated.

'Hell, I don't know. I'm just talking here. But I don't need a goddamn
scandal. Not now. Not with the playoffs coming up, you know what I'm
saying?'

Not really, but Myron decided to let it go for now. 'Who else knows
about this?'

'Just the three of us.'

The work crew rolled in the baskets. Two extras were kept in storage in
case someone pulled a Darryl Dawkins and shattered a backboard. They
then began putting down additional seats. Like most arenas, the Meadow
lands holds more seats for basketball than hockey - in this case around a thousand more. Myron took another sip of Yoo-hoo and let it roll around his tongue. He waited until it slid down his throat before he asked the
obvious question. 'So how do I fit in?'

Clip hesitated. His breathing was deep, almost labored. I know something
of your years with the FBI,' he said finally. 'No details, of course. Not even vagaries really, but enough to know you have a background in that
kinda stuff. We want you to find Greg. Quietly.'

Myron said nothing. His 'undercover' work for the feds, it seemed, was
the worst kept secret in the continental United States. Clip sipped 1
drink. He looked at Calvin's full glass, then at Calvin. Calvin finally took

a sip. Clip turned his attention back to Myron. 'Greg's divorced now,'
Clip went on. 'He's basically a loner. All his friends - hell, all his
acquaintances - are teammates. They're his support group, if you will.
His family. If anyone knows where he is - if anyone's helping him stay
hidden - it's got to be one of the Dragons. I'll be honest with you. These
guys are a major pain in the ass. Spoiled, pampered prima donnas who
think our purpose in life is to serve them. But they all have one thing in
common: They see management as the enemy. Us against the world and
all that crap. They won't tell us the truth. They won't tell reporters the
truth. And if you approach them as some, uh, "parasitic entity," they
won't talk to you either. You have to be a player. It's the only way to get
on the inside.'

'So you want me to join the team so I can find Greg.'

Myron heard the echoes of hurt in his voice. It was unintentional, but he
saw that both men heard it too. His face flushed in embarrassment.

Clip put a hand on his shoulder. I meant what I said, Myron. You could
have been great. One of the greatest.'

Myron took a deep swig of his Yoo-hoo. No more sipping. 'I'm sorry, Mr
Arnstein. I can't help you.'

The scowl was back. 'What?'

'I have a life. I'm a sports agent. I have clients to tend to. I can't just drop
it all.'

'You'll get the player's minimum prorated. That's two hundred thousand
dollars less whatever. And there's only a couple of weeks left until the
playoffs. We'll keep you on till then no matter what.'

'No. My playing days are over. And I'm not a private investigator.'

'But we need to find him. He could be in danger.'

'I'm sorry. The answer is no.'

Clip smiled. 'Suppose I sweeten the pot.'

'No.'

'Fifty-thousand-dollar signing bonus.'
'I'm sorry.'

Greg could show up tomorrow and you'd still get to keep that. Fifty
grand. Plus a share of playoff money.'

'No.'

Clip sat back. He stared at his drink, dipped his finger into it, stirred. His fa ce was casual. 'You say you're an agent, right?'
Yes.'

I'm very friendly with the parents of three guys that will go in the first
round. Did you know that?'

'No;

Clip said slowly, 'I guarantee you that one of them signs with
you.

Myron pricked up. A first round draft pick. He tried to keep his

expression cool - to do like Frosty - but his heart was thumping. 'How can
you do that?'

'Don't worry about how.'

'It doesn't sound ethical.'

Clip made a scoffing noise. 'Myron, don't play choirboy with me. You do
me this favor and MB SportsReps gets a first round draft pick. Guaranteed.
No matter how this thing with Greg plays out.'

MB SportsReps. Myron's company. Myron Bolitar, ergo MB. Representing
sports people, ergo SportsReps. Add it together: MB SportsReps. Myron
came up with that name on his own but still no offers came in from major
advertising companies to use his services.

'Make it a hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus,' Myron said.

Clip smiled. 'You've learned well, Myron.'

Myron shrugged.

'Seventy-five thousand,' Clip said. 'And you'll take it so don't bullshit a
bullshitter.'

The two men shook hands.

'I have a few more questions about the disappearance,' Myron said.

Using both armrests Clip rose and stood over Myron. 'Calvin will answer
all your questions,' he said with a nod toward his general manager. 'I have
to go now.'

'So when do you want me to start practicing?'

Clip looked surprised. 'Practicing?'

'Yeah. When do you want me to start?'

'We have a game tonight.'

'Tonight?'

'Of course,' Clip said.

'You want me to suit up tonight?'

'We're playing our old team, the Celtics. Calvin will make sure you have a
uniform by game time. Press conference at six to announce your signing.
Don't be late.' Clip headed toward the door. 'And wear that tie. I like it.'

'Tonight?' Myron repeated, but Clip was already gone.

2

After Clip left the box, Calvin Johnson allowed himself a small smile. 'I
warned you it would be strange.'

'Serious strange,' Myron agreed.

'Finished with your nutritious chocolate beverage?'

Myron put down the can. 'Yeah.'

'Come on. Let's get you ready for the big debut.'

Calvin Johnson walked fluidly, back straight. He was black, six-foot
eight, thin but not gawky or disproportionate. He wore an olive Brooks
Brothers suit. Perfectly tailored. Perfectly knotted tie. Perfectly shined
shoes. His tightly kinked hair was receding, making his forehead overly
prominent and shiny. When Myron matriculated at Duke, Calvin had been
a senior at North Carolina. That made him around thirty-five years old, though he looked older. Calvin had enjoyed a solid pro career over eleven
seasons. When he retired three years ago, everyone knew he'd end up in the
front office. He started off as an assistant coach, moved to player personnel,
and just recently was promoted to vice president and general manager of
the New Jersey Dragons. These however were just titles. Clip ran the show.
General managers, vice presidents, player personnel, trainers, even coaches
all bent to his will.

'I hope you're all right with this,' Calvin said.

'Why wouldn't I be all right?'

Calvin shrugged. 'I played against you,' he said.

'So?'

'You were the most competitive son of a bitch I ever faced,' Calvin said.
'You'd stomp on someone's head to win. Now you're going to be a pissant
bench-warmer. How's that going to sit with you?'

'I can handle it,' Myron said.

'Uh huh.'

'I've mellowed over the years.'

Calvin shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'No?'

You may think you've mellowed. You may even think you've got
basketball out of your system.'

'I have.'

Calvin stopped, smiled, spread his arms. 'Sure you have. just look at you.
You could be the poster child for life after sports. A fine example to your
fellow athletes. Your whole career crashed down around your ears, but you
rose to the challenge. You went back to school - at Harvard Law no less.
You started up your own business - a growing company in the field of
sports representation. You still dating that writer?'

He meant Jessica. Their togetherness seemed to always be an iffy thing
but Myron said, 'Yes.'

'So you got the education, the job, and the gorgeous girlfriend. Yep, on
the outside you're happy and well adjusted.'

'On the inside too.'

Calvin shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

Everyone's Dr Joyce Brothers. 'Hey, I didn't ask to be put on the team.'

'No, but you didn't argue much either - except to up your price.'

'I'm an agent. That's what I do. I up the price.'

Calvin stopped and looked at Myron. 'Do you really think you have to be
on the team to find Greg?'

'Clip seemed to think so.'

'Clip is a great man,' Calvin said, 'but he often has ulterior motives.'

'Like what?'

Calvin did not respond. He started walking again.

They reached the elevator. Calvin pressed the button and the doors
immediately slid open. They stepped inside and began to descend. 'Look me
in the eye,' Calvin said. 'Look me in the eye and tell me you never think
about playing again.'

'Who doesn't think about it?' Myron countered.

'Yeah, but tell me you don't take it one step further. Tell me you never
drift off and dream about making a comeback. Even now, when you're
watching a game on TV, tell me you don't sit there and do a slow burn. Tell
me you never watch Greg and think about all the adulation and fame. Tell
me you never say, "I was better than him," because it's the truth. Greg is
great. One of the top ten players in the league. But you were better, Myron.
We both know that.'

'Long time ago,' Myron said.

Calvin smiled. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Right.'
'What's your point?'

'You're here to find Greg. Once he's found, you're gone. The novelty will
be over. Clip will be able to say he gave you a chance, but you weren't up to
the challenge. He'll still be the good guy with the good press.'

'Good press,' Myron repeated, remembering the upcoming press conference.
'One of his ulterior motives?'

Calvin shrugged. 'Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you understand
you don't have a chance. You're only going to play during scrub time

and we rarely win or lose by a lot so that doesn't happen and even if it does,
even if you play spectacularly, we both know it's scrub time. And you won't
play well because you are such a competitive son of a bitch, you need the
points to mean something to the outcome of the game or you don't play
your best.'

'I understand,' Myron said.

'I hope you do, my friend.' Calvin looked up at the numbered lights. The
lights flickered in his brown eyes. 'Dreams never die. Sometimes you think
they're dead, but they're just hibernating like some big old bear. And if the
dream has been hibernating for a long time, that bear is going to wake up
grumpy and hungry.'

'You should write country songs,' Myron said.

Calvin shook his head. 'Just giving a friend fair warning.'

'Much obliged. Now why don't you tell me what you know about Greg's
disappearance?'

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Calvin led the way. 'Not
much to tell,' he said. 'We played against the Sixers in Philly. After the game
Greg got on the bus with everybody else. When we got here, he got off the
bus with everybody else. The last time anyone saw him he was getting into
his car. The end.'

'How did Greg seem that night?'

'Fine. He played well against Philly. Scored twenty-seven points.'

'And his mood?'

Calvin thought about it. 'Nothing I noticed,' he said.

'Anything new going on in his life?'

'New?'

'Changes, that kind of thing.'

'Well, the divorce,' Calvin said. 'It's been nasty. I understand Emily can
be quite difficult.' He stopped walking again and smiled at Myron. The
Cheshire cat smile. Myron stopped but did not return the smile.

'Something on your mind, Frosty?'

The smile spread a bit farther. 'Weren't you and Emily an item at one
time?'

'A lifetime ago.'

'College sweethearts, if I recall.'

'Like I said, a lifetime ago.'

'So,' Calvin said, starting to walk again, 'you were even better with the
women than Greg.'

Myron ignored the comment. 'Does Clip know about my so-called past
with Emily?'

'He's very thorough.'

So that explains why you chose me,' Myron said.

It was a consideration, but I don't think it's too important.'

'Oh?'

'Greg hates Emily. He'd never confide in her. But since this whole
custody battle started there's definitely been a change in Greg.'

'How so?'

'For one thing, he signed a deal with Forte sneakers.'

Myron was surprised. 'Greg? An endorsement deal?'

'It's very hush-hush,' Calvin said. 'They're supposed to announce it end
of the month, right before the playoffs.'

Myron whistled. 'They must have paid him a bundle.'

'A bundle and a half, I hear. Upwards of ten million a year.'

'Makes sense,' Myron said. 'A popular player who has refused to endorse
any products for more than a decade - it's an irresistible draw. Forte does
well with track and tennis shoes, but they're fairly unknown in the
basketball world. Greg gives them instant credibility.'

'That he does,' Calvin agreed.

'Any idea why he changed his mind after all these years?'

Calvin shrugged. 'Maybe Greg realized he wasn't getting any younger and
wanted to cash in. Maybe this whole divorce thing. Maybe he got whacked
on the head and woke up with an iota of sanity.'

'Where's he been living since the divorce?'

'In the house in Ridgewood. It's in Bergen County.'

Myron knew it well. He asked for the address. Calvin gave it to him.
'What about Emily?' Myron asked. 'Where's she staying?'

'She and the kids are with her mother. I think they're in Franklin Lakes or
thereabouts.'

'Have you done any checking yet - Greg's house, his credit cards, bank
accounts?'

Calvin shook his head. 'Clip thought this thing was too big to trust to an
agency. That's why we called you. I've driven past Greg's house a few times,
knocked on the door once. No car in the driveway or garage. No lights on.'

'But no one's checked inside the house?'

'No.'

'So for all you know he slipped in the bathtub and hit his head.'

Calvin looked at him. I said, no lights on. You think he bathed in the
dark?'

'That's a good point,' Myron said.

'Some hotshot investigator.'

'I'm a slow starter.'

They arrived at the team room. 'Wait here,' Calvin said.

Myron took out his cellular. 'Mind if I make a call?'
'Go ahead.'

Calvin disappeared behind the door. Myron turned on the power and
dialed. Jessica answered on the second ring. 'Hello?'

'I'm going to have to cancel dinner tonight,' Myron said.

'You better have a good excuse,' Jessica said.

'A great one. I'll be playing professional basketball for the New Jersey
Dragons.'
'That's nice. Have a good game, dear.'

'I'm serious. I'm playing for the Dragons. Actually, "playing" is probably
not the right word. Might be more accurate to say I'll be getting fanny sores
for the Dragons.'

'Are you for real?'

'It's a long story, but yes, I'm now officially a professional basketball
player.'

Silence.

'I've never boffed a professional basketball player,' Jessica said. I'll be just
like Madonna.'

'Like a virgin,' Myron said.

'Wow. Talk about a dated reference.'

'Yeah, well, what can I say. I'm an eighties kinda guy.'

'So, Mr Eighties, you going to tell me what's going on?'

'No time now. Tonight. After the game. I'll leave a ticket at the
window."

Calvin stuck his head back in. 'What's your waist? Thirty-four?'

'Thirty-six. Maybe thirty-seven.'

Calvin nodded and withdrew. Myron dialed the private line of Windsor
Home Lockwood III, president of the prestigious investment firm of Lock
Home Securities in midtown Manhattan. Win answered on the third ring.

'Articulate,' Win said.

Myron shook his head. 'Articulate?'

'I said articulate, not repeat.'

'We have a case,' Myron said.

'Oh yippee,' he drawled in that preppy, Philly Main-Line accent of his.
'I'm enthralled. I'm elated. But before I completely wet myself, I must ask
one question.'

'Shoot.'

'Is this case of your customary charity persuasion?'

'Wet away,' Myron said. 'The answer is no.'

'What? No moral crusade for brave Myron?'

'Not this time.'

'Heavens be, do tell.'

'Greg Downing is missing. It's our job to find him.'

'And for services rendered we receive?'

'At least seventy-five grand plus a first round draft pick as a client.' Now
was not the time to fill Win in on his temporary career change.

My, my,' Win said happily. 'Pray tell, what shall we do first?'

Myron gave him the address of Greg's house in Ridgewood. 'Meet me
there in two hours.'

'I'll take the Batmobile,' Win said and hung up.

Calvin returned. He held out a purple-and-aqua Dragon uniform. 'Try
this on.'

Myron did not reach for it right away. He stared at it, his stomach
twisting and diving. When he spoke his voice was soft. 'Number thirty
four?'

'Yeah,' Calvin said. 'Your old number at Duke. I remembered.'

Silence.

Calvin finally broke it. 'Go try it on.'

Myron felt something well up in his eye. He shook his head. 'No need,' he
said. I'm sure it's the right size.'

3

Ridgewood was a primo suburb, one of those old towns that still calls itself a
village, where ninety-five percent of the students go on to college and no
one lets their kids associate with the other five percent. There were a couple of strips of tract housing, a few examples of the mid-sixties suburban
explosion, but for the most part Ridgewood's fine homes dated from an
earlier, theoretically more innocent time.

Myron found the Downing house without any problem. Old Victorian.
Very big but not unwieldy, three levels with perfectly faded cedar shingles.
On the left side there was one of those rounded towers with a pointy top.
Lots of outdoor porch space with all the Rockwellian touches: the kind of
double swing where Atticus and Scout would share a lemonade on a hot
Alabama night; a child's bicycle tipped on its side; a Flexible Flyer snow
sled, though it hadn't snowed in six weeks. The required basketball hoop
hung slightly rusted over the driveway. Fire Department 'Tot Finder'
stickers glistened red and silver from two upstairs windows. Old oak trees
lined the walk like weathered sentries.

Win hadn't arrived yet. Myron parked and rolled down a window. The
perfect mid-March day. The sky was robin-egg blue. The birds chirped in
cliche. He tried to picture Emily here, but the picture would not hold. It was
far easier to see her in a New York high rise or one of those nouveau-riche
mansions all done in white with Erte sculptures and silver pearls and too
many gaudy mirrors. Then again he hadn't spoken to Emily in ten years.
She may have changed. Or he may have misjudged her all those years ago.
Wouldn't be the first time.

Funny being back in Ridgewood. Jessica had grown up here. She didn't
like coming back anymore, but now the two loves of his life - Jessica and
Emily - had something else in common: the village of Ridgewood. That
could be added to the list of commonalities between the two women - stuff
like meeting Myron, being courted by Myron, falling in love with Myron,
crushing Myron's heart like a tomato under a stiletto heel. The usual fare.

Emily had been his first. Freshman year of college was late to lose one's yirginity, if one were to listen to the boasts of friends. But if there had
mdeed been a sexual revolution among American teenagers in the late

seventies/early eighties, Myron had either missed it or been on the wrong
side. Women had always liked him - it wasn't that. But while his friends
discoursed in great detail on their various orgylike experiences, Myron
seemed to attract the wrong girls, the nice girls, the ones who still said no -- or would have had Myron had the courage (or foresight) to try.

That changed in college when he met Emily.

Passion. It's a word bandied about quite a bit, but Myron thought it
might apply here. At a minimum, unconfined lust. Emily was the type of
woman a man labels 'hot,' as opposed to 'beautiful.' See a truly 'beautiful'
woman and you want to paint or write a poem. See Emily and you want to
engage in mutual fabric-ripping. She was raw sexuality, maybe ten pounds
bigger than she should have been but those pounds were exquisitely
distributed. The two of them made a potent mix. They were both under
twenty, both away from home for the first time, both creative.

In a word: kabootn.

The car phone rang. Myron picked it up.

'I assume,' Win said, 'that you plan on having us break into the Downing
residence.'

'Yes.'

'Then parking your car in front of said residence would not be a sound
decision, would it?'

Myron glanced about. 'Where are you?'

'Drive down to the end of the block. Make a left, then your second right.
I'm parked behind the office building.'

Myron hung up and restarted the car. He followed the directions and
pulled into the lot. Win leaned against his Jaguar with his arms crossed. He
looked, as he always did, as if he were posing for the cover of WASP Quarterly. His blond hair was perfectly in place. His complexion slightly
ruddy, his features porcelain and high and a little too perfect. He wore
khaki pants, a blue blazer, Top-Siders sans socks, and a loud Lilly Pulitzer
tie. Win looked like what you'd picture a guy named Windsor Home
Lockwood III to look like - elitist, self-absorbed, wimpy.

Well, two out of three ain't bad.

The office building held an eclectic mix. Gynecologist. Electrolysis.
Subpoena delivery service. Nutritionist. Women-only health club. Not
surprisingly Win was standing near the entrance to the women-only health
club. Myron approached.

'How did you know I was parked in front of the house?'

Keeping his eye on the entranceway Win motioned with his head. 'Up
that hill. You can see everything with a pair of binoculars.'

A woman in her early twenties wearing a black Lycra aerobics suit walked
out carrying a baby. It hadn't taken her long to get her figure back. Win
smiled at her. The woman smiled back.

'I love young mothers,' Win said.

'You love women in Lycra,' Myron corrected.

Win nodded. 'There's that.' He snapped on a pair of sunglasses. 'Shall we
begin?'

'You think breaking into that house will be a problem?'

Win made his I'll pretend-you-didn't-ask-that face. Another woman
exited the health club; sadly, this one did not warrant a Win smile. 'Fill me
in,' Win said. 'And move away. I want to make sure they can see the Jag.'

Myron told him all he knew. Eight women came out in the five minutes it
took to tell the story. Only two of them were awarded The Smile. One wore
a tiger-striped leotard. She was treated to the Full-Wattage Smile, the one
that almost touched Win's eyes.

Win's face did not seem to register anything Myron said. Even when he
told him about taking Greg's temporary slot on the Dragons, Win went on
staring hopefully at the health club door. Normal Win behavior. Myron
finished up by asking, 'Any questions?'

Win bounced a finger against his lip. 'Do you think the one in the tiger
striped leotard was wearing any underwear?'

'I don't know,' Myron said, 'but she was definitely wearing a wedding
band.'

Win shrugged. Didn't matter to him. Win didn't believe in love or
relationships with the opposite sex. Some might take this for simple sexism.
They'd be wrong. Women weren't objects to Win; objects sometimes got his
respect.

'Follow me,' Win said.

They were less than half a mile from the Downing house. Win had
already scouted it out and found the path with the least chance of being
seen or arousing suspicion. They walked in the comfortable silence of two
men who had known each other a long time and very well.

'There's one interesting aside in all this,' Myron said.

Win waited.

'Do you remember Emily Schaeffer?' Myron asked.

'The name rings a bell.'

'I dated her for two years at Duke.' Win and Myron had met at Duke.
They had also been roommates for all four years. It had been Win who had
introduced Myron to the martial arts, who had gotten him involved with
Feds. Win was now a top producer at his Lock-Home Securities on Park
Avenue, a securities firm that had been run by Win's family since the
market had first opened. Myron rented space from Win, and Win also
handled all money-matters for MB SportsReps' clients.

Win thought a bit. 'Is she the one who used to make the little monkey
noises?'

No,' Myron said.

Win seemed surprised. 'Who was the one who made the little monkey
noises?'

'I have no idea.'

'Maybe it was someone I was with.'

'Maybe.'

Win considered this, shrugged. 'What about her?'

'She used to be married to Greg Downing.'

'Divorced?'

'Yep.'

'I remember her now,' Win said. 'Emily Schaeffer. Built.'

Myron nodded.

'I never liked her,' Win said. 'Except for those little monkey noises. They
were rather interesting.'

'She wasn't the one who made monkey noises.'

Win smiled gently. 'The walls were thin,' he said.

'And you used to listen in?'

'Only when you pulled down the shade so I couldn't watch.'

Myron shook his head. 'You're a pig,' he said.

'Better than a monkey.'

They reached the front lawn and proceeded to the door. The secret was
to look like you belonged. If you scurried around back, hunched over,
someone might take notice. Two men in ties approaching the door does not
normally lead one to think thief.

There was a metal keypad with a little red light. The light was on.

'Alarm,' Myron said.

Win shook his head. 'Fake. It's just a light. Probably bought it at Sharper
Image.' Win looked at the lock and made a tsk-tsk noise. 'A Kwiktight
brand on a pro basketball player's salary,' he said, clearly disgusted. 'Might
as well use Play-Doh.'

'What about the dead bolt?' Myron asked.

'It's not locked.'

Win already had out his strip of celluloid. Credit cards are too stiff.
Celluloid worked much better - known as 'loiding the lock. In no more
time than it would take with a key, the door was open and they were inside
the front foyer. The door had a chute and the mail was all over the place.
Myron quickly checked some postage dates. No one had been here in at
least five days.

The decor was nice in a fake-rustic, Martha Stewart sort of way. The
furniture was what they called 'simple country' where the look was indeed
simple and the price outrageous. Lots of pines and wickers and antiques and
dry flowers. The smell of potpourri was strong and cloying.

They split up. Win went upstairs to the home office. He turned on the
computer and began to download everything onto floppy disks. Myron
found the answering machine in a room that used to be called a 'den' but
now went by such lofty titles as the 'California room' or 'great room.' The
machine announced the time and date of each message. Awfully convenient. Myron pressed a button. The tape rewound and started playing.
On the first message, which according to the digital voice was received at
9:18 p.m. the night Greg vanished, Myron hit bingo.

A shaky woman's voice said, 'It's Carla. I'll be in the back booth until
midnight.' Click.

Myron rewound and listened again. There were lots of noises in the
background - people chatting, music, glasses clinking. The call had
probably been placed from a bar or restaurant, especially with that back
booth reference. So who was this Carla? A girlfriend? Probably. Who else
would call that late to set up a meeting for even later that night? But of
course this had not been just any night. Greg Downing had vanished
sometime between the time this call was made and the next morning.

Strange coincidence.

So where did they meet - assuming Greg had indeed made their back
booth liaison? And why did Carla, whoever she might be, sound so shaky -- or was this just Myron's imagination?

Myron listened to the rest of the tape. No other messages from Carla. If
Greg hadn't shown up at said back booth, wouldn't Carla have called again?
Probably. So for now, Myron could safely assume that Greg Downing had
seen Carla sometime before his disappearance.

A clue.

There were also four calls from Martin Felder, Greg's agent. He seemed to
grow more perturbed with each message. The last one said, 'Jesus, Greg, how
can you not call me? Is the ankle serious or what? And don't go incommunicado
on me now, not when we're wrapping up the Forte deal. Call me,
okay?' There were also three calls from a man named Chris Darby who
apparently worked for Forte Sports Incorporated. He too sounded panicked.
'Marty won't tell me where you are. I think he's playing a game with us, Greg,
trying to up the price or something. But we had a deal, am I right? Let me
give you my home number, okay, Greg? How bad's this injury anyhow?'

Myron smiled. Martin Felder's client was missing, but he was doing all he
could to turn it into a positive lever. Agents. He pressed the mode button
on the answering machine several times. Eventually the LCD screen scrolled
to reveal the code number Greg had set to call in for messages: 317. A fairly
new trick of the trade. Now Myron could call in anytime, press 317, and
hear what messages had been left on the machine. He hit the redial button
on the phone. Another fairly new trick. Find out who Greg called last. The
phone rang twice and was picked up by a woman saying, 'Kimmel
Brothers.' Whoever they were. Myron hung up.

Myron joined up with Win in the upstairs office. Win continued copying computer disks while Myron went through the drawers. Nothing
Particularly helpful.

They moved on to the master bedroom. The king-size bed was made.

night tables were cluttered with pens and keys and papers.

Both.

Curious for a man who lived alone.

Myron's eyes swept the room and landed on a reading chair that doubled
as a dressing dummy. Greg's clothes were strewn over one arm and the
back. Normal enough, Myron guessed - neater than Myron, in fact, though
that wasn't saying much. But looking again, he noticed something a tad
strange on the other arm of the chair. Two articles of clothing. A white
blouse and a gray skirt.

Myron looked at Win.

'They might belong to Miss Monkey Noises,' Win said.

Myron shook his head. 'Emily hasn't lived here in months. Why would
her clothes still be on a chair?'

The bathroom, too, proved interesting. A large Jacuzzi on the right, a big
steam shower with a sauna, and two vanities. They checked the vanities first.
One contained a can of men's shaving cream, a roll-on deodorant, a bottle
of Polo after-shave, a Gillette Atra razor. The other vanity had an open
makeup case, Calvin Klein perfume, baby powder, and Secret Roll-On. A
sprinkling of baby powder was on the floor near the vanity. There were also
two disposable Lady Schick razors in the soap dish next to the Jacuzzi.

'He's got a girlfriend,' Myron said.

'A professional basketball player shacking up with some nubile lass,' Win
remarked. 'Quite a revelation. Perhaps one of us should cry out, "Eureka."'

'Yes, but it raises an interesting question,' Myron said. 'If her boyfriend
had suddenly vanished, wouldn't said lover have reported it?'

'Not,' Win said, 'if she were with him.'

Myron nodded. He told Win about the cryptic message from Carla.

Win shook his head. 'If they were planning on running away,' he said,
'why would she say where they were meeting?'

'She didn't say where. Only in a back booth at midnight.'

'Still,' Win said. 'It's not exactly the kind of thing you do before you
disappear. Let's say that for some reason Carla and Greg decide to vanish
for a little while. Wouldn't Greg know where and when to meet her before
the fact?'

Myron shrugged. 'Maybe she was changing their meeting place.'

'From what? Front booths to back booths?'

'Damned if I know.'

They checked the rest of the upstairs. Not much doing. Greg's son's
bedroom had racing-car wallpaper and a poster of Dad driving past Penny
Hardaway for a layup. The daughter's room was done in Early American
Barney - dinosaurs and purple. No clues. In fact there were no other clues
until they reached the basement.

When they turned on the lights, Myron saw it right away.

It was a finished basement, a brightly colored playroom for the kids.
There were lots of Little Tikes cars and big Legos and a plastic house with a

sliding board. There were scenes from Disney movies like Aladdin and The
Lion King on the wall. There was a television and a VCR. There was stuff
too for when the kids got a little older - a pinball machine, a jukebox. There
were small rocking chairs and mattresses and knock-around couches.

There was also blood. A fair amount of it in drips on the floor. Another
fair amount smeared on a wall.

Bile nestled in Myron's throat. He had seen blood many times in his life,
but it still left him queasy. Not so with Win. Win approached the crimson
stains with something akin to amusement on his face. He bent to get a
better look. Then he stood back up.

'Look at the bright side,' Win said. 'Your temporary slot on the Dragons
may become more permanent.'

4

There was no body. Just the blood.

Using Glad sandwich bags he found in the kitchen, Win collected a few
samples. Ten minutes later they were back outside, the lock on the front
door reengaged. A blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 drove past them. Two men sat
in the front seat. Myron glanced at Win. Win barely nodded.

'A second pass,' Myron said.

'Third,' Win said. I saw them when I first drove up.'

'They're not exactly experts at this,' Myron said.

'No,' Win agreed. 'But of course, they hadn't known the job would
require expertise.'

'Can you run the plates?'

Win nodded. I'll also run Greg's ATM and credit card transactions,' he
said. He reached the Jag and unlocked it. 'I'll contact you when I have
something. It shouldn't take more than a few hours.'

'You heading back to the office?'

I'm going to Master Kwon's first,' Win said.

Master Kwon was their tae kwon do instructor. Both of them were black
belts - Myron a third degree, Win a sixth degree, one of the highest ranking
Caucasians in the world. Win was the best martial artist Myron had ever
seen. He studied several different arts including Brazilian jujitsu, animal
kung fu, and Jeet Kun Do. Win the Contradiction. See Win and you think
pampered, preppy panty-waist; in reality, he was a devastating fighter. See
Win and you think normal, well-adjusted human being; in reality, he was
anything but.

'What are you doing tonight?' Myron asked.

Win shrugged. I'm not sure.'

I can get you a ticket to the game,' Myron said.

Win said nothing.

'Do you want to go?'

'No.'

Without another word, Win slipped behind the wheel of his Jag, started
the engine, peeled out with nary a squeal. Myron stood and watched him
speed away, puzzled by his friend's abruptness. But then again, to

paraphrase one of the four questions of Passover: why should today be
different than any other day?

He checked his watch. He still had a few hours before the big press
conference. Enough time to get back to the office and tell Esperanza about
his career shift. More than anyone else, his playing for the Dragons would
affect her.

He took Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge. There was no waiting
at the tolls. Proof there was a God. The Henry Hudson however was backed
up. He swung off near Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center to get on
Riverside Drive. The squeegee guys - the homeless men who 'cleaned' your
windshield with a mixture of equal parts grease, Tabasco sauce, and urine were
no longer at the light. Mayor Giuliani's doing, Myron guessed. They
had been replaced by Hispanic men selling flowers and something that
looked like construction paper. He asked once what it was and had gotten
an answer back in Spanish. As much as Myron could translate, the paper
smelled nice and spruced up any home. Maybe that was what Greg used as
potpourri.

Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on
46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus
up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win's Jag; in fact, he usually managed
to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for
loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where
were the support groups?

The Lock-Home Securities Building was on Park Avenue and 46th,
perpendicular to the Helmsley building. High-rent district. The street
bustled with the doings of big finance. Several stretch limos double-parked
illegally in front of the building. The ugly modern sculpture that looked like
someone's intestines stood pitifully in its usual place. Men and women in
business attire sat on the steps, eating sandwiches too hurriedly, lost in their
own thoughts, many talking to themselves, rehearsing for an important
afternoon meeting or rehashing a morning mistake. People who worked in
Manhattan learned how to be surrounded by others yet remain completely
alone.

Myron entered the lobby and pressed the button for the elevator. He
nodded to the three Lock-Home Hostesses, known to everyone else as the
Lock-Home Geishas. They were all model/actress wanna-bes, hired to escort high rollers up to the offices of Lock-Home Securities and lookattractive while doing it. Win had brought the idea home after a trip to the
Far East. Myron guessed this could be more blatantly sexist, but he wasn't
sure how.

Esperanza Diaz, his valued associate, greeted him at the door. 'Where the
hell have you been?'

'We need to talk,' he said.

'Later. You've got a million messages.'

Esperanza wore a white blouse -- an absolute killer look against her dark
hair, dark eyes, and that dark skin that shimmered like moonlight on the
Mediterranean. Esperanza had been spotted by a modeling scout when she
was seventeen, but her career took a few weird turns and she ended up
making it big in the world of professional wrestling. Yes, professional
wrestling. She'd been known as Little Pocahontas, the brave Indian
Princess, the jewel of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (FLOW) organization.
Her costume was a suede bikini, and she was always cast as the good
guy in the morality play that was professional wrestling. She was young,
petite, tight-bodied, gorgeous, and though of Latin origin, she was dark
enough to pass for Native American. Racial backgrounds were irrelevant to
FLOW. The real name of Mrs Saddam Hussein, the evil harem girl in the
black veil, was Shari Weinberg.

The phone rang. Esperanza picked it up. 'MB SportsReps. Hold on a
moment, he's right here.' She flashed the eyes at him. 'Perry McKinley. It's
his third call today.'

'What does he want?'

She shrugged. 'Some people don't like dealing with underlings.'

'You're not an underling.'

She looked at him blankly. 'You going to take it or not?'

Being a sports agent was - to use computer terminology - a multitasking
environment with the capability of performing a variety of services with but
a click of a button. It was more than simple negotiating. Agents were
expected to be accountants, financial planners, real estate agents, hand
holders, personal shoppers, travel agents, family counselors, marriage
counselors, chauffeurs, errand boys, parental liaisons, lackeys, butt-kissers,
you name it. If you weren't willing to do all that for a client - to be what is
known as a 'full service agency' - the next guy would be.

The only way to compete was to have a team, and Myron felt he had
assembled a small yet extremely effective one. Win, for example, handled all
the finances for Myron's clients. He set up a special portfolio for each
player, met with them at least five times a year, made sure they understood
what their money was doing and why. Having Win gave Myron a big leg up
on the competition. Win was a near-legend in the financial world. His
reputation was impeccable (at least in the financial world) and his track
record unmatched. He gave Myron an instant 'in,' instant credibility in a
business where credibility was a rare and heady concoction.

Myron was the JD. Win was the MBA. Esperanza was the all-purpose
player, the unflappable chameleon who held it all together. It worked.

'We need to talk,' he said again.

'So we'll talk,' she said in a dismissing tone. 'First take this call.'

Myron entered his office. He overlooked Park Avenue in midtown. Great
View. On one wall he had posters of Broadway musicals. On another there
were movie stills from some of Myron's favorites: the Marx Brothers,

Woody Allen, Alfred Hitchcock, and a potpourri of other classics. On a
third wall were photographs of Myron's clients. The client wall was a bit
sparser than Myron would have liked. He imagined what it would look like
with an NBA first rounder in the middle.

Good, he decided. Very good.

He strapped on his headset.

'Hey, Perry.'

'Jesus Christ, Myron, I've been trying to reach you all day.'

'Good, Perry. And you.'

'Hey, I don't mean to be impatient but this is important. You get
anything on my boat?'

Perry McKinley was a golfer on the fringe, no pun intended. He was a
pro. He made some money, but he wasn't a name anyone but big golf fans
would recognize. Perry loved to sail and was in need of a new vessel.

'Yeah, I got something,' Myron said.

'What company?'

'Prince.'

Perry did not sound thrilled. 'Their boats are just okay,' he whined.
'Nothing great.'

'They'll let you trade in your old boat for a new one. You have to do five
personal appearances.'

'Five?'

'Yep.'

'For a Prince eighteen-footer? That's too many.'

'They originally wanted ten. But it's up to you.'

Perry thought about it a moment. 'Ah, shit, okay the deal. But first I want
to make sure I like the boat. A full eighteen-footer, right?'

'That's what they said.'

'Yeah, all right. Thanks, Myron. You're the best.'

They hung up. Bartering - an important component in the agent's
multitasking environment. No one ever paid for anything in this business.
Favors were exchanged. Trading products for some form of endorsement.
Want a free shirt? Wear it in public. Want a free car? Shake hands at a few
car shows. The big stars could demand serious payments in exchange for
their endorsements. The lesser-known athletes happily seized the freebies.

Myron stared at the pile of messages and shook his head. Playing for the
Dragons and keeping MB SportsReps afloat - how the hell was he going to
Pull it off?

He buzzed Esperanza. 'Come on in here please,' he said.

'I'm in the middle--'

'Now.'

Silence.

'Gosh,' she said, 'you're so macho.'

'Give me a break, huh?'

'No, really, I'm very frightened. I better drop everything and immediately
do your bidding.'

Her phone fell. She sprinted in, feigning fear and breathlessness. 'Fast
enough?'

'Yes.'

'So what is it?'

He told her. When he came to the part where he'd be playing for the
Dragons, he was once again surprised to see no reaction. This was strange.
First Win, now Esperanza. The two of them were his closest friends. They
both lived for ridiculing him. Yet neither one of them had taken advantage
of the obvious opening. Their silence on the subject of his 'comeback' was a
tad unnerving.

'Your clients aren't going to like this,' she said.

'Our clients,' he corrected.

She made a face. 'Does it make you feel better to be patronizing?'

Myron ignored the comment. 'We have to turn this into a positive,' he
said.

'How?'

'I'm not sure,' he said slowly. He leaned back in his chair. 'We can say
that the publicity of all this will help them.'

'How?'

'I can make new contacts,' he said, the ideas coming to him even as he
spoke. 'I can get closer to sponsors, learn more about them. More people
will hear about me and indirectly my clients.'

Esperanza made a scoffing sound. 'And you think that's going to fly?'

'Why not?'

'Because it's bullshit. "Indirectly my clients." Sounds like trickle-down
economics.'

She had a point. 'What's the big deal really?' he asked, palms to the
ceiling. 'Basketball will only be a couple of hours a day. I'll be here the rest
of the time. I'll have the cellular phone with me all the time. We just have to
emphasize that I won't be there long.'

Esperanza looked at him skeptically.

'What?' he asked.

She shook her head.

'No, I want to know. What?'

'Nothing,' she said. She looked him straight in the eye, her hands resting
on her lap. 'What does the bitch say about all this?' she asked sweetly.

Her pet name for Jessica. 'Will you please stop calling her that?'

She made a suit-yourself face, for once not arguing. There had been a
time - long, long ago - when Jessica and Esperanza had at least tolerated
each other. But then Jessica left, and Esperanza saw what it did to Myron.
Some people held grudges. Esperanza internalized them. It didn't matter
that Jessica had come back.

'So what does she think?' Esperanza asked again.

'About what?'

'About the prospects for peace in the Middle East,' she snapped. 'What
do you think I mean? Your playing again.'

'I don't know. We haven't had a chance to talk about it much.
Why?'

Esperanza shook her head again. 'We're going to need help in here,' she
said, closing the subject. 'Someone to answer the phones, do some typing,
that kind of thing.'

'You have someone in mind?'

She nodded. 'Cyndi.'

Myron blanched. 'Big Cyndi?'

'She could answer the phone, do some odd jobs. She's a good worker.'

'I didn't even know she could talk,' Myron said. Big Cyndi had been
Esperanza's tag-team wrestling partner, fighting under the name of Big
Chief Mama.

'She'll take orders. She'll do shit work. She's not ambitious.'

Myron tried not to wince at the thought. 'Isn't she still working at the
strip joint as a bouncer?'

'It's not a strip joint. It's a leather bar.'

'My mistake,' Myron said.

'And she's a bartender now.'

'Cyndi's been promoted?' Myron said.

'Yes.'

'Well, I'd hate to sidetrack her burgeoning career by asking her to work
here.'

'Don't be an ass,' Esperanza said. 'She works there nights.'

'What,' Myron said, 'Leather and Lust doesn't do a big lunch crowd?'

'I know Cyndi. She'll be perfect.'

'She scares people,' Myron said. 'She scares me.'

'She'll stay in the conference room. No one will see her.'

'I don't know.'

Esperanza rose smoothly. 'Fine, you find somebody. I mean, you're the
boss. You know best. Me, I'm just a pissant secretary. I wouldn't dare
question how you handle our clients.'

Myron shook his head. 'Low blow,' he said. He leaned forward, his
elbows on his desk, his hands holding up his head. 'All right,' he said finally,
releasing a deep breath. 'We'll give her a try.'

Myron waited. Esperanza stared back at him. After several seconds
Passed, she said, 'Is this the part where I jump up and down and say thank
you, thank you?'

'No, this is the part where I leave.' He checked his watch. 'I got to talk to
r^i * i
-up about those bloodstains before the press conference.'

'Have fun.' She headed for the door.

'Hold up,' he called out. She turned and faced him. 'Do you have class
tonight?' Esperanza took night classes at NYU Law school.

'No.'

'You want to go to the game?' He cleared his throat. 'You can, uh, bring
Lucy, if you'd like.'

Lucy was Esperanza's latest love. Before Lucy she had dated a man named
Max. Her sexual preference seemed to vacillate. 'We broke up,' she said.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Myron said, not knowing what else to say. 'When?'

'Last week.'

'You didn't say anything.'

'Maybe because it's none of your business.'

He nodded. True enough. 'Well, you can bring a new, uh, friend, if you'd
like. Or you can go yourself. We're playing the Celtics.'

'I'll pass,' she said.

'You sure?'

She nodded again, left the room. Myron grabbed his jacket and headed
back to the lot. Mario tossed him his keys without looking up. He took the
Lincoln Tunnel and hopped onto Route 3. He passed a huge and fairly
famous appliance and electronics store called Tops. The billboard featured a
giant nose jutted out over Route 3. The caption: Tops Is Right Under Your
Nose. Very lifelike. The only thing missing were the giant nose hairs. He was
only a mile or so from the Meadowlands when the car phone rang.

'I have some preliminaries,' Win said.

'Go ahead.'

'None of Greg Downing's accounts or credit cards have been accessed in
the past five days.'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

'Any cash withdrawals from his bank?'

'Not in the past five days.'

'How about earlier? Maybe he grabbed out a lot of money before he
vanished.'

'It's being worked on. I don't know yet.'

Myron took the Meadowlands exit. He considered what this all meant. So
far, not much, but it wasn't really good news. The blood in the basement.
No sign of Greg. No financial activity. It wasn't really promising. 'Anything
else?' Myron asked.

Win hesitated. 'I may soon have an idea where dearest Greg had that
drink with fair Carla.'

'Where?'

'After the game,' Win said. 'I'll know more then.'

5

'Sports is folklore,' Clip Arnstein told the room full of reporters. 'What
captures our imagination is not simply the winning and losing. It's the
stories. The stories of perseverance. The stories of sheer will. The stories of
hard work. The stories of heartbreak. The stories of miracles. The stories of
triumph and tragedy. The stories of comebacks.'

Clip looked down at Myron from the podium, his eyes properly moist,
his smile his most grandfatherly. Myron cringed. He fought back an intense
desire to duck under the conference table and hide.

After a proper pause Clip turned back to the front. The reporters were
silent. An occasional flashbulb burst forth. Clip swallowed several times as
though summoning some inner resolve he'd need to continue. His throat
slid up and down. He raised his moist eyes to the audience.

A little hammy, Myron thought, but all in all a fine performance.

The press conference was more crowded than Myron would've thought.
Not a free seat and many reporters standing. Must have been a slow news
day. Clip took his time, regaining his seemingly lost composure. 'A little
over a decade ago, I drafted an exceptional young man, a player I believed
was destined for greatness. He had a great jumper, a well-honed court sense,
mental tenacity, and on top of all that was a fine human being. But the gods
had other plans for that young man. We all know what happened to Myron
Bolitar on that fateful night in Landover, Maryland. There is no reason to
dredge up the past. But as I said when I opened this press conference, sports
is folklore. Today the Dragons are giving that young man a chance to weave
his own legend into the lush tapestry of sports. Today the Dragons are
allowing that young man to try and recapture what was so cruelly snatched
away from him all those years ago.'

Myron started squirming. His cheeks flushed. His eyes darted about,
seeking a safe haven and finding none. He settled for looking at Clip's face, ls per the media's expectations. He zeroed in on a cheek mole, staring so
hard his vision began to mercifully blur.

It won't be easy, Myron,' Clip said, turning now and addressing Myron
directly. Myron kept his vision locked on the mole; he couldn't meet the aze. No promises have been made to you. I don't know what happens

from here. I don't know if this is the culmination of your story or the
commencement of a brave new chapter. But those of us who love sports
can't help but hope. It is in our nature. It is in the nature of all true
combatants and fans.' Clip's voice started to crack.

'This is reality,' he went on. 'I have to remind you of that, Myron, much
as I'd rather not. On behalf of the New Jersey Dragons I welcome you, a
man of class and courage, to the team. We wish you nothing but the best.
We know that no matter what happens to you on the court, you will bring
honor to the entire Dragon organization.' He stopped, tightened his lips
and managed a quick, 'Thank you.'

Clip held out a hand to Myron. Myron played his part. He stood to shake
Clip's hand. Clip however had other ideas. He put his arms around Myron
and pulled him toward him. The flashbulbs increased to the point of being a
disco strobe. When Clip finally pulled back, he wiped his eyes with two
fingers. Sheesh, the man put Pacino to shame. Clip held out an arm,
ushering Myron to the podium.

'How does it feel to be back?' one reporter yelled out.

'Scary,' Myron replied.

'Do you really think you have what it takes to play at this level?'

'No, not really.'

The moment of honesty stopped them for a second. But only a second.
Clip laughed and everyone else in the room followed suit. Figuring it was a
joke. Myron didn't bother correcting them.

'Do you think you still have three-point shooting range?' another asked.

Myron nodded. 'I have the shooting range,' he said. 'I'm just not sure I
have the making range.' A stolen joke but what the hey.

More laughs.

'Why the comeback so late, Myron? What convinced you to come back
now?'

'The Psychic Friends Network.'

Clip stood and warded off further questions with a raised hand. 'Sorry,
gang, that's it for now. Myron has to get suited up for tonight's game.'

Myron followed Clip out. They hurried down the corridor and into
Clip's office. Calvin was already there. Clip shut the door. Before he sat
down Clip asked, 'So what's the matter?'

Myron told him about the blood in the basement. Clip visibly blanched.
Frosty's fingers tightened against the armrest.

'So what are you trying to say?' Clip snapped when he finished.

'Say?'

Clip gave an elaborate shrug. 'I don't get it.'

'There's nothing to get,' Myron said. 'Greg is missing. No one has seen
him for five days. He hasn't used his ATM or credit card. And now there's
blood in the basement.'

'In his kids' playroom, right? That's what you said before. The kids'
playroom.'

Myron nodded.

Clip looked a question at Calvin then turned his palms to the sky. 'So
what the hell does that mean?'

'I'm not sure.'

'It doesn't exactly add up to foul play, now does it?' Clip continued.
'Think it through, Myron. If Greg were murdered, for example, where is his
body? Did the killer or killers take it with them? And what do you think
happened here? The killers - what? - surprised Greg? Alone? In his kids'
playroom where, I guess, Greg was playing with his little dolly? Then what
happened? They killed him down there and dragged him out of the house
without leaving traces of blood anywhere but in the basement?' Clip spread
his hands. 'Does that make sense?'

The scenario had bothered Myron too. He sneaked a glance at Calvin.
Calvin seemed deep in thought. Clip stood.

'For all we know,' Clip went on, 'one of Greg's kids cut himself playing
down there.'

'Hell of a cut,' Myron said.

'Or a bloody nose. Christ, those things gush like mad. Could be nothing
but a bloody nose.'

Myron nodded. 'Or maybe they were slaughtering chickens,' he said.
'Could be that too.'

I don't need sarcasm, Myron.'

Myron waited a beat. He glanced at Calvin. Nothing. He glanced at Clip.
Nada. 'It's getting opaque in here again.'

'Pardon?'

'You hired me to find Greg. I'm tracing down a major lead. Yet you don't
want to hear it.'

'If you mean I don't want to hear that perhaps Greg has met with foul
play--'

'No, that's not what I mean. You're afraid of something and it's not just
that Greg may have met with foul play. I'd like to know what.'

Clip looked over at Calvin. Calvin nodded almost imperceptibly. Clip sat
back down. His fingertips drummed the desktop. The grandfather clock in
the corner ticked an imitating echo. 'Understand,' Clip said, 'that we have
Greg's best interests at heart. We really do.'

'Uh huh.'

'You know anything about hostile takeovers?'

I was alive in the eighties,' Myron said. In fact, someone recently
remarked on what an eighties kinda guy I am.'
'Well, I'm undergoing one now.'

I thought you were a majority owner.'

Clip shook his head. 'Forty percent. No one else owns more than fifteen

percent. A couple of the minority shareholders have gotten together and are
trying to oust me.' Clip made two fists and put them on his desk like
paperweights. 'They say I'm too much a basketball mind and not enough a
business mind. I should only be handling players and the on-court affair.
They vote in two days.'

'So?'

'So right now the vote is very close. A scandal and I'm done.'

Myron looked at both men and waited a beat. Then he said, 'You want
me to sit on this.'

'No, no, of course not,' Clip said quickly. 'I'm not saying that at all. I just
don't want the press going berserk over what might be nothing. I can't
afford to have anything unsavory uncovered now.'

'Unsavory?'
'Right.'

'Like what?'

'Hell if I know,' Clip said.

'But Greg might be dead.'

'And if that's the case, a day or two isn't going to help - cold as that
might sound. And if something did happen to Greg, there might be a
reason.'

'A reason?'

Clip threw up his hands. 'Hell, I don't know. You lift up a corpse or even
a man in hiding and worms start to crawl out. You know what I mean?'

'No,' Myron said. But Clip went on.

'I don't need that, Myron. Not now. Not till after this vote.'

'Then you are telling me to sit on this,' Myron said.

'Not at all. We just don't want an unnecessary panic. If Greg is dead, we
can't do him any good now anyway. If he's vanished, well, then you are his
best hope to avoid media glare or to save him.'

They were still not telling him everything but Myron decided not to press
it just now. 'Do you have any idea why someone would be watching Greg's
house?'

Clip looked puzzled. 'Someone is watching his house?'

I think so, yes.'

Clip looked over to Calvin. 'Calvin?'

'No idea,' Calvin said.

'I don't know either, Myron. Do you have any thoughts?'

'Not yet. One more question: did Greg have a girlfriend?'

Again Clip looked toward Calvin.

Calvin shrugged. 'He played around a lot. But I don't think there was
anyone special.'

'Do you know any of the women he played around with?'

'Not by name. Some groupies, stuff like that.'

'Why?' Clip asked. 'You think he ran off with a broad?'

Myron shrugged and stood. 'Guess I better get to the locker room. It's
almost game time.'

'Wait.'

Myron stopped.

'Please, Myron, I know it sounds like I'm being cold, but I really do care
about Greg. Very much. I want him found alive and well.' Clip swallowed.
The wrinkles in his skin looked more pronounced, like someone had just
pinched them out a bit. His color was not good. 'If you can honestly tell me
that revealing what we know to the public is best, I'll go along with it. No
matter what the costs. Think about it. I want to do what's best for Greg. I
care about him very much. I care about both of you. You're both fine young
men. I mean that. I owe you both a great deal.'

Clip looked like he was about to cry. Myron wasn't sure what to make of
all this. He decided to nod and say nothing. He opened the door and left.

As he approached the elevator Myron heard a familiar, husky voice say,
'If it isn't the Comeback Kid?'

Myron looked over at Audrey Wilson. She was wearing her customary
sports-reporter garb: dark blue blazer, black turtleneck, what they called
'stone-washed' jeans. Her makeup was either light or nonexistent, her nails
short and unpolished. The only splash of color could be found on her
sneakers - bright aqua Chuck Taylor Cons. Her looks were completely
unspectacular. There was nothing wrong with her features but nothing
particularly right about them either. They were just there. Her straight black
hair was cut short in a pageboy with bangs. 'Do I detect the scent of
cynicism?' he asked.

Audrey shrugged. 'You don't really think I buy all this, do you?'

'Buy what?'

'Your sudden desire to' - she checked her notes - 'weave your own
legend into the lush tapestry of sports.' She looked up, shook her head.
'That Clip can sure talk some shit, huh?'

'I have to get dressed, Audrey.'

'How about giving me the lowdown first?'

'The lowdown, Audrey? Gee, why not ask for a "scoop"? I love it when
you reporters say that.'

She smiled at that. It was a nice smile. Full and open. 'Kinda defensive,
aren't we, Myron?'

'Me? Never.'

'Then how about - to coin yet another cliche - a statement for the press?'

Myron nodded, put his hand to his chest in dramatic fashion. 'A winner
never quits, and a quitter never wins.'

'Lombardi?'

Felix Unger. It was on The Odd Couple, the one where Howard Cosell
guest starred.'

He turned and walked toward the locker room. Audrey followed. She was

523
probably the top female sports reporter in the country. She covered the
Dragons for the East Coast's biggest newspaper. She had her own radio
show on WFAN in a coveted time slot with huge ratings. She had a Sunday
morning round-table talk show called Talking Sports on ESPN. And yet,
like almost every other female in this male-dominated profession, there was
something tenuous about her station, her career always a half-step from
toppling over no matter how big she became.

'How's Jessica?' Audrey asked.

'Good.'

'I haven't spoken to her in a month,' she said with a singsong tone.
'Maybe I should give her a call. Sit down and have a heart-to-heart, you
know.'

'Gee,' Myron said, 'that won't be transparent.'

'I'm trying to make this easier on you, Myron. There's something strange
going on here. You know I'm going to find out what it is. Might as well just
tell me.'

'I really don't know what you're talking about.'

'First Greg Downing leaves the team under mysterious circumstances--

'What's mysterious about an ankle injury?'

'--then you, his old nemesis, take his place after being out of commission
for the better part of eleven years. You don't find that strange?'

Great, Myron thought. On the job five minutes and already someone was
voicing suspicion. Myron Bolitar, master of the undercover. They reached
the door to the locker room.

I gotta go, Audrey. We'll talk later.'

'Count on it,' she said. She smiled at him with a gentle mocking
sweetness. 'Good luck, Myron. Knock them dead.'

He nodded, took a deep breath, and pushed open the locker-room door.

Show time.

6

No one greeted Myron when he entered the locker room. No one broke
stride. No one even looked at him. The room did not go quiet like
something out of an old Western where the sheriff pushes open the creaking
door and sashays into the saloon. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe
the door needed to creak. Or maybe Myron had to work on his sashay.

His new teammates were sprawled about like socks in a college dorm.
Three of them were draped over benches, semidressed and seminapping. Two were on the floor, a leg being held in the air by assistants, stretching
quads and calves. A couple others were dribbling basketballs. Four were
hobbling back to their lockers after getting taped. Almost all were chewing
gum. Almost all were also listening to Walkmans, the tiny speakers jammed
in their ears and blaring so loudly that they sounded like competing floor
models at a stereo store.

Myron found his dressing area pretty easily. All the other lockers had
bronze plaques with a player's name engraved on it. Myron's did not. It had
a piece of white adhesive tape above it, the kind used to tape ankles, with the
letters m. bolitar scrawled in black marker. It hardly inspired confidence
or spoke commitment.

He glanced around for someone to talk to, but the Walkmans were the
ideal room dividers. Everyone was in their own private space. Myron
spotted Terry 'TC' Collins, the team's famed whining superstar, sitting
alone in a corner. TC was the media's newest poster boy for the spoiled
athlete, the guy 'ruining' the genteel world of sports 'as we know it,'
whatever that meant. TC was a hell of a physical specimen. Six-ten, muscular, wiry. His cleanly shaven head glistened in the fluorescent light.
Rumor had it TC was black though it was hard to see any trace of skin
through the work of his tattoo artist. The obscure ink images blanketed
almost all available somatic sites. Body piercing too appeared to be more of
a lifestyle with TC than a hobby. The man looked like a nightmare version
of Mr Clean.

Myron caught TC's eye, smiled, and nodded a hello. TC glared daggers
and turned away. Making chums already.

his uniform was hung where it should be. His name had already been

sewn on the back in block letters. bo li tar. He stared at it for a moment or
two. Then he quickly snatched it off the hanger and put it on. Everything
caused bouts of deja vu. The feel of the crumbly cotton. The shoelacelike
tie-string on his shorts. The slight elastic tug at the waist when he put them
on. The slight tightness of the top as it went over his shoulders. The
practiced hands tucking in the tail. The lacing up of his high-tops. It all
caused pangs. It was getting harder to breathe. His eyes blinked something
back. He sat and waited until the feeling went away.

Myron noticed very few of the guys wore jock straps anymore, preferring
those tight, Lycra shorts. Myron stuck with old dependable. Mr Old
Fashioned. Then he strapped a contraption onto his leg that was loosely
labeled a 'knee brace.' Felt more like a metal compressor. The last thing he put
on was his warm-ups. The bottoms had dozens of snaps up and down the legs,
so a player could dramatically rip them off when called to go into a game.

'Hey, kid, how's it going?'

Myron stood and shook hands with Kip Corovan, one of the team's
assistant coaches. Kip wore a plaid jacket that was about three sizes too
small. The sleeves inched up to the forearms. The gut jutted out with great
defiance. He looked like a farmer at the semiannual square dance. I'm
doing fine, coach.'

'Great, great. And call me Kip. Or Kipper. Most people call me Kipper.
Sit down, relax.'

'Okay.' Kipper?

'Great, happy to have you with us.' The Kipper pulled over a chair,
turned it so the back faced Myron, and straddled it. His pants inseam didn't
look happy with the move. I'll be honest with you, Myron, okay? Donny
wasn't thrilled about this. Nothing personal, you understand. Just Donny
likes to pick his own players. He don't like interference from upstairs, you
know what I'm saying?'

Myron nodded. Donny Walsh was the head coach.

'Great, good. Donny's a straight guy though. He remembers you from the
old days, liked you a lot. But we got a team heading for the playoffs. With a
bit of luck we can lock up home-court advantage throughout the playoffs. It
took a while to get the ducks all in a row. It's a balance, you know. Got to
keep the ducks on an even keel. Losing Greg really knocked the wind from
our sails, but we finally got those ducks back up. Now you come along, see.
Clip doesn't tell us why, but he insists we add you to the roster. Fine, Clip is
the big chief, no question. But we worry about getting our ducks back
sailing straight, you see?'

The mixing of metaphors was making Myron dizzy. 'Sure. I don't want to
cause any problems.'

'I know that.' He stood, put the chair back with a sweeping motion.
'You're a good guy, Myron. Always were a straight arrow. We need that
now. A team-comes-first kinda guy, am I right?'

Myron nodded. 'A straight-sailing duck.'

'Great, fine. See you out there. And don't worry. You're not going to get
in unless it's a blowout.' With that the Kipper hoisted his belt up over the
gut and sauntered -- almost sashayed -- across the room.

Three minutes later, the Kipper shouted out, 'Gather round the board,
boys.' No one paid any attention. He repeated this several times, tapping
Walkman-entranced players on the shoulders, so that they would hear. It
took a full ten minutes to get twelve professional athletes to move less than
ten feet. Coach Donny Walsh strode in with great self-importance, took
center stage, and began spilling out the tired cliches. This didn't mean he
was a bad coach or anything. You play over a hundred games a season it's
hard to come up with anything new.

The pep talk lasted a full two minutes. Some of the guys never bothered
turning off their Walkmans. TC was busy taking off his jewelry, a task that
took great concentration and a team of well-trained technicians. Another
minute or two passed and then the locker-room door opened. Everyone
removed their Walkmans and headed out. Myron realized they were
heading for the court.

Game time.

Myron stood at the end of the line. He swallowed deeply. A cold rush
swept through him. As he made his way up the ramp he heard a voice over
the loudspeaker scream, 'And nowwwwww, your New Jersey Dragons!'
Music blared. The jog quickened into a full trot.

The ovation was thunderous. The players automatically split into two
makeshift lines for the lay-up drill. Myron had done this a zillion times
before, but for the first time he really thought about what he was doing.
When you were a star or a starter, you warmed up casually, loosely,
unhurriedly. There was no reason to press it. You had the whole game to
show the crowd what you could do. The scrubs - something Myron had
never been - handled the warm-ups in one of two ways. Some went all out,
slamming reverse dunks, doing windmill moves. In a phrase: showing off.
Myron had always found this behavior sort of desperate. Others hung
around the superstars, feeding them the ball, playing the mock defender like
a boxer with a sparring partner. Cool by association.

Myron got to the front of the lay-up line. Someone passed him the ball.
When you're warming up, you are subconsciously convinced that all eyes in
the arena are on you, though in point of fact, most people were settling in or
chatting or getting food or checking out the crowd and those that were
watching couldn't care less what you did. Myron took two dribbles and laid
the ball against the glass and in. Sheesh, he thought. The game hadn't
started yet and already he didn't know what to do.

Five minutes later the lay-up lines disintegrated and players began to
free shoot. Myron glanced into the stands for Jessica. She was not hard to
spot. It was like a beacon hit her, like she came forward and the rest of the

crowd stepped back, like she was the Da Vinci and the rest of the faces
were but a frame. Jessica smiled at him and he felt a warmth spread
through him.

With something close to surprise, he realized that this would be the first
time Jessica had seen him play in anything but pick-up games. They'd met
three weeks before Myron's injury. The thought made him pause. And
remember. For a brief moment his mind dragged him back. Guilt and pain
washed over him until a ball careened off the backboard and smacked him
in the head. But the thought remained:

I owe Greg.

The buzzer sounded and the players moved to the bench. Coach Walsh
blurted out a few more cliches and made sure each player knew whom they
were covering. The players nodded, not listening. TC still glared. Game
face, Myron hoped, but didn't really believe it. He also kept an eye on Leon
White, Greg's roommate on the road and closest friend on the team. The
huddle broke. The players from both sides approached the center circle,
greeting one another with handshakes and hand slaps. Once out there, the
players on both teams started pointing around, trying to figure out who was
covering whom since no one had listened thirty seconds earlier. Coaches
from both sides were up, yelling out the defensive assignments until the ball
was mercifully tossed in the air.

Basketball is normally a game of momentum shifts, keeping things fairly
close until the final minutes. Not tonight. The Dragons cruised. They led by
twelve after one quarter, twenty points by halftime, twenty-six by the end of
the third period. Myron started getting nervous. The lead was big enough
for him to get in. He hadn't really counted on that. Part of him silently
cheered on the Celtics, hoping they could stage enough of a comeback to
keep his butt on the aluminum chair. But it was a no-go. With four minutes
remaining the Dragons led by twenty-eight points. Coach Walsh shot a
glance down the bench. Nine of the twelve players had already gotten in.
Walsh whispered something to the Kipper. The Kipper nodded and walked
down the bench, stopping in front of Myron. Myron could feel his heart
beating in his chest.

'Coach is going to clear the bench,' he said. 'He wants to know if you
want to go in.'

'Whatever he wants,' Myron replied, while sending out telepathic
messages of no, no, no. But he couldn't tell them that. It wasn't in his
nature. He had to play the good trooper, Mr Team-First, Mr Dive-On-TheGrenadeIfThat'sWhatTheCoach-Wants.
He didn't know how else to
do it.

A time-out was called. Walsh looked down the bench again. 'Gordon!
Reilly! You're in for Collins and Johnson!'

Myron let loose a breath. Then he got mad at himself for feeling such
relief. What kind of competitor are you? he asked himself. What kind of

man wants to stay on the bench? Then the truth rose up and smacked him
hard in the face:

He was not here to play basketball.

What the hell was he thinking? He was here to find Greg Downing. This
was just undercover work, that's all. Like with the police. Just because a guy
goes undercover and pretends he's a drug dealer doesn't make him a drug
dealer. The same principle applied here. Just because Myron was pretending
to be a basketball player didn't make him one.

The thought was hardly comforting.

Thirty seconds later, it started. And it filled Myron's chest with dread.

One voice triggered it. One beer-infested voice rising clearly above all
others. One voice that was just deep enough, just different enough, to
separate it from the usual cacophony of fandom. 'Hey, Walsh,' the voice
cried out. 'Why don't you put in Bolitar?'

Myron felt his stomach plummet. He knew what was coming next. He
had seen it happen before, though never to him. He wanted to sink into the
floor.

'Yeah!' another voice crowed. 'Let's see the new guy!'

More shouts of agreement.

It was happening. The crowd was getting behind the underdog, but not in
a good way. Not in a positive way. In the most blatantly patronizing and
mocking way possible. Be-Nice-To-The-Scrub time. We've won the game.
We want a few laughs now.

A few more calls for Myron and then . . . the chant. It started low but
built. And built. 'We want Myron! We want Myron!' Myron tried not to
slouch. He pretended not to hear it, feigning intense concentration on what
was happening on the court, hoping his cheeks weren't reddening. The
chant grew louder and faster, eventually disintegrating into one word,
repeated over and over, mixed with laughter.

'Myron! Myron! Myron!'

He had to defuse it. There was only one way. He checked the clock. Still
three minutes to go. He had to go in. He knew that wouldn't be the end of
it, but it would at least quiet the crowd temporarily. He looked down the
bench. The Kipper looked back. Myron nodded. The Kipper leaned over to
Coach Walsh and whispered something. Walsh did not stand up. He simply
shouted, 'Bolitar. In for Cameron.'

Myron swallowed and rose to his feet. The crowd erupted in sarcasm. He
headed for the scorer's table, ripping off his sweats. His legs felt stiff and
cramped. He pointed to the scorer, the scorer nodded and sounded the
buzzzer. Myron stepped on the court. He pointed at Cameron. Cameron
Jogged off. 'Kraven,' he said. The name of the man Myron would defend.
'Now reporting for Bob Cameron,' the loudspeaker began. 'Number 34. Myron Bolitar!'

The crowd went absolutely wild. Hoots, whistles, screams, laughs. Some

might think they were wishing him well, but that was not really the case.
They were wishing him well the same way you wish a circus clown well.
They were looking for pratfalls and darn gone-it, Bolitar was their man!

Myron stepped on the court. This was, he suddenly realized, his NBA
debut.

He touched the ball five times before the game ended. Each time it was
met with cheer/jeers. He shot only once, from just inside the three point
line. He almost didn't want to, knowing the crowd would react no matter
what happened, but some things are just too automatic. There was no
conscious thought. The ball went in with a happy swish. By now there were
only thirty seconds left and thankfully most everyone had had enough and
were heading to their cars. The sarcastic applause was minimal. But for
those brief seconds when Myron caught the ball, when his fingertips found
the groove, when he bent his elbow and cradled the ball half an inch above
both palm and forehead, when the arm smoothed into a straight line, when
the wrist flowed into a front curl, when the fingertips danced along the
ball's surface and created the ideal backspin, Myron was alone. His eyes
were focused on the rim, only the rim, never glancing at the ball as it arched
its way toward the cylinder. For those few seconds there was only Myron
and the rim and the basketball and it all felt very right.

The mood in the locker room was far more animated after the game.
Myron managed to meet all of the players except TC and Greg's roommate
Leon White, the one man he wanted to get close to most. Figures. He
couldn't push it either, that would just backfire. Tomorrow maybe. He'd try
again.

He stripped down. The knee began to tighten up, as though somebody
had pulled all the tendons too taut. He slapped on an ice pack and fastened
it with a stretch wrap. He limped to the showers, dried off, and was just
finishing when he realized TC was standing over him.

Myron looked up. TC had his various pierce-jewelry in place. Ear, of
course. Three in one, four in the other. One in his nose. He wore black
leather pants and a black cut-off mesh tank top, giving one an excellent view
of the ring on his left nipple and the one in the belly button. Myron couldn't
make out what the tattoos were. They just looked like swirls. TC wore
sunglasses now, the wraparound kind.

'Your jeweler must send you a hell of a Christmas card,' Myron said.

TC replied by sticking out his tongue and revealing another ring near the
tip. Myron almost gagged. TC looked pleased by his reaction.

'You new, right?' TC said.

'Right.' Myron held out his hand. 'Myron Bolitar.'

TC ignored the hand. 'You gots to get thumped.'

'Excuse me?'

'Thumped. You the new guy. You gots to get thumped.'

Several other players started chuckling.

'Thumped?' Myron repeated.

'Yeah. You the new guy, right?'

'Right.'

'Then you gots to get thumped.'

More chuckling.

'Right,' Myron said. 'Thumped.'

There you go.' TC nodded, snapping his fingers, pointed at Myron, left.

Myron finished dressing. Thumped?

Jessica was waiting for him outside the locker-room door. She smiled as
he approached, and he smiled back, feeling goofy. She hugged him and gave
him a brief kiss. He smelled her hair. Ambrosia.

'Ah,' a voice said. 'Now ain't this just too sweet?'

It was Audrey Wilson.

'Don't talk to her,' Myron said. 'She's the Antichrist.'

'Too late,' Audrey said. She put her hand through Jessica's arm. 'Jess and
I are going out now to have a few drinks, talk over old times, that kind of
thing.'

'God, you are shameless.' He turned to Jessica. 'Don't tell her anything.'

I don't know anything.'

'Good point,' Myron said. 'So where are we going?'

'We are going nowhere,' Jessica said. She made a motion behind her with
her thumb. Win was leaning against the wall, completely still and at ease.
'He said you'd be busy.'

'Oh.' Myron looked over at Win. Win nodded. Myron excused himself
and made his way over.

Without preamble, Win said, 'The last cash transaction Greg made was at
an ATM machine at eleven oh three p.m. the night he vanished.'

'Where?'

'Manhattan. A Chemical Bank near Eighteenth Street on the West Side.'

'It makes sense,' Myron said. 'Greg gets a call at nine eighteen p.m. from
Carla. Carla tells him to meet her in the back booth. So he drives himself to
the city and picks up cash before he sees her.'

Win looked at him with flat eyes. 'Thank you for that analysis of the
obvious.'

'It's a gift really.'

Yes, I know,' Win said. 'Moving right along, there are eight saloons
within a four block radius of this particular ATM. I limited my search to
those. Of the eight only two have what one might term a "back booth." The
others had tables or dining facilities sans booths in the rear. Here are the
names.'

Myron had long since gotten past asking how Win did it. 'You want me
to drive?'

I can't go,' Win said.

'Why not?'

'I'm going away for a few days.'

'When?'

'I leave from Newark airport in an hour,' Win said.

'This is sudden.'

Win didn't bother responding. The two men headed out the players'
entrance. Five kids ran up to Myron and asked for his autograph. Myron
obliged. One kid who looked to be around ten years old took back the
paper, squinted at Myron's scrawl, and said, 'Who the hell is he?'

Another kid said, 'Some scrub.'

'Hey!' Win snapped. 'That's Mr Scrub to you.'

Myron looked at him. 'Thanks.'

Win made an it's-nothing gesture.

The first kid looked at Win. 'You anybody?'

'I'm Dwight D. Eisenhower,' Win replied.

'Who?'

Win spread his hands. 'Our blessed youth.' He walked away then without
saying another word. Win was not big on good-byes. Myron reached his
car. When he put the key in the door, he felt a slap on the back. It was TC.
He pointed at Myron with a finger holding more jewelry than a Gabor
family reunion. 'Remember,' TC said.

Myron nodded. 'Thumped.'

'Exacto.'

Then he, too, was gone.

7

Myron arrived at MacDougal's Pub, the first bar on Win's list. The back
booth was empty so he grabbed it. He sat there for a moment, hoping a
psychic force would tell him if this was the place where Greg had met up
with Carla. He felt nothing - positive or negative. Maybe he should hold a
seance.

The waitress came over slowly, as if the effort of crossing the floor was
synonymous with wading through deep snow and she should be rewarded
for it. Myron warmed her up with one of his patented smiles. The Christian
Slater model - friendly yet devilish. Not to be mistaken for the Jack
Nicholson model which was friendly yet devilish.

'Hi,' he said.

She put down a Rolling Rock cardboard coaster. 'What can I get you?' she
asked, trying to toss up a friendly tone and falling way short. You rarely find
a friendly barmaid in Manhattan, except for those born-again waitresses at
chains like TGI Friday's or Bennigan's where they tell you their name and
that they'll be your 'server' like you might mistake them for something else,
like your 'legal consultant' or 'medical advisor.'

'Got any Yoo-hoo?' Myron asked.

'Any what?'

'Never mind. How about a beer?'

She gave him flat eyes. 'What kind?'

Subtlety was not going to work here. 'Do you like basketball?' he asked
her.

Shrug.

'Do you know who Greg Downing is?'

Nod.

He told me about this place,' Myron said. 'Greg said he was here the
other night.'

Blink.

Did you work last Saturday night?'

Nod.

'Same station? I mean, this booth?'

Quicker nod. Getting impatient.

'Did you see him?'

'No. I got tables. Michelob okay?'

Myron looked at his watch, faked shock. 'Whoops, look at the time. I
gotta go.' He gave her two dollars. 'Thanks for your time.'

The next bar on the list was called the Swiss Chalet. Not even close. A
dive. The wallpaper was supposed to trick you into believing that the place
was wood paneled; the effect may have worked better had the wallpaper not been peeling in so many spots. The fireplace had a flickering, Christmas
light log in it, hardly giving the place the desired ski-lodge warmth. For
some reason there was one of those disco mirrored balls in the middle of the
bar. No dance floor. No lights. Just the disco mirrored ball - another staple
of authentic Swiss chalets, Myron surmised. The place had the stale smell of
spilled beer mixed with just a hint of what might have been vomit, the kind
of smell only certain bars or frat houses held, the kind where the odor had
seeped into the walls like rodents that ended up dying and rotting.

The jukebox blared 'Little Red Corvette' by Prince. Or was it by the Artist
Formerly Known As Prince? Wasn't that what he called himself now? But of
course when 'Little Red Corvette' had been released he had been Prince. So
which was it? Myron tried to reconcile this crucial dilemma, but it began to
confuse him like one of those time paradoxes in the Back to the Future movies so he gave up.

The place was pretty empty. A guy with a Houston Astros baseball cap
and bushy mustache was the sole patron seated at the bar. There was a man
and woman semi-necking at a table in the center of the room - the most
conspicuous table in the place, as a matter of fact. No one seemed to mind.
Another male patron skulked around the back like he was in the adult
movie area at his local video store.

Again Myron took the back booth. Again he struck up a conversation
with a far more animated waitress. When he reached the part about Greg
Downing telling him about the Swiss Chalet, she said, 'Yeah, no kidding? I
only seen him in here once.'

Bingo.

'Would that have been Saturday night?'

She scrunched her face in thought.

'Hey, Joe,' the waitress shouted to the bartender. 'Downing was in here
Saturday night, right?'

'Who the fuck wants to know?' Joe shouted back from his spot behind
the bar. He looked like a weasel with mousy hair. Weasel and mouse. Nice
combination.

'This guy and me, we was just talking.'

Joe Weasel squinted with beady, ferret eyes. The eyes widened. 'Hey,
you're the new guy, right? On the Dragons? I saw you on the news. With the
dorky name.'

'Myron Bolitar,' Myron said.

'Yeah, right, Myron. That's it. You guys gonna start hanging out here?'

'I don't know.'

'We get a pretty exclusive celebrity clientele,' Joe said, wiping the bar with
what looked like a gas station rag. 'You know who was in here once? Cousin
Brucie. The disc jockey. Real regular guy, you know.'

'Sorry I missed that,' Myron said.

'Yeah, well we've had other celebs, right, Bone?'

The guy with the Astros hat and bushy mustache pepped up and nodded.
'Like that guy who looked like Soupy Sales. Remember him?'

'Right. Celebrities.'

'Except that wasn't really Soupy Sales. Just someone who looked like
him.'

'Same difference.'

Myron said, 'Do you know Carla?'

'Carla?'

'The girl Greg was with.'

'That her name? No, never got a chance to meet her. Didn't meet Greg
either. He just kinda ducked in, cognito-like. We didn't bother them.' He
sort of puffed out his chest like he was about to salute. 'At the Swiss Chalet,
we protect our celebrities.' He pointed at Myron with the dishrag. 'You tell
the other guys that, okay?'

'Will do,' Myron said.

'Fact, we weren't even sure it was Greg Downing at first.'

'Like with Soupy Sales,' Bone added.

'Right, like that. Except this was really him.'

'Guy looked like Soupy though. Great actor, that Soupy.'

'And what a nickname.'

'Talent all the way round,' Bone agreed.

Myron said, 'Had he ever been in here before?'

'The guy who looked like Soupy?'

'Moron,' Joe said, snapping the rag at Bone. 'Why the fuck would he
want to know about that? He's talking about Greg Downing.'

'How the fuck was I supposed to know? I look like I work for one of those
psychic networks or something?'

'Fellas,' Myron tried.

Joe held up a hand. 'Sorry, Myron. Believe me, this don't normally
happen here at the Swiss Chalet. We all get along, right, Bone?'

Bone spread his arms. 'Who's not getting along?'

'My point exactly. And no, Myron, Greg isn't one of our regulars. That
was his first time here.'

'Same with Cousin Brucie,' Bone added. 'He only came in that one
time.'

'Right. But Cousin Brucie liked the place, I could tell.'

'He ordered a second drink. That shoulda told you something.'

'Right you are. Two drinks. Coulda just had one and left. Course, they
were only Diet Cokes.'

Myron said, 'How about Carla?'

'Who?'

'The woman Greg was with.'

'What about her?'

'Had she been here before?'

I never seen her here before. Bone?'

Bone shook his head. 'Nope. I woulda remembered.'

'What makes you say that?'

Without hesitation, Joe said, 'Serious hooters.'

Bone cupped his hands and stuck them in front of his chest. 'Major
Charlies.'

'Not that she was good looking or anything.'

'Not at all,' Bone agreed. 'Kinda old for a young guy.'

'How old?' Myron asked.

'Older than Greg Downing, that's for sure. I'd say late forties. Bone?'

Bone nodded. 'But a first-rate set of ta-tas.'

'Humongous.'

'Mammoth.'

'Yeah, I think I got that,' Myron interrupted. 'Anything else?'

They looked puzzled.

'Eye color?' Myron tried.

Joe blinked, looked at Bone. 'Did she have eyes?'

'Damn if I know.'

'Hair color?' Myron said.

'Brown,' Joe said. 'Light brown.'

'Black,' Bone said.

'Maybe he's right,' Joe said.

'No, maybe it was on the lighter side.'

'But I'm telling you, Myron. That was some rack. Major guns.'

'Guns of Navarone,' Bone agreed.

'Did she and Greg leave together?'

Joe looked at Bone. Bone shrugged. 'I think so,' Joe said.

'Do you know what time?'

Joe shook his head.

'Bones, you know?' Myron tried.

The bill of the Astros hat jerked toward Myron like a string had been
pulled. 'Not Bones, dammit!' he shrieked. 'Bone! No S at the end. Bone! BONE!
No S! And what the fuck do I look like, Big Ben?'

Joe snapped the dishrag again. 'Don't insult a celebrity, moron.'

'Celebrity? Shit, Joe, he's just a scrub. Not like he's Soupy or something.
He's a nobody, a zero.' Bone turned to Myron. The hostility was completely
gone now. 'No offense, Myron.'

'Why would I take offense?'

'Say,' Joe said, 'you got a photograph? We can put your picture on the
wall. You could autograph it to your pals at the Swiss Chalet. We should
start like a celebrity wall, you know?'

'Sorry,' Myron said, 'I don't have one on me.'

'Can you send us one? Autographed, I mean. Or bring it next time you
come.'

'Er, next time.'

Myron continued to question them but learned nothing more except
Soupy Sales's birthday. He left and headed up the block. He passed a
Chinese restaurant with dead ducks hung in the window. Duck carcasses,
the ideal appetite whetter. Maybe Burger King should hang slaughtered
cows in the window. Really draw the kids in.

He tried putting the pieces together a bit. Carla calls Greg on the phone
and tells him to meet her at the Swiss Chalet. Why? Why there of all places?
Did they not want to be seen? Why not? And who the hell is Carla anyway?
How does all this fit into Greg's vanishing act? And what about the blood in
the basement? Did they go back to Greg's house or did Greg go home alone?
Was Carla the girl he lived with? And if so, why meet here?

Myron was so preoccupied he didn't spot the man until he almost
bumped into him. Of course calling him a man might be a bit of an
understatement. More like a brick wall doubling as a human being. He
stood in Myron's way. He wore one of those pectoral-displaying ribbed T
shirts under an unbuttoned flower-patterned semi-blouse. A gold horn
dangled between his near-cleavage. Muscle-head. Myron tried to pass him
on the left. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron tried to pass him on the
right. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron went back and forth one more
time. Brick Wall followed suit.

'Say,' Myron said, 'you know the chacha?'

The brick wall showed about as much reaction as one might expect from
a brick wall. Then again it wasn't one of Myron's better quips. The man was
truly enormous, the size of your average lunar eclipse. Myron heard
footsteps. Another man, this one on the large size but at least of the
human variety, came up behind Myron. The second man wore fatigue
camouflage pants, a popular new urban fashion trend.

'Where's Greg?' Camouflage Pants asked.

Myron feigned startled. 'What? Oh, I didn't see you.'

'Huh?'

'In those pants,' Myron said. 'You just blended into the background.'

Camouflage didn't like that. 'Where's Greg?'

'Greg?' Snappy retort.

'Yeah. Where is he?'

'Who?'

'Greg.'

'Greg who?'

'You trying to be funny?'

'What, you think this is funny?'

Camouflage looked over at Brick Wall. Brick Wall remained completely
silent. Myron knew that there was a very real possibility of a physical
altercation. He also knew he was good at such things. He also knew - or at
least figured - that these two goons were probably good too. Despite Bruce
Lee movies, one man defeating two or more quality opponents was nearly
impossible. Experienced fighters were not stupid. They worked as a team.
They never rushed one at a time.

'So,' Myron said. 'You guys want to catch a beer? Chat this through.'

Camouflage made a scoffing noise. 'We look like guys who like to chat?'

Myron motioned to Brick Wall. 'He does.'

There were three ways to get out of a situation like this unharmed. One
was to run, which was always a good option. Problem was, his two
adversaries were close enough yet spaced far enough to tackle and/or slow
him down. Too risky. Second option: your opponents underestimate you.
You act scared and cower and then whammo, you surprise them. Unlikely
for Myron. Goons rarely underestimate a guy six-four, two-twenty. Third
option: you strike first and hard. By doing this you increase the likelihood
of putting one out of commission before the other one can react. This
action however required a delicate balance. Until someone strikes, you
really cannot say for sure that a physical altercation could not be avoided
altogether. But if you wait for someone to strike, this option becomes null
and void. Win liked option three. Then again Win liked option three even if
there was only one opponent.

Myron never got the chance to make a selection. Brick Wall slammed a
fist into the small of Myron's back. Myron sensed the blow coming. He
shifted enough to avoid both the kidney and serious damage. At the same
time he spun and delivered an elbow strike to Brick Wall's nose. There was a
satisfying, crunching noise like a fist closing over a bird's nest.

The victory was short-lived. As Myron had feared, these guys knew what
they were doing. Camouflage Pants struck at the same time, connecting
where his comrade had failed. Pain erupted in Myron's kidney. His knees
buckled but he fought it off. He doubled over toward Brick Wall and threw
a back kick, his foot snapping out like a piston. His lack of balance threw off
his aim. The blow landed on Camouflage's thigh. It didn't do much damage
but it was powerful enough to push him away. Brick Wall was starting to
recover. He groped blindly and found Myron's hair. He grabbed and pulled
up. Myron pinned the hand with one of his own, digging his fingernails into
the sensitive pressure points between the joints. Brick Wall screamed.
Camouflage Pants was back. He punched Myron straight in the stomach. It
hurt. A lot. Myron knew he was in trouble. He went down to one knee and
bounced up, a palm strike at the ready. It connected with Brick Wall's

groin. Brick Wall's eyes bulged. He dropped like somebody had pulled a
stool out from under him. Camouflage Pants connected with a solid shot to
the side of Myron's head. Numbness flowed into Myron's skull. Another
blow landed. Myron's eyes began to lose focus. He tried to stand up but his
legs wouldn't let him. He felt a kick land on a rib. The world began to spin.

'Hey! Hey, what you doing? Hey, you!'

'Stop it! What the fuck!'

In his haze Myron recognized the voices. Joe and Bone from the bar.
Myron took the opportunity to scramble away on all fours. There was no
need. Camouflage Pants had already helped Brick Wall to his feet. Both men
ran.

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.

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.'

The 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?'

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 you 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? That'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 slow down for rigbit 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 beech wood. 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 stopped.

'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 me 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?'

'Greg is missing. You're trying to find him.'

'What makes you think Greg is missing?'

'Please, Myron, don't play games with me. You owe me that much at
least.'

He nodded slowly. 'Do you know where he is?'

'No. But I hope the bastard is dead and rotting in a hole.'

'Stop mincing words,' Myron said. 'Tell me how you really feel.'

The smile was sadder this time. Myron felt a pang. Greg and Emily had
fallen in love. They'd been married. They had two children. What had torn
that all apart? Was it something recent ... or was it something in their
pasts, something tainted from the beginning? Myron felt his throat go dry.

'When was the last time you saw Greg?' he asked.

'A month ago,' she said.

'Where?'

'A divorce court.'

'Are you two on speaking terms?'

'I meant what I said before. About him being dead and rotting.'

I'll take that as a no.'

Emily nodded a suit-yourself.

'If he was hiding, do you have any idea where?'

'Nope.'

'No summer house? No place he liked to get away?'

'Nope.'

'Do you know if Greg had a girlfriend?'

'Nope. But I would pity the poor woman.'

'Have you ever heard the name Carla?'

She hesitated. Her index finger tapped her knee, an old gesture so
familiar to him it almost hurt to watch. 'Wasn't there a Carla who lived on
my floor at Duke?' she asked. 'Yes, Carla Anderson. Sophomore year, wasn't
it? Pretty girl.'

'Anything more recent?'

'No.' She sat up, crossed her legs. 'How's Win?'

'The same.'

'One of life's constants,' she said. 'He loves you, you know. I wonder if
he's a latent homosexual.'

'Two men can love each other and not be gay,' Myron said.

She arched an eyebrow. 'You really think so?'

He was letting her get to him. Bad mistake. 'Are you aware that Greg was
going to sign an endorsement deal?' he asked her.

That got her attention. 'Are you serious?'

'Yes.'

'A big one?'

'Huge from my understanding,' Myron replied. 'With Forte.'

Emily's hands tightened. She would have made fists had her nails not
been so long. 'Son of a bitch.'

'What?'

'He waited until the divorce had been finalized and I got squat. Then he
signs the deal. That son of a bitch.'

'What do you mean, squat? Greg was still wealthy.'

She shook her head. 'His agent lost it all. Or so he claimed in court.'

'Martin Felder?'

'Yep. Didn't have a penny to his name. Son of a bitch.'

'But Greg still works with Felder. Why would he stay with a guy who lost
his money?'

'I don't know, Myron.' Her voice was clipped and annoyed. 'Perhaps the
son of a bitch was lying. It wouldn't be the first time.'

Myron waited. Emily looked back at him. Tears welled in her eyes but she
bit them back down. She stood and walked to the other side of the room.
Her back was now to him. She looked out the sliding glass doors into the
fenced-in yard. The pool was covered with a tarp; random sticks and leaves
clung to the aqua. Two children appeared. A boy of about ten chased a girl
who looked to be eight. They were both laughing with faces wide and open
and a little rosy from either cold or exertion. The boy stopped when he saw
his mother. He gave her a big smile and wave. Emily raised her hand and
gave a small wave back. The children ran on. Emily crossed her arms like she
was hugging herself.

'He wants to take them away from me,,' she said in a remarkably calm
voice. 'He'll do anything to get them.'

'Like?'

'Like the sleaziest things you can imagine.'

'How sleazy?'

'None of your goddamn business.' She stopped. She still had her back to
him. Myron could see her shoulders quake. 'Get out,' she said.

'Emily . . .'

'You want to help him, Myron.'

'I want to find him. There's a difference.'

She shook her head. 'You don't owe him,' she said. 'I know you think you
do. It's your way. I saw the guilt in your face back then, and I could still see
it the second I opened the front door. It's over, Myron. It had nothing to do
with what happened to us. He never found out.'
Is that supposed to make me feel better?' he asked.

She spun toward him. 'It's not supposed to make you feel better,' she
snapped. 'It's not about you. I'm the one who married him. I'm the one who betrayed him. I can't believe you're still beating yourself up about it.'

Myron swallowed. 'He visited me in the hospital. After I got injured. He
sat and talked with me for hours.'

'And that makes him a swell guy?'

'We shouldn't have done it.'

'Grow up,' she said. 'It was more than ten years ago. Gone and forgotten.'

Silence.

After some time had passed, Myron looked up at her. 'Could you really
lose your kids?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'How far would you go to keep them?'

'As far as I had to.'

'Would you kill to keep them?' Myron asked.

'Yes.' No hesitation.

'Did you?'

'No.'

'Do you have any idea why some goons would be looking for Greg?'

'No.'

'You didn't hire them?'

'If I did,' she said, 'I wouldn't tell you. But if these "goons" want to hurt
Greg, I'll do all I can to help them locate him.'

Myron put down the lemonade. 'I guess I better get going.'

She showed him to the door. Before she opened it, she put a hand on his
arm. Her touch burned right through the material. 'It's okay,' she said
gently. 'Let it go. Greg never found out.'

Myron nodded.

She took a deep breath and smiled again. Her voice returned to its
normal tone. 'It was good to see you again, Myron.'

'Same here,' he said.

'Come back again, will you?' She was trying to hard to be casual. Myron
knew it was just an act, one he had seen before. 'Perhaps we can have a
quick fling for old times' sake. Couldn't hurt, right?'

One last grasp at the shock. Myron pulled away. 'That's what we said last
time,' he said. 'And it still hurts.'

10

'It was the night before they got married,' Myron began. He was back at his
office. Esperanza sat in front of him. Her eyes were on him, but he didn't
know that. He stared at the ceiling, his fingers laced and resting on his chest.
He had his chair tilted far back. 'Do you want the details?'

'Only if you want to tell me' Esperanza said.

He told her. He told her how Emily had called him. He told her how she
came to his room. He told her that they'd both had too much to drink. He
said that last one as a sort of trial balloon, but a quick glance at Esperanza
blew that particular old balloon out of the sky. She interrupted with one
question.

'How long after the draft did all this take place?'

Myron smiled at the ceiling. She was so damned perceptive. There was no
reason to answer.

'I assume,' Esperanza continued, 'that this little tryst occurred sometime
between the pro draft and your injury?'

'You assume correctly.'

'Ah,' she said with a small nod. 'So let me see if I got the true picture now.
It's your senior year of college. Your team won the NCAA finals - a point
for you. You end up losing Emily and she ends up engaged to Greg -- a point
for him. The draft comes. Greg is the seventh overall pick; you are eighth point
for Greg.'

Myron closed his eyes and nodded. 'You're wondering if I was trying to
even the score.'

'Not wondering,' Esperanza corrected. 'The answer is obvious.'

'You're not helping.'

'You want help, go to a shrink,' she said. 'You want the truth, come to
me.'

She was right. He took his hands off his chest. Keeping the fingers laced,
he placed them behind his head. He put his feet on the desk.
'Did she cheat on you with him?' she asked.
'No.'

'You're sure?'

Yes. They met after we broke up.'

'Too bad,' she said. 'It would have given you a nice out.'

'Yeah. Pity.'

'So this is why you feel obligated to Greg? Because you slept with his
fiancee?'

'That's a big part of it, but there's more to it than that.'

'Like?'

'It's going to sound corny, but there's always been a bond between us.'

'A bond?'

Myron's line of vision traveled from the ceiling to his movie-still wall.
Woody Allen and Diane Keaton were enjoying a Manhattan moment in Annie Hall. Bogie and Bergman leaned on Sam's piano back in the days
when Paris had been theirs. 'Greg and I were once-in-a-lifetime competitors,'
he said. 'And there is a special bond between competitors. Kinda like
Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. You become defined by one another. It was
like that with Greg and me. It was unspoken, but we both knew the bond
was there.'

He stopped. Esperanza waited in silence. 'When I hurt my knee,' Myron
continued, 'Greg visited me in the hospital. He showed up the very next
day. I woke up from some pain medication and there he was. Sitting with
Win. And I instantly understood. Win must have understood too, otherwise
he would have thrown him out.'

Esperanza nodded.

'Greg stayed around too. He helped with rehab. That's what I mean by a
bond. He was devastated by the news because when I got hurt, it was like a
part of him was gone too. He tried to tell me why it meant so much to him,
but he couldn't put it into words. It didn't matter. I knew. He just had to be
there.'

'And you hurt your knee how long after you'd slept with his new bride?'

'About a month.'

'Did seeing him all the time help or hurt?'

'Yes.'

She said nothing.

'Do you understand now?' he asked. 'Do you see why I have to pursue
this? You're probably right. Sleeping with Emily was probably nothing more
than payback for not getting drafted before Greg. Just another stupid battle.
But what kind of way was that for a marriage to start? I owe Greg Downing.
It's that simple.'

'No,' she said. 'It's not that simple.'

'Why not?'

'Because too much of your past is resurfacing. First Jessica--'

'Don't start with that.'

'I'm not' she said calmly. Her voice was rarely calm when it came to
Jessica. 'I'm just stating a fact. Jessica crushed you when she left. You never
got over her.'

'But she's back now.'

'Yes.'

'So what's your point?'

'Basketball also crushed you when it left. You never got over it.'

'Sure I did.'

She shook her head. 'First you spent three years trying every possible
remedy to fix your knee.'

'I just tried to get better,' he interjected. 'Nothing wrong with that, is
there?'

'Nothing. But you were a pain in the ass. You pushed Jessica away. I'm
not forgiving her for what she did to you. You didn't ask for that. But you
played a part in her leaving.'

'Why are you bringing this all up?'

She shook her head. 'You're the one who's bringing it all up. Your entire
past. Jessica and now basketball. You want us to watch you go through all
this again, but we won't.'

'Go through what?'

But she didn't answer. Instead she asked, 'Do you want to know why I
didn't go see you play last night?'

He nodded, still not facing her. His cheeks felt flush and hot.

'Because with Jessica, at least there's a chance you won't get hurt again.
There's a chance the witch smartened up. But with basketball, there is no
chance. You can't come back.'

'I can handle it,' he said, hearing those words yet again.

She said nothing.

Myron stared off. He barely heard the phone ring. Neither one of them
moved to answer it. 'You think I should drop this?' he asked.

'Yes. I agree with Emily. She's the one who betrayed him. You were just a
handy tool. If what happened somehow poisoned their relationship, it was
her doing. It was her decision. You don't owe Greg Downing a thing.'

'Even if what you're saying is true,' he said, 'that bond is still there.'

'Bullshit,' Esperanza said. 'That's just a load of pedantic, macho bullshit.
You're just proving my point. There's no bond anymore, if there ever was
one. Basketball hasn't been a part of your life for a decade. The only reason
you think the bond is still there is because you're playing again.'

There was a loud pounding on the door. The frame shook and almost
gave way. Myron startled upright. 'Who's manning the phones?' he asked.

Esperanza smiled.

'Oh no.'

Come in,' Esperanza said.

The door opened. Myron's feet fell to the floor. Though he had seen her
many times before, his jaw still dropped open. Big Cyndi ducked in. She was
mammoth. Six-five and over three hundred pounds. Cyndi wore a white T
shirt with the sleeves ripped off at the biceps. Her arms were the envy of

Hulk Hogan. Her makeup was more garish than it had been in the ring. Her
hair was purple spikes; her mascara was also purple though a darker shade
than her hair. Her lipstick was a red smear. Cyndi looked like something
out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. She was the single most frightening sight
Myron had ever seen.

'Hi, Cyndi,' Myron tried.

Cyndi growled. She held up her middle finger, turned, stepped back
through the door, closed it.

'What the--'

'She's telling you to pick up line one,' Esperanza said.

'Cyndi's answering phones?'

'Yes.'

'She doesn't talk!'

'In person. On the phone she's very good.'

'Jesus Christ.'

'Pick up the phone and stop whining.'

Myron did so. It was Lisa, their contact at New York Bell. Most people
think that only the police can get phone records. Not true. Almost every
private eye in the country has a contact at their local phone company. It's
just a matter of simply paying someone off. A month's phone record can
cost you anywhere from one thousand to five thousand dollars. Myron and
Win had met Lisa during their days with the feds. She didn't take money,
but they always took care of her in some way or another. 'I got what Win
wanted,' Lisa said.

'Go ahead.'

'The call at nine eighteen p.m. came from a public phone located in a
diner near Dyckman Street and Broadway,' she said.

'Isn't that up near Two Hundredth Street?'

'I think so. You want the phone number?'

Carla had called Greg from a diner on 200th Street? Weirder and weirder.
'If you have it.'

She gave it to him. 'Hope that helps.'

'It does, Lisa. Thanks.' He held up the paper to Esperanza. 'Lookie what I
got,' he said. 'A real live clue.'

11

To be fair, the Parkview Diner lived up to its name. You did indeed have a
view of Lieutenant William Tighe Park across the street; it was smaller than
the average backyard with shrubs so high you really couldn't see the
landscaped garden within. A wire-mesh fence enclosed the grounds. Hung
on the fence in several places were signs that read in big, bold letters: do
not feed the rats. No joke. In smaller print the warning was repeated in
Spanish: No Des Comida a Las Ratas. The signs had been placed there by a
group calling itself the Quality of Life Zone. Myron shook his head. Only in
New York would this be a problem - people who could not contain
themselves from the seductive lure of feeding vermin. Myron glanced again
at the sign, then the diner. Rats. Quite the appetite-enhancer.

He crossed the street. Two levels above the Parkview Diner, a dog
squeezed his head through the grates of a fire escape and barked at passing
pedestrians. The Parkview's green overhang was ripped in several spots. The
letters were faded to the point of unintelligibility, and the support pole was
bent so far that Myron had to duck to get to the door. There was a poster of
a gyro sandwich in the window. Today's specials, according to a blackboard
in the same window, included eggplant parmigiana and chicken a la king.
The soup was beef consomme. There were permits from the City of New
York Department of Buildings stuck on the door like car-inspection decals.

Myron entered and was immediately greeted by the familiar yet
nonspecific smell of a Manhattan diner. Fat was in the air. Taking a deep
breath felt as if it would clog an artery. A waitress with hair bleached to the
point of straw offered him a table. Myron asked her for the manager. Using
her pencil she pointed over her shoulder at a man behind the counter.

'That's Hector,' she said. 'He owns the place.'

Myron thanked her and grabbed a soda-fountain stool at the counter. He
debated spinning himself in the seat and decided the act might be viewed as
immature. Two stools to his right, an unshaven, perhaps homeless man
with black Thorn McAn sneakers and a tattered overcoat smiled and
nodded. Myron nodded and smiled back. The man went back to his coffee.
He raised his shoulders and huddled into the drink as though he suspected
someone might try to swipe it in mid-sip.

Myron picked up a vinyl menu with cracked binding. He opened it but
didn't really read it. There were a lot of worn index cards jammed into
protective plastic cases announcing various specials. Worn was an apt
description of the Parkview Diner, but it didn't fairly convey the overall
impression. There was something welcoming and even clean about this
place. The counter gleamed. So did the utensils and the silver milkshake
maker and the soda fountain. Most patrons read a newspaper or gabbed
with one another as if they were eating at home. They knew their waitress's
name, and you could bet your last dollar she didn't introduce herself and
tell them she was going to be their server when they first sat down.

Hector the owner was busy at the grill. Almost two p.m. It wasn't the
height of the lunch hour, but business was still pretty brisk. He barked out
some orders in Spanish, his eyes never leaving the food. Then he turned
around with a polite smile, wiped his hands on a rag, and asked Myron if he
could help him. Myron asked if he had a pay phone.

'No, sir, I'm sorry,' Hector answered. The Hispanic accent was there, but
Hector had worked on it. 'There's one on the street corner. On the left.'

Myron looked at the number Lisa had given him. He read it out loud.
Hector did several things at the same time. He flipped burgers, folded over
an omelette, checked the french fries. His eyes were everywhere -- the cash
register, the clientele at both the tables and the counter, the kitchen to his
left.

'Oh that,' Hector said. 'It's in the back. In the kitchen.'

'The kitchen?'

'Yes, sir.' Still polite.

'A pay phone in the kitchen?'

'Yes, sir,' Hector said. He was on the short side, thin under his white
apron and polyester black pants. His nose had been broken several times.
His forearms looked like steel cords. 'It's for my staff.'

'Don't you have a business phone?'

'Of course we do.' His voice spiked up a bit now, as if the question was an
insult. 'We do a big takeout and delivery business here. Lots of people order
lunch from us. We have a fax machine too. But I don't want my staff tying
up the lines, you know? You get a busy signal, you give your business to
someone else, yes? So I put a pay phone in the back.'

'I see.' An idea came to Myron. 'Are you telling me customers never use
it?'

'Well, sir, if a customer truly insists, I would never refuse him.' The
practiced politeness of a good businessman. 'The customer must come first
at the Parkview. Always.'

'Has a customer ever insisted?'

'No, sir. I don't think any customers even know we have it.'

'Can you tell me who was using the pay phone at nine eighteen p.m. last
Saturday?'

That question got his attention. 'Excuse me?' Myron started to repeat the
question but Hector interrupted him. 'Why would you want to know that?'

'My name is Bernie Worley,' Myron said. 'I'm a product supervising
agent with AT&T.' A product what? 'Somebody is trying to cheat us, sir, and
we are not happy about it.'

'Cheat you?'

'AY511.'

'A what?'

'A Y511,' Myron repeated. You start tossing the bull, your best bet is to
just keep tossing. 'It's an electronic monitoring device built in Hong Kong.
It's new on the market, but we're onto it. Sold on the streets. Somebody
used one on your phone at nine eighteen p.m. on March eighteenth of
this year. They dialed Kuala Lumpur and spoke for nearly twelve minutes.
The total cost of the call is twenty-three dollars and eighty-two cents, but
the fine for using a Y511 will be at least seven hundred dollars with the
potential for up to one year in prison. Plus we'll have to remove the
phone.'

Hector's face became a mask of pure panic. 'What?' Myron wasn't
thrilled with what he was doing - scaring an honest, hardworking
immigrant like this - but he knew that the fear of government or big
business would work in a situation like this. Hector turned around and
shouted something in Spanish to a teenager who looked like him. The
teenager took over the grill. 'I don't understand this, Mr Worley.'

'It's a public phone, sir. You just admitted to a product supervising agent that you used the public phones for private use; that is, for your employees
only and denying public access. This violates our own code, section one
twenty-four B. I wouldn't report it normally, but when you add in the use 0faY511--'

'But I didn't use a Y511!'

'We don't know that, sir.' Myron was playing Mr Bureaucrat to the hilt;
nothing made a person feel more impotent. There is no darker pit than the
blank stare of a bureaucrat. 'The phone is on your premises,' Myron
continued in a bored singsong voice. 'You just explained to me that the
phone was only used by your employees--'

'Exactly!' Hector leaped. 'By my employees! Not me!'
But you own this establishment. You are responsible.' Myron looked
around with his best, bored expression - the one he learned while waiting
on line at the Division of Motor Vehicles. 'We'll also have to check out the
status of all your employees. Maybe we can find the culprit that way.'

Hector's eyes grew big. Myron knew this would hit home. There wasn't a
restaurant in Manhattan that didn't employ at least one illegal alien.
Hector's jowls slackened. 'All this,' he said, 'because someone used a pay
Phone?'

'What someone did, sir, was use an illegal electronic device known as a

Y511. What you did, sir, was refuse to cooperate with the product
supervising agent investigating this serious matter.'

'Refuse to cooperate?' Hector was grasping at the possible life preserver
Myron had offered up. 'No, sir, not me. I want to cooperate. I want to very
much.'

Myron shook his head. 'I don't think you do.'

Hector bit down and set his polite meter on extra-strength now. 'No, sir,'
he said. 'I want to help very much. I want to cooperate with the phone
company. Tell me what I can do to help. Please.'

Myron sighed, gave it a few seconds. The diner bustled. The cash register
dinged while the guy who looked homeless with the Thorn McAn sneakers
picked out greasy coins from a dirty hand. The griddle sizzled. The aroma
from the various foods battled each other for dominance with none
winning outright. Hector's face grew more and more anxious. Enough,
Myron thought. 'For starters, you can tell me who was using the pay phone
at nine eighteen p.m. last Saturday.'

Hector held up a finger imploring patience. He shouted something in
Spanish to the woman (Mrs Hector maybe?) working the cash register. The
woman shouted something back. She closed the drawer and walked toward
them. As she drew closer, Myron noticed that Hector was suddenly giving
him an odd look. Was he starting to see through Myron's rather husky load
of bull-dooky? Perhaps. But Myron looked back at him steadily and Hector
quickly backed down. He might be suspicious, but not suspicious enough to
risk offending the all-powerful bureaucrat by questioning his authority.

Hector whispered something to the woman. She urgently whispered
back. He made an understanding 'ah' noise. Then he faced Myron and
shook his head.

'It figures,' he said.

'What?'

'It was Sally.'

'Who?'

'At least I think it was Sally. My wife saw her on the phone around then.
But she said she was only on for a minute or two.'

'Does Sally have a last name?'

'Guerro.'

'Is she here now?'

Hector shook his head. 'She hasn't been here since Saturday night. That's
what I mean by figures. She gets me in trouble and then she runs out.'

'Has she called in sick?'

'No, sir. She just up and left.'

'You got an address on her?' Myron asked.

'I think so, let me see.' He pulled out a big carton that read 'Snapple
Peach Ice Tea' on the side. Behind him, the griddle hissed when fresh
pancake batter touched down upon the hot metal. The files in the box were

neat and color coded. Hector pulled one out and opened it. He shuffled
through the sheets, found the one he was looking for, and frowned.

'What?' Myron prompted.

'Sally never gave us an address,' Hector said.

'How about a phone number?'

'No.' He looked up, remembering something. 'She said she didn't have a
phone. That's why she was using the one in the back so much.'

'Could you tell me what Ms Guerro looked like?' Myron tried.

Hector suddenly looked uncomfortable. He glanced at his wife and
cleared his throat. 'Uh, she had brown hair,' he began. 'Maybe five-four,
five-five. Average height, I guess.'

'Anything else?'

'Brown eyes, I think.' He stopped. 'That's about it.'

'How old would you say she was?'

Hector checked the file again. 'According to this, she was forty-five. That
sounds about right.'

'How long has she worked here?' he asked.

'Two months.'

Myron nodded, rubbed his chin vigorously. 'It sounds like an operative
who goes by the name of Carla.'

'Carla?'

'A notorious phone fraud,' Myron continued. 'We've been after her for a
while.' He glanced left, then right. Trying to look conspiratorial. 'Have you
ever heard her use the name Carla or hear someone call her Carla?'

Hector looked at his wife. She shook her head. 'No, never.'

'Did she have any visitors? Any friends?'

Again Hector checked with his wife. Again the head shook. 'No, none
that we ever saw. She kept to herself most of the time.'

Myron decided to push a little further and confirm what he already knew.
If Hector balked at this stage, so what? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He leaned forward; Hector and his wife did likewise. 'This may sound
insensitive,' Myron whispered, 'but was this woman large chested?'

Both nods were immediate. 'Very large,' Hector said.

Suspicion confirmed.

He asked a few more questions, but any useful information had already
been culled from these waters. Before leaving, he told them that they were in
the clear and could continue to violate code section 124B without fear.
Hector almost kissed his hand. Myron felt like a louse. What did you do
today, Batman? Well, Robin, I started off by terrorizing a hardworking
immigrant's livelihood with a bunch of lies. Holy Cow, Batman, you're the
coolest! Myron shook his head. What to do for an encore - throw empty
beer bottles at the dog on the fire escape?

Myron exited the Parkview Diner. He debated going to the park across
"e street, but suppose he became overcome by a lustful need to feed rats?

No, he couldn't risk it. He'd have to stay away. He began to head to the
Dyckman Street subway station when a voice stopped him.

'You looking for Sally?'

Myron turned. It was the homeless-looking man with the Thorn
McAns from the diner. He sat on the pavement, his back leaning against
the brick building. He had an empty plastic coffee cup in his hand. Panhandling.

'You know her?' Myron asked.

'She and I . . .' He winked and crossed his fingers. 'We met because of
that damn phone, you know.'

'Really.'

Using the wall for support the man stood. His facial hair was whitish, not
full enough to be a beard yet past the stage of a Miami Vice wanna-be. His
long hair was black as coal. 'Sally was using my phone all the time. It pissed
me off.'

'Your phone?'

'The pay phone in the back,' he said licking his lips. 'It's right by the back
door. I hang out in the back alley a lot so I can hear it, you know? It's kind
of like my business phone.' Myron couldn't guess his age. His face was
boyish but leathered - from the passing years or hard living, Myron
couldn't say. His grin was missing a couple of prominent teeth, reminding
Myron of that beloved Christmas classic 'All I Want for Christmas Is My
Two Front Teeth.' Such a nice song really. No toys, no Sega Genesis video
game. The kid just wanted teeth. So selfless really.

'I used to have my own cellular,' the man continued. 'Two of them, as a
matter of fact. But they got stolen. And the damn things are so unreliable,
especially around the high buildings. And anyone can listen in with the
right equipment. Me, I need to keep what I do secret, you see. Spies are
everywhere. And they also give you brain tumors. The electrons or
something. Brain tumors the size of beach balls.'

Myron kept his face blank. 'Uh huh.' Speaking of tossing the ball.

'So anyway Sally started using it, too. It pissed me off, you know? I mean,
I'm a businessman. I got important calls coming in. I can't have the line tied
up. Am I right?'

'As rain,' Myron said.

'See, I'm a Hollywood screenwriter.' He stuck out his hand. 'Norman
Lowenstein.'

Myron tried to remember the fake name he used with Hector. 'Bernie
Worley.'

'Nice to meet you, Bernie.'

'Do you know where Sally Guerro lives?'

'Sure. We used to be . . .' Norman Lowenstein crossed his fingers.

'So I heard. Could you tell me where she lives?'

Norman Lowenstein pursed his lips and used his pointer finger to scratch

a spot near his throat. 'I'm not real good with addresses and stuff,' he said.
'But I could take you there.'

Myron wondered how big a waste of time this was going to be. 'Would
you mind?'

'Sure, no problem. Let's go.'

'Which way?'

'The A train,' Norman said. 'Down to One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street.'

They walked toward the subway.

'You go to the movies much, Bernie?' Norman asked.

'Much as the next guy, I guess.'

'Let me tell you something about movie-making,' he began, growing
more animated. 'It's not all glamour and glitz. It's a dog-eat-dog business
like no other, making dreams for people. All the back-stabbing, all that
money, all that fame and attention ... it makes people act funny, you
know? I got this screenplay with Paramount right now. They're talking to
Willis about it. Bruce Willis. He's really interested.'

'Good luck with it,' Myron said.

Norman beamed. 'Thanks, Bernie, that's real nice of you. I mean it. Real
nice. I'd like to tell you what my flick is about, but well, my hands are tied.
You know how it is. Hollywood and all the theft out there. The studio wants
it kept hush-hush.'

'I understand,' Myron said.

I trust you, Bernie, it's not that. But the studios insist. I can't blame them
really. They got to protect their interests, right?'

'Right.'

'It's an action-adventure flick, that much I can tell you. But with heart too,
you know? Not just a shoot-em-up. Harrison Ford wanted in, but he's too
old. I guess Willis is okay. He's not my first choice, but what can you do?'

'Uh huh.'

One Twenty-fifth Street was not the nicest stop in the city. It was safe
enough during the day, Myron surmised, but the fact that he was now
carrying a gun made him feel a tad more secure. Myron did not like
packing heat' and rarely did so. It was not that Myron was particularly
squeamish; it had more to do with comfort. The shoulder holster dug into
his armpit and made it itch like he was wearing a tweed condom. But after
last night's soiree with Camouflage Pants and Brick Wall, it would be
foolhardy to walk around unarmed.

'Which way?' Myron asked.

'Downtown.'

They headed south on Broadway. Norman regaled him with tales of
Plywood. The ins and outs. Myron nodded and kept walking. The farther
south they headed, the better the area became. They passed the familiar iron
gates of Columbia University, then turned left. 'It's right up here,' Norman
said, 'Toward the middle of the block.'

The street was lined with low-rise apartments that were mostly used by
Columbia's grad students and professors. Strange, Myron thought, that a
diner waitress would live here. But then again nothing else about her
involvement in all this made sense - why should where she lived? If she lived
here at all, and not, say, with Bruce Willis in Hollywood.

Norman interrupted his thoughts. 'You're trying to help her, right?'

'What?'

Norman stopped walking. He was less animated now. 'All that stuff about
being from the phone company. That was all crap, right?'

Myron said nothing.

'Look,' he said, putting his hand on Myron's forearm, 'Hector is a good
man. He came to this country with nothing. He works his ass off in that
diner. He and his wife and son - they slave there every day. No days off. And
every day he's scared someone's going to take it all away from him. All that
worry ... it clouds the thinking, you know? Me, I got nothing to lose so
I'm not afraid of anything. Makes it easier to see some stuff. Know what I
mean?'

Myron gave a slight nod.

Norman's bright eyes dimmed as a bit of reality swept through him.
Myron looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. He made his
eyes stop sweeping by him with barely a notice of age or height or even
species. Myron realized that behind the lies and self-delusion lay the dreams
of any man, the hopes and wants and needs that are the sole reserve of the
human race.

'I'm worried about Sally,' Norman went on. 'Maybe that's clouding my
thinking. But I know she wouldn't just up and leave without saying goodbye
to me. Sally wouldn't do that.' He stopped, met Myron's eyes with his
own. 'You're not from the phone company, are you?'

'No, I'm not.'

'You want to help her?'

'Yes,' Myron said. I want to help her.'

He nodded and pointed. 'In here. Apartment two E.'

Myron walked up the stoop while Norman stayed on the street level.
He pressed the black button reading 2E. No one answered. No surprise
there. He tried the entrance door, but it was locked. You had to be buzzed
in.

'You better stay there,' he told Norman. Norman nodded, understanding.
These buzzer-protected doors were mild deterrents to crime, but their
true purpose was to prevent vagrants from coming in and setting up camp
in the lobby. Myron would just wait. Eventually an occupant would leave or
enter the building. While said occupant opened the door, Myron would
enter as though he belonged. No one would question a man dressed in
khakis and a button-down BD Baggies shirt. If Norman stood next to him,
however, that same occupant might react differently.

Myron moved down two steps. When he saw two young women
approach the door from the inside, he slapped his pockets as though
looking for keys. Then he walked purposefully up to the door, smiled, and
waited for them to push it open. He need not have bothered with the
dramatics. The two young women - college students, Myron guessed - went
through the portal without looking up or decelerating their oral activities.
Both were talking nonstop, neither listening. They paid absolutely no
attention to him. Amazing restraint really. Of course from this angle they
couldn't see his ass, so their self-control was not only admirable but
somewhat understandable.

He looked back at Norman, who thankfully waved him off. 'You go
yourself,' he said. 'I don't want to cause a problem.'

Myron let the door close.

The corridor was pretty much what he expected. It was painted off-white.
No stripes or designs. There were no wall-hangings other than a huge
bulletin board that read like a schizophrenic political manifesto. Dozens of
leaflets announced everything from a dance sponsored by the Native
American Gay and Lesbian Society to poetry readings by a group calling
itself the Rush Limbaugh Review. Ah, the college life.

He ascended a stairway lit by two bare bulbs. All this walking and stair
climbing were starting to take a toll on his bad knee. The joint tightened up
like a rusted hinge. Myron felt himself dragging the leg behind him. He used
the railing for support and wondered what the knee would be like when he
reached arthritis age.

The floor plan of the building was far from symmetrical. Doors seemed
to be placed in the wall as though at random. Off in a corner, a good
distance from the other apartments, Myron found the door marked 2E. The
positioning made the apartment look like an afterthought, as if someone
had spotted some extra space in the back and decided to add an extra room
or two. Myron knocked. No answer. No surprise. He checked the corridor.
No one in sight. He was thankful that Norman was not here because he
wouldn't want someone to witness him breaking in.

Myron was not great at the lock-picking game. He had learned a bit over
the years, but picking locks was a bit like playing a video game. You work at
it enough, and eventually you move up levels. Myron hadn't worked at it.
He didn't like it. He really didn't have much natural talent for it. In most
cases, he relied on Win to handle the mechanical stuff, like Barney used to
do on Mission: Impossible.

He examined the door and felt his heart sink. Even for New York the
dead bolts were nothing short of impressive. Three of them stacked
intimidatingly from six inches above the knob to six inches below the top
frame. Top of the line stuff. Brand new, judging by the gleam and lack of
scratches. This was a tad odd. Was Sally/Carla the extracautious type, or was
there a more aberrant reason for such security? Good question. Myron

looked at the locks again. Win would have enjoyed the challenge; Myron
knew that any effort he made would be fruitless.

He debated kicking in the door when he noticed something. He moved
closer and squinted into the door crack. Again something struck him as
being odd. The dead bolts were not engaged. Why buy all these expensive
locks and not use them? He tried the knob. It was locked, but that one
would be easy to get through with the loid card.

He took out the card. He couldn't remember the last time he had used it.
It looked pristine. Maybe never. He jammed it into the opening. Despite
being an old lock it still took Myron almost five minutes to find the right
spot to push the lock back. He gripped the knob. The door began to swing
open.

It was open barely six inches when the odor attacked.

The bloodcurdling stench popped out into the hallway like pressurized
gas. Myron felt his stomach dive and swoop. He gagged a little and felt a
weight on his chest. He knew the smell, and dread filled him. He searched
his pockets for a handkerchief and came up empty. He blocked his nose and
mouth with the crook of his elbow, as if he were doing Bela Lugosi in
Dracula. He didn't want to go in. He wasn't good at this type of thing. He
knew that whatever image lay behind the door would stay with him, would
haunt his nights and too often his days too. It would stay with him like a
dear friend, tapping him on the shoulder every once in a while when he
thought he was alone and at peace.

He pushed the door all the way open. The rancid smell permeated his
meager protection. He tried to breathe through his mouth, but the thought
of what he was sucking in made that option unbearable.

Fortunately, he didn't have to travel far to find the source of the odor.

12

'Whoa, Bolitar, new cologne?'

'Funny, Dimonte.'

NYPD homicide detective Roland Dimonte shook his head. 'Christ,
what a stink.' He was out of uniform, but you wouldn't ever call him
'plainclothes.' He wore a green silk shirt and jeans that were too tight and
too dark blue. The bottoms were tucked into purple snakeskin boots; the
color faded in and out with any angle change, like some psychedelic
Hendrix poster from the sixties. Dimonte gnawed on a toothpick, a habit
he picked up, Myron surmised, when he spotted himself doing it in the
mirror and decided it looked tough. 'You touch anything?' he asked.

'Just the doorknob,' Myron said. He had also checked the rest of the
apartment to make sure there weren't any other gruesome surprises. There
weren't.

'How did you get in?'

'The door was unlocked.'

'Really?' Dimonte raised an eyebrow and looked back at the door. 'The
door is set to lock automatically when you close it.'

'Did I say unlocked? I meant, ajar.'

'Sure you did.' Dimonte did a bit more gnawing, shook his head. He ran
his hand through greasy hair. Ringlets clung to his forehead, refusing to give
ground. 'So who is she?'

'I don't know,' Myron said.

Dimonte scrunched up his face like a closed fist. Displaying very
skeptical. Subtle body language was not Dimonte's forte. 'Little early in
the day to be pulling my hardware, ain't it, Bolitar?'

'I don't know her name. It might be Sally Guerro. Then again it might be
Carla.'

'Uh huh.' Toothpick chew. 'I thought I saw you on TV last night. That
you were playing ball again.'

'I am.'

The coroner came over. He was tall and thin and his wire-rim glasses
looked too big on the elongated face. 'She's been dead awhile,' he
Pronounced. 'At least four days.'

'Cause?'

'Hard to say for sure. Someone bludgeoned her with a blunt object. I'll
know more when I get her on the table.' He looked at the corpse with
professional disinterest, then back at Dimonte. 'They're not real, by the
way.'

'What?'

He vaguely motioned toward the torso. 'Her breasts. They're implants.'

'Jesus Christ,' Dimonte said, 'you fiddling with dead bodies now?'

The elongated face sagged, his jaw dropping to somewhere around his
navel. 'Don't even joke about that,' the coroner said in a stage whisper. 'You
know what rumors like that could do to a guy in my business?'

'Get him promoted?' Dimonte said.

The coroner did not laugh. He gave Myron a wounded look, then
Dimonte. 'You think that's funny, huh? Goddamn it, this is my career
you're fucking around with!'

'Calm down, Peretti, I'm just playing with you.'

'Playing with me? You think my career is some kind of fucking joke?
What the hell is wrong with you?'

Dimonte's eyes narrowed. 'Kind of sensitive about all this, Peretti.'

'You have to be in my position,' he said, back straightening.

'If you say so.'

'What the hell does that mean?'
"The lady protests too much, methinks."'

'What?'

'It's Shakespeare,' Dimonte said. 'From Macbeth.' Dimonte looked over
to Myron.

Myron smiled. 'Hamlet.'

T don't give a shit who said it,' Peretti protested. 'You shouldn't mess
around with a man's reputation. I don't think any of this is funny.'

'Like I give a rat's ass what you think,' Dimonte said. 'You got anything
else?'

'She's wearing a wig.'

'A wig? No kidding, Peretti. The case is as good as solved now. All we
need to do is find a killer who hates wigs and fake tits. This is helpful,
Peretti. What kind of panties was she wearing, huh? You sniff them yet?'

I was just--'

'Do me a big favor, Peretti.' Dimonte made himself taller, hitched his
pants. Signaling importance. Again the subtlety. 'Tell me when she died.
Tell me how she died. Then we'll talk about her fashion accessories, okay?'

Peretti held up his hands in surrender and returned to the body. Dimonte
turned to Myron. Myron said, 'The implants and wig might be important.
He was right to tell you.'

'Yeah, I know. I just like busting his chops.'

'And the quote is, "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."'

'Uh huh.' Dimonte changed toothpicks. The one in his mouth was frayed
like a horse's mane. 'You going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or am I
going to drag you downtown?'

Myron made a face. 'Drag me downtown?'

'Don't bust my balls on this, Bolitar, okay?'

Myron forced himself to look at the bloodied corpse. His stomach did
back flips. He was starting to get used to the smell, the thought of which was
nearly as bad as the smell itself. Peretti was back at it, making a small slit to
get to the liver. Myron diverted his gaze. The homicide crew from John Jay
was setting up, taking photographs, that kind of thing. Dimonte's partner, a
kid named Krinsky, quietly walked around and took notes. 'Why would she
make them so big?' Myron wondered out loud.

'What?'

'Her breasts. I can understand the desire to enlarge them. All the
pressures in this society. But why make them that big?'

Dimonte said, 'You're shitting me, right?'

Krinksy came over. 'All her stuff is in those suitcases.' He motioned with
his hand to two bags on the floor. Myron had met Krinsky on maybe half a
dozen occasions. Talking was not the kid's forte; he seemed to do it as often
as Myron picked locks. 'I'd say she was moving out.'

'You got an ID yet?' Dimonte asked.

'Her wallet says her name is Sally Guerro,' Krinsky continued in a soft
voice. 'So does one of her passports.'

They both waited for Krinsky to continue. When he didn't, Dimonte
shouted, 'What do you mean, one of her passports? How many does she
have?'

'Three.'

'Jesus Christ, Krinsky, talk.'

'One is in the name Sally Guerro. One is in the name Roberta Smith. One
is in the name Carla Whitney.'

'Give me those.' Dimonte scanned through the various passports. Myron
looked over his shoulder. The same woman was in all three pictures, albeit
with different hair (ergo the wig) and different Social Security numbers.
Judging by the amount of stamps, the woman had traveled extensively.

Dimonte whistled. 'Forged passports,' he said. 'And good ones too.' He
turned more pages. 'Plus she has a couple of visits to South America here.
Colombia. Bolivia.' The passports closed with a dramatic snap. 'Well, well,
well. Looks like we got ourselves a nice, neat drug hit.'

Myron mulled over that bit of information. A drug hit - could that be
Part of the answer? If Sally/Carla/Roberta was dealing drugs, it might
explain her connection with Greg Downing. She was his source. The
meeting on Saturday night was nothing more than a buy. The waitress job was a cover. It also explained her using a pay phone and maintaining
powerful door locks - tools of a drug dealer's trade. It made some sense. Of

course, Greg Downing did not appear to be a drug user, but he would not
be the first person to fool everyone.

Dimonte said 'Anything else, Krinsky?'

The kid nodded. 'I found a stack of cash in the bedside drawer.' He
stopped again.

Dimonte gave him exasperation. 'Did you count it?'

Another nod.

'How much?'

'A little over ten thousand dollars.'

'Ten grand in cash, huh?' That pleased Dimonte. 'Let me see it.'

Krinksy handed it over. New bills, held by rubber bands. Myron watched
while Dimonte shuffled through them. All hundreds. The serial numbers
were sequential. Myron tried to memorize one of them. When Dimonte
finished, he tossed the packet back to Krinsky. The smile was still there.

'Yep,' Dimonte said, 'it looks like things are coming together in a nice,
neat, drug-hit package.' He paused. 'Only one problem.'

'What?'

He pointed at Myron. 'You, Bolitar. You're messing up my nice, neat
drug-hit. What the hell are you doing--?' Dimonte stopped himself and
snapped his fingers. 'Holy shit . . .' His voice sort of drifted off. He slapped
the side of his own head. A small spark in his eyes expanded. 'My God!'

Again note the subtlety. 'You have a thought, Rolly?'

Dimonte ignored him. 'Peretti!'

The coroner looked up from the body. 'What?'

'Those plastic tits,' he said. 'Myron noticed they were huge.'

'Yeah, so?'

'How big?'

'What?'

'How big are they?'

'You mean like cup size?'

'Yeah.'

'I look like a lingerie manufacturer? How the fuck would I know?'

'But they're big, right?'

'Right.'

'Really big.'

'You got eyes, don't you?'

Myron watched the exchange in silence. He was trying to follow
Dimonte's logic - a most treacherous trail.

'Would you say they were bigger than a water balloon?' Dimonte
continued.

Peretti shrugged. 'Depends on the balloon.'

'Didn't you ever make water balloons when you were a kid?'

'Yeah, sure,' Peretti said. 'But I don't remember how big the balloons
were. I was a kid then. Everything looks bigger when you're a kid. A couple

years ago I went back to my old elementary school to visit my third grade
teacher. She still works there, if you can believe it. Her name is Mrs
Tansmore. I swear to God the building looked like a goddamn dollhouse to
me. It was huge when I was a kid. It was like--

'All right, moron, let me make this simple.' Dimonte took a deep breath.
'Could they be used for smuggling drugs?'

Silence. Everyone in the room stopped moving. Myron wasn't sure if he
just heard the most idiotic thing in the world or the most brilliant. He
turned toward Peretti. Peretti looked up, mouth open in fly-catching pose.

'Well, Peretti? Could it be?'

'Could it be what?'

'Could she stick dope in her boobs? Smuggle drugs through customs with
them?'

Peretti looked at Myron. Myron shrugged. Peretti turned back to
Dimonte. 'I don't know,' he said slowly.

'How can we find out?'

'I'd have to examine them.'

'Then what the fuck you staring at me for? Do it.'

Peretti did as asked. Dimonte smiled at Myron; his eyebrows did a little
dance. Proud of his deduction. Myron remained quiet.

'Nope, no way,' Peretti said.

Dimonte wasn't happy with this report. 'Why the hell not?'

'There's hardly any scar tissue,' Peretti said. If she were smuggling drugs
in there, they'd have to rip the skin open and sew it up. Then they'd have to
do it again on this side. There's no sign of that.'

'You're sure?'

'Positive.'

Dimonte said, 'Shit.' Then he glared at Myron and pulled him into a
corner. 'Everything, Bolitar. Now.'

Myron had debated how to handle it, but in truth he had no choice. He
had to tell. He couldn't keep Greg Downing's disappearance a secret any
longer. The best he could hope to do was keep it contained. He suddenly
remembered that Norman Lowenstein was waiting outside. 'One second,'
he said.

'What? Where the fuck you going?'

'I'll be right back. lust wait here.'

'Like hell.'

Dimonte followed him down the stairs and out onto the stoop. Norman

wasn't there. Myron looked up and down the block. No sign of Norman.

This was hardly a surprise. Norman probably ran when he saw the cops.

guilty or not, the homeless learn quickly to make themselves scarce when

the authorities come calling.

'What is it?' Dimonte asked.

'Nothing.'

'Then start talking. The whole story.'

Myron told him most of it. The story almost knocked the toothpick out
of Dimonte's mouth. Dimonte didn't bother asking questions, though he
continuously stuck in exclamations of 'Jesus Christ!' and 'Frigging A,'
whenever Myron paused. When Myron finished, Dimonte sort of stumbled
back and sat on the steps of the stoop. His eyes looked unfocused for a few
moments. He gathered himself together, but it took some time.

'In-fuckin'-credible,' he managed.

Myron nodded.

'Are you telling me no one knows where Downing is?'

'If they do, they aren't talking.'

'He just vanished?'

'That's how it appears.'

'And there's blood in his basement?'

'Yes.'

Dimonte shook his head again. He reached down and put his hand on his
right boot. Myron had seen him do this before. He liked to sort of pet the
boot. Myron had no idea why. Maybe he found the feel of snakeskin
soothing. Reminiscent of the womb.

'Suppose Downing killed her and ran,' he said.

'That's a pretty big suppose.'

'Yeah, but it fits,' Dimonte said.

'How?'

'According to what you said, Downing was seen with the victim Saturday
night. How much you want to bet that once Peretti gets her on the table we
find the time of death around then?'

'Doesn't mean Downing killed her.'

Dimonte increased the speed of his boot-petting stroke. A man on
Rollerblades skated by with his dog. The dog looked out of breath, trying
to keep up. New product idea: Dog Rollerblades. 'Saturday night, Greg
Downing and the victim get together at some gin joint downtown. They
leave sometime around eleven o'clock. Next thing we know she's dead and
he's vanished.' Dimonte looked up at Myron. 'That points to him killing
her and running.'

'It points to a dozen things.'

'Like what?'

'Like maybe Greg witnessed the murder and got scared and ran. Maybe
he witnessed the murder and was kidnapped. Maybe he was killed by the
same people.'

'So where's his body?' Dimonte asked.

'It could be anywhere.'

'Why not just leave it here with hers?'

'Maybe they killed him someplace else. Or maybe they took his body
because he's famous and they didn't want that kind of heat.'

He scoffed at that one. 'You're reaching, Bolitar.'

'So are you.'

'Maybe. Only one way to find out.' He stood. 'We got to get out an APB
on Downing.'

'Whoa, hold up a second. I don't think that's a good idea.'

Dimonte looked at Myron as if he were something left unflushed in a
toilet. I'm sorry,' he said feigning politeness. 'You must be mistaking me
for someone who gives a rat's ass what you think.'

'You're suggesting putting out an APB on a major, beloved sports hero.'

'And you're suggesting I play favorites because he's a major, beloved
sports hero.'

'Not at all,' Myron said, his mind racing. 'But imagine what happens
when you call out this APB. The press gets it. You start getting that O.J.
coverage. But there's a difference here. You got squat on Downing. No
motive. No physical evidence. Nothing.'

'Not yet I don't,' Dimonte said. 'But it's early--

'Exactly, it's early. Wait a little while, that's all I'm saying. And handle
this one right because the whole world is going to look at everything you do.
Tell those bozos upstairs to videotape every step. Leave nothing to chance.
Don't let anyone come back later and say you tampered or contaminated
something. Get a warrant before you go to Downing's house. Do everything
by the book.'

'I can do all that and still put out an APB.'

'Rolly, suppose Greg Downing did kill her. You put out an APB, you
know what happens? One, you look single-minded. You look like you got it
in your head that Downing was the killer and that was it. Two, you got the
press in your face - watching your every move, trying to beat you to the
evidence, compromising and commenting on everything you do. Three,
you drag Greg in here now and you know what bottom-feeders are stuck to
him?'

Dimonte nodded and made a lemon-sucking face. 'Fucking lawyers.'

'A dream team's worth. Before you have anything, they're filing motions
and suppressing whatever and, well, you know the routine.'

'Shit,' Dimonte said.

Myron nodded. 'You see what I mean?'

Yeah, I do,' Dimonte said. 'But there's some stuff you forgot, Bolitar.' He
gave Myron big-time toothpick gnawing. 'For example, if I issue an APB
your little team investigation goes down the toilet. You lose out.'

'Could be,' Myron said.

Dimonte studied him with a small, uneven smile. 'That doesn't mean
what you're saying is wrong. I just don't want you to think I don't see what
you're up to.'

You read me,' Myron said, 'like Vasco da Gama reads a map.'
Dimonte gave him hard eyes for a moment; Myron fought off the desire

to roll his in return. 'So here's how we're going to play it. You're going to stay
on the team and you're going to continue your little investigation. I'm
going to try to keep what you told me to myself as long' - he held up a
finger for emphasis -- 'as long as it benefits my case. If I find enough to haul
Downing's ass in here, I put out the APB. And you are going to report
everything to me. You are not going to hold back. Any questions?'

'Just one,' Myron said. 'Where do you buy your boots?'

13

On the ride to practice, Myron placed a call from the car phone.

'Higgins,' a voice answered.

'Fred? It's Myron Bolitar.'

'Hey, long time, no speak. How you doing, Myron?'

'Can't complain. You?'

'A thrill a minute here at the Treasury Department.'

'Yeah, I bet.'

'How's Win?' Higgins asked.

'The same,' Myron said.

'The guy scares the piss out of me, you know what I mean?'

'Yes,' Myron said, 'I do.'

'You two miss working for the feds?'

I don't,' Myron said. 'I don't think Win does either. It got too restrictive
for him.'

'I hear you. Hey, I read in the papers you're playing ball again.'

'Yep.'

'At your age and with that knee? How come?'

'Long story, Fred.'

'Say no more. Hey, you guys are coming down to play the Bullets next
week. Can you get me tickets?'

'I'll do my best.'

'Great, thanks. So what do you need, Myron?'

'The wheres and why of about ten grand in hundred dollar bills.
Sequentially wrapped. Serial number B028856011A.'

'How fast you need it?'

'Soon as you can get it.'
'I'll do my best. You take care, Myron.'

'You too, Fred.'

Myron held nothing back at practice. He let it all hang out. The feeling was
awesome and overpowering. He entered his own zone. When he shot, it was
like an invisible hand carried the ball to the cylinder. When he dribbled, the ball
became part of his hand. His senses were heightened like a wolfs in the

wilderness. He felt like he'd fallen into some black hole and emerged ten
years earlier at the NCAA finals. Even his knee felt great.

Most of practice consisted of a scrimmage between the starting five
players and the five who saw the most bench time. Myron played his best
ball. His jumper was popping. He came off screens strong and ready to
shoot. He even drove straight down the lane twice - into the teeth of the big
men's domain - and came away the victor both times.

There were moments he completely forgot about Greg Downing and
Carla/Sally/Roberta's mangled corpse and the blood in the basement and
the goons who jumped him and yes, even Jessica. An exhilarating rush like
no other flooded his veins - the rush of an athlete at his peak. People talked
about a runner's high, a euphoria from a gland secretion when your body
was pressed to its limit. Myron couldn't relate to that, but he understood
the incredible highs and plunging depths of being an athlete. If you played
well, your whole body tingled and tears of pure joy came to your eyes. The
tingles lasted well into the night when you lay in bed with no chance of sleep
and replayed your finest moments, often in slow motion, like an overzealous
sportscaster with his finger on the replay button. When you played
poorly, you were surly and depressed and stayed that way for hours and
even days. Both extremes were way out of proportion with the relevant
importance of jamming a ball through a metallic circle or swatting a ball
with a stick or throwing a sphere with great velocity. When you played
poorly, you tried to remind yourself how stupid it was to get so caught up in
something so meaningless. When you hit that rare high, you kept your
internal big mouth shut.

As Myron dashed back and forth in the wave of basketball action, a
thought sneaked in through the back door of his brain. The thought stayed
on the fringes, hiding behind a couch, popping into view every once in a
while before ducking back down again. You can do this, the thought
taunted. You can play with them.

Myron's lucky streak continued when it came to his defensive assignment:
Leon White, Greg's roomie-on-the-road and best friend. Myron and
Leon bonded a bit while playing, the way teammates and even opponents
often do. Whispering quick jokes in one another's ear while lined up chest
to-chest for an inbounds pass. Patting the other guy on the back when he
made a nice play. Leon was a classy guy on the floor. No trash talk. Even
when Myron burned his butt on a fade-away eighteen-footer, Leon offered
only words of encouragement.

Coach Donny Walsh blew the whistle. 'That's it, fellas. Take twenty foul
shots and go home.'

Leon and Myron exchanged a half-handshake, half-high-five the way
only children and professional athletes can. Myron had always loved this
part of the game, the almost soldierlike camaraderie; he hadn't had that in
years. It felt good. The players partnered themselves up in groups of two - one guy to shoot, one to rebound - and went off to different baskets. Myron
lucked out again and hooked up with Leon White. They each snatched a
towel and a water bottle and strolled past the bleachers. Several reporters
were perched up there for the practice. Audrey was there, of course. She
looked at him with an amused smile. He resisted the temptation to stick his
tongue out at her. Or his ass. Calvin Johnson had been watching practice
too. He wore a suit and leaned against the wall like he was posing for a
candid picture. Myron tried to gauge his reaction during the scrimmage,
but of course Calvin's expression remained unreadable.

Myron shot first. He stood at the foul line, feet spread shoulder length,
his eyes on the front rim. The ball backspun through the hoop.

'I guess we're going to be roommates,' Myron said.

'That's what I heard,' Leon said.

'Probably won't be for very long.' Myron took another shot. Swish.
'When do you think Greg will be back?'

In one motion Leon grabbed the bouncing ball and swooped it back to
Myron. I don't know.'

'How's Greg feeling? The ankle doing okay?'

I don't know,' he said again.

Myron took another foul shot. Another swish. His shirt, heavy with
sweat, felt right. He grabbed the towel and wiped his face again. 'Have you
talked to him at all?'

'No.'

'That's funny.'

Leon passed the ball to Myron. 'What's funny?'

Myron shrugged, took four dribbles. I heard you two were tight,' he said.

Leon gave a half-smile. 'Where did you hear that?'

Myron released the ball. Another swish. 'Around, I guess. In the
newspapers and stuff.'

'Don't believe everything you read,' Leon said.

'Why's that?'

He bounce-passed the ball to Myron. 'The press loves to build up a
friendship between a white player and a black player. They're always
looking for that Gale Sayers-Brian Piccolo slant.'

'You two aren't close?'

'Well, we've known each other a long time. I'll say that.'

'But you're not tight?'

Leon looked at him funny. 'Why you so interested?'

I'm just making conversation. Greg is my only real connection to this
team.'

'Connection?'

Myron started dribbling again. 'He and I used to be rivals.'

'Yeah, so?'

So now we're going to be teammates. It'll be weird.'

Leon looked at Myron. Myron stopped dribbling. 'You think Greg still
cares about some old college rivalry?' There was disbelief in his voice.

Myron realized how lame he was sounding. 'It was a pretty intense thing,'
he said. 'At the time, I mean.' Extra lame. Myron didn't look at Leon. He
just lined up the shot.

'I hope this don't hurt your feelings or nothing,' Leon said, 'but I've been
rooming with Greg for eight years now. I've never heard him mention your
name. Even when we talk about college and stuff.'

Myron stopped right before releasing the ball. He looked over at Leon,
fighting to keep his face neutral. Funny thing was - much as Myron didn't
want to admit it -- that did hurt his feelings.

'Shoot already,' Leon said. 'I want to get out of here.'

TC lumbered toward them. He palmed a basketball in each hand with the
ease most adults palm grapefruits. He dropped one of the balls and did a
handshaking/slapping ritual with Leon. Then he looked over at Myron. His
face broke into a big smile.

'I know, I know,' Myron said. 'Thumped, right?'

TC nodded.

'What exactly is thumped?'

'Tonight,' TC said. 'Party at my house. All will be revealed then.'

14

Dimonte was waiting for him in the Meadowlands parking lot. He leaned
out of his red Corvette. 'Get in.'

'A red Corvette,' Myron said. 'Why aren't I surprised?'

'Just get in.'

Myron opened the door and slid into the black leather seat. Though they
were parked with the engine off, Dimonte gripped the steering wheel with
both hands and stared in front of him. His face was sheet-white. The
toothpick hung low. He kept shaking his head over and over. Yet again, the
subtlety. 'Something wrong, Rolly?'

'What's Greg Downing like?'

'What?'

'You fucking deaf?' Dimonte snapped. 'What's he like?'

I don't know. I haven't spoken to him in years.'

'But you knew him, right? In school. What was he like back then? Did he
hang out with perversive types?'

Myron looked at him. 'Perversive types?'

'Just answer the question.'

'What the hell is this? Perversive types?'

Dimonte turned the ignition key. The sound was loud. He hit the gas a
bit, let the engine do the rev thing for a while. The car had been jacked up
like a race car. The sound was, like, totally rad, man. No women were in the
nearby vicinity to hear this human mating call or they would surely be
disrobing by how. Dimonte finally shifted into gear.

'Where we going?' Myron asked.

Dimonte didn't answer. He followed the ramp that leads from the arena
to Giants Stadium and the horse track.

Is this one of those mystery dates?' Myron asked. 'I love those.'

Stop fucking around and answer my question.'

'What question?'

'What's Downing like? I need to know everything about him.'

'You're asking the wrong guy, Rolly. I don't know him that well.'

'Tell me what you do know.' Dimonte's voice left little room for

disagreement. His tone was less fake-macho than usual, and there was a
funny quake in it. Myron didn't like it.

'Greg grew up in New Jersey,' Myron began. 'He's a great basketball
player. He's divorced with two kids.'

'You dated his wife, right?'

'A long time ago.'

'Would you say she was left-wing?'

'Rolly, this is getting too weird.'

'Just answer the goddamn question.' The tone aimed for angry and
impatient, but fear seemed to overlap them. 'Would you call her politics
radical?'

'No.'

'She ever hang out with perversives?'

'Is that even a word? Perversives?'

Dimonte shook his head. 'Do I look like I'm in the mood for your shit,
Bolitar?'

'Okay, okay.' Myron made a surrendering gesture with his hands. The
Corvette swerved across the empty stadium lot. 'No, Emily did not hang out
with perversives, whatever they are.'

They headed past the racetrack and took the other ramp back toward the
arena. It became apparent to Myron that they were just going to circle
the Meadowlands' vast expanse of paved lots. 'Let's get back to Downing
then.'

'I just told you we haven't talked in years.'

'But you know about him, right? You've been investigating him; you've
probably read stuff about him.' Gear shift up. Extra rev power. 'Would you
say he was a revolutionary?'

Myron could not believe these questions. 'No, Mr Chairman.'

'Do you know who he hangs out with?'

'Not really. He's supposed to be closest to his teammates, but Leon White
- that's his roommate on the road - seemed less than enamored. Oh, here's
something that might interest you: after home games, Greg drives a taxi in
the city.'

Dimonte looked puzzled. 'You mean he picks up fares and stuff?'

'Yes.'

'Why the fuck does he do that?'

'Greg is a little' - Myron searched for the word - 'off.'

'Uh huh.' Dimonte rubbed his face vigorously, as if he were polishing a
fender with a rag. He did this for several seconds, not looking at the road;
fortunately, he was in the middle of an empty parking lot. 'Does it make
him feel like a regular guy or something? Could that be part of it? Getting
closer to the masses?'

'I guess,' Myron said.

'Go on. What about his interests? His hobbies?'

'He's a nature boy. He likes to fish and hunt and hike and boat, that b oyish stuff.'

'A back-to-nature type?'

'Sort of.'

'Like maybe an outdoor, communal guy?'

'No. Like maybe an outdoor, loner guy.'

'You have any idea where he might be?'

'None.'

Dimonte hit the gas and circled the arena. He came to a stop in front of
Myron's Ford Taurus and put the car in park. 'Okay, thanks for the help.
We'll talk later.'

'Whoa, hold up a second. I thought we were working together on this.'

'You thought wrong.'
'You're not going to tell me what's going on?'

His voice was suddenly soft. 'No.'

Silence. The rest of the players were gone now. The Taurus stood alone in
the still, empty lot.

'It's that bad?' Myron said.

Dimonte kept frighteningly still.

'You know who she is, don't you?' Myron went on. 'You got an ID.'

Dimonte leaned back. Again he rubbed his entire face. 'Nothing
confirmed,' he muttered.

'You got to tell me, Rolly.'

He shook his head. I can't.'

I won't say anything. You know--'

'Get the fuck out of my car, Myron.' He leaned across Myron's lap and
opened the car door. 'Now.'

15

TC lived in a turn-of-the-century, red brick mansion encircled by a six
foot, matching brick fence on one of the better streets of Englewood, New
Jersey. Eddie Murphy lived down the block. So did three Forbes 500 CEOs
and several major Japanese bankers. There was a security post by the
driveway entrance. Myron gave the security guard his name. The guard
checked his clipboard.

'Please park along the drive. The party is out back.' He raised the yellow
and-black striped gate and waved him through. Myron parked next to a
black BMW. There were maybe a dozen other cars, all glistening from fresh
washes and waxes or perhaps they were all new. Mostly Mercedes Benzes. A
few BMWs. A Bentley. A Jag. A Rolls. Myron's Taurus stood out like a zit in
a Revlon commercial.

The front lawn was immaculately manicured. Perfectly pruned shrubs
guarded and clung to the brick facade. In stark contrast to this majestic
setting was the rap music blaring from the speakers. Awful. The shrubs
looked pained by the sound. Myron didn't necessarily hate all rap. He knew
there was worse music out there - John Tesh and Yanni proved it every day.
Some rap songs Myron found engaging and even profound. He also
recognized that rap music had not been written for him; he didn't get it
all, but he suspected that he wasn't supposed to.

The party was held in the well-lit pool area. The crowd of about thirty
mingled about in a fairly subdued fashion. Myron was wearing a blue
blazer, a button-down pinstripe shirt, a flower tie, J. Murphy casual loafers.
Bolitar the Prep. Win would be so proud. But Myron felt frighteningly
underdressed next to his teammates. At the risk of sounding racist, the
black guys on the team - there were only two other white players on the
Dragons right now -- knew how to dress with style. Not Myron's style (or
lack thereof), but definitely with style. The group looked like they were
readying themselves for a Milan runway walk. Perfectly tailored suits. Silk
shirts buttoned to the neck. No ties. Shoes polished like twin mirrors.

TC reclined in a lounge chair by the shallow end of the pool. He was
surrounded by a bunch of white guys who looked like college students.
They were laughing at his every word. Myron also spotted Audrey in her

customary reporter's garb. She had added pearls for the occasion. Really
dressing up. He barely had a chance to step toward them when a woman in
her late thirties/maybe forty approached him. 'Hello,' the woman said.

'Hi.' The Wordsmith Strikes Again.

'You must be Myron Bolitar. My name is Maggie Mason.'

'Hi, Maggie.' They shook hands. Firm grip, nice smile.

She was dressed conservatively in a white blouse, charcoal-gray blazer,
red skirt, and black pumps. Her hair was down and slightly mussed, as if
she'd just released her bun. She was slim and attractive and would have
been the perfect choice to play the opposing attorney on LA Law.

She smiled at him. 'You don't know who I am, do you?'

'Sorry, I don't.'

'They call me Thumper.'

Myron waited. When she didn't add anything, he said, 'Uh huh.'

'Didn't TC tell you about this?'

'He mentioned something about getting thump ..." He stopped midword.
She just smiled at him and spread her arms. After some time had
passed, he said, 'I don't get it.'

'Nothing to get,' she said matter-of-factly. I have sex with all the guys on
the team. You're new to the team. It's your turn.'

Myron opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. 'You don't look like a
groupie.'

'Groupie.' She shook her head. 'God, I hate that word.'

Myron closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Let me see if
I'm getting this.'

'Go ahead.'

'You've slept with every guy on the Dragons?'

'Yes.'

'Even the married ones?'

'Yes,' she replied. 'Anyone who has been on the team since 1993. That's
when I started with the Dragons. I started with the Giants in 1991.'

'Wait a second. You're a groupie for the Giants, too? The football
Giants?'

'I told you. I don't like the term groupie.'

'What word would you be more comfortable with?'

She tilted her head a little and kept the smile. 'Look, Myron, I'm an
investment banker on Wall Street. I work very hard. I like taking cooking
classes and I'm a step-aerobics nut. All in all I am pretty normal by this
world's standards. I don't hurt anybody. I don't want to get married or have
a relationship. But I have this one little fetish.'
You have sex with professional athletes.'

She held up her index finger. 'Only with the guys on the Giants and
Dragons.'

Nice to see team loyalty,' Myron said, 'in this era of free agency.'

Thumper laughed. 'That's pretty funny.'

'Are you telling me you've slept with every player on the Giants?'

'Just about. I have tickets on the fifty-yard line. After every game, I have
sex with two players -- one from the defense, and one from the offense.'

'Sort of like the game MVPs?'

'Exactly.'

Myron shrugged. 'Beats getting the game ball, I guess.'

'Yes,' she said slowly. 'It definitely beats getting a game ball.'

Myron rubbed his eyes. Ground control to Major Tom. He studied her for
a moment. She seemed to be doing the same thing to him. 'So how did you
get the nickname Thumper?' he asked.

'It's not what you think.'

'What's not what I think?'

'How I got the nickname. Everyone assumes it has something to do with
screwing like a rabbit.'

'And it doesn't?'

'No, it doesn't.' She looked up in the air. 'How do I explain this
delicately?'

'You're worried about delicacy?'

She gave him a mildly disapproving look. 'Don't be like that.'

'Like what?'

'Like some right-wing, narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan-type Neanderthal.
I have feelings.'

I didn't say you didn't.'

'No, but you're acting like it. I don't hurt anyone. I'm honest. I'm forward. I'm direct. I control what I do and to whom. And I'm happy.'

'Not to mention disease-ridden,' he heard himself say and immediately
regretted it. The words had just slipped out; that happened to him
sometimes.

'What?'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'That was uncalled for.'

But he had hit a nerve. 'The men I have sex with always wear condoms,'
she snapped. I get tested frequently. I'm clean.'

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.'

She didn't stop. 'And I don't sleep with anyone I think might be infected
with something. I'm careful that way.'

Myron bit his lip this time. No point. 'My mistake,' he said. 'I didn't
mean it; I'm sorry. Please accept my apology.'

Her chest heaved, but she was calm now. 'Okay,' she said with an exhale.
'Apology accepted.'

Her eyes met his again. They smiled at each other for far too long. Myron
felt like a game-show contestant. A thought thankfully interrupted the
semitrance. 'Did you sleep with Greg Downing?' he asked.

'In 1993,' she said. 'He was one of the first Dragons.'

How that must swell his bosom with pride. 'You still see him?'

'Sure. We're good friends. I'm friends with most of the guys afterwards.
Not all, but most.'

'Do you two talk a lot?'

'Sometimes.'

'Recently?'

'Not the past month or two.'

'Do you know if he's seeing anyone?'

Thumper gave him a curious look. 'Why would you want to know about
that?'

Myron shrugged. 'Just making conversation.' The Return of Mr Lame.

'It's an odd topic,' she said.

'I guess I've been thinking about him a lot. All this talk about my being
on Greg's team and our history together. It just got me thinking.'

'It got you thinking about Greg's love life?' She wasn't buying it.

Myron sort of shrugged and mumbled something even he didn't
understand. A laugh broke out from the other side of the pool. A group of
his new teammates were enjoying a joke. Leon White was one of them. He
met Myron's eye and nodded a hello. Myron nodded back. Myron realized
that while no one seemed to be staring at them, all of his teammates had to
know why Thumper had approached him. Again he felt like he was back in
college, but this time the feeling didn't bring on the same happy nostalgia.

Thumper was busy studying him again, her eyes narrowed and focused.
Myron tried to look neutral, but he felt like a doofus. Being so openly
inspected did that to him. He tried to meet her gaze.

Thumper suddenly smiled widely and folded her arms. 'I get it now,' she
said.

'What?'

'It's obvious.'

'What's obvious?'

'You want revenge,' she said.

'Revenge for what?'

The smile grew a bit, then relaxed. 'Greg stole Emily from you. Now you
want to steal someone back.'

He didn't steal her from me,' Myron said quickly. He heard the defensive
tone in his voice and didn't like it. 'Emily and I broke up before they started
dating.'

'If you say so.'

'I say so.' Mr Snappy Retort.

She let loose a throaty laugh and put a hand on his arm. 'Relax, Myron.
I'm only teasing you.' She looked at him again. All of this
eye contact was beginning to give Myron a headache. He stared at her nose instead. 'So are we
going to do this?' she asked.

'No,' Myron said.

'If it's the fear of disease--

'It's not. I'm involved with someone.'

'So?'

'So I don't cheat on her.'

'Who wants you to cheat? I just want to have sex with you.'

'And you think those two things are mutually exclusive?'

'Of course they are,' Thumper said. 'Our having sex should have
absolutely no effect on your relationship. I don't want you to stop caring
about your girlfriend. I don't want to be a part of your life. I don't even
want to be intimate.'

'Gee, you make it sound so romantic,' Myron said.

'But that's just the point. It's not romantic. It's just a physical act. Sure, it
feels great, but in the end it's just a physical act. Like shaking hands.'

'Shaking hands,' Myron repeated. 'You should write greeting cards.'

'I'm just telling you how it is. Past civilizations -- ones far more
intellectually advanced than us - understood that pleasure of the flesh was
no sin. Associating sex with guilt is a modern, absurd hang-up. This whole
concept of tying sex to possession is something we got from uptight
Puritans who wanted to maintain control over their major possession: their
wife.'

A history scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see.

'Where is it written,' she continued, 'that two people can't reach heights
of physical ecstasy without being in love? I mean, think about how
ridiculous that is. It's silly, isn't it?'

'Maybe,' Myron said. 'But I'll still pass, thank you.'

She shrugged a suit-yourself. 'TC will be very disappointed.'

'He'll get over it,' he said.

Silence.

'Well,' she said, clasping her hands together, 'I think I'll mingle. It was
nice chatting with you, Myron.'

'A true experience,' Myron agreed.

Myron mingled a bit, too. He hooked up with Leon for a while. Leon
introduced him to his wife, a blond sexpot named Fiona. Very Playmate
like. She had a breathy voice and was one of those women who made even
the most casual conversation one long double entendre - so accustomed to
using her physical charms that she did not know when to turn them off.
Myron chatted with them both briefly and excused himself.

The bartender informed him that they were not stocking any Yoohoo.
He took an Orangina instead. Not just orange soda, but Orangina. How
European. He took a sip. Pretty good.

A hand slapped Myron's back. It was TC. He had foregone the GQ-suit
look, opting for white leather pants and a white leather vest. No shirt. He
wore dark sunglasses.

'Having a good time?' he asked.

'It's been interesting,' Myron said.

'Come on. I'll show you something.'

They walked in silence up a grassy hill away from the party. The incline
grew steadily steeper, the music fainter. The rap had been replaced with an
alternative group called the Cranberries. Myron liked their music. 'Zombie'
was on right now. Dolores O'Riordan was repeatedly singing, 'In your head,
in your head,' until she got tired and moved to repeating the word,
'Zombie, zombie' several hundred times. Okay, the Cranberries could
work on their chorus lyrics, but the songs still worked. Good stuff.

There were no lights now, but a glow from the ones by the pool provided
enough illumination. When they reached the plateau, TC motioned in
front of them. 'There.'

Myron looked out, and the sight nearly took his breath away. They were
up high enough to get an unimpeded, spectacular view of the Manhattan
skyline. The sea of lights seemed to shimmer like beads of water. The
George Washington Bridge looked close enough to touch. They both stood
in silence for several moments.

'Nice, huh?' TC said.

'Very.'

He took off his sunglasses. I come up here a lot. By myself. It's a good
place to think.'

'I would think so.'

They looked off again.

'Thumper talk to you yet?' Myron asked.

TC nodded.

'Were you disappointed?'

'No,' TC said. 'I knew you'd say no.'

'How?'

He shrugged. 'Just a feeling. But don't let her fool you. Thumper's good
people. She's probably the closest thing I got to a friend.'

'What about all those guys you were hanging out with?'

TC sort of smiled. 'You mean the white boys?'

'Yeah.'

'Not friends,' he said. 'If tomorrow I stopped playing ball, they'd look at
me like I'm pinching on a loaf on their sofa.'

'Poetically put, TC.'

Just the truth, man. You in my position, you don't have no friends. Facts
of life. White or black, it don't matter. People hang around me because I'm
the rich superstar. They figure they can get something for free. That's all.'

'And that's okay with you?'

'Don't matter if it's okay,' TC said. 'It's the way it is. I ain't complaining.'

'Do you get lonely?' Myron asked.

'Too many people around to get lonely.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Yeah, I know what you mean.' TC sort of jerked his head from side to
side, like he was trying to loosen up his neck before a game. 'Folks always
talking about the price of fame, but you wanna know the real price? Forget
that privacy shit. So I don't go out to the movies as much. Big fucking deal where
I come from you can't afford to go anyway. The real price is you ain't
a person anymore. You're just a thing, a shiny thing like one of those Benzes
out there. The poor brothers think I'm a golden ladder with goodies at
every step up. The rich white boys think I'm a fancy pet. Like with O.J.
Remember those guys who hung out in O.J.'s trophy room?'

Myron nodded.

'Look, I ain't complaining. Don't get me wrong. This is a whole lot better
than pumping gas or working in a coal mine or something. But I always got
to remember the truth: the only thing that separates me from any nigger on
the street is a game. That's it. A knee going pop, like with what happened to
you, and I'm back down there. I always remember that. Always.' He gave
Myron hard eyes, letting his words hang in the crisp air. 'So when some hot
babe acts like I'm something special, it ain't me she's after. You see what I'm
saying? She's blinded by all that money and fame. Everyone is, male or
female.'

'So you and I could never be friends?' Myron asked.

'Would you be asking me that if I was just some ignorant fool pumping
gas?'

'Maybe.'

'Bullshit,' he said with a smile. 'People bitch about my attitude, you
know. They say I act like everybody owes me. Like I'm a prima donna. But
they just mad because I see through them. I know the truth. They all think
I'm some ignorant nigger - the owners, the coaches, whatever - so why
should I respect them? Only reason they even talk to me is because I can
slam the ball through the hoop. I'm just a monkey making them money.
Once I stop, that's it. I'm just another dumb slice of ghetto shit not fit to sit
my black ass on their toilet.' He stopped then, as though out of breath. He
looked back at the skyline. The sight seemed to rejuvenate him. 'You ever
meet Isiah Thomas?' he asked.

'The Detroit Piston? Yeah, once.'

'I heard him doing this interview one time, must have been when the
Pistons won those championships. Some guy asked him what he'd be doing
if he wasn't a basketball player. You know what Isiah said?'

Myron shook his head.

'He said he'd be a United States senator.' TC laughed hard and high
pitched. The sound echoed in the still night. 'I mean, is the brother crazy or
what? Isiah really believe that shit. A United States senator - who the fuck is
he kidding?' He laughed again, but the sound seemed more forced now.
'Me, I know what I'd be. I'd be working in a steel mill, the midnight to ten

a.m. shift, or maybe I'd be in jail or dead, I don't know.' He shook his head.
'United States senator. Shit.'

'What about the game?' Myron asked.

'What about it?'

'Do you love playing basketball?'

He looked amused. 'You do, don't you? You buy all that "for the love of
the game" bullshit.'

'You don't?'

TC shook his head. The moon reflected off his shaved pate, giving his
head an almost mystical glow. 'It was never about that for me,' he said.
'Basketball was just a means to an end. It's about making money. It's about
setting me up for life.'

'Did you ever love the game?'

'Sure, I guess I must have. It was a good place to go, you know? But I
don't think it was the game - I mean, not the running and jumping and
shit. Basketball was just what I was all about. Everywhere else I was just
another dumb black boy, but on the basketball court, I was, well, the man. A
hero. It's an incredible high, everyone treating you like that. You know what
I mean?'

Myron nodded. He knew. 'Can I ask you something else?'

'Go ahead.'

'What's with all the tattoos and rings?'

He smiled. 'They bother you?'

'Not really. I'm just curious.'

'Suppose I just like wearing them,' TC said. 'That enough?'

'Yes,' Myron said.

'But you don't believe it, do you?'

Myron shrugged. 'I guess not.'

'Truth is, I do like them a little. The bigger truth is, it's business.'

'Business?'

'Basketball business. Making money. Lots of it. You know how much
money I make in endorsements? A shit load. Why? Because outrageousness
sells. Look at Deon. Look at Rodman. The more crazy shit I do, the more
they pay me.'

'So it's just an act?'

'A lot of it, yeah. I like to shock, too, just my way. But mostly I do it for
the press.'

'But the press is always ripping you apart,' Myron said.

'Don't matter. They write about me, they make me more money. Simple as that.' He smiled. 'Let me clue you in on something, Myron. The press is
the dumbest animal on God's green earth. You know what I'm gonna do one day?'

Myron shook his head.

'One day I'll get rid of the rings and shit, and I'll start dressing nice. Then

I'll start talking polite, you know, giving them all yes-sirs and yes-ma'ams
and start spitting out all that team-effort bullshit they like to hear. You
know what'll happen? These same fucks that say I'm destroying the integrity
of the game will be kissing my black ass like it's the Blarney Stone. They be
talking about how I went through some sort of miraculous transformation.
How now I'm a hero. But only thing that's really changed is my act.' TC
gave him a big smile.

Myron said, 'You're a piece of work, TC.'

TC turned back to the water. Myron watched him in silence. He hadn't
bought all of TC's rationalizations. There was more at work here. TC
wasn't lying, but he wasn't exactly telling the truth either - or maybe he
couldn't admit the truth even to himself. He hurt. He truly believed no one
could love him, and no matter who you are, that hurts. It made you
insecure. It made you want to hide and build fences. The sad thing was, TC
was at least partially right. Who'd care about him if he wasn't playing
professional basketball? If not for his ability to play a child's game, where
would he be right now? TC was like the beautiful girl who wanted you to
look down deep to find the soul within -- but the only reason you'd bother
trying was because she was beautiful. Get rid of that physical beauty become
the ugly girl -- and nobody gives a damn about scratching the
surface to find the beauty within. Get rid of TC's physical prowess and the
same thing happens.

In the end, TC was not as off-the-wall as he appeared in public nor was
he as put-together as he wanted Myron to think. Myron was no
psychologist, but he was sure that there was more to the tattoos and body
piercing than making money. They were too physically destructive for so
pat an explanation. With TC, there were a lot of factors at work. Being a
former basketball star himself, Myron understood some of them; being that
Myron and TC came from completely different worlds, there were others he
could not so readily grasp.

TC interrupted their joint solitude. 'Now I got a question for you,' he
said.

'Shoot.'

'Why you really here?' TC asked.

'Here? As in your house--'

'On the team. Look, man, I saw you play when I was in junior high. In the
NCAAs. You were great, okay? But that was a long time ago. You got to
know you can't do it anymore. You had to see that at practice today.'

Myron tried not to look stunned. Had he and TC been at the same
practice? But of course they had, and of course, TC was right. Didn't Myron
remember the days when he was the team's superstar? Didn't he remember
scrimmaging against the last five guys who would play their butt off while
the starting five screwed around and played with no incentive? Didn't he
remember how disillusioned those last became, fooling themselves into

believing they were just as good as the first five when the first five were tired
from real games and were just slacking off? And back then, Myron was in
college. He played maybe twenty-five games a season - these guys played
almost a hundred against vastly superior competition.

Good enough to play with these guys? Who had he been kidding?

'I'm just giving it a shot,' Myron said softly.

'Can't let go, huh?'

Myron said nothing. They fell back into a brief silence.

'Hey, I almost forgot,' TC said. 'I hear you're good friends with a big
hotshot at Lock-Home Securities. That true?'

'Yes.'

'Was he that slice of white bread you talking with after the game?'

Myron nodded. 'His name is Win.'

'You know Thumper works on Wall Street, right?'

'She told me,' Myron said.

'Thumper wants to change jobs. Think your friend could talk to her?'

Myron shrugged. 'I could ask him.' Win would certainly appreciate her
outlook on the role of sex in ancient civilizations. 'Who does she work for
now?'

'Small outfit. Called Kimmel Brothers. But she needs to move on, you
know? They won't make her a partner, even though she busts her butt for
them.'

TC said something else but Myron was no longer listening. Kimmel
Brothers. Myron remembered the name immediately. When he'd hit the
redial button on the phone at Greg's house, a woman had answered and
said, 'Kimmel Brothers.' Yet Thumper had just told Myron she hadn't
spoken to Greg in a month or two.

Coincidence? Myron thought not.

16

Thumper was gone.

'She came for you,' TC said. 'When it didn't happen she split. She got
work tomorrow morning.'

Myron checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Long day. Time for a little shuteye.
He made his good nights and headed for his car. Audrey was leaning
against the hood, her arms folded across her chest, her ankles crossed. Pure
casual.

'You going back to Jessica's?' she asked.

'Yes.'
'Mind giving me a lift?'

'Hop in.'

Audrey gave him the same smile he had seen back at practice. He had
thought at the time she had been impressed with his play; now it was clearer
that the amusement was more akin to ridicule than appreciation. He
unlocked the doors in silence. She took off her blue blazer and laid it on the
backseat; he did likewise. She wore a forest green turtleneck underneath it.
She adjusted the neck part, folding it back an extra time. She took off the
pearls and jammed them in the front pocket of her jeans. Myron started the
car.

'I'm starting to put this thing together,' Audrey said.

Myron did not like the way she said it. Too much authority in her voice.
Audrey hadn't needed a lift home, he was sure of that. She wanted to talk to
him alone. That worried him. He gave her the good-natured smile and said,
'This doesn't have anything to do with my ass, does it?'

'What?'

'Jessica told me you two were discussing my ass.'

She laughed. 'Well, I hate to admit this,' she said, 'but it did look pretty scrumptious.'

Myron tried not to look too pleased. 'So you doing a story on it?'

'On your ass?'

'Yes.'

'Of course,' she said. I was thinking we could give it a big spread.'

Myron groaned.

'You're trying to change the subject,' she said.

'There was a subject?'

'I was telling you how I was putting this thing together.'

'That's a subject?'

He glanced at her. She was sitting with her left knee on the seat and her
left ankle tucked under her so her entire body could face him. Audrey had a
wide face and a few freckles, though he bet she had a lot more when she was
a kid. Remember that tomboy who was kinda cute in your sixth grade class?
Here she was all grown up. No beauty certainly. Not in the classic sense. But
there was an earthy appeal to Audrey that made you want to reach out and
hug her and roll in leaves on a crisp autumn day.

'It shouldn't have taken me so long to figure out,' she continued. 'It's
pretty obvious in hindsight.'

'Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?'

'No,' she replied. 'You're supposed to continue to play dumb for a few
more minutes.'

'My specialty.'

'Good, then just drive and listen.' Her hands were in constant gesturing
motion, peaking and valleying along with her voice. 'See, I was waylaid by
the whole poetic irony stuff. That's what I concentrated on. But your
backgrounds as rivals is secondary in all this. It's not nearly as important as,
say, your past relationship with Emily.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'You didn't play AAU. You didn't play in any summer league. You play
in pick-up games at the Y maybe once week. Your major workout revolves
around Master Kwon's place with Win - and they don't have a basketball
court.'

'Is there a point?'

Her hands spread in disbelief. 'You haven't been honing your skills. You
haven't played anyplace where Clip or Calvin or Donny would have seen
you play. So why would the Dragons sign you? It doesn't make sense. Was
the move strictly PR? Unlikely. The positive bump will be minimum, and if
you fail - which, let's face it, is very likely - that good publicity will probably
be nullified. Ticket sales are good. The team is doing well. They don't need a
publicity stunt right now. So there has to be another reason.' She stopped
and readjusted herself on the car seat. 'Enter the timing.'

'The timing?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Why now? Why sign you so late in the season? The answer
is obvious really. There is only one thing about the timing that stands out.'

'And that is?'

'Downing's sudden disappearance.'

'He didn't disappear,' Myron corrected. 'He's injured. That's your

precious timing. Greg got hurt. A spot opened up. I filled it.'

Audrey smiled and shook her head. 'Still want to play dumb, huh? Fine,

go ahead. You're right. Downing is supposed to be injured and in seclusion.
Now I'm good, Myron, and for the life of me I can't find this secluded spot
of his. I've called in all my best contacts and I can't get anything. Don't you
find that a bit odd?'

Myron shrugged.

'Maybe,' she went on, 'if Downing really craved seclusion to fix his
injured ankle - an injury which doesn't show up on any game tape, by the
way -- he could find a way. But if all he's doing is working on an injury, why
work so hard at it?'

'So pain in the asses like you don't bother him,' Myron said.

Audrey almost laughed at that one. 'Said with such conviction, Myron.
It's almost like you believe it.'

Myron said nothing.

'But let me just add a few more points and then you can stop playing
dumb.' Audrey counted them off on ringless, slightly callused fingers. 'One,
I know you used to work for the feds. That gives you some background in
investigative work. Two, I know Downing has a habit of vanishing. He's
done it before. Three, I know Clip's situation with the other owners. The big
vote is coming up. Four, I know you visited Emily yesterday and I doubt
you were there to restoke the flames.'

'How did you know about that?' Myron asked.

She just smiled and put her hand down. 'Add them up and there's only
one conclusion: you are looking for Greg Downing. He's missing again.
This time however the timing is much more critical; Clip's ownership vote
and the playoffs are coming up. Your job is to find him.'

'You got a hell of an imagination, Audrey.'

'I do at that,' she agreed, 'but we both know I got this right so let's end
playing dumb and cut to the heart of it: I want in.'

'Want in.' Myron shook his head. 'You reporters and your lingo.'

'I don't want to give you up,' she continued. Her knee was still up on the
seat. Her face was as bright and expectant as a school kid's waiting for the
final bell in May. 'I think we should team up. I can help. I got great sources.
I can ask questions without worrying about blowing my cover. I know this
team inside and out.'

'And what exactly do you want for this help?'

'The full story. I'm the first reporter to know where he is, why he
vanished, whatever. You promise to tell only me; I get the full exclusive.'

They passed several sleazy motels and a potpourri of gas stations on
Route 4. No-tell motels in New Jersey always gave themselves lofty names
that belied their social station. Right now, for example, they were driving
past the 'Courtesy Inn.' This fine establishment not only gave you courteous
attention, but they gave it to you by the hour at a rate, according to the sign,
of $19.82. Not twenty dollars, mind you, but $19.82 - so priced, Myron
guessed, because it was also the year they last changed sheets. The cheap

beer depot, according to another sign, was the next building on Myron's
right. Truth in advertising. Nice to see. The Courtesy Inn could learn a
lesson from them.

'We both know I could report it now,' she said. 'It'd still be a pretty good
scoop -- reporting that Downing wasn't really injured and you're just here
to find him. But I'd be willing to trade it in for a larger story.'

Myron thought it over as he paid the toll. He glanced at her expectant
face. She looked wild-eyed and wild-haired, kind of like the refugee women
coming off the boat in Palestine in the movie Exodus. Ready to do battle to
claim her homeland.

'You have to make me a promise,' he said.

'What?'

'No matter what - no matter how incredible the story seems - you won't
jump the gun. You won't report any of it until he's found.'

Audrey nearly leapt from her seat. 'What do you mean? How incredible?'

'Forget it, Audrey. Report whatever you want.'

'All right, all right, you have a deal,' she said quickly, hands raised in
surrender. 'You had to know saying something like that would pique my
interest.'

'You promise?'

'Yeah, yeah, I promise. So what's up?'

Myron shook his head. 'You first,' he said. 'Why would Greg vanish?'

'Who knows?' she replied. 'The man is a professional flake.'

'What can you tell me about his divorce?'

'Just that it's been acrimonious as all hell.'

'What have you heard?'

'They've been battling over the kids. They're both trying to prove the
other is an unfit parent.'

'Any details on how they're going about that?'

'No. It's been kept pretty hush-hush.'

'Emily told me Greg had pulled some sleazy tricks,' Myron said. 'Do you
know anything about that?'

Audrey chewed on her bottom lip for a few moments. 'I heard a rumor a
very unsubstantiated rumor - that Greg hired a private eye to follow her.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.'

To film her maybe? Catch her with another man?'

She shrugged. 'It's just a rumor. I don't know.'

'You know the Pi's name or who he works for?'

'Rumor, Myron. Rumor. A pro basketball player's divorce is hardly
earth-shattering sports news. I didn't follow it that closely.'

Myron made a mental note to check Greg's files for any payment to an
stigation firm. 'How was Greg's relationship with Marty Felder?'

'His agent? Good, I guess.'

'Emily told me Felder had lost Greg millions.'

She shrugged. 'I've never heard anything about that.'

The Washington Bridge was fairly clear. They stayed to the left and took
the Henry Hudson Parkway south. On their right, the Hudson River
sparkled like a blanket of black sequins; on their left was a billboard with
Tom Brokaw displaying his friendly yet firm smile. The caption under his
picture read: 'NBC News - Now More Than Ever.' Very dramatic. What the
hell did it mean?

'How about Greg's personal life?' Myron continued. 'Girlfriends, that
kind of thing?'

'You mean a steady?'

'Yes.'

She ran her fingers through the thick, curling locks, then rubbed the back
of her own neck. 'There was this one girl. He kept it kind of secret, but I
think they were living together for a while.'

'What's her name?'

'He never told me. I saw them together at a restaurant once. A place
called the Saddle River Inn. He didn't look happy to see me.'

'What did she look like?'

'Nothing special from what I remember. She was a brunette. She was
sitting so I couldn't tell you height or weight.'

'Age?'

'I don't know. Thirty-ish, I guess.'

'What makes you think they were living together?'

It seemed like an easy question, but she stopped and raised her eyes.
'Leon let something slip once,' she said.

'What did he say?'

'I don't remember anymore. Something about the girlfriend. Then he
clammed up.'

'How long ago was this?'
'Three, four months ago. Maybe more.'

'Leon implied that he and Greg weren't really that close, that the media
made a bigger deal out of it than it was.'

Audrey nodded. 'There is a tension there now, but I think it's just
temporary.'

'Why would there be a tension?'
'I don't know.'

'How long have you noticed the tension?'

'Not long. Within the last two weeks maybe.'

'Anything happen recently between Greg and Leon that you're aware of?'

'Nope. They've been friends for a long time. Friends have disagreements.
I didn't take it too seriously.'

Myron let loose a deep breath. Friends did indeed have disagreements,
but the timing was curious. 'Do you know Maggie Mason?'

'Thumper? Of course.'

'Were she and Greg close?'

'If you mean did they screw--

'No, I don't mean that.'

'Well, they screwed. That I'm sure of. Despite what Thumper claims, not
every guy on the team has gotten thumped. Some have turned her down.
Not many, I admit. But some. She hit on you yet?'

'just a few short hours ago.'

She smiled. I assume you joined the few, the proud, the Unthumped?'

'You assume correctly. But what about her relationship with Greg? Are
they close?'

'They're pretty close, I'd say. But Thumper is closest to TC. Those two
are very tight. It's not purely sexual either. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure TC
and Maggie have had sex and probably still do on occasions. But they're like
brother and sister too. It's weird.'

'How do TC and Greg get along?' Myron asked.

'Not bad for team superstars. Not great either.'

'Care to elaborate?'

She paused, gathered her thoughts. 'For five years now, TC and Downing
have shared the spotlight. I guess there is a mutual respect for each other on
the court, but they don't talk off it. At least, not very much. I'm not saying
they dislike each other, but playing basketball is a job like any other. You
might be able to stand one another at work, but you don't want to see the
person socially.' She looked up. 'Take the Seventy-ninth Street exit.'

'You still live on Eighty-first?'

'Yes.'

Myron took the exit and stopped at a traffic light on Riverside Drive.

'Now it's your turn, Myron. Why did they hire you?'

'It's like you said. They want me to find Greg.'

'What have you learned so far?'

'Not much.'

'So why were you so concerned I'd jump the gun and tell the story early?'

Myron hesitated.

'I promised not to say anything,' she reminded him. 'You have my word.'

Fair is fair. He told her about the blood in Greg's basement. Her mouth
dropped open. When he told her about finding Sally/Carla's body, he feared
her heart might give out.

'My God,' Audrey said when he finished. 'You think Downing killed her.'

'I didn't say that.'

She fell back against the seat. Her head lolled against the headrest as
though her neck could no longer support her. 'Christ, what a story.'

'And one you can't tell.'

'Don't remind me.' She sat back up again. 'Do you think it'll leak soon?'

'It might.'

'Why can't I be the recipient of that leak?'

Myron shook his head. 'Not yet. We got a lid on this so far. You can't be
the one to blow it off.'

Her nod was grudging. 'Do you think Downing killed her and ran?'

'There is no evidence of that.' He pulled up to her building. 'One last
question,' he said. 'Was Greg involved in anything unsavory?'

'Like what?'

'Like is there any reason thugs would be after him?'

Again her excitement was palpable. The woman was like an electric
current. 'What do you mean? What thugs?'

'A couple of thugs were watching Greg's house.'

Her face was positively glowing. 'Thugs? You mean like professional
gangsters?'
'Probably. I don't know for sure yet. Can you think of anything that
would connect Greg to thugs, or for that matter the murder of this woman?
Drugs maybe?'

Audrey shook her head immediately. 'It can't be drugs.'

'What makes you so sure?'

'Downing is a health nut, a real Granola head.'

'So was River Phoenix.'

She shook her head again. 'Not drugs. I'm sure of it.'

'Look into it,' he said. 'See what you can come up with.'

'Sure,' she said. I'll look into everything we talked about.'

'Try to be discreet.'

'No problem,' she said. She got out of the car. 'Good night, Myron.
Thanks for trusting me.'

'Like I had a choice.'

Audrey smiled and closed the car door. He watched her walk into the
building. He put the car back in drive and headed back to Seventy-ninth
Street. He got back on the parkway and continued south toward Jessica's.
He was about to pick up his cellular phone and call her when the phone
rang. The dashboard clock read 12:07 a.m. It had to be Jessica.

'Hello?'

It wasn't Jessica. 'Right lane, three cars behind you. You're being
followed.'

It was Win.

17

'When did you get back?' Myron asked.

Win ignored the question. 'The automobile following you is the same
one we spotted at Greg's house. It is registered to a storage facility in Atlantic City. No known mob connections, but that would seem to me to be
a safe bet.'

'How long have you been following me?'

Again Win ignored him. 'The two men who jumped you the other night.
What did they look like?'

'Big,' Myron said. 'One was absolutely huge.'

'Crew cut?'

'Yes.'

'He's in the car following you. Passenger seat.'

Myron didn't bother asking how Win knew about the thugs jumping
him. He had a pretty good idea.

'They've been communicating on the telephone quite a bit,' Win
continued. 'I believe they're coordinating with someone else. The phone
activity picked up after your stop in Eighty-first Street. Hold on a second.
I'll call you right back.' He hung up. Myron checked his rearview mirror.
The car was still there, right where Win said it was. A minute later the
phone rang again.

'What?' Myron said.

I just spoke to Jessica again.'

'What do you mean, again?'

Win sighed impatiently. He hated explanations. 'If they are planning to
jump you tonight, it is logical to assume it will be by her loft.'

'Right.'

'Ergo, I called her ten minutes ago. I told her to keep an eye out for
anything unusual.'

'And?'

An unmarked white van parked across the street,' Win answered. 'No
one got out.'

So it appears they are going to strike,' Myron said.

'Yes,' Win said. 'Should I preempt it?'

'How?'

'I could disable the car following you.'

'No,' Myron said. 'Let them make their move and see where it leads.'

'Pardon?'

'Just back me up. If they grab me, I may be able to get to the boss.'

Win made a noise.

'What?' Myron said.

'You complicate the simple,' Win said. 'Would it not be easier to simply
take out the two in the car? We could then make them tell us about their
boss.'

'It's that "make them" part I have trouble with.'

'But of course,' Win countered. 'A thousand pardons for my lack of
ethics. Clearly it is far wiser to risk your own life than to make a worthless
goon feel momentary discomfort.'

Win had a way of putting things that made very frightening sense. Myron
had to remind himself that the logical was often more terrifying than the
illogical - especially where Win was concerned. 'They're just hired help,'
Myron said. 'They're not going to know anything.'

Pause. 'Fair point,' Win conceded. 'But suppose they simply shoot you.'

'That wouldn't make any sense. The reason they're interested in me is
because they think I know where Greg is.'

'And dead men tell no tales,' Win added.

'Exactly. They want to make me talk. So just follow me. If they take me
some place well guarded--

'I'll get through,' Win said.

Myron did not doubt it. He gripped the steering wheel. His pulse began
to race. Easy to dismiss the possibility of getting shot by reasonable analysis;
it was another thing to have to park a car down the street from men you
knew were out to hurt you. Win would have his eye on the van. So would
Myron. If a gun came out before a person, the situation would be handled.

He got off the highway. The streets of Manhattan were supposed to be a
nice, even grid. Streets ran north/south and east/west. They were numbered.
They were straight. But when you got to Greenwich Village and SoHo, it
was like a grid painted by Dali. Gone were the numerical roads for the most
part, except when they twisted and turned between streets with real-live
names. Gone was any pretext of straight or systematized.

Luckily Spring Street was a direct run. A bicyclist sped by Myron, but no
one else was out. The white van was parked right where it was supposed to
be. Unmarked, just as Jessica had said. The windows were tinted so you
couldn't look in. Myron didn't see Win's car, but then again he wasn't
supposed to. He moved slowly down the street. He passed the van. When he
did, the van started its motor. Myron pulled into a spot toward the end of
the block. The van pulled out.

Show time.

Myron parked the car, straightened out the steering wheel, turned the
engine off. He pocketed the keys. The van inched forward. He took out his
revolver and stuck it under the car seat. It wouldn't do him any good right
now. If they grabbed him, they would search him. If they started shooting,
shooting back would be a waste of time. Win would either remove the
threat or not.

He reached for the door handle. Fear nestled into his throat, but he did
not stop. He pulled the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. It was
dark. The streetlights in SoHo were nearly worthless, like pen beams in a
black hole. Lights drifting out from nearby windows provided more of an
eerie kindle than real illumination. There were plastic garbage bags out on
the street. Most had been torn open; the odor of spoiled food wafted
through the air. The van slowly cruised toward him. A man stepped out
from a doorway and approached without hesitation. The man wore a black
turtleneck under a black overcoat. He pointed a gun at Myron. The van
stopped, and the side door slid open.

'Get in, asshole,' the man with the gun said.

Myron pointed at himself. 'You talking to me?'

'Now, asshole. Haul ass.'

Is that a turtleneck or a dickey?'

The man with the gun moved closer. I said, now.'

'It's nothing to get angry about,' Myron said, but he stepped toward the
van. 'If it is a dickey, you can't tell. It's a very sporty look.' When Myron got
nervous, his mouth went into overdrive. He knew it was self-destructive;
Win had pointed that out to him on several occasions. But Myron couldn't
stop himself. Diarrhea of the mouth or some such ailment.

'Move.'

Myron got in the van. The man with the gun did likewise. There were two
more men in the back of the van and one man driving. Everyone was in
black, except for one guy who looked to be in charge. He wore a blue
pinstripe suit. His Windsor-knotted yellow tie was held in place by a gold
tie bar at the collar. Euro-chic. He had long, bleached-blond hair and one of
those tans that were a little too perfect to come from the sun. He looked
more like an aging surfer boy than a professional mobster.

The van's interior had been custom designed, but not in a good way. All
the seats had been ripped out except for the driver's. There was a leather
couch in the back along one wall where Pinstripe sat alone. A lime-green
shag carpet even Elvis would have found too garish ran along the van's floor
and up the sides like a poor man's ivy.

The man in the pinstripe suit smiled; his hands were folded in his lap, very much at ease. The van started moving.

The gunman quickly searched Myron. 'Sit, asshole,' he said.

Myron sat on the carpeted floor. He ran his hand over the shag. 'Lime
green,' he said to Pinstripe. 'Nice.'

'It's inexpensive,' Pinstripe said. 'That way we don't worry about
bloodstains.'

'Thinking of overhead.' Myron nodded coolly, though his mouth felt
very dry. 'That's smart business.'

Pinstripe did not bother with a response. He gave the man with the gun
and dickey/turtleneck a look that made the man jolt upward. The man
cleared his throat.

'This here is Mr Baron,' the gunman told Myron, indicating Pinstripe.
'Everyone calls him the B Man.' He cleared his throat again. He spoke like
he'd been rehearsing this little speech, which, Myron surmised, was
probably likely. 'He's called the B Man because he enjoys breaking bones.'

'Say, that must wow the women,' Myron said.

The B Man smiled with capped teeth as white as anything in those old
Pepsodent commercials. 'Hold his leg out,' he said.

The man with the turtleneck/dickey pressed the gun against Myron's
temple hard enough to leave a permanent imprint. He wrapped his other
arm around Myron's neck, the inside of his elbow jammed into Myron's
windpipe. He lowered his head and whispered, 'Don't even flinch, asshole.'

He forced Myron into a lying position. The other man straddled Myron's
chest and pinned the leg to the floor. Myron had trouble breathing. Panic
seized him, but he remained still. Any move at this stage would almost
inevitably be the wrong one. He'd have to play it out and see where it went.

The B Man moved off the leather couch slowly. His eyes never left
Myron's bad knee; his smile was a happy one. I'm going to place one hand
on the distal femur and the other on your proximal tibia,' he explained in
the same tone a surgeon might use with a student. 'My thumbs will then
rest on the medial aspect of the patella. When my thumbs snap forward, I
will basically rip off your kneecap laterally.' He met Myron's gaze. 'This will
tear your medial retinaculum and several other ligaments. Tendons will
snap. I fear it will be most painful.'

Myron didn't even try a wisecrack. 'Hey, wait a second,' he said quickly.
'There's no reason for violence.'

The B Man smiled, shrugged. 'Why does there have to be a reason?'

Myron's eyes widened. Fear hardened in his belly. 'Hold on,' he said
quickly. 'I'll talk.'

'I know you will,' the B Man replied. 'But first you'll jerk us around a
bit--'

'No, I won't.'

'Please don't interrupt me. It's very rude to interrupt.' The smile was
gone. 'Where was I?'

'First he'll jerk us around,' the driver prompted.

'That's right, thank you.' He turned the white smile back to Myron.
'First, you'll stall. You'll do a song-and-dance. You'll hope we'll take you
someplace where your partner can save you.'

'Partner?'

'You're still friends with Win, aren't you?'

The man knew Win. This was not a good thing. 'Win who?'

'Precisely,' B Man said. 'This is what I mean by being jerked around.
Enough.'

He moved closer. Myron started to struggle, but the man jammed the
gun in Myron's mouth. It struck teeth and made him gag. The taste was
cold and metallic.

'I'll destroy the knee first. Then we'll talk.'

The other man pulled Myron's leg straight while the gunman took the
revolver out of Myron's mouth and pressed it back against his temple. Their
grips grew a bit tighter. The B Man lowered his hands to Myron's knee, his
fingers spread like eagle's talons.

'Wait!' Myron shouted.

'No,' B Man replied calmly.

Myron started to squirm. He grabbed a loading handle on the floor of the
van, the kind of thing used to tie down cargo. He held on and braced
himself. He didn't have to wait very long.

The crash jarred them. Myron had been ready for it. No one else had.
They all went flying, their grips slackening. Glass shattered. The scream of
metal hitting metal filled the air. Brakes screeched. Myron held on until the
van slowed. Then he curled into a ball and rolled out of harm's way. There
were shouts and a door opened. Myron heard a shot being fired. Voices
sounded in a cacophony of confusion. The driver ducked out through his
door. The B Man followed, leaping like a grasshopper. The side door
opened. Myron looked up as Win stepped in with his gun drawn. The man
with the turtleneck/dickey had recovered. He picked up his gun.

'Drop it,' Win said.

The man with the turtleneck/dickey didn't. Win shot him in the face. He
turned his aim toward the man who had straddled Myron's chest.

'Drop it,' Win said.

The man did. Win smiled at him. 'Fast learner.'

Win's eyes slid smoothly from side to side, never darting. Win barely
moved, seeming to glide rather than walk. His movements were short and
economical. He returned his eyes to his captive. The one still breathing.

'Talk,' Win said.

'I don't know nothing.'

'Bad answer,' Win said. He spoke with calm authority, his matter-of-fact
tone more intimidating than any scream. If you know nothing, you are
useless to me; if you are useless to me, you end up like him.' He vaguely
motioned toward the still form at his feet.

The man held up his hands. His eyes were round and white. 'Hey, wait a sec, okay? It's no secret. Your buddy heard the guy's name. Baron. The guy's
name is Baron. But everyone calls him the B Man.'

'The B Man works out of the Midwest,' Win said. 'Who brought him in?'

'I don't know; I swear.'

Win moved the gun closer. 'You're being useless to me again.'

'It's the truth, I'd tell you if I knew. All I know is the B Man flew in late
last night.'

'Why?' Win asked.

'It's got something to do with Greg Downing. That's all I know, I swear.'

'How much does Downing owe?'

'I don't know.'

Win moved closer still. He pressed the barrel of the gun between the
man's eyes. 'I rarely miss from this distance,' he said.

The man dropped to his knees. Win followed him down with the gun.
'Please.' His voice was a pained plea. 'I don't know nothing else.' His eyes
filled with tears. 'I swear to God, I don't.'

'I believe you,' Win said.

'Win,' Myron said.

Win's eyes never left the man. 'Relax,' he said. 'I just wanted to make sure
our friend here had confessed all. Confession is good for the soul, is it not?'

The man nodded hurriedly.

'Have you confessed all?'

More nods.

'You're sure?'

Nod, nod.

Win lowered the weapon. 'Go then,' he said. 'Now.'

The man didn't have to be told twice.

18

Win looked down at the dead body as though it were a bag of peat moss.
'We best depart.'

Myron nodded. He reached into his pants pocket and took out the
cellular phone. A relatively new trick of the trade. Neither he nor Win had
hung up after their call. The line was left open; Win had been able to hear
everything that had gone on in the van. It worked as well as any bug or
walkie-talkie.

They stepped into the cool night. They were on Washington Street.
During the day the place was popping with delivery trucks, but at night it
was completely silent. Someone would find a nasty surprise in the morning.

Win normally drove a Jaguar, but he had smashed a 1983 Chevy Nova
into the van. Totaled. Not that it mattered. Win had several such vehicles he
kept out in New Jersey to use for surveillance or activities just east of legal.
The car was untraceable. The plates and paperwork were all phony. It would
never lead back to anyone.

Myron looked at him. 'A man of your breeding in a Chevy Nova?' He tsktsked.
'I know,' Win said. 'Sitting in it almost gave me a rash.'

If anyone at the club saw you . . .'

Win shuddered. 'Do not even think such a thought.'

Myron's legs still felt shaky and numb. Even as the B Man had reached
down for his knee, Myron had known that Win would find a way to get to
him. But the thought of how close he'd come to being crippled for life kept
plucking at the muscles in his calves and thighs. He kept bending down and
touching the bad knee, as if he couldn't believe it was still there. Tears
brimmed in his eyes as he looked at Win. Win saw them and turned away.

Myron followed behind him. 'So how do you know this B Man?' he
asked.

'He operates out of the Midwest,' Win said. 'He is also a superb martial
artist. We met in Tokyo once.'

'What sort of operation does he run?'

'The usual assorted sundries - gambling, drugs, loan sharking, extortion. A bit of prostitution too.'

'So what's he doing here?'

'It appears that Greg Downing owes him money,' Win said, 'probably
from gambling. The B Man specializes in gambling.'

'Nice to have a specialty.'

'Indeed. I would assume that your Mr Downing owes them a large sum of
money.' Win glanced over at Myron. 'That's good news for you.'

'Why?'

'Because it implies that Downing is on the run rather than dead,' Win
said. 'The B Man is not wasteful. He wouldn't kill someone who owes him a
lot of money.'

'Dead men pay no debts.'

'Precisely,' Win said. 'On top of that, he is clearly looking for Downing. If
he killed him, he wouldn't need you to find him.'

Myron considered this for a moment. 'It sort of meshes with what Emily
told me. She said Greg had no money. Gambling might explain that fact.'

Win nodded. 'Kindly fill me in on what else has occurred in my absence.
Jessica mentioned something about finding a dead woman.'

Myron told him everything. As he spoke, new theories rushed forward.
He tried to sort through them and organize them a bit. When he finished
the recap, Myron went right into the first one.

'Let's assume,' he said, 'that Downing does owe lot of money to this B
Man. That might explain why he finally agreed to sign an endorsement deal.
He needs the money.'

Win nodded. 'Go on.'

'And let's also assume the B Man is not stupid. He wants to collect, right?
So he would never really hurt Greg. Greg makes him money through his
physical prowess. Broken bones would have an adverse effect on Greg's
financial status and thus his ability to pay.'

'True,' Win said.

'So let's say Greg owes them a lot of money. Maybe the B Man wanted to
scare him in another way.'

'How?'

'By hurting someone close to him. As a warning.'

Win nodded again. 'That might work.'

'And suppose they followed Greg. Suppose they saw him with Carla.
Suppose they figured that Greg and Carla were close.' Myron looked up.
'Wouldn't killing her be a hell of a warning?'

Win frowned. 'You think the B Man killed her to warn Downing?'

'I'm saying it's possible.'

'Why wouldn't he just break one of her bones?' Win asked.

'Because the B Man wasn't personally on the scene yet, remember? He got
in last night. The murder would have been the work of hired muscle.'

Win still didn't like it. 'Your theory is improbable, at best. If the murder
was indeed a warning, where is Downing now?'

'He ran away,' Myron said.

'Why? Because he was afraid for his own life?'

'Yes.'

'And did he run away immediately after learning Carla was dead?' Win
asked. 'On Saturday night?'

'That would be most logical.'

'He was frightened off then? By the murder?'

'Yes,' Myron said.

'Ah.' Win stopped and smiled at Myron.

'What?' Myron asked.

'Pray tell,' Win began with a lilt in his voice, 'if Carla's body was just
discovered today, how did Downing know about the murder last Saturday
night?'

Myron felt a chill.

'For your theory to hold up,' Win continued, 'Greg Downing would have
to have done one of three things. One, he witnessed the murder; two he
stumbled into the apartment after the murder; three, he committed the
murder himself. Furthermore, there was a great deal of cash in her
apartment. Why? What was it doing there? Was this money to help pay
back the B Man? If so, why didn't his men take it? Or better yet, why didn't
Downing take it back when he was there?'

Myron shook his head. 'So many holes,' he said. 'And we still haven't
come up with what connection there is between Downing and this Carla or
Sally or whatever her name is.'

Win nodded. They continued walking.

'One more thing,' Myron said. 'Do you really think the mob would kill a
woman just because she happened to be with Greg at a bar?'

'Very doubtful,' Win agreed.

'So basically, that whole theory is blown to hell.'

'Not basically,' Win corrected. 'Entirely.'

They kept walking.

'Of course,' Win said, 'Carla could have been working for the B Man.'

An icy finger poked at Myron. He saw where Win was going but he still
said, 'What?'

'Perhaps this Carla woman was the B -Man's contact. She collected for
him. She was meeting Downing because he owed a great deal of money.
Downing promises to pay. But he doesn't have the money. He knows they
are closing in on him. He has stalled long enough. So he goes back to her
apartment, kills her, and runs.'

Silence. Myron tried to swallow, but his throat felt frozen. This was good,
this talking it through. It helped. His legs were still rubbery from the
incident, but what really bothered him now was how easily he had forgotten
the dead man lying in the van. True, the man had jammed the barrel of a
gun into his mouth and had not dropped his weapon when Win told him

to. And true, the world was probably a better place without him. But in the
past Myron would have still felt some remorse for this fellow human being;
in all honesty, he didn't now. He tried to muster some sympathy, but the
only thing he felt sad about was that he didn't feel sad.

Enough self-analysis. Myron shook it off and said, 'There are problems
with that scenario too.'

'Such as?'

'Why would Greg kill her? Why not just run off before the back-booth
meeting?'

Win considered this. 'Fair point. Unless something happened during
their meeting to set him off.'

'Like what?'

Win shrugged.

'It all comes back to this Carla,' Myron said. 'Nothing about her adds up.
I mean, even a drug dealer doesn't have a setup like hers - working as a
diner waitress, hiding sequentially numbered hundred dollar bills, wearing
wigs, having all those fake passports. And on top of that, you should have
seen Dimonte this afternoon. He knew who she was and he was in a panic.'

'You contacted Higgins at the Treasury?' Win asked.

'Yes. He's tracing those serial numbers.'

'That could help.'

'We also need to get hold of the telephone records from the Parkview
Diner. See who Carla called.'

They fell back into silence and kept walking. They didn't want to hail a
taxi too close to the scene.

'Win?'

'Yes?'

'Why didn't you want to go to the game the other night?'

Win kept on walking. Myron kept pace. After some time, Win said,
'You've never watched a replay of it, have you?'

He knew he meant the knee injury. 'No.'

'Why not?'

Myron shrugged. 'No point.'

'No, there is a point.' Win kept walking.

'Mind telling me what that is?' Myron said.

'Watching what happened to you might have meant dealing with it.
Watching it might have meant closure.'

'I don't understand,' Myron said.

Win nodded. I know.'

'I remember you watched it,' Myron said. I remember you watched it
over and over.'

'I did that for a reason,' Win said.

'For vengeance.'

'To see if Burt Wesson injured you on purpose,' Win corrected.

'You wanted to pay him back.'
'You should have let me. Then you might have been able to put it behind
you.'

Myron shook his head. 'Violence is always the answer for you, Win.'

Win frowned. 'Stop sounding melodramatic. A man committed a vile act
upon you. Squaring things would have helped put it behind you. It's not
about vengeance. It's about equilibrium. It's about man's basic need to keep
the scales balanced.'

'That's your need,' Myron said, 'not mine. Hurting Burt Wesson
wouldn't have fixed my knee.'

'But it might have given you closure.'

'What does that mean, closure? It was a freak injury. That's all.'

Win shook his head. 'You never watched the tape.'

'It wouldn't have mattered. The knee was still ruined. Watching a tape
wouldn't have changed that.'

Win said nothing.

'I don't understand this,' Myron continued. I went on after the injury. I
never complained, did I?'

'Never.'

'I didn't cry or curse the gods or do any of that stuff.'

'Never,' Win said again. 'You never let yourself be a burden on any of us.'

'So why do you think I needed to relive it?'

Win stopped and looked at him. 'You've answered your own question,
but you choose not to hear it.'

'Spare me the Kung-Fu-grasshopper philosophical bullshit,' Myron shot
back. 'Why didn't you go to the game?'

Win started walking again. 'Watch the tape,' he said.

19

Myron didn't watch the tape. But he had the dream.

In the dream he could see Burt Wesson bearing down on him. He could
see the gleeful, almost giddy violence in Burt's face as he drew closer and
closer. In the dream, Myron had plenty of time to step out of harm's way.
Too much time really. But in this dream - as in many - Myron could not
move. His legs would not respond, his feet mired in thick, dream-world quicksand while the inevitable approached.

But in reality, Myron had never seen Burt Wesson coming. There had
been no warning. Myron had been pivoting on his right leg when the
blinding collision befell him. He heard rather than felt a snap. At first there
had been no pain, just wide-eyed astonishment. The astonishment had
probably lasted less than a second, but it was a frozen second, a snapshot
Myron only took out in dreams. Then came the pain.

In the dream Burt Wesson was almost on him now. Burt was a huge man,
an enforcer-type player, the basketball equivalent of a hockey goon. He did
not have much talent, but he had tremendous bulk and he knew how to use
it. It had gotten him far, but this was the pros now. Burt would be cut before
the start of the season - poetic irony that neither he nor Myron would play
in a real professional basketball game. Until two nights ago anyway.

In the dream Myron watched Burt Wesson approach and waited.
Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew that he would awaken before the
collision. He always did. He lingered now in that cusp between nightmare
and being awake - that tiny window where you are still asleep but you know
it is a dream and even though it may be terrifying, you want to go on and
see how it will end because it is only a dream and you are safe. But reality
would not keep that window open for long. It never did. As Myron swam to
the surface, he knew that whatever the answer was, he would not find it in
any nocturnal voyage to the past.

'Phone for you,' Jessica said.

Myron blinked his eyes and rolled onto his back. Jessica was already
dressed. 'What time is it?' he asked.

'Nine.'

'What? Why didn't you wake me?'

'You needed the sleep.' She handed him the phone. 'It's Esperanza.'

He took it. 'Hello.'

'Christ, don't you ever sleep in your own bed?' Esperanza said.

He was hardly in the mood. 'What is it?'

'Fred Higgins from Treasury is on the line,' she said. 'I thought you'd
want it.'

'Pass it through.' A click. 'Fred?'

'Yeah, how you doing, Myron?'

'I'm okay. You got anything on those serial numbers?'

There was a brief hesitation. 'You stumbled into some heavy shit, Myron.
Some very heavy shit.'

I'm listening.'

'People don't want this out, you understand? I had to jump through all
kinds of hoops to get this.'

'Mum's the word.'

'Okay then,' Higgins took a deep breath. 'The bills are from Tucson,
Arizona,' he said. 'More specifically, First City National Bank of Tucson,
Arizona. They were stolen in an armed bank heist.'

Myron shot up in the bed. 'When?'

Two months ago.'

Myron remembered a headline, and his blood turned cold.

'Myron?'

The Raven Brigade,' Myron managed. That was one of theirs, right?'

'Right. You ever work on their case with the feds?'

'No, never.' But he remembered. Myron and Win had worked on cases
with a special and almost contradictory nature: high profile with the need
for undercover. They had been perfect for such situations - who, after all,
would suspect a former basketball star and a rich, Main Line prep of being
undercover agents? They could travel in whatever circles they wanted to and
not raise suspicion. Myron and Win didn't have to create a cover; their
reality was the best one the agency had. But Myron was never full-time with
them. Win was their fair-haired boy; Myron was more a utility fielder Win called in when he thought it necessary.

But of course he knew about the Raven Brigade. Most people with even
a passing familiarity with sixties extremism knew about them. Started by a
charismatic leader named Cole Whiteman, the Ravens had been yet
another splinter group of the Weather Underground. They were very
much like the Symbionese Liberation Army, the group that kidnapped
Patty Hearst. The Ravens, too, attempted a high-profile kidnapping, but
the victim ended up dead. The group had gone underground. Four of
them. Despite the FBI's best efforts, the four escapees - including Cole vhiteman, who with his Win-like blond hair and WASPy background
never looked the part of an extremist - had remained hidden for nearly a
quarter-century.

Dimonte's bizarre questions about radical politics and 'perversives' no
longer seemed so bizarre.

'Was the victim one of the Ravens?' Myron asked.

'I can't say.'

'You don't have to,' Myron said. 'I know it was Liz Gorman.'

There was another brief hesitation. Then: 'How the hell did you know
that?'

'The implants,' Myron said.

'What?'

Liz Gorman, a fiery redhead, had been one of the founding members of
the Raven Brigade. During their first 'mission' - a failed attempt to burn
down a university chemistry lab - the police had picked up a code name on
the scanner: CD. It was later revealed that the male members of the Brigade
called her CD, short for Carpenter's Dream, because she was 'flat as a board
and easy to screw.' Sixties radicals, for all their so-called progressive
thoughts, were some of the world's biggest sexists. Now the implants
made sense. Everyone Myron had interviewed remembered one thing about
'Carla' - her cup size. Liz Gorman had been famous for her flat chest -- what
better disguise than oversized breast implants?

'The feds and cops are cooperating on this one,' Higgins said. 'They're
trying to keep this quiet for a while.'

'Why?'

'They got her place under surveillance. They're hoping to maybe draw
out another member.'

Myron felt completely numb. He had wanted to learn more about the
mystery woman and now he had: she was Liz Gorman, a famous radical
who had not been seen since 1975. The disguises, the various passports, the
implants -- they all added up now. She wasn't a drug dealer, she was a
woman on the run.

But if Myron had hoped learning the truth about Liz Gorman would help
clarify his own investigation, he had been sadly mistaken. What possible
connection could there be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman? How
had a professional basketball player gotten enmeshed with a wanted
extremist who had gone underground when Greg was still a kid? It made
absolutely no sense.

'How much did they get in the bank heist?' Myron asked.

'Hard to say,' Higgins answered. 'About fifteen thousand in cash, but
they also blew open the safe-deposit boxes. Over a half million in goods
have been declared for insurance purposes, but a lot of it is bullshit. A guy
gets robbed, all of a sudden he was keeping ten Rolexes in the box instead of
one - trying to rip off the insurance company, you know how it is.'

'On the other hand,' Myron said, 'anyone keeping illegal dollars in there
wouldn't declare it. They'd just have to swallow the loss.' Back to drugs and
drug money. The extremists in the underground needed resources. They'd

been known to rob banks, blackmail former followers who had gone
mainstream, deal drugs, whatever. 'So it could have been even more.'

'Right, hard to say.'

'You got anything else on this?'

'Nothing' Higgins said. 'It's being kept sealed tight, and I'm not in the
loop. I can't tell you how hard it was to get this, Myron. You owe me big.'

'I already promised you the tickets, Fred.'

'Courtside?'

I'll do ny best.'

Jessica came back into the room. When she saw Myron's face, she
stopped and looked a question at him. Myron hung up and told her. She
listened. Remembering Esperanza's crack, Myron realized that he had now
spent four nights in a row here - a postbreakup world and Olympic record.
He worried about that. It wasn't that he didn't like staying here. He did. It
wasn't that he feared commitment or any of that other drivel; to the
contrary, he craved it. But part of him was still afraid - old wounds that
wouldn't heal and all that.

Myron had a habit of exposing too much of himself. He knew that. With
Win or Esperanza it was okay. He trusted them absolutely. He loved Jessica
with all his heart, but she had hurt him. He wanted to be tentative. He
wanted to hold back, to not leave himself so open, but the heart don't know
from stop. At least, Myron's didn't. Two primal internal forces were at odds
here: his natural instinct to give all he had when it came to love vs the
survival instinct of pain avoidance.

'This whole thing,' Jessica said when he had finished, 'is just too weird.'

'Yep,' he said. They had barely talked last night. He had assured her that
he was all right and they had both gone to sleep. I guess I should thank
you.'

'For what?'

'You were the one who called Win.'

She nodded. 'After those goons jumped you.'

I thought you said you weren't going to interfere.'

'Wrong. I said I wasn't going to try to stop you. There's a difference.'

'True enough.'

Jessica started chewing on her bottom lip. She was wearing jeans and a
Duke sweat shirt several sizes too large on her. Her hair was still wet from a recent shower.
'I think you should move in,' she said.

Her words hit him square in the jaw. 'What?'

I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that,' she said. 'I'm not very good at
beating around the bush.'

'That's my job anyway,' he said.

She shook her head. 'You pick the strangest times to be crude.'

'Yeah, I'm sorry.'

'Look, I'm not good at this stuff, Myron. You know that.'

He nodded. He knew.

She tilted her head to the side, shrugged, smiled nervously. 'It's just that I
like having you here. It feels right.'

His heart soared and sung and quivered in fear. 'It's a big step.'

'Not really,' she said. 'You're here most of the time anyway. And I love
you.'

'I love you, too.'

The pause lingered a bit longer than it should. Jessica jumped into it
before it could do irreparable harm. 'Don't say anything now,' she said,
rushing the words out in a gush. 'I want you to think about it. It was a
dumb time to bring it up, with all this stuff going on. Or maybe that's why I
chose now, I don't know. But don't say anything. Just think about it. Don't
call me today. Or tonight. I'm going to your game, but then I'm taking
Audrey out for a few drinks. It's her birthday. Sleep at your house tonight.
Maybe we'll talk tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow,' Myron agreed.

20

Big Cyndi sat at the reception desk. 'Sat' was probably the wrong word. Talk
about the proverbial camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle.
The desk's four legs were off the floor, the top teetering on Big Cyndi's
knees like a seesaw. Her coffee mug disappeared into the fleshy hands that
resembled couch cushions. Her short spikes of hair had more of a pinkish
hue today. Her makeup reminded him of a childhood incident involving
melted Crayola crayons. She wore white lipstick, like something out of an
Elvis documentary. Her size-3XL T-shirt read club soda not seals. It
took Myron a few seconds to get it. Politically correct but cute.

Usually she growled when she saw Myron. Today she smiled sweetly and
batted her eyes at him. The sight was far more frightening, like Bette Davis
in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, only on steroids. Big Cyndi pointed up
her middle finger and bounced it up and down.

'Line one?' he tried.

She shook her head. The up and down gesture became more hurried. She
looked up at the ceiling. Myron followed her gaze but he saw nothing.
Cyndi rolled her eyes. The smile was frozen on her face, like a clown's.

'I don't get it,' he said.

'Win wants to see you,' she said.

It was the first time Myron had heard her voice, and it startled him. She
sounded like one of those perky hostesses on a cable shopping network, the
one where people call up and describe in far too much detail how much
their lives were improved by purchasing a green vase shaped liked Mount
Rushmore.

'Where's Esperanza?' he asked.

'Win's cute.'

'Is she here?'

'Win seemed to think it was important.'

'I'm just--'

You're going to see Win,' Cyndi interrupted. 'You're certainly not checking
up on your most valued associate.' The sweet smile.

'I'm not checking up. I just want to know--'

'Where Win's office is. It's two stories up.' She made a sound with her

coffee that some might loosely label, 'slurping.' Moose in the tri-state area
scattered in search of mates.

'Tell her I'll be back,' Myron said.

'But of course.' She batted her eyelashes. They looked like two tarantulas
in death throes. 'Have a nice day.'

Win's corner office faced Fifty-second Street and Park Avenue. Major
league view for Lock-Home Securities' golden boy. Myron sank into one of
the lush burgundy leather chairs. There were several paintings of fox hunts
on the richly paneled walls. Dozens of manly men on horseback, dressed in
black hats, red blazers, white pants, black boots, rode out armed with only
rifles and dogs to chase down a small furry creature until they caught and
killed it. Ah, gamesmanship. A tad overkill maybe. Like using a flamethrower
to light a cigarette.

Win typed on a laptop computer that looked lonely on the mono
expanse he called a desk. I found something of interest on the computer
disks we made at Greg's house.'

'Oh?'

'It appears our friend Mr Downing had an e-mail address with America
Online,' Win said. 'He downloaded this particular piece of mail on
Saturday.' Win spun the laptop around so Myron could read the
screen:

Subj: Sex!

Date: 3-11 14:51:36EST

From: Sepbabe

To: Downing22

Meet you tonight at ten. The place we discussed. Come. I promise you
the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable.
F

Myron looked up. 'Greatest night of ecstasy imaginable?'

'She has quite the writing flair, no?' Win said.

Myron made a face.

Win put a sincere hand to his heart. 'Even if she could not live up to such
a promise,' he continued, 'one has to admire her ability to take risk, her
dedication to her craft.'

'Uh huh,' Myron said. 'So who is F?'

'There is no profile for the screen name Sepbabe on line,' Win explained.
'That doesn't mean anything, of course. Many users don't have a profile.
They don't want everyone knowing their real name. I would assume
however that F is yet another alias for our dearly departed friend Carla.'

'We have Carla's real name now,' Myron said.

'Oh?'

'Liz Gorman.'

Win arched an eyebrow. 'Pardon?'

'Liz Gorman. As in the Raven Brigade.' He told Win about Fred Higgins's
call. Win leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. As usual his face
gave away nothing.

When Myron finished, Win said, 'Curiouser and curiouser.'

'It comes down to this,' Myron said. 'What connection could there
possibly be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman?'

'A strong one,' Win said, nodding toward the screen. 'The possibility of
the greatest night of ecstasy imaginable, if one is to buy into the hyperbole.'

'But with Liz Gorman?'

'Why not?' Win almost sounded defensive. 'You shouldn't discriminate
on the basis of age or implants. It wouldn't be right.'

Mr Equal Rights. 'It's not that,' Myron said. 'Let's pretend that Greg has
the hots for Liz Gorman, even though nobody described her as much of a
looker . . .'

'You're so shallow, Myron,' Win said with a disenchanted shake of the
head. 'Did you ever consider the possibility that Greg saw beneath that? She
did, after all, have large breasts.'

'As usual when discussing sex,' Myron replied, 'you've missed the point.'

'Which is?'

'How would they have hooked up in the first place?'

Win steepled his fingers again, bouncing the tips against his nose. 'Ah,' he
said.

'Right, ah. Here's a woman who's been living underground for more than
twenty years. She's traveled all over the world, probably never staying in one
spot for very long. She was in Arizona robbing a bank two months ago.
She's working as a waitress in a tiny diner on Dyckman Street. How does
this woman hook up with Greg Downing?'

'Difficult,' Win allowed, 'but not impossible. There is plenty of evidence
to support that.'

'Like?'

Win motioned to the computer screen. 'This e-mail is talking about last
Saturday night, for one - the same night Greg and Liz Gorman met in a
New York City bar.'

'In a dive bar,' Myron corrected. 'Why there? Why not go to a hotel or
her place?'

'Perhaps because it is out of the way. Perhaps, as you implied, Liz
Gorman would want to keep out of the public eye. Such a bar might be a
good alternative.' He stopped steepling and lightly drummed his fingers on
the desk. 'But you, my friend, are forgetting something else.'

'What?'

The woman's clothes in Greg's house,' Win said. 'Your investigation has
us to conclude that Downing has a lover he was keeping secret. The
question, of course is: why? Why would he work so hard to keep a love affair

clandestine? One possible explanation is that the secret love was the
infamous Liz Gorman.'

Myron wasn't sure what to think. Audrey had seen Greg at a restaurant
with a woman that did not fit Liz Gorman's description. But what did that
mean? It might have been another date. It might have been something
innocent. It might have been a side affair, who knows? Still, Myron had
trouble buying a romantic entanglement involving Greg Downing and Liz
Gorman. Something about it just didn't wash. 'There must be a way of
tracing down this screen name and finding the user's real identity,' he said.
'Let's make sure it checks back to Liz Gorman or one of her aliases.'

'I'll see what I can do. I don't have any contacts with America Online, but
someone we know must.' Win reached behind him. He opened up the
paneled door on his minifridge. He tossed Myron a can of Yoo-hoo and
poured himself a Brooklyn Lager. Win never drank beer, only lager. 'Greg's
money has been difficult to locate,' he said. 'I'm not sure there is very
much.'

'That would fit into what Emily said.'

'However,' Win continued, 'I did find one major withdrawal.'

'How much?'

'Fifty thousand dollars in cash. It took some time because it came out of
an account that Martin Felder holds for him.'

'When did he withdraw it?'

'Four days before he disappeared,' Win said.

'Paying off a gambling debt?'

'Perhaps.'

Win's phone rang. He picked it up and said, 'Articulate. Okay, put it
through.' Two seconds later he handed the phone to Myron.

'For me?' Myron asked.

Win gave him flat eyes. 'No,' he said. 'I'm handing you the phone
because it's too heavy for me.'

Everyone's a wiseass. Myron took the phone. 'Hello?'

I got a squad car downstairs.' It was Dimonte in full bark. 'Get your ass
in it now.'

'What's wrong?'

'I'm at fucking Downing's house, that's what's wrong. I had to practically
suck off a judge to get the warrant.'

'Nice imagery, Rolly.'

'Don't fuck with me, Bolitar. You said there was blood in the house.'

'In the basement,' Myron corrected.

'Well, I'm in the basement right now,' he countered. 'And it's as clean as
a baby's ass.'

21

The basement was indeed clean. No blood anywhere.

'There's got to be traces,' Myron said.

Dimonte's toothpick looked like it was about to snap between his
clenched teeth. 'Traces?'

'Yeah. With a microscope or something.'

'With a . . .' Dimonte flapped his arms, his face crimson. 'What the hell
good is traces going to do me? They don't prove a damn thing. You can't
test traces.'

'It'll prove there was blood.'

'So what?' he shouted. 'You go through any house in America with a
microscope and you're bound to find traces of blood. Who the fuck cares?'

I don't know what to tell you, Rolly. The blood was there.'

There were maybe five lab cops - no uniforms, no marked cars - going
through the house. Krinsky was there too. The video camera in his hand was
off right now. He also had what looked like manila files jammed into his
armpit. Myron motioned to them. 'That the coroner's report?'

Roland Dimonte stepped in to block Myron's view. 'That ain't none of
your business, Bolitar.'

'I know about Liz Gorman, Rolly.'

The toothpick hit the floor on that one. 'How the hell . . .?'

'It's not important.'

'The fuck it ain't. What else do you know? If you're holding out on me,
Bolitar--'

I'm not holding out on you, but I think I can help.'

Dimonte narrowed his eyes. Senor Suspicious. 'Help how?'

'Just tell me Gorman's blood type. That's all I want to know. Her blood
type.'

'Why the hell should I?'

'Because you're not a total numb nut, Rolly.'

'Don't give me that shit. Why do you want to know?'

'Remember I told you about finding blood in the basement?' Myron said.

'Yeah.'

'I left something out.'

Dimonte gave him the glare. 'What?'

'We tested some of the blood.'

'We? Who the fuck is ..." His voice trailed off. 'Oh Christ, don't tell me
that psycho-yuppie is in on all this?'

To know Win was to love him. 'I'd like to make a little trade.'

'What kind of trade?'

'You tell me the blood type in the report. I tell you the blood type we
found in the basement.'

'Fuck you, Bolitar. I can arrest your ass for tampering with evidence in a
police investigation.'

'What tampering? There was no investigation.'
'I could still nail your ass for breaking and entering.'

'If you could prove it. And if Greg were around to press charges. Look,
Rolly--'

'AB positive,' Krinsky said. He ignored Dimonte's renewed glare and
continued. 'It's fairly rare. Four percent of the populace.'
They both turned their attention to Myron. Myron nodded. 'AB positive.
It's the same.'

Dimonte put up both hands and scrunched his face into perplexed.
'Whoa, hold up here. Just what the fuck are you trying to say? That she was
killed down here and moved?'

'I'm not saying anything,' Myron said.

''Cause we didn't see any evidence of the body being moved,' Dimonte
went on. 'None at all. Not that we were looking for it. But the bleeding
pattern - I mean, if she was killed down here, there wouldn't have been so
much blood at her apartment. You saw the mess there, right?'

Myron nodded.

Dimonte's eyes darted aimlessly. Myron could practically see the gears
inside his head grinding to a halt. 'You know what that means, don't you,
Bolitar?'

'No, Rolly, why don't you enlighten me?'

'It means the killer came back here after the murder. It's the only
explanation. And you know who all this is starting to point to? Your pal
Downing. First we found his fingerprints in the victim's apartment--

'What's this?'

Dimonte nodded. 'That's right. Downing's fingerprints were by the door
frame.'

'But not inside?'

'Yeah, inside. Inside the door frame.'

'But nowhere else?'

'What the hell's the difference? The fingerprints prove he was at the
scene. What more do you need? Anyway, here's how it must have
happened.' He stuck a new toothpick in his mouth. New toothpick for a
new theory. 'Downing kills her. He comes back to his house to pack or

something. He's in a rush so he leaves a little mess in the basement. Then he
runs away. A few days later he comes back and cleans it up.'

Myron shook his head. 'Why come down to the basement in the first
place?'

'The laundry room,' Dimonte answered. 'He was coming down here to
wash his clothes.'

'The laundry room is upstairs off the kitchen,' Myron said.

Dimonte shrugged. 'So maybe he was getting a suitcase.'

'They're in the bedroom closet. This is just a kids' playroom, Rolly. Why
did he come down here?'

That stopped Dimonte for a moment. It stopped Myron too. None of
this made much sense. Had Liz Gorman been killed here and dragged to her
apartment in Manhattan? That didn't seem to make much sense based on
the physical evidence. Could she have been injured down here?

Whoa, hold the phone.

Maybe the attack started here. Maybe there had been a scuffle in the
basement. In the course of subduing or knocking her out, blood was spilled.
But then what? Did the killer stick her in a car and drive to Manhattan? And
then - what? - on a fairly active street, the killer parked a car, dragged her
injured body up the stairs, entered her apartment, killed her?

Did that make any sense?

From the first level a voice cried down, 'Detective! We found something!
Quick!'

Dimonte wet his lips. 'Turn on the video,' he told Krinsky. Videotaping
all the relevant moments. Just like Myron had told him. 'Stay here, Bolitar. I
don't want to have to explain your ugly mug being on the film.'

Myron followed but at a discreet distance. Krinsky and Dimonte headed
up the stairs into the kitchen. They turned left. The laundry room. Vinyl
yellow wallpaper with white chicks blanketed all four walls. Emily's taste?
Probably not. Knowing Emily she'd probably never even seen the inside of a
laundry room.

'Over here,' someone said. Myron stayed back. He could see that the
dryer had been pushed away from the wall. Dimonte bent down and looked
behind it. Krinsky arched over to make sure the whole thing was being
filmed. Dimonte stood back up. He was trying like hell to look grim - a
smile wouldn't look good on film - but he was having a rough time of it. He
snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and lifted the item into view.

The baseball bat was covered with blood.

22

When Myron got back to the office, Esperanza was at the reception desk.

'Where's Big Cyndi?' Myron asked.

'Having lunch.'

The image of Fred Flintstone's car tipping over from the weight of his
Bronto-ribs flashed in front of Myron's eyes.

'Win filled me in on what's been going on,' Esperanza said. She wore an
aqua-blue blouse open at the throat. A gold heart on a slender chain
dangled proudly against the dark skin of her sternum. Her always-mussed
hair was slightly entangled in big hoop earrings. She pushed the hair back
with one finger. 'So what happened at the house?'

He explained about the cleaned-up blood and the baseball bat. Esperanza
usually liked to do other things while she listened. She wasn't right now. She
stared square into his eyes. When she looked at you like that, there was such
intensity it was sometimes hard to look back.

'I'm not sure I understand,' she said. 'You and Win found blood in the
basement two days ago.'

'Right.'

'Since then, someone cleaned up that blood - but they left behind the
murder weapon?'

'So it appears.'

Esperanza considered this for a moment. 'Could it have been a maid?'

'The police already checked on that. She hasn't been there in three
weeks.'

'Do you have a thought?'

He nodded. 'Someone is trying to frame Greg. It's the only logical
explanation.'

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. 'By planting and then cleaning up
blood?'

'No, let's start from the beginning.' He grabbed the chair and sat in front
of her. He had been going over it in his mind the whole ride back, and
wanted to talk it out. In the corner on his left, the fax machine sounded its
digitally primordial screech. Myron waited for the sound to subside. 'Okay,'
he said, 'first I'm going to assume that the killer knew Greg was with Liz

Gorman that night - maybe he followed them, maybe he was waiting for
them near her apartment. Whatever, he knows they were together.'

Esperanza nodded, stood. She walked over to the fax machine to check
the incoming transmission.

'After Greg leaves, the killer murders Liz Gorman. Knowing that
Downing would make a good fall guy, he takes some blood from the
murder scene and plants it at Greg's house. That will raise suspicion. To put
the icing on the cake, the killer also takes the murder weapon and plants it
behind the dryer.'

'But you just said the blood was cleaned up,' she interjected.

'Right. Here's where it gets a little tricky. Suppose, for example, I wanted
to protect Greg Downing. I go into his house and find the blood. Now
remember, I want to protect Greg from a murder rap. So what would I do?'

She squinted at the fax coming through. 'Clean up the blood.'

'Exactly.'

'Wow, thanks. Do I get a gold star? Get on with it already.'

'Just bear with me, okay? I would see the blood and clean it up. But - and
here's the important part - the first time I was in that house I never saw the
bat. That's not just in this example. That's real life. Win and I only saw the
blood in the basement. No baseball bat.'

'Hold on,' she said. 'You're saying someone cleaned up the blood to
protect Greg from a murder rap but didn't know about the bat?'

'Right.'

'Who?'

'I don't know.'

Esperanza shook her head. She moved back to her desk and hit some keys
on her computer keyboard. 'It doesn't add up.'

'Why not?'

'Suppose I'm madly in love with Greg Downing,' she said, moving back
to the fax machine. I'm in his house. For some reason I can't fathom, I'm in
his kids' playroom. Doesn't matter where I am. Imagine I'm in my own
apartment. Or I'm visiting your house. I could be anywhere.'

'Okay.'

I see blood on the floor or on the walls or wherever.' She stopped, looked at him. 'What conclusion would you logically expect me to draw?'
Myron shook his head. I don't understand what you're saying.'
Esperanza thought a moment. 'Suppose you left here right now,' she began, 'and went back to the bitch's loft.'

'Don't call her that.'

'Whatever. Suppose when you walked in, you found blood on her walls. What Would be your first reaction?'

Myron nodded slowly. Now he saw what she was getting at. 'I'd be worried about Jessica.'

'Your second reaction? After you found out she was okay?'

'Curiosity, I guess. Whose blood is it? How did it get there? That sort of
thing.'

'Right,' she said with a quick nod. 'Would you think to yourself, "Gee, I
better clean it up before the bitch gets accused of murdering somebody"?'

'Stop calling her that.'

Esperanza waved him off. 'Would you think that or not?'

'Not in that circumstance, no,' Myron said. 'So in order for my theory to
hold water--

'Your protector had to know about the murder,' she finished for him,
back checking her computer for something. 'He or she would also have to
know that Greg was somehow involved.'

Myron's head spun with possibilities. 'You think Greg killed her,' he said.
'You think he went back to his house after the murder and left behind some
traces of the crime - like blood in the basement. Then he sent this protector
back to the house to help cover his tracks.'

Esperanza made a face. 'Where the hell did you come up with that?'

I just--

'That's not what I think at all,' Esperanza said. She stapled the fax pages
together. 'If Greg sent someone to get rid of the evidence, the weapon
would be gone too.'

'Right. So that leaves us where?'

Esperanza shrugged, circled something on the fax page with a red marker.
'You're the great detective. You figure it out.'

Myron thought about it a moment. Another answer - one he prayed was
wrong - came to him all at once. 'There's another possibility,' he said.

'What?'

'Clip Arnstein.'

'What about him?'

'I told Clip about the blood in the basement,' Myron said.

'When?'

'Two days ago.'

'How did he react?'

'He freaked, pretty much,' Myron said. 'He's also got motive - any
scandal will destroy his chances of keeping control of the Dragons. Hell,
that's why he hired me. To keep any trouble contained. Nobody else even
knew about the blood in the basement.' Myron stopped. He leaned back
and ran it through his mind again. 'Of course I haven't had a chance to tell
Clip about Liz Gorman's murder. He didn't even know the blood wasn't
Greg's. All he knew was that there was blood in the basement. Would he go
that far just on that? Would he still risk covering it all up if he didn't know
anything about Liz Gorman?'

Esperanza gave him a small smile. 'Maybe he knows more than you
think,' she said.

'What makes you say that?'

She handed him the fax. 'It's the list of long distance calls made from the
pay phone at the Parkview Diner,' she said. 'I already cross-checked it with
my computer Rolodex. Look at the number I circled.'

Myron saw it. A call lasting twelve minutes had been made from the
Parkview Diner four days before Greg's disappearance. The phone number
was Clip's.

23

'Liz Gorman called Clip?' Myron looked up at Esperanza. 'What the hell is
going on?'

Esperanza shrugged. 'Ask Clip.'

'I knew he was keeping something from me,' he went on, 'but I don't get
it. How does Clip fit into this equation?'

'Uh huh.' She shuffled through some papers on her desk. 'Look, we got a
ton of work to do. I mean, sports agent work. You have a game tonight,
right?'

He nodded.

'So ask Clip then. In the meantime, we're just going around in circles
here.'

Myron scanned the sheet. 'Any other numbers jump out at you?'

'Not yet,' she said. 'But I want to talk about something else for a minute.'

'What?'

'We have a problem with a client.'

'Who?'

'Jason Blair.'

'What's wrong?'

'He's pissed off,' she said. 'He's not happy with me handling his contract
negotiations. He said he hired you, not some' -- she made quote marks in
the air with her fingers - ' "scantily clad wrestler with a nice ass." '

'He said that?'

'Yep. Nice ass. Didn't even notice my legs.' Esperanza shook her head.

Myron smiled. 'So what happened?'

Behind them the elevator dinged. Only one hit this part of the floor. The
elevator opened directly into the reception area of MB SportsReps. Classy,
or so he had been told. When the doors opened, two men came out. Myron
recognized them right away. Camouflage Pants and Brick Wall. They were
both armed. They aimed their guns at Myron and Esperanza. B Man
stepped out behind them like he'd just been introduced on the Leno show.
Big smile, acknowledging-the-crowd wave.

'How's the knee, Myron?' he asked.

'Better than your van.'

B Man laughed at that one. 'That Win,' he mused. 'The man is always a
surprise. How did he know when to hit us?'

No reason not to tell. 'We kept the cellular phones on.'

B Man shook his head. 'Ingenious really. I'm very impressed.' He wore
one of those suits that are just a tad too shiny and a pink tie. His shirt was
french-cuffed and monogrammed with four letters: b man. Taking the
nickname thing a little far. A thick, ropelike gold bracelet encircled his right
wrist.

'How did you get up here?' Myron asked.

'Do you really think a few rent-a-cops are going to stop us?'

'I'd still like to hear,' Myron said.

B Man shrugged. 'I called Lock-Home Securities and told them I was
looking for a new financial advisor for my millions. An anxious young peon
told me to come right up. I hit the twelfth floor on the elevator instead of
the fifteenth.' He spread his hands. 'So here I am.' He smiled at Esperanza.
What with the too-white teeth and the tan, it looked like he switched on a
night-light.

'And who is this fetching creature?' he asked with a wink.

'My,' Esperanza said, 'what woman doesn't love to be called a creature?'

B Man laughed again. 'The little lady has gumption,' he said. 'I like that. I
really do.'

'Like I care,' Esperanza said.

More laughter. 'May I indulge you a moment, Miss . . . ?'

'Moneypenny,' she finished for him. She said it with her best Sean
Connery imitation. No Rich Little, but not bad either.

Another laugh from the B Man. The man was half-hyena. 'Would you
please call Win down here? On the speakerphone if you don't mind. Tell
him to come down unarmed.'

She looked at Myron. Myron nodded. She dialed. Over the speakerphone,
Win offered up another, 'Articulate.'

Esperanza said, 'Some bottled blond with a bottled tan is down here to
see you.'

'Ah, I've been expecting him,' Win said. 'Hello, B Man.'

'Hello, Win.'

I assume you are in well-armed company.'

'That I am, Win,' B Man said. 'If you try anything, your friends won't
make it out alive.'
"Won't make it out alive"?' Win repeated. 'I expected better from you, B
Man, really. I'll be down in a second.'

'Come unarmed, Win.'

'Not a chance. But there will be no violence. That I promise you.' The
phone clicked off. For several moments everyone looked at one another as if
wondering who was going to take the lead.

'I don't trust him,' B Man said. He pointed to Brick Wall. 'Take the girl in

the other room. Duck down behind a desk or something. You hear any
shooting, you blow her head off.'

The Brick Wall nodded.

B Man directed his attention to Camouflage Pants. 'Keep your gun on
Bolitar.'

'Right.'

B Man took out his own weapon. When the elevator dinged, he squatted
and aimed. The doors slid open, but it wasn't Win. Big Cyndi emerged from
the elevator, not unlike a dinosaur emerging from its egg.

'Jesus Christ!' Camouflage Pants said. 'What the hell is that?'

Big Cyndi growled.

'Who is she, Bolitar?' B Man demanded.

'My new receptionist.'

'Tell her to wait in the other room.'

Myron nodded to her. 'It's okay. Esperanza's in there.'

Cyndi growled again, but she listened. She walked past the B Man on her
way to Myron's office. His gun looked like a disposable lighter next to her.
She opened the door, snarled one last time, and closed it.

Silence.

'Jesus Christ,' Camouflage Pants said again.

They waited approximately thirty seconds before the elevator dinged
again. B Man got back into his squat and aimed. The doors slid open. Win
stepped out. He looked mildly annoyed when he saw the weapon aimed his
way. His voice was clipped. I told you there would be no violence.'

'You have information we need,' B Man said.

'I'm well aware of that,' Win replied. 'Now put that gun away and we'll
talk civilly.'

The B Man kept his weapon on Win. 'You armed?'

'Of course.'

'Hand over your weapon.'

'No,' Win said. 'And it's not weapon. It's weapons. Plural.'

I said--'

'And I
heard you, Orville.'

'Don't call me that.'

Win sighed. 'Fine, B Man.' He shook his head as he said it. 'You are
making this far more difficult than it has to be.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means that for an intelligent fellow, you too often forget that brute
strength is not the only course. There are situations that call for restraint.'

Win lecturing on restraint, Myron thought. What next? Xaviera
Hollander lecturing on monogamy?

'Think about what you've already done,' Win said. 'First, you have
Myron roughed up by a pair of amateurs--

'Amateurs!' Camouflage Pants didn't like that. 'Who you calling--'

'Shut up, Tony,' B Man said.

'You hear what he called me? An amateur?'

'I said, shut up, Tony.'

But Tony The Pants wasn't through yet. 'Hey, I got feelings too, B Man.'

The B Man gave him hard eyes. 'Your left femur, if you don't shut up.'

Tony closed his mouth.

The B Man looked back to Win. 'Sorry about the interruption.'

'Apology accepted.'

'Go on.'

'As I was saying,' Win continued, 'first you try to rough Myron up. Then
you try to kidnap and cripple him. All for naught.'

'Not for naught,' B Man countered. 'We need to know where Downing
is.'

'And what makes you think Myron knows?'

'You were both at his house. Then all of a sudden Bolitar is on Downing's
team. As a matter of fact, he takes his place on the roster.'

'So?'

'So I'm not stupid. You two know something.'

'And what if we do?' Win said, hands spread. 'Why didn't you just ask?
Did you ever even consider that possibility? Did you ever think that maybe
the best course of action would be simply to ask?'

'I did ask!' Camouflage Pants jumped in. He was defensive now. 'On the
street! I asked him where Greg was. He gave me lip.'

Win looked at him. 'Were you ever in the military?' he asked.

Pants seemed confused. 'No.'

'You are a worthless punk,' Win said in the same tone he might use when
discussing a mixed stock report. 'A pitiful ectoplasm such as yourself
wearing army fatigues is an affront to any man or woman who has ever
experienced real combat. If I ever happen across you again donning any
similar garb, I will hurt you severely. Do I make myself clear?'

'Hey--'

'You don't know this guy, Tony,' B Man interrupted. 'Just nod and shut
up.'

Camouflage Pants looked hurt but he did as he was told.

Win turned his attention back to the B Man. 'We can help each other out
in this situation,' he said.

'How?'

'It just so happens that we, too, are searching for the elusive Mr
Downing. That is why I wish to make a proposal.'

'I'm listening.'

'First,' Win said, 'stop aiming the weapons at us.'

B Man gave him a funny look. 'How do I know I can trust you?'

'If I wanted you dead,' Win answered, I would have killed you last night.'

The B Man thought it over, nodded, lowered his weapon. He signaled

Camouflage Pants, who then did likewise. 'Why didn't you?' B Man asked.
'I probably would have killed you in the same situation.'

'That's what I mean about brute force,' Win said. 'About being wasteful.
We need each other here. If I had killed you, I wouldn't be able to make this
proposal today.'

'Fair enough. The floor is yours.'

'I assume that Mr Downing owes you a rather hefty sum.'

'Very hefty sum.'

'Fine,' Win said. 'You tell us what you know. We find him, no cost to
you. When we do find him, you promise not to hurt him if he pays up.'

'And if he doesn't pay up?'

Win grinned and held his hands out, palms up. 'Who are we to interfere
with the way you conduct your business?'

B Man thought about it, but not for very long. 'Okay, I can live with that,'
he said. 'But I don't talk with the hired help around.' He turned to
Camouflage. 'Go sit in the other room.'

'Why?'

'Because if someone decides to torture you, you'll know nothing.'

That answer seemed to make perfect sense to Camouflage. He went into
Myron's office without another word.

'Why don't we?' Win suggested.

They did so. B Man crossed his legs and started right in. 'Downing is your
basic gamble-a-holic,' he began. 'He had pretty good luck for a long time.
That's a bad thing when a man has the itch. When his luck changed - as it
must in the long run - he kept thinking he could win it back. They all do.
When they have the sort of money that Downing has, I let them go. Let
them dig their own grave. It's good for business. But at the same time, you
have to keep an eye out. There is a fine line working here. You don't want
them to end up digging to China either.' He turned and looked at Myron.
'You know what I'm saying?'

Myron nodded. 'China.'

'Right. Anyway, Downing started losing big. I'm talking very big here. He
was never a prompt payer, but he was always good for it. I sometimes let the
tab run as high as two-fifty or even three.'

'Hundred thousand?' Myron asked.

'Yeah.' B Man smiled. 'You don't know any gamblers, do you?'

Myron kept silent. He wasn't about to tell this slime bucket his life story.

'It's as bad as alcohol or heroin,' B Man went on. 'They can't stop
themselves. In some ways, it's even worse. People drink and do drugs to
escape despair. Gambling has that element, too, but it also offers you the
friendly hand of hope. You always got hope when you gamble. You always
believe that you're just one bet away from turning it all around. It's a catch
twenty-two. If you got hope, you keep on gambling. But with gambling,
there's always hope.'

'Very deep,' Win said. 'Let's get back to Greg Downing.'

'Simply put, Greg stops paying his tab. It runs up to half a million. I start
putting some pressure on him. He tells me he's flat broke, but I shouldn't
worry because he's signing some big endorsement deal that will net him
zillions.'

The Forte deal, Myron thought. Greg's sudden change of heart about
endorsement money made more sense now.

'I asked him when this endorsement money will be coming in. He tells
me in about six months. Six months? On a half-million-dollar debt and
growing? I told him that's not good enough. He'd have to pay up now. He
said he didn't have the money. So I ask for a show of good faith.'

Myron knew where this was going. 'He shaved points.'

'Wrong. He was supposed to shave points. The Dragons were favored by
eight over Charlotte. Downing was going to see to it that the Dragons won
by less than eight. No big deal.'

'He agreed?'

'Sure he did. The game was on Sunday. I dumped a ton on Charlotte. A
ton.'

'And Greg never played,' Myron finished for him.

'You got it,' B Man said. 'The Dragons won by twelve. Okay, I figure Greg
got hurt. Like the papers say. A freak injury, that's not his fault. Don't get
me wrong. He's still responsible for what I lost. Why should I pay for his
freak injury?' He paused to see if anyone was going to argue with his logic.
No one bothered. 'So I waited for Downing to call me, but he never did. I'm
owed close to two million by now. Win, you know I can't just sit back with
that kind of thing, right?'

Win nodded.

'When was the last time Greg made a payment to you?' Myron asked.

'It's been a while. I don't know. Five, six months maybe.'

'Nothing more recent?'

'Nothing.'

They talked a bit more. Esperanza, Big Cyndi, Camouflage, and Brick
Wall came back into the room. Win and B Man changed the topic to
martial art buddies they had in common. A few minutes later B Man and
his entourage left. When the elevator door closed, Big Cyndi turned and
smiled widely at Esperanza. Then she began to skip in a circle. The floor
shook.

Myron looked a question at Esperanza.

'That big guy,' Esperanza said, 'the one who was with us in the other
room.'

'What about him?'

He asked Cyndi for her phone number.'

Big Cyndi continued skipping with childlike abandon. The occupants of
the floor beneath them were probably diving for cover like it was the last

day of Pompeii. He turned to Win. 'Did you catch the fact that Greg hadn't
paid anything in months?'

Win nodded. 'Clearly the fifty thousand dollars he withdrew before his
disappearance was not to pay off gambling debts.'

'So what was it for?'
'To run, I imagine.'

'So he knew at least four days before the fact that he was going to take
off,' Myron said.

'It would appear so.'

Myron thought about that for a moment. 'Then the timing of the murder
can't just be a coincidence. If Greg planned to disappear, it can't be a
coincidence that the day he takes off is the day Liz Gorman gets killed.'

'Doubtful,' Win agreed.

'You think Greg killed her?'

'The clues point in that direction,' Win said. I mentioned to you that the
money had come from an account handled by Marty Felder. Perhaps Mr
Felder has an answer.'

Myron wondered about that. Big Cyndi suddenly stopped skipping. She
hugged Esperanza and made a la-la noise. Young love. 'If Felder knew Greg
was going into hiding,' Myron said, 'why would he leave those messages on
Greg's machine?'

'Perhaps to throw us off. Or perhaps he did not know Greg's intent.'

i'll call him,' Myron said. 'See if I can make an appointment for tomorrow.'

'You have a game tonight, do you not?'

'Yes.'

'What time?'

'Seven-thirty.' Myron checked his watch. 'But I need to leave pretty soon
if I want to talk to Clip first.'

I'll drive,' Win said. I'd like to meet this Mr Arnstein.'

After they left, Esperanza went through the messages on the voice mail.
Then she straightened out her desk. Her two photographs - one of her
bearded collie Chloe getting Best in Breed at the Westchester Dog Show; the
other of her as Little Pocahontas and Big Cyndi as Big Chief Mama, holding
up their FLOW (Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling) tag-team title belts - had
been knocked askew by Cyndi's knees.

As she stared at the photographs, something Myron said kept needling
her. He was worried about timing. The timing of the murder. The timing of
Downing's disappearance. But what about Liz Gorman's timing? What
about the timing of her arrival in New York City? The bank in Tucson was
robbed two months ago; Liz Gorman also started working for the Parkview
Diner two months ago. A criminal on the run would want to get far away
from the crime scene, yes, but to a place as populated as New York City?
Why?

The more Esperanza thought about it, the more she grew bewildered.
There had to be a cause and effect at work here. There had to be something
about the bank heist that made Liz Gorman come out this way. Esperanza
chewed on this for another minute or two. Then she picked up the phone
and called one of Myron and Win's closest contacts at the bureau.

'They need everything you got on the Raven Brigade bank heist in
Tucson,' Esperanza said. 'Can you send me a copy of the file?'

'You'll have it by tomorrow morning.'

24

Win and Myron shared a somewhat unusual passion for Broadway
musicals. Right now, the stereo system in Win's Jag was pumping out the
soundtrack from 7776. A Continental Congressman cried out, 'Somebody
better open up a window!' This led to fierce argument over the merits of
opening said window (it was 'hot as hell in Philadelphia') vs keeping them
closed ('too many flies'). Interspersed in this argument, people were telling
John Adams to sit down. History.

'Who played the original Thomas Jefferson?' Win asked. He knew the
answer. Life with Myron's friends was a nonstop quiz show.

'Movie version or stage?'

Win frowned. 'I don't do movie versions.'

'Ken Howard,' Myron answered.

'Correct. What is Mr Howard's most famous role?'

'The coach on the White Shadow.'

'Correct again. The original John Adams?'

'William Daniels.'

'Best known as?'

'The obnoxious surgeon on St Elsewhere.'

'The actress who portrayed Martha Jefferson?'

'Betty Buckley. Best known as Abby on Eight Is Enough.'

Win smiled. 'You are good.'

Myron stared out the window, the buildings and cars blurring into one
pulsating mass, and thought about Jessica. Moving in with her. There was
no reason not to. He loved her. She loved him. More than that, she had
made the first move - the first time he could remember such a thing. In
most relationships, one partner has more control than the other. It was just
the natural order of things. Perfect balance was a hard thing to find. In their
case, Jessica currently had the upper hand. Myron knew that - if he hadn't,
Esperanza's constant references to his being 'whipped' would surely have
made him aware. It didn't mean he loved her more or Jessica loved him less
Or maybe it did. Myron wasn't sure anymore. What he did know for sure
was that moments where Jessica made the move - where she was the one
exposing herself- were rare. Myron wanted to embrace it, encourage it. He

had waited a long time for her to say such words to him. But something
held him back. Like with TC, there were a lot of factors pushing and pulling
at him.

His mind churned through the pros and cons, but no conclusions spewed
forward. What he really wanted was to bounce his thoughts off someone.
He deliberated best that way - by thinking out loud with a close friend. The
problem was, who? Esperanza, his most dependable confidante, hated
Jessica. Win . . . well, when it came to matters of the heart, Win was simply
not your man; something in that nether region had shorted out a long time

ago.

Still Myron heard himself say, 'Jessica asked me to move in.'

For a moment Win said nothing. Then: 'Do you get a full share of the
playoff money?'

'What?'

'You joined the team late. Have you worked out what share of the playoff
money you'll be getting?'

'Don't worry. It's taken care of.'

Win nodded. His eyes remained on the road. The speedometer hovered
around eighty, a swiftness Route 3 was not built to bear. Win swerved lanes
constantly. Myron had gotten somewhat used to Win's driving over the
years, but he still kept his eyes averted from the front windshield.

'Are you staying for the game?' Myron asked.

'That depends.'

'On?'

'On if this Thumper will be there,' Win replied. 'You said she was seeking
employment. Perhaps I can interrogate her at the same time.'

'What will you say?'

'That,' Win said, 'is a dilemma we both face. If you ask her about
Downing's call, you blow your cover. If I ask her, she'll want to know the
whys and wherefores. Either way, unless this Thumper is brain dead, she
will be suspicious. Moreover, if she knows anything significant, she will
most probably lie.'

'So what do you suggest?'

Win tilted his head as though in deep thought. 'Perhaps I'll bed her,'
he concluded. 'Then I can make her talk while lost in the throes of
Passion.'

'She only sleeps with men on the Giants or the Dragons,' Myron said.
Then he frowned and added, 'Bed her?'

Win shrugged. 'Just suggesting an alternative to whipping her with a rubber
hose,' he said. 'Unless, of course, she's into that kind of thing.' (Any other suggestions?'

'I'm working on it.'

They took the exit to the Meadowlands in silence. On the
player, Abigail Adams was telling John Adams that women in
Massachusetts needed pins. Win hummed along with the music for a

moment. Then he spoke. 'As far as Jessica goes' - he took one hand off the
wheel and sort of waved it - I'm not the one to ask about such things.'

'I know.'

'You were miserable the first time she left,' he added. 'I don't know why
you would risk going through that again.'

Myron looked at him. 'You really don't, do you?'

Win said nothing.

'That's sad, Win.'

'Yes,' he replied. 'So very tragic.'

'I'm serious,' Myron said.

Win put a dramatic forearm to his brow. 'Oh, what woe that I may never
experience the depths of misery you plunged to when Jessica left. Pity this
child.'

'You know there's more to it than that.'

Win put down the arm, shook his head. 'No, my friend, there is not.
What was real was your pain. The rest of what you felt is the stuff of cruel
delusion.'

'You really feel that way?'

'Yes.'

'About all relationships?'

Win shook his head. 'I never said that.'

'How about our friendship? Is that a cruel delusion too?'

'This isn't about us,' Win said.

'I'm just trying to understand--

'There is nothing to understand,' Win interrupted. 'Do what you believe
is best. As I said, I am not the one with which to have this discussion.'

Silence. The arena loomed in front of them. For years, it had been called
the Brendan Byrne Arena, named for the unpopular governor who had been
in office when the complex had been built. Recently, however, the sports
authority needed to raise funds, so the name had been changed to the
Continental Airlines Arena - not exactly musical, but then again the old
name didn't exactly make you want to break out in song either. Brendan
Byrne and his past lackeys cried foul over this affront. What a disgrace, they
shouted with grave indignation. This was Governor Byrne's legacy. How
could they sell him out like this? But Myron didn't have a problem with
the name change. Which would you rather do - tax the people to collect
twenty-seven million dollars or bruise a politician's ego? No contest when
you thought about it.

Myron glanced over at Win. Win's eyes were on the road, his fingers
tightly wrapped around the wheel. Myron's mind flashed back to the
morning after Jessica left five years ago. He'd been moping around his
house alone when Win knocked on the door. Myron opened it.

Without preamble, Win said, 'Come on. I'll hire you a girl. You need to
get laid.'

Myron shook his head.

'Are you certain?'

'Yes,' Myron said.

'Do me a favor then.'

'What?'

'Don't go out and get drunk,' Win said. 'That would be such a cliche.'

'And what, getting laid isn't?'

Win pursed his lips together. 'But at least it's a good cliche.'

Then Win turned around and left. That had been it. They had never
broached the subject of his relationship with Jessica again. It'd been a
mistake to have brought it up now. Myron should have known better.

There were reasons Win was the way he was. Myron looked now at his
friend and truly did pity him. From Win's vantage point, his life had been
one long lesson in how to take care of himself. The results weren't always
pretty, but they were usually effective. Win had not severed off his feelings
or anything that dramatic, nor was he as robotic as he sometimes wanted
people to think. But Win had learned not to trust or depend on others very
much. There were not many people he cared about, but those he did were
cherished with an intensity few ever experienced. The rest of the world
meant very little to him.

'I'll get you a seat near Thumper's,' Myron said softly.

Win nodded, pulled into a parking spot. Myron gave his name to Clip's
secretary and they were shown into his office. Calvin Johnson was already
there, standing to Clip's right. Clip was behind his desk. He looked older today. His cheeks were grayer, and the skin around his jowls seemed looser.
When he stood, it seemed to take more effort.

Clip eyed Win for a moment. 'This must be Mr Lockwood.'

He even knew about Win -- again well prepared. 'Yes,' Myron said.

'He's helping us with our problem?'

'Yes.'

Introductions were made. Hands were shaken. Rear ends were seated. As
was his custom in such situations, Win remained silent. His eyes slid from
one side of the room to the other, taking in everything. He liked to study
people for a while before speaking to them, especially in their home
environment.

So,' Clip began, forcing up a tired smile, 'what have we got?'

When you first approached me,' Myron began, 'you were afraid I'd
uncover something unsavory. I'd like to know what that something was.'

Clip tried to look amused. 'Nothing personal, Myron,' he began with a
light chuckle, 'but if I knew that, I wouldn't have needed to hire you.'

Myron shook his head. 'Not good enough.'

'What?'

'Greg has disappeared before.'

'So?'

'So you never suspected anything unsavory then,' Myron said. 'Why
now?'

'I told you. I have the owners' vote coming up.'

'That's your only concern?'

'Of course not,' Clip said. 'I'm worried about Greg too.'

'But you never hired anyone to find him before. What are you afraid
of?'

Clip shrugged. 'Probably nothing. I'm just covering all my bases. Why?
What have you found out?"

Myron shook his head. 'You never cover all your bases, Clip. You're a
risk-taker. Always were. I've seen you trade popular, proven veterans for
untested draft picks. I've seen you risk going for the steal rather than hoping
your defense holds. You've never been afraid to lean over that edge, to risk it
all.'

Clip smiled thinly. 'The problem with that strategy,' he said, 'is that you
lose too. Sometimes you lose a lot.'

'What did you lose this time?' Myron asked.

'Nothing yet,' he said. 'But if Greg doesn't come back, it might cost my
team a championship ring.'

'That's not what I meant. There's something more going on.'

'I'm sorry,' Clip said, spreading his hands. 'I really don't know what
you're talking about. I hired you because it was the logical thing to do. Greg
vanished. Now true, he's vanished before, but never this late in the season
and never when we were so close to a championship. This simply isn't like
him.'

Myron glanced over at Win. Win appeared to be bored.

'Do you know a woman named Liz Gorman?' Myron tried.

In the corner of his eye, Myron saw Calvin sit up a bit.

'No,' Clip said. 'Should I?'

'How about a woman named Carla or Sally?'

'What? You mean have I ever known a woman named--'

'Recently. Or any woman involved in some way with Greg Downing.'

Clip shook his head. 'Calvin?' Calvin also shook his head, but the shake
was a little too lingering. 'Why do you ask?' Clip demanded.

'Because that's whom Greg was with the night he vanished,' Myron said.

Clip sat up, his words coming scatter-gun. 'Have you located her? Where
is she now? Maybe they're together.'

Myron looked at Win again. This time, Win nodded ever so slightly. He'd
caught it too. 'She's dead,' Myron said.

Any traces of color on Clip's face drained away. Calvin remained silent,
but he crossed his legs. A big move for ol' Frosty. 'Dead?'

'Murdered, to be more specific.'

'Oh my God . . .' Clip's eyes leapt from one face to another, as though
seeking some sort of answer or solace there. He found none.

'Are you sure you don't know the names Liz Gorman, Carla, or Sally?'
Myron asked.

Clip opened his mouth, closed it. No sound came out. He tried again.
'Murdered?'

'Yes.'

'And she was with Greg?'

'He's the last known person to see her alive. His fingerprints are at the
murder scene.'

'The murder scene?' His voice trembled, his eyes dazed. 'My God, the
blood you found in the basement,' he said. 'The body was at Greg's house?'

'No. She was killed in her apartment in New York.'

Clip looked puzzled. 'But I thought you found blood in Greg's basement.
In the playroom.'

'Yes. But that blood is gone now.'

'Gone?' Clip sounded both confused and annoyed. 'What do you mean,
gone?'

'I mean somebody cleaned it up.' He looked straight at Clip. 'I mean
somebody entered Greg's house in the past two days and tried to snuff out
an unsavory scandal.'

Clip startled up at that one. Life came back into the eyes. 'You think it
was me?'

'You were the only one I told about the blood. You wanted to keep the
discovery secret.'

'I left that up to you,' Clip countered. 'I said I thought it was the wrong
move, but I'd respect your decision. Of course, I would want to avoid a
scandal. Who wouldn't? But I would never do something like that. You
know me better than that, Myron.'

'Clip,' Myron said, 'I have the dead woman's phone records. She called
you four days before the murder.'

'What do you mean she called me?'

'Your office number is in the phone records.'

He started to say something, stopped, started again. 'Well, maybe she
called here, but that doesn't mean she spoke to me.' His tone was far from
convincing. 'Maybe she spoke to my secretary.'

Win cleared his throat. Then he spoke for the first time since entering the
office. 'Mr Arnstein?' he said.

'Yes.'

'With all due respect, sir,' Win continued, 'your lies are growing tiresome.'

Clip's mouth dropped. He was used to underlings kissing his rear, not to
being called a liar. 'What?'

'Myron has a great deal of respect for you,' Win said. 'That's admirable.
People do not earn Myron's respect easily. But you know the dead woman.
You talked to her on the phone. We have proof.'

Clip's eyes narrowed. 'What kind of proof?'

'The phone records, for one--

--but I just told you--

'And your own words, for another,' Win finished.

He slowed down, his expression wary. 'What the hell are you talking
about?'

Win steepled his fingers. 'Earlier in this conversation, Myron asked you if
you knew Liz Gorman or a woman named Carla or Sally. Do you recall
that?'

'Yes. I told him no.'

'Correct. And then he told you -- and I quote his exact words because they
are relevant - "that's whom Greg was with the night he vanished."
Awkward phrasing, I admit, but with a purpose. Do you recall your next
two queries, Mr Arnstein?'

Clip looked lost. 'No.'

'They were -- and again I quote exact words - "Have you located her yet?
Where is she now?"' Win stopped.

'Yeah, so?'

'You said, her. Then you said, she. Yet Myron asked you if you knew Liz
Gorman or Carla or Sally. From his wording, wouldn't it be natural to
assume he was referring to three different women? A they rather than a she
or her? But you, Mr Arnstein, immediately concluded that these three
names belonged to one woman. Don't you find that odd?'

'What?' But Clip's anger was all bluster now. 'You call that evidence?'

Win leaned forward. 'Myron is being well compensated for his efforts
here. For that reason, I would normally recommend that he continue
working for you. I would advise him to mind his own business and take
your money. If you wish to muck up your own investigation, who are we to
interfere? Not that Myron would listen. He is a nosy man. Worse, he has
this warped sense of doing right, even when it is not required.'

Win stopped, took a breath, leaned back again. Instead of steepling his
fingers, he gently bounced the tips against one another. All eyes were on
him. 'The problem is,' he continued, 'a woman has been murdered. On top
of that, someone has tampered with a crime scene. Someone has also
vanished and may very well be a murderer or another victim. In other
words, it is now far too dangerous to remain in such a situation with
blinders on. The potential costs outweigh the possible benefits. As a
businessman, Mr Arnstein, you should understand that.'

Clip remained silent.

'So let us get to it, shall we?' Win spread his hands, then resteepled. 'We
know the murder victim spoke to you. Either tell us what she said, or we
shake hands and part company.'

'She spoke to me first.' It was Calvin. He shifted in his seat. He avoided
Clip's eyes, but there was no need. Clip did not seem upset by the outburst.

He sank farther down in his chair, a balloon continuing to deflate. 'She used
the name Carla,' Calvin continued.

With a small nod, Win settled back into his chair. He had done his part.
The reins were back in Myron's hands.

'What did she say?' Myron asked.

'She said she had some kind of dirt on Greg. She said she could destroy
the franchise.'

'What was the dirt?'

Clip came back into the fold. 'We never found out,' he chimed in. Clip
hesitated a moment - to buy time or gather himself, Myron wasn't sure
which. 'I didn't mean to lie to you, Myron. I'm sorry. I was just trying to
protect Greg.'

'You spoke to her too?' Myron asked.

Clip nodded. 'Calvin came to me after she called. The next time she called
we both spoke to her. She said she wanted money in exchange for silence.'

'How much?'

'Twenty thousand dollars. We were supposed to meet on Monday night.'

'Where?'

I don't know,' Clip said. 'She was going to tell us the locale on Monday
morning, but she never called.'

Probably because she was dead, Myron thought. Dead people rarely
made phone calls. 'And she never told you her big secret?'

Clip and Calvin looked a question at each other. Calvin nodded. Then
Clip turned back to Myron. 'She didn't have to,' Clip said with resignation.
'We already knew.'

'Knew what?'

'Greg gambled. He owed a lot of money to some very bad people.'

'You already knew about his gambling?'

'Yes,' Clip said.

'How?'

'Greg told me.'

'When?'

'About a month ago,' Clip said. 'He wanted help. I ... I've always been
something of a father figure to him. I care about him. I care about him very
much. He looked up at Myron, his eyes raw with pain. I care about you
too, Myron. That's what makes this so hard.'

'Makes what so hard?'

But he shook it off. 'I wanted to help him, I convinced him to start seeing
somebody. A professional.'

'Did he listen?'

'Greg started with the doctor just last week. A psychiatrist who specializes
in gambling addictions. We also talked about him signing an endorsement aeal, he added. 'To pay off the gambling debt.'

'Did Marty Felder know about the gambling?' Myron asked.

'I can't say for certain,' Clip said. 'The doctor told me about the amazing
lengths gamblers go to keep their addiction a secret. But Marty Felder
handled most of Greg's money. If he didn't know, I'd be surprised.'

Behind Clip's head was a poster of this year's team. Myron looked at it
a moment. The co-captains, TC and Greg, were kneeling in front. Greg
smiled widely. TC sneered in typical fashion. 'So even when you first hired
me,' Myron said, 'you suspected Greg's disappearance had something to do
with his gambling.'

'No.' Then thinking further, Clip added, 'At least not in the way you
think. I never thought Greg's bookie would harm him. I figured the Forte
deal bought him time.'

'Then in what way?'

'I worried about his sanity.' Clip motioned to Greg's image on the poster
behind him. 'Greg is not the most balanced person to begin with, but I
wondered how much the pressure from the gambling debt weighed on his
already questionable sanity. He loved his image, you know, strange as that
might sound. He loved being a fan favorite more than the money. But if his
fans learned the truth, who knows how they'd react? So I wondered if all of
this pressure was too much for him. If maybe he had snapped.'

'And now that a woman is dead,' Myron asked, 'what do you think?'

Clip shook his head vehemently. 'I know Greg better than anyone. When
he feels trapped, he runs away. He wouldn't kill anyone. I believe that with
all my heart. He is not a violent man. Greg learned the dangers of violence a
long time ago.'

No one spoke for several moments. Myron and Win both waited for Clip
to elaborate. When he didn't, Win said, 'Mr Arnstein, do you have anything
else to tell us?'

'No. That's all.'

Win rose without another word or gesture and walked out of the office.
Myron sort of shrugged and started after him.

'Myron?'

He turned back to Clip. The old man was standing now. His eyes looked
moist.

'Have a good game tonight,' he said softly. 'It's only a game, after all.
Remember that.'

Myron nodded, discomfited yet again by Clip's demeanor. He jogged
ahead and caught up with Win.

'Do you have my ticket?' Win asked.

Myron handed it to him.

'Describe this Thumper person please.'

Myron did. When they reached the elevator, Win said, 'Your Mr Arnstein
is still not telling us the truth.'

'Anything concrete or just a hunch?'

'I don't do hunches,' Win said. 'Do you believe him?'

'I'm not sure.'

'You are fond of Mr Arnstein, are you not?'

'Yes.'

'Even though he has already admitted lying to you?'

'Yes.'

'Then let me present you with an interesting scenario,' Win said. 'Who,
besides Greg, has the most to lose if his gambling addiction becomes public
knowledge? Who, besides Greg, would have the greatest motive to keep Liz
Gorman silent? And finally, if Greg Downing was about to become a terrible
embarrassment to the franchise - to the point of devaluing if not destroying
Clip Arnstein's chances of maintaining control - who would have the best
motive to make sure Greg Downing disappeared?'

Myron did not bother answering.

25

The seat next to Thumper was open. Win took it and gave her the full
wattage smile.

'Good evening,' he said.

She smiled back. 'Hello.'

'You must be Ms Mason.'

She nodded. 'And you are Windsor Home Lockwood III. I recognize you
from the picture in Forbes.'

They shook hands, their eyes meeting. Their hands released one another;
their eyes didn't. 'A pleasure to meet you, Ms Mason.'

'Please call me Maggie.'

'Yes, fine.' Win upped the smile for a moment. A buzzer sounded on the
court. The first quarter was over. He saw Myron stand up to let his
teammates sit. Seeing him dressed in a uniform on an NBA court hit Win
in a very weird, unpleasant way. He didn't like to watch. He turned back
toward Thumper. She looked at him expectantly.

I understand that you are seeking employment with my firm,' Win said.

'Yes.'

'Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?'

'Please do.' She motioned a welcome with her hand.

'You are currently employed by Kimmel Brothers, are you not?'

'Yes.'

'How many traders do they currently engage?' Win asked.

'Less than ten,' she said. 'We're very small.'

'I see.' Win did the steepling, feigning consideration of her words. 'Do you work there on weekends?'

'Sometimes.'

'Weekend evenings?'

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, then relaxed back into place. 'Sometimes,'
she repeated.

'How about last Saturday night?'

'Pardon me?'

'You know Greg Downing, do you not?'

'Of course but--'

'As you are no doubt aware,' Win continued, 'he has been missing since
last Saturday night. Interestingly enough, the last call Mr Downing made
from his home was to your office. Do you recall that phone call?'

'Mr Lockwood--'

'Please. Call me Win.'

'I don't know what you're trying to do here--

'It's quite simple really,' Win interrupted. 'Last night, you told my associate Mr Bolitar that you had not spoken to Greg Downing in several
months. Yet, as I have just told you, I have information that contradicts
your statement. So there is a discrepancy here - a discrepancy that may
cause some to view you, Ms Mason, as less than honest. I cannot have that
at Lock-Home Securities. My employees must be beyond reproach. For that
reason, I'd like you to explain this contradiction.'

Win took out a bag of peanuts from his coat pocket. He shelled a
few in the neatest manner imaginable, swept the shells with small movements
into a second bag, then placed the peanuts into his mouth one at a
time.

'How do you know Mr Downing called my office?' Thumper asked.

'Please,' Win said with a side glance. 'Let us not waste time with
trivialities. His call is an established fact. You know it. I know it. Let us
move beyond it.'

'I didn't work last Saturday night,' she said. 'He must have been calling
somebody else.'

Win frowned. 'I grow weary of your tactics, Ms Mason. As you just
admitted to me, yours is a small firm. I could call your employer, if you
wish. I am sure he would be glad to tell Mr Windsor Home Lockwood III if
you were there or not.'

Thumper sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, looking
out at the game. The Dragons were up 24 to 22. Her eyes followed the
course of the ball down the court. I have nothing more to say to you, Mr
Lockwood.'

'Ah. No longer interested in a job?'

'That's right.'

'You misunderstand,' Win said. I don't mean just with Lock-Home
Securities. I mean with anybody, including your current employer.'

She turned to him. 'What?'

'There are two options here,' Win said. 'Let me spell them out for you
clearly, so that you choose the one most suitable for you. One, you tell me
why Greg Downing called you on Saturday night. You tell me why you
lied to Myron about it. You tell me everything you know about his
disappearance.'

'What disappearance?' she interrupted. I thought he was injured.'

'Option two,' Win went on. 'You continue to either stay silent or lie to
me, in which case I will begin to circulate a rumor within our industry vis-a-vis your integrity. More specifically, I will let it be known that there are
federal authorities looking into serious allegations of embezzlement.'

'But . . .' she started, stopped. 'You can't do that.'

'No?' He made an amused face. 'I am Windsor Home Lockwood
III. My word on such matters will not be questioned. You, on the other
hand, will have difficulty finding employment as a hat check girl in a
roadside Denny's when I'm through.' He smiled and tilted the bag her way.
'Peanut?'

'You're insane.'

'And you are normal,' Win countered. He looked down at the court. 'Say,
that young towel boy is wiping a player's sweat off the floor. That must be
worth' - he gave a big shrug - 'oh, I don't know. Fellatio at the very least,
wouldn't you say?'

Win smiled at her sweetly.

'I'm leaving.' She started to stand.

'Would you sleep with me?' he asked.

She looked at him in horror. 'What?'

'Would you sleep with me? If you're very good, I may consider
employing you at Lock-Home.'

Her teeth were clenched. 'I'm not a prostitute,' she hissed.

'No, you are not a prostitute,' Win said, loud enough so that a few heads
turned. 'But you are a hypocrite.'

'What are you talking about?'

Win motioned to her seat. 'Please sit down.'

'I'd rather not.'

'And I'd rather not have to shout.' He motioned again. 'Please.'

With wary eyes she did as he asked. 'What do you want?'

'You find me attractive, do you not?'

She made a face. 'I think you are the most repulsive man I have--'

'I am just speaking only about looks here,' Win said. 'The physical,
remember? As you told Myron just last night, having sex is merely a
physical thing. Like shaking hands - though with an analogy like that I
question your partners' prowess. Now, at the risk of appearing immodest, I
know that I am not physically unattractive. When you think back over the
many Giants and Dragons you've bedded in your stellar career, surely there
must be at least one that was less physically attractive than moi.'

Her eyes squinted. She looked intrigued and horror-stricken at the same
time. 'Perhaps,' she allowed.

'Yet you will not sleep with me. That, my dear, is hypocritical.'

'How so?' Thumper countered. 'I'm an independent woman. I choose.'

'So you've told me,' Win said. 'But why do you choose only Giants and
Dragons?' When she hesitated a bit too long, he smiled and wagged his
finger. 'You should at least be honest as to why you made that particular
choice.'

'You seem to know a lot about me,' Thumper said. 'Why don't you tell
me?'

'Fine. You immediately announce this bizarre rule about Dragons and
Giants and whatnot. You set limits. I do not. If I find a woman attractive,
that is enough. But you need this random team affiliation. You use it as a
fence to separate you.'

'Separate me from what?'

'Not from what. From so-called freewheeling sluts. As you just pointed
out to me, you are not a prostitute. You choose, dammit. You are no slut.'

'That's right, I'm not.'

He smiled. 'But what is a slut? A woman who sleeps around? Well, no.
That's what you do. You wouldn't criticize a fellow sister to the cause. So
what exactly is a slut? Well, by your definition, there is no such thing. Except,
of course, you needed to deny being a slut when I questioned you. Why?'

'Don't make it out to be more than it is,' Thumper said. 'Slut carries with
it a negative connotation. That's the only reason I got defensive.'

Win spread his hands. 'But why should there be any negative connotation?
If a slut is, by definition, a so-called loose woman, a woman who
sleeps around, why not embrace the term with both legs? Why put up these
fences? Why create these artificial limits? You use your team affiliations to
announce your independence. But it announces the opposite. It announces
that you are unsure and insecure.'

'And that's why I'm a hypocrite?'

'Of course. Go back to my request to sleep with you. Either sex is a purely
physical act, in which case my brusque behavior with you now should have
no bearing on it, or sex is something more than physical. Which is it?'

She smiled, gave a quick head shake. 'You're an interesting man, Mr
Lockwood. Maybe I will sleep with you.'

'No good,' he said.

'What?'

'You'll be doing it simply to prove I'm wrong. That, my dear, is as
pathetic and insecure as what you are currently doing. But we are getting
sidetracked. That is my fault, I apologize. Are you going to tell me about
your conversation with Greg Downing, or do I destroy your reputation?'

She looked dazed. It was what he wanted.

'Of course there is option three,' Win continued, 'which closely follows
option two. That is, on top of having your reputation destroyed you face a
murder charge.'

That made her eyes widen. 'What?'

'Greg Downing is a serious suspect in a murder investigation. If it is
discovered that you in some way helped him, that would make you an
accessory.' He stopped, frowned. 'But to be frank, I don't think the DA will
get a conviction. No matter. I'll start with your reputation. We'll see how it
goes from there.'

Thumper looked at him steadily. 'Mr Lockwood?'

'Yes.'

'Go fuck yourself,' she said.

Win rose. 'Undeniably a better option than present company.' He smiled
and bowed. If he had a hat, he would have tipped it. 'Good day.'

He moved away, head high. There was, of course, a method to such
madness. She would not talk. He knew that almost immediately. She was
both smart and loyal. A dangerous albeit admirable combination. But what
he had said would jar her. Even the best amongst us would panic or at the
very least act. He would wait outside and follow her.

He checked the Scoreboard. Midway through the second quarter. He had
no interest in watching any more of this game. But as he reached the gate, a
buzz came over the loudspeaker and then a voice said, 'Now coming in for
Troy Erickson, Myron Bolitar.'

Win hesitated. Then he took another step for the exit. He did not wish to
watch. But he stopped again and, still standing, he faced the court.

26

Myron sat at the far end of the bench. He knew that he wasn't going to play,
but his chest was still wrapped in the steel bands of pregame jitters. In his
younger days Myron had enjoyed the pressure of big-time competition,
even when the jitters reached a level of near paralysis. They never lasted long
after the opening tip. Once he had physical contact with an opponent or
chased down a loose ball or shot a fade-away jumper, the butterflies flew off,
the crowd's cheers and jeers dissolving into something akin to office
background music.

Pregame jitters hadn't been a part of Myron's existence for over a decade,
and he knew now what he'd always suspected: this nerve-jangled high was
directly connected to basketball. Nothing else. He had never experienced
anything similar in his business or personal life. Even violent confrontations
- a perverted high if ever there was one - were not exactly like this. He had
thought this uniquely sports-related sensation would ebb away with age and
maturity when a young man no longer takes a small event like a basketball
game and blows it into an entity of near biblical importance, when
something so relatively insignificant in the long run is no longer magnified
to epic dimensions through the prism of youth. An adult, of course, can see
what is useless to explain to a child - that one particular school dance or
missed foul shot would be no more than a pang in the future. Yet here
Myron was, comfortably ensconced in his thirties and still feeling the same
heightened and raw sensations he had known only in youth. They hadn't
gone away with age. They'd just hibernated - as Calvin had warned him hoping
for a chance to stir, a chance that normally never came in one man's
lifetime.

Were his friends right? Was this all too much for him? Had he not put
this all behind him? He spotted Jessica in the stands. She was watching the
ebon, that funny look of concentration on her face. She alone seemed
unconcerned by his return, but then again, she had not been a part of his life
in his basketball heyday. Did the woman he loved not understand, or did
she---?

He stopped.

When you are on the bench, an arena can be a small place. He saw, for

example, Win speaking with Thumper. He saw Jessica. He saw the other
players' wives and girlfriends. And then, entering from a gate dead straight
in front of him, he saw his parents. His eyes quickly fled back to the court.
He clapped his hands and yelled out encouragement to his teammates,
pretending to be interested in the outcome of the game. His mom and dad.
They must have flown in early from their trip.

He risked a quick glance. They sat near Jessica now, in the family and
friends section. His mom was staring back at him. Even from the distance
he could see the lost look in her glassy eyes. Dad's eyes darted about, his jaw
taut, as though he were summoning up a little extra before looking at the
court straight on. Myron understood. This was all too familiar, like an old
family film coming to life. He looked away again.

Leon White came out of the game. He grabbed an empty seat next to
Myron. A towel boy draped his sweat top around his shoulders and gave
him a squeeze bottle. Leon guzzled some Gatorade, his body glistened with
sweat.

'Saw you talking with Thumper last night,' Leon said.

'Yeah.'

'You get some?'

Myron shook his head. 'I remain thump-less.'

Leon chuckled. 'Anyone tell you how she got that nickname?'

'No.'

'When she gets into it - I mean, when she gets really fired up - she's got
this habit of thumping her leg up and down. Left leg. Always her left leg,
you know. So she's like on her back and you're pumping her for all you're
worth and then all of a sudden her left leg starts bopping up and down. You
hear thump-thump, get it?'

Myron nodded. He got it.

'So if she don't do that - if a guy don't get Thumper thumping - it's like
you haven't done your duty. You can't show your face. You hang your
head.' Then he added, 'It's a pretty serious tradition.'

'Like lighting a menorah on Hanukkah,' Myron said.

Leon laughed. 'Well, not exactly.'

'You ever been thumped, Leon?'

'Sure, once.' Then he quickly added, 'But that was before I was married.'

'How long you been married?'

'Me and Fiona been married a little over a year.'

Myron's heart plummeted down an elevator shaft. Fiona. Leon's wife's
name was Fiona. He looked up in the stands at the flashy, well-rounded
blonde. Fiona began with the letter F.

'Bolitar!'

Myron looked up. It was Donny Walsh, the head coach. 'Yeah?'

'Go in for Erickson.' Walsh said it like the words were fingernail clippings
he needed to spit out. 'Take the off guard spot. Put Kiley at the point.'

Myron looked at his coach as if he were speaking Swahili. It was the
second quarter. The score was tied.

'What the fuck you waiting for, Bolitar? For Erickson. Now.'

Leon slapped his back. 'Go, man.'

Myron stood. His legs felt like strung-out Slinkys. Thoughts of murder
and disappearances fled like bats in a spotlight. He tried to swallow but his
mouth was bone dry. He jogged over to the scorer's table. The arena spun
like the bed of a drunk. Without conscious thought he discarded his sweats
on the floor like a snake changing skin. He nodded at the scorer. 'For
Erickson,' he said. Ten seconds later, a buzzer sounded. 'Now coming in the
game for Troy Erickson, Myron Bolitar.'

He jogged out, pointing to Erickson. His teammates looked surprised to
see him. Erickson said, 'You got Wallace.' Reggie Wallace. One of the
game's best shooting guards. Myron lined up next to him and prepared.
Wallace studied him with an amused smile.

'SWB alert,' Reggie Wallace called out with a mocking laugh. 'Goddamn
SWB alert.'

Myron looked at TC. 'SWB?'

'Slow White Boy,' TC told him.

'Oh.'

Everyone else was breathing deeply and coated with sweat. Myron felt
stiff and unprepared. His eyes swung back to Wallace. The ball was about to
be inbounded. Something caught Myron's eye and he looked up. Win stood
near an exit. His arms crossed. Their eyes met for a brief second. Win gave a
half nod. The whistle blew. The game began.

Reggie Wallace began the trash talk immediately. 'You got to be kidding
me,' he said. 'Old-timer, I'm gonna make you my woman.'

'Dinner and a movie first,' Myron said.

Wallace looked at him. 'Lame retort, old man.'

Hard to argue.

Wallace lowered himself to a ready position. He shook his head. 'Shit.
Might as well have my grandma cover me.'

'Speaking of making someone your woman,' Myron said.

Wallace looked at him hard, nodded. 'Better,' he said.

The Pacers inbounded the ball. Wallace tried to post Myron up under the
basket. This was a good thing. Physical contact. Nothing unclasped those
steel bands like battling for position. Their bodies bounced against one
another with small grunts. At six-four, two-twenty, Myron held his ground.
Wallace tried digging back with his butt, but Myron held firm, putting a
knee into Wallace's backside.

'Man,' Wallace said, 'you are so strong.'

And with that, he made a move Myron barely saw. He spun off Myron's
knee so quickly that Myron barely had time to turn his head. Seeming to use
Myron for leverage, Wallace leaped high in the air. From Myron's vantage

point, it looked like an Apollo spacecraft heading straight out of the arena.
He watched helplessly as Wallace's outstretched hands grasped the lob pass
at rim level. He seemed to pause in midair, then continue rising as though
gravity itself had decided to freeze frame the moment. When Reggie
Wallace finally began to descend, he pulled the ball behind his head before
throwing it through the cylinder with frightening force.

Slam dunk.

Wallace landed with both arms spread for applause. His taunting chased
Myron up court. 'Welcome to the NBA, has-been. Or never-was. Or
whatever the fuck you are. Oh, man, was that pretty or what? How did I
look going up? Be honest. Bottom of my sneakers look sweet, don't they?
I'm so pretty. So very pretty. How did it feel when I slammed it in your face?
Come on, old-timer, you can tell me.'

Myron tried to tune him out. The Dragons came down and missed a
quick shot. The Pacers grabbed the rebound and headed back up court.
Wallace faked going back inside and popped way out past the three point
circle. He caught the pass and shot in one motion. The ball went in with a
swish. Three pointer.

'Whoa, old man, did you hear that sound?' Reggie Wallace went on.
'That swish? There is no sweeter sound on earth. You hear me? No sweeter
sound at all. Not even a woman crying out in orgasm.'

Myron looked at him. 'Women have orgasms?'

Wallace laughed. 'Touche, old-timer. Touche.'

Myron checked the clock. He'd been in for thirty-four seconds and his
man had scored five points. Myron did some quick math. At that rate,
Myron could hold Reggie Wallace to under six hundred points per game.

The boos started soon after. Unlike his youth, the crowd sounds did not
fade into the background. They were not one indistinguishable blur of
sound, a homecourt cheer to perhaps ride upon the way a surfer picks up a
wave. Or a boo in a rival's arena - something you expect and even thrive on
in a perverse way. But to hear your own fans boo your specific performance,
to hear your home crowd turn against you -- Myron had never experienced
that before. He heard the crowd now as never before, as a collective entity of
derision and as distinct voices making ugly catcalls. 'You suck, Bolitar!' 'Get
that stiff outta there!' 'Blow out your other knee and sit down!' He tried to
ignore them but each catcall punctured him like a dagger.

Pride took over. He would not let Wallace score. The mind was willing.
The heart was willing. But as Myron soon saw, the knee was not. He was
simply too slow. Reggie Wallace scored six more points off Myron that
period for a total of eleven. Myron scored two off an open juniper. He took
to playing what he used to call 'appendix' basketball; that is, certain players
on the floor are like your appendix - they're either superfluous or they hurt
you. He tried to stay out of the way and hit TC down low. He kept passing
and moving away from the ball. When he saw a big opening and drove the

lane near the end of the quarter, the Pacers' big center swatted the shot into
the crowd. The boos were thunderous. Myron looked up. His mom and dad
were still as two statues. One box over, a group of well-dressed men were
cupping their hands around their mouths and starting a 'Bolitar Sucks'
chant. Myron saw Win move quickly toward them. Win offered his hand to
the cheer's leader. The leader took it. The leader went down.

But the odd thing was, even as Myron stunk up the joint, even as he
continued to get beaten on defense and play ineffectively on offense, the old
confidence remained. He wanted to stay in the game. He would still look for
an opening, relatively unshaken, a man in denial, a man ignoring the
mounting evidence that a crowd of 18,812 (according to the loudspeaker)
could plainly see. He knew his luck would change. He was a little out of
shape, that was all. Soon it would all turn around.

He realized how much that sounded like B Man's description of a
compulsive gambler's rationale.

The half ended not long after that. As Myron headed off the court, he
looked up again at his parents. They stood and smiled down at him. He
smiled and nodded back. He looked toward the group of well-dressed
booers. They were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Win.

Nobody spoke to him at halftime, and Myron didn't get in the rest of the
game. He suspected that Clip had been behind his playing. Why? What had
Clip been trying to prove? The game ended in a two-point victory for the
Dragons. By the time they got into the locker room and began changing,
Myron's performance was forgotten. The media surrounded TC, who had
played a brilliant game scoring thirty-three points and grabbing eighteen
rebounds. TC slapped Myron's back when he walked past him but said
nothing.

Myron unlaced his sneakers. He wondered if his parents were going to
wait for him. Probably not. They would figure he would want to be alone.
His parents, for all their butting in, were actually pretty good at knowing
when to make themselves scarce. They'd wait for him at home, staying up
all night if they had to. To this day, his father stayed awake watching TV on
the couch until Myron got home. Once Myron put the key in the lock, his
father feigned sleep, his reading glasses still perched at the end of his nose,
the newspaper lying across his chest. Thirty-two years old and his father still
waited up for him. Christ, he was too old for that anymore, wasn't he?

Audrey peered tentatively around the corner and waited. Only when he
signaled with a beckoning wave did she approach. She stuck her pad and
pencil in her purse and shrugged. 'Look at the bright side,' she said.

'And that is?'

'You still have a great ass.'

'It's these pro shorts,' Myron said. 'They really mold and hold.'

'Mold and hold?'

He shrugged. 'Hey, happy birthday.'

'Thanks,' Audrey said.

'"Beware the Ides of March,"' Myron pronounced in dramatic fashion.

'The Ides are the fifteenth,' Audrey said. 'Today is the seventeenth,'

'Yeah, I know. But I never skip an opportunity to quote Shakespeare.
Makes me look smart.'

'Brains and a good ass,' Audrey said. 'Who cares if you have no lateral
movement?'

'Funny,' Myron said, 'Jess never complains about that.'

'At least not to your face.' Audrey smiled. 'Nice to see you so chipper.'

He returned the smile, shrugged.

Audrey looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. 'I got some
info for you,' she said.

'On?'

'The private eye in the divorce case.'

'Greg hired one?'

'Either him or Felder,' she replied. I have a source who does electronics
work for ProTec Investigations. They do all of Felder's work. Now my
source doesn't know all the details, but he helped set up a videotaping at the
Glenpointe Hotel two months ago. You know the Glenpointe?'

Myron nodded. 'The hotel on Route 80? Maybe five miles from here?'

'Right. My source doesn't know what it was for or what ended up on it.
He just knows the work was for the Downing divorce. He also confirmed
the obvious: this thing is usually done to catch a spouse inflagrante delicto.'

Myron frowned. 'This was two months ago?'

'Yep.'

'But Greg and Emily were already separated by then,' Myron said. 'The
divorce was practically finalized. What would be the point?'

'The divorce, yes,' she agreed. 'But the child custody battle was just
starting.'

'Yeah, but so what? She was a near-single woman having a sexual
encounter. That kind of thing hardly proves parental unfitness in this day
and age.'

Audrey shook her head. 'You are so naive.'

'What do you mean?'

'A tape of a mother getting it on with some buck at a motel, doing lord
knows-what? We still live in a sexist society. It would be bound to influence
a judge.'

Myron mulled it over, but it just wouldn't mesh. 'First of all, you're
assuming the judge is both male and a Neanderthal. Second' - he sort of
held up his hands and shrugged - 'it's the nineties for crying out loud. A
woman separated from her husband having sex with another man? Hardly
earth-shattering stuff.'

I don't know what else to tell you, Myron.'

'You got anything else?'

'That's it,' she said. 'But I'm working on it.'

'Do you know Fiona White?'

'Leon's wife? Enough to say hello. Why?'

'She ever model?'

'Model?' She sort of chuckled. 'Yeah, I guess you'd call it that.'

'She was a centerfold?'

'Yep.'

'You know what month?'

'No. Why?'

He told her about the e-mail. He was fairly sure now that Ms F was Fiona
White, that Sepbabe was short for September babe, the month, he bet, that
she was a centerfold. Audrey listened raptly. 'I can check it out,' she said
when he finished. 'See if she was a September playmate.'

'That would help.'

'It would explain a lot,' Audrey continued. 'About the tension between
Downing and Leon.'

Myron nodded.

'Look, I gotta run. Jess is getting the car around back. Keep me posted.'

'Right, have fun.'

He finished up, toweled off, started dressing. He thought about Greg's
secret girlfriend, the one who had been staying at his house. Could it
possibly be Fiona White? If so, that would also explain the need for secrecy.
Could Leon White have found out about it? That seemed logical based on
his antagonism toward Greg. So where did that leave us? And how did this
all tie in with Greg's gambling and Liz Gorman's blackmail scheme?

Whoa, hold the phone.

Forget gambling for a moment. Suppose Liz Gorman had something else
on Greg Downing, a revelation equally if not potentially more explosive
than laying down a few bets. Suppose she had somehow found out that
Greg was having an affair with his best friend's wife. Suppose she had
decided to blackmail Greg and Clip with this information. How much
would Greg pay to keep his fans and teammates from learning about his
betrayal? How much would Clip pay to keep that particular warhead from
detonating in the midst of a championship run?

It was worth looking into.

27

Myron stopped at the traffic light that divided south Livingston Avenue and
the JFK Parkway. This particular intersection had barely changed in the
past thirty years. The familiar brick facade of Nero's Restaurant was on his
right. It had originally been Jimmy Johnson's Steak House, but that had to
be at least twenty-five years ago. The same Gulf station occupied another
corner, small firehouse another, undeveloped land on the last.

He turned onto Hobart Gap Road. The Bolitar family had first moved
to Livingston when Myron was six weeks old. Little had changed in
comparison to the rest of the world. The familiarity of seeing the same
sights over so many years was less comforting now than numbing. You
didn't notice anything. You looked but you never saw.

As he turned up the same street where his dad had first taught him to ride
that two-wheeler with a Batman reflector on the back, he tried to pay true
heed to the homes that had surrounded him all of his life. There had been
changes, of course, but in his mind it was still 1970. He and his parents still
referred to the neighboring homes by their original owners, as though they
were Southern plantations. The Rackins, for example, hadn't lived in the
Rackin house for over a decade. Myron didn't know anymore who lived in
the Kirschner place or the Roth house or the Parkers'. Like the Bolitars, the
Rackins and the Kirschners and the rest had moved in when the
construction was new, when you could still see some remnants of the
Schnectman farm, when Livingston was considered the boonies, as far away
from New York City at twenty-five miles as western Pennsylvania. The
Rackins and the Kirschners and the Roths had lived a big chunk of their
lives here. They'd moved in with infant children, raised them, taught them
how to ride bicycles on the same streets Myron had learned on, sent them to
Burnet Hill elementary school, then Heritage Junior High, finally Livingston
High School. The kids had gone off to college, visiting only on college
breaks. Not long after, wedding invitations went out. A few started
displaying photos of grandchildren, shaking their heads in disbelief at how
time flew. Eventually the Rackins and the Kirschners and the Roths felt out
of place. This town designed to raise kids held nothing for them anymore.
Their familiar homes suddenly felt too big and too empty, so they put them

on the market and sold them to new young families with infant children
who would too soon go off to Burnet Hill elementary school, then Heritage
Junior High, and finally Livingston High School.

Life, Myron decided, was not that different from one of those depressing
life insurance commercials.

Some neighborhood old-timers had managed to hang on. You could
usually tell which houses belonged to them because -- in spite of the fact that
the children were grown - they had built additions and nice porches and
kept their lawns well groomed. The Brauns and the Goldsteins were two
who had done just that. And of course, Al and Ellen Bolitar.

Myron pulled his Ford Taurus into the driveway, his headlights sweeping
across the front yard like searchlights during a prison break. He parked up
on the blacktop not far from the basketball hoop. He turned off the
ignition. For a moment he just stared at the basket. An image of his father
lifting him so he could reach the basket appeared before him. If the image
had come from memory or imagination, he could not say. Nor did it
matter.

As he moved toward the house, outside lights came on via a motion
detector. Though the detectors had been installed three years ago, they
were still a source of unbridled awe for his parents, who considered this
technological advance on a par with the discovery of fire. When the motion
detectors were first put up, Mom and Dad spent blissful hours in disbelief
testing the mechanism, seeing if they could duck under its eye or walk super
slowly so that the detector would not sense them. Sometimes in life, it's the
simple pleasures.

His parents were sitting in the kitchen. When he entered, they both
quickly pretended they were doing something.

'Hi,' he said.

They looked at him with tilted heads and too-concerned eyes. 'Hi,
sweetheart,' Mom said.

'Hi, Myron,' Dad said.

'You're back from Europe early,' Myron said.

Both heads nodded like they were guilty of a crime. Mom said, 'We
wanted to see you play.' She said it gently, like she was walking on thin ice
with a blowtorch.

'So how was your trip?' Myron asked.

'Wonderful,' Dad said.

Marvelous,' Mom added. 'The food they served was just terrific.'

'Small portions though,' Dad said.

'What do you mean, small portions?' Mom snapped.

'I'm just commenting, Ellen. The food was good, but the portions were
small.'

'What, did you measure it or something? What do you mean small?'

'I know a small portion when I see one. These were small.'

'Small. Like he needs larger portions. The man eats like a horse. It
wouldn't kill you to lose ten pounds, Al.'

'Me? I'm not getting heavy.'

'Oh no? Your pants are getting so tight you'd think you were starring in a
dance movie.'

Dad winked at her. 'You didn't seem to have any problem taking them
off on the trip.'

'Al!' she shrieked, but there was a smile there too. 'In front of your own
child! What's wrong with you?'

Dad looked at Myron, arms spread. 'We were in Venice,' he said in a way
of explanation. 'Rome.'

'Say no more,' Myron said. 'Please.'

They laughed. When it died out his mother spoke in a hushed tone.

'You okay, sweetheart?'

I'm fine,' he said.

'Really?'

'Really.'

I thought you did some good things out there,' Dad said. 'You hit TC for
a couple of nice passes on the post. Real nice passes. You showed smarts.'

Count on Dad to find the silver lining. I bit the big one,' Myron said.

Dad gave a staunch head shake and said, 'You think I'm saying this just to
make you feel good?'

'I know you're saying this just to make me feel good.'

It doesn't matter,' Dad said. 'It never mattered. You know that.'

Myron nodded. He did know. He had witnessed pushy fathers all his
life, men who tried to live hollow dreams through their offspring, forcing
their sons to carry a burden they themselves could never carry. But not his
father. Never his father. Al Bolitar had never needed to fill his son with
grandiose stories of his athletic prowess. He never pushed him, possessing
the wondrous ability to appear almost indifferent while making it clear he
cared intensely. Yes, this was a direct contradiction - sort of a detached
attachment - but somehow Dad pulled it off. Sadly, it was unusual for
Myron's generation to admit to such wonderment. His generation had
remained undefined - shoehorned between the Beat Generation of Woodstock
and the Generation X of MTV, too young when thirty-something
had ruled the airwaves, too old now for Beverley Hills, 90210, or Melrose Place.
Mostly, it seemed to Myron, he was part of the Blame Generation, where
life was a series of reactions and counterreactions. In the same way those
pushy fathers put everything on their sons, the sons came right back and
blamed their future failures on the fathers. His generation had been taught
to look back and pinpoint exact moments when their parents had ruined
their lives. Myron never did. If he looked back - if he studied his parents'
past feats - it was only to try to unravel their secret before he had children
of his own.

'I know what it looked like tonight,' he said, 'but I really don't feel that
bad.'

Mom sniffled. 'We know.' Her eyes were red. She sniffled again.

'You're not crying over--'

She shook her head. 'You've grown up. I know that. But when you ran
out on the court again like that, for the first time in so long . . .'

Her voice died out. Dad looked away. The three of them were all the
same. They were drawn to nostalgia like starlets to paparazzi.

Myron waited until he was sure his voice would be clear. 'Jessica wants
me to move in with her,' he said.

He expected protests, at least from his mother. Mom had not forgiven
Jessica for leaving the first time; Myron doubted that she ever would. Dad,
as was his way, acted like a good news reporter - neutral, but you wondered
what opinion he was making under those balanced questions.

Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked back and put a hand on her shoulder.
Then Mom said, 'You can always come back,' she said.

Myron almost asked for a clarification, but he stopped himself and
simply nodded. The three of them gathered around the kitchen table and
began to talk. Myron made himself grilled cheese. Mom didn't do it for
him. Dogs were domesticated, she believed, not people. She never cooked
anymore, which Myron took as a positive thing. Her doting was all verbal,
and that was all right with him.

They told him about their trip. He briefly and very vaguely sketched out
why he was playing pro basketball again. An hour later he headed into his
room in the basement. He had lived here since he was sixteen, the year his
sister had gone off to college. The basement was subdivided into two
rooms - a sitting area he almost never used except for company and hence
kept clean, and a bedroom that looked very much like a teenager's. He
crawled into bed and looked at the posters on the wall. Most had been up
since his adolescence, the colors faded, the corners frayed near the
thumbtacks.

Myron had always loved the Celtics - his father had grown up near
Boston - and so his two favorite posters were of John Havlicek, the Celtics
star of the sixties and seventies, and Larry Bird, the team's star of the
eighties. He looked now from Havlicek to Bird. Myron was supposed to
have been the next poster on the wall. It had been his boyhood dream.
When the Celtics drafted him, it barely surprised him. A higher power was
at work. It had been preordained that he would be the next Celtics legend.

But Burt Wesson slammed into him.

Myron put his hands behind his head. His eyes adjusted to the light.
When his phone rang, he reached for it absently.

'We have what you're looking for,' an electronically altered voice said.

'Excuse me?'

'The same thing Downing wanted to buy. It'll cost you fifty thousand

dollars. Get the money together. We'll call you with instructions tomorrow
night.'

The caller hung up. Myron tried hitting star-six-nine to ring back, but
the call was from out of the area. He lowered his head back to the pillow.
Then he stared at the two posters and waited for sleep to claim him.

28

Martin Felder's office was on Madison Avenue in midtown, not far from
Myron's own. The agency was called Felder Inc., the clever name making
it very apparent that Marty wasn't on Madison Avenue as a hotshot
advertising exec. A sprightly receptionist was all too happy to show Myron
the way to Marty's office.

The door was already open. 'Marty, Myron is here to see you.'

Marty. Myron. It was one of those kind of offices. Everyone was a first
name. Everyone was dressed in that new, neat-casual look. Marty, who
Myron guessed was in his mid-fifties, wore one of those blue jean shirts with
a bright orange tie. His thinning gray hair was plastered down, almost a
comb over but not quite. His pants were Banana Republic green and crisply
pressed. His orange socks matched the tie and his shoes looked like Hush
Puppies.

'Myron!' he exclaimed, pumping Myron's hand. 'Great to see you.'

'Thanks for seeing me so soon, Marty.'

He waved a dismissing hand. 'Myron, please. For you, anytime.' They'd
met a few times at different sporting and sports representative events.
Myron knew that Marty had a solid reputation as a guy who was - to coin a
cliche - tough but fair. Marty also had a knack for getting great media
coverage for both himself and his athletes. He'd written a couple of how-to
succeed books which helped enhance his name recognition as well as his
rep. On top of that, Marty looked like your favorite, self-effacing uncle.
People liked him instantly.

'Can I get you a drink?' he asked. 'Caffe latte perhaps?'

'No thanks.'

He smiled, shook his head. 'I've been planning on calling you for the
longest time, Myron. Please, have a seat.'

The walls were bare except for bizarre sculptures twisted out of neon
light. His desk was glass, the built-in shelves fiberglass. There were no visible
Papers. Everything shone like the inside of a spaceship. Felder gestured to a
chair in front of the desk for Myron; then he took the other chair in front
of the desk. Two equals chatting it up. No desk to use as a divider or
intimidator.

Felder started right in. 'I don't have to tell you, Myron, that you are
quickly making a name for yourself in this field. Your clients trust you
absolutely. Owners and managers respect and fear' - he emphasized the fear
part -- 'you. That's rare, Myron. Very rare.' He slapped his palms on his
thighs and leaned forward. 'Do you enjoy being in sports representation?'

'Yes.'

'Good,' he said with a sharp nod. 'It's important to like what you're
doing. Choosing a profession is the most important decision you'll ever
make - more important even than choosing a spouse.' He looked up at the
ceiling. 'Who was it that said, you may tire of your relationship with people
but never of a job you love?'

'Wink Martindale?' Myron said.

Felder chuckled and offered up a shy, caught-himself smile. 'Guess you
didn't come here to hear me drone on about my own personal
philosophies,' he said. 'So let me put my cards on the table. Just flat out
say it. How would you like to come work for Felder Inc.?'

'Work here?' Myron said. Job Interview Rule #1: Dazzle them with
sparkling repartee.

'Here's what I'd like to do,' Felder said. 'I want to make you senior vice
president. Your salary would be generous. You'd still be able to give all
your clients the personal Bolitar attention they've come to expect, plus
you'll have all the resources of Felder Inc. at your command. Think about
it, Myron. We employ over one hundred people here. We have our own
travel agency to handle all those arrangements for you. We have -- well,
let's call them what they are, shall we? - gofers who can deal with all those
details that are so necessary in our business, freeing you up to tackle
important tasks.' He raised a hand as if to stop Myron, though Myron
hadn't moved. 'Now I know you have an associate, Miss Esperanza Diaz.
She'd come aboard, too, of course. At a higher salary. Plus I understand
she's finishing up law school this year. There'll be plenty of room for
advancement here.' He gestured with his hands before adding, 'So what do
you think?'

'I'm very flattered--

'Don't be,' Felder interrupted. 'It's a sound business decision for me. I
know good stock when I see it.' He leaned forward with a sincere smile. 'Let
someone else be the client's errand boy, Myron. I want to free you up to do
what you do best - recruit new clients and negotiate deals.'

Myron had no interest in giving up his company, but the man knew how
to make it sound attractive. 'May I think about it?' he asked.

'Of course,' Felder said, raising his hands in surrendered agreement. 'I
don't want to pressure you, Myron. Take your time. I certainly don't expect
an answer today.'

'I appreciate that,' Myron said, 'but I actually wanted to talk to you about
another matter.'

'Please.' He leaned back, folded his hands on his lap, smiled. 'Go right
ahead.'

'It's about Greg Downing.'

The smile didn't budge, but the light behind it flickered a bit. 'Greg
Downing?'

'Yes. I have a few questions.'

Still smiling. 'You realize, of course, that I cannot reveal anything that
may fall under what I consider privileged.'

'Of course,' Myron agreed. 'I was wondering if you could tell me where
he is.'

Marty Felder waited a beat. This was no longer a sales pitch meeting. It
was now a negotiation. A good negotiator is frighteningly patient. Like a
good interrogator, he must above all else be a listener. He must make his
opponent do the talking. After several seconds, Felder asked, 'Why do you
want to know that?'

I need to speak with him,' Myron said.

'May I ask what this is about?'

'I'm afraid it's confidential.'

They looked at each other, both faces open and friendly, but now they
were two card sharks who didn't want to show their hands. 'Myron,' Felder
began, 'you have to understand my position here. I don't feel comfortable
divulging this type of information without having at least some hint as to
why you want to see him.'

Time to jar something loose. I didn't join the Dragons to make a
comeback,' Myron said. 'Clip Arnstein hired me to find Greg.'

Felder's eyebrows dropped to half mast. 'Find him? But I thought he
went into seclusion to heal an ankle injury.'

Myron shook his head. 'That was the story Clip told the press.'

'I see.' Felder put a hand to his chin and nodded slowly. 'And you're
trying to locate him?'

'Yes.'

'Clip hired you? He chose you himself? It was his idea?'

Myron answered in the affirmative. There was a faint smile on Felder's
face now, like he was enjoying an inside joke. 'I'm sure Clip already told you
that Greg had done this kind of thing before.'

'Yes,' Myron said.

'So I don't see why you should be all that concerned,' Felder said. 'Your
help is appreciated, Myron, but it is really not necessary.'

'You know where he is?'

Felder hesitated. 'Again, Myron, I ask you to put yourself in my position.
If one of your clients wanted to stay hidden, would you go against his
wishes or respect his rights?'

Myron smelled a bluff. 'That would depend,' he said. If the client was in
big trouble, I'd probably do whatever I could to help him.'

'What sort of big trouble?' Felder asked.

'Gambling, for one. Greg owes a lot of money to some awfully unpleasant
fellows.' Still no reaction from Felder. In this case, Myron read it as a good
thing. If most people had just heard that a client owed money to mobsters,
they would show some sort of surprise. 'You know about his gambling,
don't you, Marty?'

Felder's words were slow, as if he were weighing each one separately with
a hand scale. 'You are still new in this business, Myron. With that comes a
certain enthusiasm that is not always well placed. I am Greg Downing's
sports representative. That gives me certain responsibilities. It is not a carte
blanche to run his life. What he or any other client does on his own time is
not, should not, and cannot be my concern. For all our sakes. We care
about every client, but we are not parental substitutes or life managers. It's
important to learn this early on.'

The Cliff Notes summary: he knew about the gambling.

Myron asked, 'Why did Greg withdraw fifty thousand dollars ten days
ago?'

Again Felder showed no reaction. He was either beyond being surprised
by what Myron knew or he had the ability to shut off any connection
between his brain and facial muscles. 'You know I can't discuss that with
you -- or even confirm that such a withdrawal took place.' He slapped his palms against his thighs again and mounted a smile. 'Do us both a favor,
Myron. Think about my offer and drop this other matter. Greg will pop up
soon. He always does.'

'I wouldn't be so sure,' Myron said. 'He's in real trouble this time.'

'If you are talking about his alleged gambling debts--'

Myron shook his head. 'I'm not.'

'Then what?'

So far, the man had given Myron nothing. Letting on that he knew about
the gambling problem was a lay-up. He had realized Myron knew about it.
To deny it would make him look either incompetent for not knowing or
dishonest for making a strong denial. Marty Felder was shrewd. He would
not misstep. Myron tried shifting direction. 'Why did you videotape Greg's
wife?'

He blinked. 'Pardon?'

'ProTec. That's the name of the agency you hired. They set up videotape
surveillance at the Glenpointe Hotel. I'd like to know why.'

Felder looked almost amused. 'Help me understand this, Myron. First
you say that my client is in deep trouble. You claim you want to help him.
Then you start making allegations about a videotape. I'm having trouble
following you.'

'I'm just trying to help your client.'

'The best thing you can do for Greg is to tell me all you know. I am his
advocate, Myron. I am truly interested in doing what's best for him - not

what might be best for the Dragons or Clip or anybody else. You said he was
in trouble. Tell me how.'

Myron shook his head. 'First you tell me about the videotape.'

'No.'

There you have it. Top-notch negotiating getting down to basics. Soon
they'd been sticking tongues out at each other, but for now both faces
remained pleasant. They were playing the waiting game. Who would be the
first to crack? Myron ran down the situation in his mind. The cardinal rule
of negotiating: Don't lose sight of what you want and what your opponent
wants. Okay. So what did Felder have that Myron wanted? Information on
the fifty thousand dollars, the videotape, and maybe some other stuff. What
did Myron have that Felder wanted? Not much. Myron had made him
curious when he mentioned big trouble. Felder might already know what
trouble Greg was in, but he would still want to know what Myron knew.
End analysis: Myron needed the information more. He would have to
move. Time to up the ante. And no more delicacy.

'I don't have to be the one asking you these questions,' Myron said.

'What do you mean?'

I could have a homicide detective ask them.'

Felder barely moved, but his pupils expanded in a funny way. 'What?'

'A certain homicide detective is this close' - Myron held up his thumb
and index finger close together - 'to putting out an APB on Greg.'

'A homicide detective?'

'Yes.'

'But who was killed?'

Myron shook his head. 'First the videotape.'

Felder was not a man to jump. He refolded his hands on his lap, looked
up, tapped his foot. He took his time, considering the pros and cons, the
costs and benefits, all that. Myron half-expected him to start charting graphs.

'You never practiced as an attorney, did you, Myron?'

Myron shook his head. 'I passed the bar. That's about it.'

'You're lucky,' he said. He sighed and made a tired gesture with his
hands. 'You know why people make all the jokes about lawyers being scum?
It's because they are. It's not their fault. Not really. It's the system. The
system encourages cheating and lying and basic scummy behavior. Suppose
you were at a Little League game. Suppose you told the kids that there were
no umpires today - that they would have to umpire themselves. Wouldn't
that lead to some pretty unethical behavior? Probably. But then tell the little
tykes that they must win, no matter what. Tell them that their only
obligation is to winning and that they should forget about things like fair
play and sportsmanship. That's what our judicial system is like, Myron. We
allow for deceit in the name of an abstract greater good.'

'Bad analogy,' Myron said.

'Why's that?'

'The part about no umpires. Lawyers have to face judges.'

'Not many of them. Most cases are settled before a judge sees it. You
know that. But no matter, my point is made. The system encourages
attorneys to lie and distort under the guise of the client's best interest. That
best-interest crap has become an all-purpose excuse for anything goes. It's
ruining our judicial system.'

'Fascinating, really,' Myron said. 'And all this relates to the videotape
. . . ?'

'Very directly,' Felder said. 'Emily Downing's lawyer lied and distorted
the truth. She did it to an unethical and unnecessary extreme.'

'Are you talking about the child custody case?' Myron asked.

'Yes.'

'What did she do?'

He smiled. 'I'll give you a hint. This particular claim is made now in one
out of every three child custody cases in the United States. It has become
almost standard practice, tossed about like rice was at the actual wedding,
though it destroys lives.'

'Child abuse?'

Felder did not bother with an answer. 'We felt that we needed to quell
these malicious and dangerous untruths. To balance the scales, so to speak.
I'm not proud of that. None of us are. But I'm not ashamed either. You
can't fight fair if your opponent insists on using brass knuckles. You must
do what you can to survive.'

'What did you do?'

'We videotaped Emily Downing in a rather delicate situation.'

'When you say delicate, what exactly do you mean?'

Felder stood up and took a key from his pocket. He unlocked a cabinet
and pulled out a videotape. Then he opened another cabinet. A TV and
VCR faced them. He placed the tape in the machine and picked up the
remote. 'Your turn now,' he said. 'You said Greg was in big trouble.'

It was time for Myron to give a little. Another cardinal rule of
negotiation: don't be a pig and just take. It'll backfire in the long run. 'We
believe a woman may have been blackmailing Greg,' he said. 'She has several
aliases. Usually Carla but she may have used the names Sally or Liz. She was
murdered last Saturday night.'

That one stunned him. Or at least he acted stunned. 'Surely the police don't suspect Greg--'

'Yes,' Myron said.

'But why?'

Myron kept it vague. 'Greg was the last person seen with her the night of
the murder. His fingerprints were at the murder scene. And the police
found the murder weapon at his house.'

'They searched his house?'

'Yes.'

'But they can't do that.'

Already playing the ready-to-distort lawyer. 'They got a warrant,' Myron
said. 'Do you know this woman? This Carla or Sally?'

'No.'

'Do you have any idea where Greg is?'

'None.'

Myron watched him, but he couldn't tell if he was lying or not. Except in
very rare instances, you can never tell if a person is lying by watching their
eyes or their body language or any of that stuff. Nervous, fidgety people tell
the truth too, and a good liar could look as sincere as Alan Alda at a
telethon. So-called 'students of body language' were usually just fooled with
more certainty. 'Why did Greg take out fifty thousand dollars in cash?'
Myron asked.

I didn't ask,' Felder said. 'As I just explained to you, such matters were
not my concern.'

'You thought it was for gambling.'

Again Felder didn't bother responding. He lifted his eyes from the floor.
'You said this woman was blackmailing him.'

'Yes,' Myron said.

He looked at Myron steadily. 'Do you know what she had on him?'

'Not for sure. The gambling, I think.'

Felder nodded. With his eyes looking straight ahead, he pointed the
remote control at the television behind him and pressed some buttons. The
screen brightened into gray static. Then a black and white image appeared.
A hotel room. The camera seemed to be shooting from the ground up. No
one was in the room. A digital counter showed the time. The setup
reminded Myron of those tapes of Marion Barry smoking a crack pipe.

Uhoh.

Could that be it? Having sex would hardly be grounds to show unfitness
as a parent, but what about drugs? What better way to balance the scales, as
Felder had put it, than to show the mother smoking or snorting or shooting
up in a hotel room? How would that work on a judge?

But as Myron was about to see, he was wrong.

The hotel room door opened. Emily entered alone. She looked around
tentatively. She sat on the bed, but then got back up. She paced. She sat
down again. She paced again. She checked the bathroom, came right back
out, paced. Her fingers picked up whatever object they could find - hotel
brochures, room service menus, a television guide.

Is there any sound?' Myron asked.

Marty Felder shook his head no. He was still not looking at the screen.

Myron watched transfixed as Emily continued to go through her nervous ritual.
Suddenly she froze in place and turned to the door. Must have heard a knock.
She approached tentatively. Looking for Mr Goodbar? Probably,

Myron surmised. But when Emily turned the knob and let the door swing
open, Myron realized he was wrong again. It was not Mr Goodbar who
entered the hotel room.

It was Ms Goodbar.

The two women talked for a bit. They had a drink from the room's
minibar. Then they began to undress. Myron's stomach coiled. By the time
they moved to the bed, he had seen more than enough.

'Turn it off.'

Felder did so, still not looking at the screen. 'I meant what I said before.
I'm not proud of that.'

'What a guy,' Myron said.

So now he understood Emily's ferocious hostility. She had indeed been
taped in flagrante delicto -- not with another man, but with a woman.
Certainly no law against it. But most judges would be influenced. It was the
way of the world. And speaking of the way of the world, Myron knew Ms
Goodbar by another nickname:

Thumper.

29

Myron waited back to his office, wondering what it all meant. For one
thing, it meant that Thumper was more than a harmless diversion in all this.
But what exactly was she? Had she set up Emily or had she, too, been taped
unaware? Were they steady lovers or participants in a one-night stand?
Felder claimed he didn't know. On the tape, the two women hadn't
appeared to be all that familiar with each other - at least, not in the small
portion he had watched - but he was hardly an expert on the subject.

Myron cut east on 50th Street. An albino wearing a Mets cap and yellow boxer shorts on
the outside of ripped jeans played an Indian sitar. He was
singing the seventies classic 'The Night Chicago Died' in a voice that
reminded Myron of elderly Chinese women in the back of a laundromat.
The albino also had a tin cup and a stack of cassettes. A sign read 'The
Original Benny and His Magi-cal Sitar, only $10.' The original. Oh.
Wouldn't want that imitation albino, sitar, AM seventies music, no sir.

Benny smiled at him. When he reached the part of the song where the son
learns hundred cops are dead - maybe even the boy's father - Benny began
to weep. Moving. Myron stuffed a dollar into the cup. He crossed the street,
his thoughts reverting back to the videotape of Emily and Thumper. He
wondered now about the relevance. He'd felt like a dirty voyeur for
watching the tape in the first place, and now he felt that way for rehashing
it in his mind. It was, after all, probably no more than a bizarre aside. What
possible connection could there be in all this to the murder of Liz Gorman?
None that he could see; then again he still had trouble seeing how Liz
Gorman fitted in with Greg's gambling Or how she fitted in at all.

Still, the video undoubtedly raised a few fairly major issues. For one
thing, there was the abuse allegations made against Greg. Was there anything
to them, or as Marty Felder had indicated, was Emily's attorney just
playing hardball? And hadn't Emily told Myron she would do anything to
keep her kids, Even kill. How did Emily react when she learned about the video
tape? Spurred on by this awful violation, how far would Emily go?
Myron entered his office building on Park Avenue. He exchanged a brief
word with a young woman in a business suit.
The elevator reeked of drugstore cologne, the kind where some guy decides that taking a shower

is too time-consuming so he opts for sprinkling himself with enough
cologne to glaze a wedding cake. The young woman sniffed and looked at
Myron.

'I don't wear cologne,' he said.

She didn't seem convinced. Or perhaps she was condemning the gender
in general for this affront. Understandable under these circumstances.

'Try holding your breath,' he said.

She looked at him, her face a seaweed green.

When he entered his office, Esperanza smiled and said, 'Good morning.'

'Oh no,' Myron said.

'What?'

'You've never said good morning to me before. Ever.'

I have, too.'

Myron shook his head. lEt tu, Esperanza?'

'What are you talking about?'

'You heard about what happened last night. You're trying to be - dare I
say it? - nice to me.'

The fire in her eyes flamed up. 'You think I give a shit about that game?
That you got your butt burned at every turn?'

Myron shook his head. 'Too late,' he said. 'You care.'

'I do not. You sucked. Get over it.'

'Nice try.'

'What, nice try? You sucked. S-U-C-K-E-D. A pitiful display. I was
embarrassed to know you. I hid my head in shame when I came in.'

He bent down and kissed her cheek.

Esperanza wiped it off with the back of her hand. 'Now I got to get a
cootie shot.'

'I'm fine' he said. 'Really.'

'Like I care. Really.'

The phone rang. She picked it up. 'MB SportsReps. Why yes, Jason, he is
here. Hold on a moment.' She put a hand over the receiver. 'It's Jason Blair.'

'The vermin who said you had a nice ass?'

She nodded. 'Remind him about my legs.'

I'll take it in my office.' A photograph on the top of a stack of papers on
her desk caught his eye. 'What's this?'

'The Raven Brigade file,' she said.

He picked up a grainy photo of the group taken in 1973, the only shot of
the seven of them together. He quickly found Liz Gorman. He hadn't gotten
a good look at her, but from what he saw, there was no way anyone would
ever imagine that Carla and Liz Gorman were one and the same. 'Mind if I keep this for a few minutes?' he asked.

'Suit yourself.'

He moved into his office and picked up the phone. 'What's up, Jason?'

'Where the fuck have you been?'

'Not much. How about you?'

'Don't play smart guy with me. You put that little lady on my contract
and she fucked it all up. I got half a mind to leave MB.'

'Calm down, Jason. How did she fuck it up?'

His voice cracked with incredulity. 'You don't know?'

'No.'

'Here we are, hot in the middle of negotiating with the Red Sox, right?'

'Right.'

'I want to stay in Boston. We both know that. But we have to make a lot
of noise like I'm leaving. That's what you said to do. Make them think you
want to switch teams. To up the money. I'm a free agent. This is what we
got to do, right?'

'Right.'

'We don't want them to know I want to be on the team again, right?'

'Right. To a degree.'

'Fuck to a degree,' he snapped. 'The other day my neighbor gets a mailing
from the Sox, asking him to renew his season tickets. Guess whose picture is
on the brochure saying I'm gonna be back? Go ahead. Guess.'

'Would that be yours, Jason?'

'Damn straight mine! So I call up little Miss Nice Ass--

'She's got great legs too.'

'What?'

'Her legs. She's not that tall, so they're not very long. But they're nicely
toned.'

'Will you quit fucking around here, Myron? Listen to me. She tells me the
Sox called up and asked if they could use my picture in the ad, even though
I wasn't signed. She tells them to go ahead! Go right fucking ahead! Now
what are those Red Sox assholes supposed to think, huh? I'll tell you what.
They think I'm gonna sign with them no matter what. We lost all our
leverage because of her.'

Esperanza opened the door without knocking. 'This came in this
morning.' She tossed a contract on Myron's desk. It was Jason's. Myron
began to skim through it. Esperanza said, 'Put the pea brain on the
speakerphone.'

Myron did.

'Jason.'

'Oh Christ, Esperanza, get the fuck off the line. I'm talking to Myron
here.'

She ignored him. 'Even though you don't deserve to know, I finalized
your contract. You got everything you wanted and more.'

That slowed him down. 'Four hundred thou more per year?'

'Six hundred thousand. Plus an extra quarter-million on the signing
bonus.'

'How the ... what . . . ?'

'The Sox screwed up,' she said. 'Once they printed your picture in that
mailer, the deal was as good as done.'

'I don't get it.'

'Simple,' she said. 'The mailer went out with your picture on it. People
bought tickets based on that. Meanwhile I called the front office and said that
you'd decided to sign with the Rangers down in Texas. I told them the deal
was almost final.' She shifted in the chair. 'Now, Jason, pretend you are the
Red Sox for a moment. What are you going to do? How are you going to
explain to all those ticket holders that Jason Blair, whose picture was on your
latest mailer, won't be around because the Texas Rangers outbid them?'

Silence. Then: 'To hell with your ass and legs,' Jason said. 'You got the
most gorgeous set of brains I ever laid eyes on.'

Myron said, 'Anything else, Jason?'

'Go practice, Myron. After the way you played last night, you need it. I
want to talk over the details with Esperanza.'

'I'll take it at my desk,' Esperanza said.

Myron put him back on hold. 'Nice move,' he said to her.

She shrugged. 'Some kid in the Sox marketing department screwed up. It
happens.'

'You read it very well.'

Her tone was exaggerated monotone. 'My heaving bosom is swelling with
pride.'

'Forget I said anything. Go take the call.'

'No, really, my goal in life is to be just like you.'

Myron shook his head. 'You'll never have my ass.'

'There's that,' she agreed before leaving.

Left alone, Myron picked up the Raven Brigade photo. He located the
three members still at large - Gloria Katz, Susan Milano, and the Raven's
enigmatic leader and most famous member, Cole Whiteman. No one had
drawn the press's attention and ire more than Cole Whiteman. Myron had
been in elementary school when the Ravens went into hiding, yet he still
remembered the stories. For one thing, Cole could have passed for Win's
brother - blond, patrician-featured, well-to-do family. While everyone else
in the picture was scraggly and long haired, Cole was fresh shaven with a
conservative haircut, his one sixties concession being sideburns that went
down a tad too far. Hardly your Hollywood-cast, radical leftist. But as
Myron had learned from Win, looks could often be deceiving.

He put down the photograph and dialed Dimonte's line at One Police
Plaza. After Dimonte snarled a hello, Myron asked him if he had anything
new.

'You think we're partners now, Bolitar?'

'Just like Starsky and Hutch,' Myron said.

'God, I miss those two,' Dimonte said. 'That hot car. Hanging out with
Fuzzy Bear.'

'Huggy Bear,' Myron said.

'What?'

'His name was Huggy Bear, not Fuzzy Bear.'

'Really?'

'Time's short, Rolly. Let me help if I can.'

'You first. What have you got?'

Another negotiation. Myron told him about Greg's gambling. Figuring
that Rolly had the phone records too, he also told him about the suspected
blackmail scheme. He didn't tell him about the videotape. It wouldn't be
fair, not until he spoke to Emily first. Dimonte asked a few questions. When
he was satisfied, he said, 'Okay, what do you want to know?'

'Did you find anything else at Greg's house?'

'Nothing,' Dimonte said. 'And I mean, nothing. Remember how you told
me you found some feminine doo-dads in the bedroom? Some woman's
clothes or lotions or something?'

'Yes.'

'Well, someone got rid of them too. No sign of any female apparel.'

So, Myron thought, the lover theory rears its ugly head once again. The
lover comes back to the house and cleans up the blood to protect Greg.
Then she covers her own tracks too, making sure that their relationship
remains a secret. 'How about witnesses?' Myron asked. 'Anybody in Liz
Gorman's building see anything?'

'Nope. We canvassed the whole neighborhood. No one saw nada.
Everybody was studying or something. Oh, another thing: the press picked
up the murder. The story hit the morning editions.'

'You gave them her real name?'

'You crazy? Of course not. They think it's just another breaking and
entering homicide. But get this. We got an anonymous tip called in this
morning. Someone suggested we check out Greg Downing's house.'

'You're kidding.'

'Nope. Female voice.'

'He's being set up, Rolly.'

'No shit, Sherlock. By a chick no less. And the murder didn't exactly
make a big news splash. It was stuck in the back pages like every other
unspectacular homicide in this cesspool. Got a little extra juice because it
was so close to a college campus.'

'Have you looked into that connection?' Myron asked.

'What connection?'

Columbia University being so close by. Half of the sixties movements
started there. They must still have some sympathizers in the ranks. Maybe
someone there helped Liz Gorman.'

Dimonte gave a dramatic sigh. 'Bolitar, do you think all cops are morons?'
'No.'

'You think you're the only one who thought of that?'

'Well,' Myron said, 'I have been called gifted.'

'Not in today's sports section.'

Touche. 'So what did you find out?'

'She rented the place from some whacko, fanatic, leftist, commie, pinko
so-called Columbia professor named Sidney Bowman.'

'You're so tolerant, Rolly.'

'Yeah, well, I lose touch when I keep missing those ACLU meetings.
Anyway, this pinko won't talk. He says she just rented from him and paid in
cash. We all know he's lying. The feds grilled him, but he got a team of
faggot, liberal lawyers down here to spring him. Called us a bunch of Nazi
pigs and stuff.'

'That's not a compliment, Rolly, In case you don't know.'

'Thanks for clueing me in. I got Krinsky trailing him right now, but he's
got nothing. I mean, this Bowman's not a retard. He's got to know we're
watching.'

'What else have you got on him?'

'Divorced. No kids. He teaches a class in existential, worthless-in-thereal-world
bullshit. According to Krinsky he spends most of his time
helping the homeless. That's supposed to be his daily ritual - hanging out
with hobos in parks and shelters. Like I said, a whacko.'

Win entered the office without knocking. He headed straight for the
corner and opened the closet door, revealing a full-length mirror. He
checked his hair. Patted it though every strand was perfect. Then he spread
his legs a bit and put his arms straight down. Pretending to be gripping a
golf club. Win slowly began to turn into a backswing, watching his motion
in the mirror, making sure the front arm remained straight, the grip
relaxed. He did this all the time, sometimes stopping in front of store
windows while walking down the street. This was the golf equivalent,
Myron surmised, to the weight lifters who flex whenever they happen past
their reflection. It was also annoying as all hell.

'Got anything else, Rolly?'

'No. You?'

'Nothing. I'll talk to you later.'

'Can hardly wait, Hutch,' Dimonte said. 'You know something?
Krinsky's so young he doesn't even remember the show. Sad, ain't it?'

'Today's youth,' Myron said. 'They got no culture.'

Myron hung up. Win continued to study his shot in the mirror. 'Fill me
in please,' he said. Myron did. When he finished Win said, 'This Fiona, the
ex-playmate. She sounds like a perfect candidate for a Windsor Horne
Lockwood III interrogation.'

'Uh huh,' Myron said. 'But why don't you first tell me about the Windsor
Horne Lockwood III interrogation of Thumper?'

Win frowned at the mirror, adjusted his grip. 'She is rather closed
mouthed,' he said. 'So I took a distinctive tack.'

'What tack is that?'

Win told him about their conversation. Myron just shook his head. 'So
you followed her?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'And there is not much to report. She went to TC's house after the game.
She slept over. No calls of any consequence were made from his residence.
Either she was not rattled by our conversation, or she doesn't know
anything.'

'Or,' Myron added, 'she knew she was being followed.'

Win frowned again. He either didn't like Myron's suggestion or he'd
spotted a problem with his swing. Probably the latter. He turned away from
the mirror and glanced at Myron's desk. 'Is that the Raven Brigade?'

'Yes. One of them looks like you.' Myron pointed to Cole Whiteman.

Win studied it for a moment. 'While the man is indeed handsome, he
lacks both my sense of style and my striking, debonair good looks.'

'Not to mention your humility.'

Win put out his hand. 'Then you understand.'

Myron looked at the picture again. He thought again about what
Dimonte said about Professor Sidney Bowman's daily routine. Then it
came to him all at once. Ice flooded his veins in a gush. In his mind he
changed around Cole's features a bit, imagined distortions from plastic
surgery and twenty years of aging. It didn't fit exactly, but it was close
enough.

Liz Gorman had disguised herself by perverting her most distinguishing
characteristic. Wouldn't it make sense to assume that Cole Whiteman had
done the same?

'Myron?'

He looked up. I think I know where to find Cole Whiteman.'

30

Hector was not thrilled to see Myron back at the Parkview Diner.

'We think we found Sally's accomplice,' Myron said.

Hector cleaned the counter with a rag.

'His name is Norman Lowenstein. Do you know him?'

Hector shook his head.

'He's a homeless man. He hangs out in the back and uses your pay
phone.'

Hector stopped cleaning. 'You think I'd let a homeless man in my
kitchen?' he said. 'And we don't even have a back. Take a look.'

The answer did not surprise Myron. 'He was sitting at the counter when I
was here the other day,' he tried. 'Unshaven. Long black hair. Tattered beige
overcoat.'

Still working the rag over the Formica, Hector nodded. I think I know
who you mean. Black sneakers?'

'Right.'

'He comes in a lot. But I don't know his name.'

'Did you ever see him talk to Sally?'

Hector shrugged. 'Maybe. When she was his waitress. I really don't
know.'

'When was he here last?'

I haven't seen him since the day you came in,' Hector said.

'And you never met him?'

'No.'

'Or know anything about him?'

'No.'

Myron wrote down his phone number on a scrap of paper. 'If you see
him, please call. There's a thousand dollar reward.'

Hector studied the phone number. 'This your work number? At AT&T?'

'No. It's my personal phone.'

'Uh huh,' Hector said. 'I called AT&T after you left last time. There's no
such thing as Y511 and there's no employee named Bernie Worley.' He did
not look particularly upset, but he wasn't dancing the hula either. He just
waited, watching Myron with steady eyes.

'I lied to you,' Myron said. 'I'm sorry.'

'What's your real name?' he asked.

'Myron Bolitar.' He gave the man one of his cards. Hector studied it for a
moment.

'You're a sports agent?'

'Yes.'

'What does a sports agent have to do with Sally?'

'It's a long story.'

'You shouldn't have lied like that. It wasn't right.'

'I know,' Myron said. 'I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't important.'

Hector put the card in his shirt pocket. 'I have customers.' He turned
away. Myron debated explaining further, but there was no point.

Win was waiting for him on the sidewalk. 'Well?'

'Cole Whiteman is a homeless man who calls himself Norman Low
enstein.'

Win waved down a taxi. A driver in a turban slowed down. They got in.
Myron told him where to go. The driver nodded; as he did, his turban
buffed the taxi's ceiling. Sitar music blew forth from the front speakers,
plucking at the air with razor-sharp nails. Awful. It made Benny and His
Magical Sitar sound like Itzhak Perlman. Still it was preferable to Yanni.

'He looks nothing like that old picture,' Myron said. 'He's had plastic
surgery. He grew his hair and dyed it jet black.'

They waited at a traffic light. A blue TransAm pulled up next to them,
one of those souped-up models that hip-hopped up and down while
playing music loud enough to crack the earth's core. The taxi actually
started shaking from the decibel level. The light turned green. The TransAm
sped ahead.

'I started thinking about how Liz Gorman had disguised herself,' Myron
continued. 'She'd taken her defining attribute and stood it on its head. Cole
was the well-bred, clean-cut, rich boy. What better way to stand that on its
head than to become an unkempt vagrant?'

'A Jewish unkempt vagrant,' Win corrected.

'Right. So when Dimonte told me that Professor Bowman liked to hang
out with the homeless, something clicked.'

The turban barked, 'Route.'

'What?'

'Route. Henry Hudson or Broadway.'

'Henry Hudson,' Win replied. He glanced over at Myron. 'Continue.'

'This is what I think happened,' Myron said. 'Cole Whiteman suspected
Liz Gorman was in some kind of trouble. Maybe she hadn't called him or
met up with him. Something. The problem was, he couldn't check it out
himself. Whiteman hasn't survived underground all these years by being
stupid. He knew that if the police found her, they'd set a trap for him - the
way they're doing right now.'

'So,' Win said, 'he gets you to go in for him.'

Myron nodded. 'He hangs around the diner, hoping to hear something
about "Sally." When he overhears me talking to Hector he figures I'm his
best bet. He gives me this weird story about how he knows her from using
the phone at the diner. Claimed they were lovers. The story didn't really
mesh, but I didn't bother questioning it. Anyway, he takes me to her place.
Once I'm inside, he hides and waits to see what happens. He sees the cops
come. He probably even sees the body being taken out - all from a safe
distance. It confirms what he probably suspected all along. Liz Gorman is
dead.'

Win thought about it a moment. 'And now you think Professor Bowman
may be contacting him when he visits with the homeless?'

'Yes.'

'So our next goal is to find Cole Whiteman.'

'Yes.'

'Amongst the wretched unbathed in some godforsaken shelter?'

'Yes.'

Win looked pained. 'Oh goodie.'

'We could try to set a trap for him,' Myron said. 'But I think it'll take too
long.'

'Set a trap how?'

'I think he's the one who called me on the phone last night,' Myron said.
'Whatever blackmail scheme Liz Gorman was running, it's natural to think
that Whiteman was in on it too.'

'But why you?' Win asked. 'If he has dirt on Greg Downing why would
you be the target of his extortion?'

It was a question that had been gnawing at Myron too. 'I'm not sure,' he
said slowly. 'The best guess I can come up with is that Whiteman recognized
me at the diner. He probably figures that I'm closely connected to Greg
Downing. When he couldn't reach Greg, he decided to try me.'

Myron's cellular phone rang. He flicked it on and said hello.

'Hey, Starsky.' It was Dimonte.

I'm Hutch,' Myron said. 'You're Starsky.'

'Either way,' Dimonte said, 'I think you'll want to get your butt over
the precinct pronto.'

'You got something?'

'Only if you call a picture of the killer leaving Gorman's apartment
something,' Dimonte said.

Myron almost dropped the phone. 'For real?'

'Yep. And you'll never guess what.'

'What?'

'It's a she.'

31

'Here's the deal,' Dimonte said. They were threading their way through a
veritable United Nations of cops, witnesses, and whatnots. Win was waiting
outside. He didn't like cops, and they didn't exactly feel like taking him out
for ice cream. Best for all if he kept his distance. 'We got a partial image of
the perp on a videotape. Problem is, it's not enough to make an ID. I
thought maybe you'd recognize her.'

'What kind of videotape?'

'There's a shipping garage on Broadway between One Hundred Tenth
and One Hundred Eleventh streets, east side of the block,' Dimonte said. He
remained a pace ahead of Myron, moving briskly. He kept turning behind
him to make sure Myron was keeping up. 'They handle home electronics.
You know how that is - every worker steals like it's a Constitutional right.
So the company set up surveillance cameras all over the place. Videotape
everything.' Still moving he shook his head, awarded Myron a toothpick
less smile and added, 'Good old big brother. Every once in a while
somebody tapes a crime instead of a bunch of cops beating up a perp, you
know what I'm saying?'

They entered a small interrogation room. Myron looked into a mirror.
He knew it was one-way glass - so did anybody with even a passing
knowledge of cop shows or movies. Myron doubted anybody was on the
other side, but he stuck his tongue out just in case. Mr Mature. Krinsky was
standing by a television and a VCR. For the second time today, Myron was
going to watch a video. He trusted this one would be more tame.

'Hey, Krinsky,' Myron said.
Krinsky barely nodded. Mr Loquacious.

Myron looked over at Dimonte. I still don't see how a shipping garage
camera could have gotten the killer on tape.'

One of the cameras is by the truck entrance,' Dimonte explained. 'Just to

make sure nothing falls off the truck as it's leaving, if you know what I

mean. The camera catches part of the sidewalk. You can see people walking

by- He leaned up against the wall and motioned Myron to sit in a chair.

You'll see what I mean.'

Myron sat. Krinsky hit the play button. Black and white again. No sound

again. But this time the shot was from above. Myron saw the front end of a
truck and behind it, a glimpse of the sidewalk. Not many people walked by;
the ones that did were barely more than distant silhouettes.

'How did you come up with this?' Myron asked.

'With what?'

'This tape.'

'I always check for this stuff,' Dimonte said, hitching up his pants by belt
loops. 'Parking garages, storage houses, any of those places. They all have
surveillance cameras nowadays.'

Myron nodded. 'Good work, Rolly. I'm impressed.'

'Wow,' Dimonte said, 'now I can die happy.'

Everyone's a wiseass. Myron turned his attention back to the screen. 'So
how long is each tape?'

'Twelve hours,' Dimonte replied. 'They change them at nine a.m. and
p.m. Eight camera setup. They keep each tape for three weeks. Then they
tape over them.' He pointed his fingers. 'Here she comes now. Krinsky.'

Krinsky pressed a button and the tape froze.

'The woman who just entered the picture. On the right. Heading south,
which would be away from the scene.'

Myron saw a blurry image. He couldn't see a face or even gather much
about her height. She wore high heels and a long overcoat with a frilly neck.
Hard to tell much about her weight either. The hair however was familiar.
He kept his tone neutral. 'Yeah, I see her.'

'Look at her right hand,' he said.

Myron did. There was something dark and long in it. I can't make it
out.'

'We got it blown up. Krinsky.'

Krinsky handed Myron two large black and white photographs. The
woman's head was enlarged in the first one, but you still couldn't see any
facial features. In the second picture, the long, dark object in her hand was
clearer.

'We think it's a plastic garbage bag wrapped around something,'
Dimonte said. 'Kind of an odd shape, wouldn't you say?'

Myron looked at the photo and nodded. 'You figure it's covering up a
baseball bat.'

'Don't you?'

'Yeah,' Myron said.

'We found plastic garbage bags just like that one in Gorman's kitchen.'

'And probably half the kitchens in New York City,' Myron added.

'True enough. Now look at the date and time on the screen.'

On the top left-hand side of the screen, a digital clock read 02:12:32 a.m.
The date was early Sunday morning. Just hours after Liz Gorman had been
at the Swiss Chalet bar with Greg Downing.

'Did the camera get her coming the other way?' Myron asked.

'Yeah, but it's not too clear. Krinsky.'

Krinsky hit the rewind button. Several seconds later, he stopped and the
picture came back on. The time now read 01:41:12. A little more than thirty
minutes earlier.

'Coming now,' Dimonte said.

The image almost flew past. Myron only recognized the woman by the
long overcoat with the frilly neck. This time, she was carrying nothing in her
hand. Myron said, 'Let me see the other part again. All the way through.'

Dimonte nodded at Krinsky. Krinsky found it and hit play. While Myron
still couldn't see the woman's face, her walk was another matter. And a
person's walk could be fairly distinctive. Myron felt his heart crawl up into
his throat.

Dimonte was studying him through squinting eyes. 'You recognize her,
Bolitar?'

Myron shook his head. 'No,' he lied.

32

Esperanza liked to make lists.

With the Raven Brigade file in front of her, she jotted down the three
most important factors in chronological order:

1. The Raven Brigade robs a bank in Tucson.

2. Within days, at least one of the Ravens (Liz Gorman) was in
Manhattan.

3. Soon after, Liz Gorman made contact with a high-profile professional
basketball player.

It didn't flow.

She opened the file and briefly scanned the 'brigade's' history. In 1975 the
Ravens had kidnapped Hunt Flootworth, the twenty-two-year-old son of
publishing giant Cooper Flootworth. Hunt had been a classmate at San
Francisco State of several of the Ravens, including both Cole Whiteman and
Liz Gorman. The famous Cooper Flootworth, never one to sit around idly
and let others handle his affairs, hired mercenaries to rescue his son. During
their raid, young Hunt was shot at point-blank range in the head by one of
the Ravens. No one knew which one. Of all the brigade members at the
scene four managed to escape.

Big Cyndi skipped into the office. The vibrations rolled Esperanza's pens
off the desk.

'Sorry,' Cyndi said.

'It's okay.'

'Timmy called me,' Cyndi said. 'We're going out Friday night.'

Esperanza made a face. 'His name is Timmy?'

'Yeah,' Cyndi said. 'Isn't that sweet?'

'Adorable.'

'I'll be in the conference room,' Cyndi said.

Esperanza turned back to the file. She flipped ahead to the Tucson bank
heist - the group's first in more than five years. The robbery took place as
the bank was closing. The feds believed one of the security guards was in on
it, but so far they had nothing more than the guard's left-leaning background.
About $15,000 in cash was taken, but the robbers took the time to

blow the safe-deposit boxes. Risky. The feds theorized that the Ravens had
somehow found out that drug money was stored there. The bank cameras
showed two people dressed head to toe in black with black ski masks. No
fingerprints or hairs or fibers. Nada.

Esperanza read through the file again, but nothing new exploded from
the pages. She tried to imagine what the past twenty years had been like for
the surviving Ravens, constantly on the run, never sleeping in the same
place very long, leaving and reentering the country, relying on old
sympathizers you were never sure you could completely trust. She grabbed
her piece of paper and made some more notes:

Liz Gorman-- > Bank Robbery-- > Blackmail

Okay, she thought, follow the arrows. Liz Gorman and the Ravens needed
funds, so they robbed the bank. That worked out. It explained the first
arrow. That was a gimme anyway. The real problem was that second
connection:

Bank Robbery-- > Blackmail.

Simply put, what about the bank robbery had led her to the East Coast
and her scheme to blackmail Greg Downing? She tried to write down
possibilities.

1. Downing was involved in the bank robbery.

She looked up. It was possible, she surmised. He needed the money for
gambling debts. He might do something illegal. But this hypothesis still did
not answer the biggest question in all this: how did they meet? How did Liz
Gorman and Greg Downing hook up in the first place?

That, she felt, was the key.

She wrote a number two. And waited.

What other link could there be?

Nothing came to mind so she decided to try it from the opposite end.
Start with the blackmail and go back. In order to blackmail Downing, Liz
Gorman had to have stumbled across something incriminating. When?
Esperanza drew another arrow:

Bank Robbery < -- > Blackmail

Esperanza felt something like a tiny pinprick. The bank robbery. Something
they found at the bank robbery led to the blackmail scheme.

She quickly shuffled through the file, but she already knew that it wasn't
there. She picked up the phone and dialed. When the man answered, she
said, 'Do you have a list of the people who were renting safe-deposit boxes?'

'Somewhere, I guess,' he replied. 'Why, you need it?'

'Yes.'

Deep sigh. 'All right, I'll start looking. But tell Myron he owes me for this.
Owes me big.'

When Emily opened the door, Myron said, 'Are you alone?'

'Why, yes,' she replied with a coy smile. 'What do you have in mind?'

He shoved past her. Emily stumbled back, her mouth an open circle of
surprise. He headed straight for the foyer closet and opened it.

'What the hell are you doing?'

Myron did not bother answering. His hands pushed hangers left and
right in a frenzy. It didn't take long. He pulled the long overcoat with the
frilly neck into view. 'Next time you commit a murder,' he said, 'dispose of
the clothes you wore.'

She took two steps back, her hand fluttering toward her mouth. 'Get out,'
she hissed.

'I'm giving you one chance to tell the truth.'

'I don't care what you're giving. Get the fuck out of my house.'

He held up the coat. 'You think I'm the only one who knows? The police
have a videotape of you at the murder scene. You were wearing this coat.'

Her body slackened. Her face looked like she'd been on the receiving end
of a palm strike to the solar plexus.

Myron lowered the coat to his side. 'You planted the murder weapon at
your old house,' he said. Tou smeared blood in the basement.' He turned
and half-pounced into the living room. The pile of tabloids was still there.
He pointed at it. 'You kept searching the papers for the story. When you
read about the body being found, you made an anonymous call to the
police.'

He glanced back at Emily. Her eyes were unfocused and glazed.

'I kept wondering about the playroom,' Myron said. 'Why, I kept asking
myself, would Greg go down there of all places after the murder? But of
course that was the point. He wouldn't. The blood could remain undetected
for weeks if need be.'

Emily made two fists at her sides. She shook her head, finally finding her
voice. 'You don't understand.'

'Then tell me.'

'He wanted my kids.'

'So you framed him for murder.'

'No.'

'This isn't the time to lie, Emily.'

'I'm not lying, Myron. I didn't frame him.'

'You planted the weapon--

'Yes,' she interrupted, 'you're right about all that. But I didn't frame
him.' Her eyes closed and reopened, almost like she was doing a
minimeditation. 'You can't frame somebody for something they did.'

Myron stiffened. Emily stared at him stone faced. Her hands were still
tightened into small balls. 'Are you saying Greg killed her?'

'Of course.' She moved toward him, taking her time, using the seconds
the way a boxer uses an eight count after a surprise left hook. She took the
coat from his hands. 'Should I really destroy it, or can I trust you?'

'I think you better explain first.'

'How about some coffee?'

'No,' Myron said.

'I need some. Come on. We'll talk in the kitchen.'

She kept her head high and walked the same walk Myron had watched on
the tape. He followed her into a bright white kitchen. The kitchen gleamed
in tiled splendor. Most people probably thought the decor was to die for;
Myron thought it resembled a urinal at a fancy restaurant.

Emily took out one of those new coffee presses people were using. 'You
sure you won't have some? It's Starbucks. Kona Hawaiian blend.'

Myron shook his head. Emily had regained her senses now. She was back
in control; he'd let her stay there. A person in control talks more and thinks
less.

'I'm trying to figure out where to begin,' she said, adding hot water to the
press. The rich aroma immediately filled the air. If this was a coffee
commercial, one of them would be saying 'Ahhhh' right about now. 'And
don't tell me to begin at the beginning or I'll scream.'

Myron held up his hands to show he would do no such thing.

Emily pushed a little on the plunger, met resistance, pushed again. 'She
came up to me one day in the supermarket of all places,' she said. 'Out of
the blue. I'm reaching for some frozen bagels, and this woman tells me she
has uncovered something that could destroy my husband. She tells me that
if I don't pay up, she's going to call the papers.'

'What did you say?'

'I asked her if she'd need a quarter for the phone.' Emily chuckled,
stopped pressing, stood upright. 'I figured it was a joke. I told her to go
ahead and destroy the bastard. She just nodded and said she'd be in touch.'

'That was it?'

'Yep.'

'When was this?'

I don't know. Two, three weeks ago.'

'So when did you hear from her next?'

Emily opened a cabinet and took out a coffee mug. The mug had a
picture of some cartoon character. The words world's greatest mom
were emblazoned on the side. 'I'm making enough for two,' she said.

'No thank you.'

'You sure?'

'Yes,' Myron said. 'What happened next?'

She bent down and peered into the coffee press like it was a crystal ball. 'A
few days after this, Greg did something to me . . .' She stopped. Her tone
was different now, the words coming slower and with more care. 'It's like I
told you last time you were here. He did something awful. The details aren't
important.'

Myron nodded but said nothing. No reason to raise the videotape now
and knock her off her stride. Facilitate her - that was the key.

'So when she came back and told me Greg was willing to pay big for her
silence, I told her I'd pay more to make her talk. She told me it would cost a
lot. I told her I didn't care how much. I tried to appeal to her as a woman. I
went so far as to tell her about my situation, how Greg was trying to take my
kids away from me. She seemed to sympathize, but she also made it clear
that she couldn't afford to be philanthropic. If I wanted the information, I'd
have to pay up.'

'Did she tell you how much?'

'One hundred thousand dollars.'

Myron held back a whistle. Serious double dipping. Liz Gorman's
strategy was probably to keep collecting from both of them, bleeding them
both for as long as she thought it was safe. Or maybe she was hitting hard
and fast because she knew she would have to go underground again. Either
way, it made sense from Liz Gorman's perspective to collect from all
interested parties - Greg, Clip, and Emily. Take money for silence. Take
money to sing. Blackmailers have the loyalty of election-year politicians.

'Do you know what she had on Greg?' he asked.

Emily shook her head. 'She wouldn't tell me.'

'But you were prepared to pay her a hundred grand?'

'Yes.'

'Even though you didn't know what it was for?'

'Yes.'

Myron gestured with both hands. 'How did you know she wasn't just a
crackpot?'

'The truth? I didn't know. But I was going to lose my kids, for chrissake. I
was desperate.'

And, Myron thought, Emily had shown that desperation to Liz Gorman
who, in turn, took full advantage of it. 'So you still have no idea what she
had on him?'

Emily shook her head. 'None.'

'Could it have been Greg's gambling?'

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. 'What about it?'

'Did you know Greg gambled?'

'Sure. But so what?'

'Do you know how much he gambled?' Myron asked.

'Just a little,' she said. 'A trip to Atlantic City once in a while. Maybe fifty
dollars on a football game.'

'Is that what you thought?'

Her eyes moved over his face, trying to read it. 'What are you saying?'

Myron looked out the back window. The pool was still covered, but some
of the robins had returned from the yearly aliya to the south. A dozen or so
crowded a bird feeder, heads down, wings flapping happily like dog tails.
'Greg is a compulsive gambler,' Myron said. 'He's lost away millions over
the years. Felder didn't embezzle money - Greg lost it gambling.'

Emily gave him a little head shake. 'That can't be,' she said. 'I lived with
him for almost ten years. I would have seen something.'

'Gamblers learn how to hide it,' Myron said. 'They lie and cheat and steal
- anything to keep on betting. It's an addiction.'

Something in her eyes seemed to spark up. 'And that's what this woman
had on Greg? The fact that he gambled?'

'I think so,' Myron said. 'But I can't say for sure.'

'But Greg definitely gambled, right? To the point where he lost all his
money?'

'Yes.'

The answer kindled Emily's face with hope. 'Then no judge in the world
would award him custody,' she said. 'I'll win.'

'A judge is more likely to give the kids to a gambler than a murderer,'
Myron said. 'Or someone who plants false evidence.'

I told you already. It's not false.'

'So you say,' Myron said. 'But let's get back to what happened with the
blackmailer. You were saying she wanted a hundred grand.'

Emily moved back to her coffee press. 'That's right.'

'How were you to pay her?'

'She told me to wait by a pay phone outside a Grand Union supermarket
on Saturday night. I was supposed to get there at midnight and have the
money ready. She called at midnight on the dot and gave me an address on
One Hundred Eleventh Street. I was supposed to get there at two in the
morning.'

'So you drove to One Hundred Eleventh Street at two in the morning
with one hundred thousand dollars?' He tried not to sound too incredulous.

'I could only raise sixty thousand,' she corrected.

'Did she know that?'

'No. Look, I know this all sounds crazy, but you don't understand how
desperate I was. I would have done anything at this point.'

Myron understood. He had seen up-close how far mothers would go.
Love twists; maternal love twists absolutely. 'Go on,' he said.

'When I turned the corner, I saw Greg come out of the building,' Emily
said. I was stunned. He had his collar up, but I could still see his face.' She
looked up at Myron. 'I was married to him a long time, but I've never seen
his face like this.'

'Like what?'

'So filled with terror,' she replied. 'He practically sprinted toward
Amsterdam Avenue. I waited until he turned the corner. Then I approached
the door and pressed her apartment button. Nobody answered. I started
pressing other buttons. Somebody finally buzzed me in. I went upstairs and
knocked on her door for a while. Then I tried the knob. It was unlocked. So
I opened the door.'

Emily stopped. A trembling hand brought the cup up to her lips. She
took a sip.

'This is going to sound awful,' she went on, 'but I didn't see a dead
human being lying there. I only saw my last hope of keeping my kids.'
'So you decided to plant evidence.'

Emily put down the cup and looked at him. Her eyes were clear. 'Yes.
And you were right about everything else, too. I chose the playroom because
I knew he'd never go down there. I figured that when Greg got back home I
didn't know he'd run - the blood would be safe. Look, I know I went too
far, but it's not like I was lying. He killed her.'

'You don't know that.'

'What?'

'He might have stumbled across the body the same way you did.'

'Are you serious?' Her tone was sharp now. 'Of course Greg killed her.
The blood on the floor was still fresh. He was the one who had everything to
lose. He had motive, opportunity.'

'Just as you do,' Myron said.

'What motive?'

'You wanted to set him up for murder. You wanted to keep your
children.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'Do you have any proof your story is true?' Myron asked.

'Do I have what?'

'Proof. I don't think the police are going to buy it.'

'Do you buy it?' she asked him.

'I'd like to see proof.'

'What do you mean, proof?' she snapped. 'Like what? It's not like I took
pictures.'

'Any facts that back up your story?'

'Why would I kill her, Myron? What possible motive could I have? I
needed her alive. She was my best chance of keeping my kids.'

'But let's assume for a moment that this woman did indeed have
something on Greg,' Myron said. 'Something concrete. Like a letter he
wrote or a videotape' - he watched for a reaction - 'or something like that.'

'All right,' she said with a nod. 'Go ahead.'

'And suppose she double-crossed you. Suppose she sold the incriminating
evidence to Greg. You admit Greg was there before you. Maybe he paid her enough so that she'd back out of your agreement. Then you go into her
apartment. You find out what she's done. You realize your one chance at
keeping your kids is gone. So you kill her and pin it on the man who had
seemed to have the most to gain from her death: Greg.'

Emily shook her head. 'That's nuts.'

'You hated Greg enough,' Myron continued. 'He played dirty with you;
you'd play dirty back.'

'I didn't kill her.'

Myron took another look at the robins, but they were gone. The yard
looked barren now, stripped of any life. He waited a few seconds before he
turned back toward her. 'I know about the videotape of you and Thumper.'

A quick bolt of anger hit Emily's eyes. Her ringers clutched the coffee
mug. Myron half-expected her to throw it at him. 'How the hell . . . ?' Then
her grip suddenly slackened. She backed away. She sort of shrugged into a
slouch. 'It doesn't matter.'

'It must have made you furious,' he said.

She shook her head. A small sound like a chuckle escaped from her lips. 'You just don't get it, do you, Myron?'

'Don't get what?'

I wasn't looking for revenge. The only thing that mattered was that the
tape could take away my kids.'

'No, I do get it,' Myron countered. 'You'd do anything to keep your kids.'

I didn't kill her.'

Myron shifted gears. 'Tell me about you and Thumper,' he said.

Emily snorted a derisive laugh. I didn't think you were that type,
Myron.'

I'm not.'

She picked up her coffee mug and took a deep sip. 'Did you watch the
whole tape from beginning to end?' she asked in a tone somewhere between
flirtatious and furious. 'Did you hit the slow motion button a few times,
Myron? Rewind and replay certain parts over and over? Drop your pants to
your knees?'

'No to all of the above.'

'How much did you see?'

'Just enough to know what was going on.'

'Then you stopped?'

'Then I stopped.'

She regarded him from behind the mug. 'You know something? I actually
believe you. You're that kind of goody two-shoes.'

'Emily, I'm trying to help.'

'Help me or Greg?'

'Help get to the truth. I assume you want that too.'

She shrugged noncommittally.

'So when did you and Thumper . . . ?' He made vague coming-together
motions with his hand.

She laughed at his discomfort. It was the first time,' she replied. In all
respects.'

'I'm not judging--

I don't care if you are or not. You want to know what happened, right? It
was my first time. That little whore set me up.'

'How?'

'What do you mean, how?' she countered. 'You want me to go into
details - how many drinks I had, how I was feeling lonely, how her hand
started up my leg?'

'I guess not.'

'Then let me give you the quick capsule: she seduced me. We'd flirted
innocently a few times in the past. She invited me to the Glenpointe for
drinks. It was like a dare on myself - I was drawn and repelled, but I knew I
wouldn't go through with it. One thing led to another. We went upstairs.
End of capsule.'

'So you're saying Thumper knew you were being filmed?'

'Yes.'

'How do you know? Did she say anything?'

'She didn't say anything. But I know.'

'How?'

'Myron, please stop asking so many goddamn questions. I just know,
okay? How else would anyone know to set up a camera in that room? She
set me up.'

That made sense, Myron thought. 'But why would she do it?'

Her face registered exasperation. 'Christ, Myron, she's the team whore.
Didn't she fuck you yet? Or no, let me guess. You refused, right?'

Emily stormed away into the living room and collapsed on a couch. 'Get
me the aspirin,' she said. 'They're in the bathroom. In the medicine chest.'

Myron shook out two tablets and filled a cup with water. When he came
back, he said, I have to ask you about one more thing.'

She sighed. 'What?'

I understand you made allegations against Greg,' he said.

'My attorney made allegations.'

'Were they true?'

She put the pills on her tongue, took some water, swallowed. 'Some of
them.'

'How about the ones about him abusing the children?'

'I'm tired, Myron. Can we talk more later?'

'Were they true?'

Emily looked into Myron's eyes, and a cold gust of air blew across his
heart. 'Greg wanted to take my kids away from me,' she said slowly. 'He had
money, power, prestige on his side. We needed something.'

Myron broke the eye contact. He walked toward the door. 'Don't destroy
that coat.'

'You have no right to judge me.'

'Right now,' he said, I don't want to be near you.'

33

Audrey was leaning against his car. 'Esperanza told me you'd be here.'

Myron nodded.

'Jesus, you look like hell,' she said. 'What happened?'

'Long story.'

'And one that you will soon tell me in riveting detail,' Audrey added. 'But
I'll go first. Fiona White was indeed a Miss September in 1992 - or as that particular rag calls it, the September Babe-ARama.'

'You're kidding.'

'Nope. Fiona's turn-ons include moonlit walks on the beach and cozy
nights by a fireplace.'

He smiled in spite of himself. 'My, what originality.'

'Her turn-offs include shallow men who only care about looks. And men
with back hair.'

'Did they list her favorite movies?'

'Schindler's List,' Audrey said, 'And Cannonball Run II.'

He laughed. 'You're making this up.'

'All except the part about being the September Babe-A-Rama in 1992.'

Myron shook his head. 'Greg Downing and his best friend's wife,' he
sighed. In a way, the news sort of buoyed him. Myron's ten-year-old indiscretion
with Emily no longer seemed quite so bad. He knew that he shouldn't
find comfort in such logic, but man takes solace where he can find it.

Audrey motioned toward the house. 'So what's up with the ex?'

'Long story.'

'You said that already. I got time.'

'I don't.'

She held up her palm like a cop directing traffic. 'Not fair, Myron. I've
been a good girl. I've been running your errands and keeping my big mouth
shut. Not to mention the fact that I got zippo from you for my birthday.
Please don't make me start with the exposure threats again.'

She was right. Myron gave her an abbreviated update, leaving out two
Parts: the Thumper videotape (no reason anyone had to know about that)
and the fact that Carla was the infamous Liz Gorman (it was simply too big
a story; no reporter could be trusted to keep it off the record).

Audrey listened intently. Her page-boy cut had grown a little too long in
the front. Hairs dangled close to her eyes. She kept sticking out her lower lip
and blowing strands off her forehead. Myron had never before seen this
particular gesture done by anybody over the age of eleven. It was kind of
sweet.

'Do you believe her?' Audrey asked, motioning again to Emily's house.

'I'm not sure,' he replied. 'Her story sort of makes sense. She had no
motive to kill the woman, except to frame Greg and that's reaching.'

Audrey tilted her head as if to say, maybe yes - maybe no.

'What?' he asked.

'Well,' she began, 'isn't there a chance that we're looking at this from the
wrong perspective?'

'What do you mean?'

'We assume that this blackmailer had dirt on Downing,' Audrey said.
'But maybe she had dirt on Emily.'

Myron stopped, looked back at the house as though it held some answers,
looked back at Audrey.

'According to Emily,' Audrey went on, 'the blackmailer approached her.
But why? She and Greg aren't together anymore.'

'Carla didn't know that,' Myron replied. 'She figured Emily was his wife
and would want to protect him.'

'That's one possibility,' Audrey agreed. 'But I'm not sure it's the best
one.'

'Are you saying that they were blackmailing her, not Greg?'

Audrey turned her palms skyward. 'All I'm saying is that it could work
the other way too. The blackmailer might have had something on Emily something
Greg would want to use against her in the child custody case.'

Myron folded his arms and leaned against the car. 'But what about Clip?'
he asked. If they had something on Emily, why would he be interested?'

I don't know.' Audrey shrugged. 'Maybe she had dirt on both of them.'

'Both of them?'

'Sure. Something that could destroy them both. Or maybe Clip thought
whatever it was -- even if it was about Emily - would distract Greg.'

'Any guesses?'

'Not a one,' Audrey said.

Myron mulled it over for a few seconds, but nothing came to him.
'There's a chance,' he said, 'we'll find out tonight.'

'How?'

'The blackmailer called. He wants to sell me the information.'

'Tonight?'

'Yep.'

'Where?'

I don't know yet. He's going to call. I got my home line forwarded to the
cellular.'

As if on cue, the cellular rang. Myron took it out of his pocket.

It was Win. 'The dear professor's schedule was posted on his office door,'
he said. 'He is in class for another hour. After that, he has open office hours
so the kiddies can whine about grades.'

'Where are you?'

'On Columbia's campus,' Win replied. 'By the way, Columbia women are
fairly attractive. I mean, for the Ivy Leagues and all.'

'Glad you haven't lost your powers of observation.'

'Indeed,' Win said. 'Have you finished speaking to our girl?'

Our girl was Emily. Win did not trust cellular phones with names. 'Yes,'
he said.

'Goodie. What time should I expect you then?'

I'm on my way.'

34

Win was sitting on a bench near the Columbia gate on 116th Street. He was
wearing Eddie Bauer khakis, Top-Siders without socks, a blue button-down
Oxford, and a power tie.

'I'm blending in,' Win explained.

'Like a Hasid at Christmas mass,' Myron agreed. 'Is Bowman still in
class?'

Win nodded. 'He should be exiting that door in ten minutes.'

'Do you know what he looks like?'

Win handed him a faculty handbook. 'Page two ten,' he said. 'So tell me
about Emily.'

Myron did. A tall brunette dressed in a black, skintight cat suit strolled by
with her books pressed up against her chest. Julie Newmar on Batman. Win
and Myron watched her closely. Meow.

When Myron finished, Win didn't bother with any questions. 'I have a
meeting at the office,' he said as he stood. 'Do you mind?'

Myron shook his head and sat down. Win left. Myron kept his eye on the
door. Ten minutes later students began to file out the door. Two minutes
after that, Professor Sidney Bowman followed suit. He had the same
unkempt, academic beard as in the photo. He was bald but kept his fringe
hair ridiculously long. He wore jeans, Timberland boots, and a red flannel
shirt. He was either trying to look like a working stiff or Jerry Brown on the
campaign trail.

Bowman pushed up his spectacles and kept walking. Myron waited until
he was out of sight before following. No rush. The good professor was
indeed heading for his office. He crossed the grassy commons and
disappeared into yet another brick building. Myron found a bench and sat
down.

An hour passed. Myron watched the students and felt very old. He should
have brought a newspaper. Sitting for an hour without reading material
meant he had to think. His mind kept conjuring up new possibilities and
then dismissing them. He knew he was missing something, could see it
bobbing in the distance, but every time he reached out it ducked back down
below the surface.

He suddenly remembered that he had not checked Greg's answering
machine today. He took out his cellular phone and dialed the number.
When Greg's voice came on, he pressed 317, the code numbers Greg had
programmed into the machine. There was only one message on the tape,
but it was a doozy.

'Don't fuck with us,' the electronically altered voice said. 'I've spoken to
Bolitar. He's willing to pay. Is that what you want?'

End of message.

Myron sat very still. He stared at a brick, ivyless wall. He listened to a
tone for a few seconds and did nothing. What the hell . . .?

'. . . He's willing to pay. Is that what you want?

Myron pressed the star button to have the message replayed. Then he did
it again. He probably would have listened for a fourth time, had Professor
Bowman not suddenly appeared at the door.

Bowman stopped to chat with a couple of students. The conversation
grew animated, all three displaying fervent, academic earnest. College.
Continuing their undoubtedly weighty discourse, they walked off campus
and down Amsterdam Avenue. Myron pocketed the phone and kept his
distance. At 112th Street, the group separated. The two students continued
south. Bowman crossed the street and headed toward the Cathedral of St
John the Divine.

St John the Divine's was a massive structure and interestingly enough,
the largest cathedral in the world in terms of cubic square feet (St Peter's in
Rome is considered a basilica by this statistic, not a cathedral). The edifice
was like the city that housed it: awe-inspiring yet worn. Towering columns
and gorgeous stained-glass windows were surrounded by signs like hard
hat area (though it dated back to 1892, St John the Divine's has never
been completed) and the cathedral is patrolled and electronically
monitored for your protection. Wooden planks plugged
holes in the granite facade. On the left side of this architectural wonder
were two prefab aluminum storage barracks that brought back memories
of the opening credits of Gomer Pyle. On the right was the Children's
Sculpture Garden featuring the Peace Fountain, an enormous sculpture
that inspired several moods, none of them peaceful. Images of severed
heads and limbs, lobster claws, hands reaching out from the dirt as though
trying to escape hell, a man twisting the neck of a deer all whirled together
to create an atmosphere that was more Dante meets Goya than languid
tranquillity.

Bowman headed down the driveway on the cathedral's right. Myron
knew that there was a homeless shelter down that way. He crossed the street
and tried to keep his distance. Bowman passed a group of apparently
homeless men - all dressed in threadbare synthetics and pants with
plunging butt-lines. Some waved and called out to Bowman. Bowman
waved back. Then he disappeared through a door. Myron debated what to

do. There was no choice really. Even if it meant blowing his cover, he had to
go in.

He passed the men, nodded, smiled. They nodded and smiled back. The
shelter entrance was a double black door with chintzy lace curtains. Not far
from it were two signs - one reading slow children at play and the
other cathedral school. A homeless shelter and a children's school side
by side - an interesting yet working combo. Only in New York.

Myron entered. The room was packed with frayed mattresses and men. A
smell like a used bong after an all-nighter singed his nostril hairs. Myron
tried not to make a face. He spotted Bowman talking to several men in one
corner. None of them was Cole Whiteman aka Norman Lowenstein. Myron
glanced about the unshaven faces and hollow eyes, his gaze swinging left to
right.

They spotted each other at exactly the same time.

From across the room, their eyes locked for perhaps a second, but that
was long enough. Cole Whiteman turned and ran. Myron followed,
threading his way through the throngs. Professor Bowman spotted the
disturbance. Eyes afire, he jumped in Myron's path. Myron lowered his
shoulder and flattened him without breaking stride. Just like Jim Brown.
Except Jim Brown had to do it against guys like Dick Butkus and Ray
Nitzchke opposed to a fifty-year-old college professor who probably didn't
weigh 180 even with the soft gut. Still.

Cole Whiteman disappeared out a back door, slamming it behind him.
Myron went through it not long after. They were outside now, but only
briefly. Whiteman disappeared up a metal stairway and back into the main
chapel. Myron followed. The inside was very much like the outside spectacular
examples of art and architecture mixed in with the tattered and
tacky. The pews, for example, were cheap folding chairs. Lush tapestries
hung upon granite walls with seemingly no organization. Ladders were
melded into thick columns.

Myron spotted Cole heading back out a nearby door. He sprinted after
him, his heels echoing up through the giant arched ceiling. They were back
outside. Cole headed down below the cathedral and through heavy fire
doors. A sign read act program. It looked like a basement school or daycare
center. Both men raced down a hallway lined with beat-up, metallic
lockers. Cole turned right and disappeared behind a wooden door.

When Myron pushed the door open, a darkened stairway greeted him.
He heard footsteps below him. He trotted down, the light from above
dwindling with each step. He was descending deep into the cathedral's
subdwelling now. The walls were cement and clammy to the touch. He
wondered if he was entering a crypt or tomb or something equally creepy, if
indeed there was equally creepy. Did American cathedrals have crypts, or
was that only in Europe?

By the time he reached the bottom step, Myron was bathed in darkness,

the light from above little more than distant glint. Great. He stepped into a
black hole of a room. He cocked his head, listening for a sound like a dog on
a hunt. Nothing. He felt for a light switch. Again nothing. The room had a
bone-chilling, windless cold. A damp smell permeated his surroundings. He
didn't like it down here. He didn't like it at all.

He inched forward blindly, his arms outstretched like Frankenstein's
monster. 'Cole,' he called out. 'I just want to talk to you.'

His words echoed hard before fading out like a song on the radio.

He kept going. The room was still as ... well, as a tomb. He had moved
about five feet when his outstretched fingers hit something. Myron kept his
hand on the smooth, cold surface. Like marble, he thought. He traced
down. It was a statue of some sort. He felt the arm, the shoulder, to the
back, down a marble wing. He wondered if it was some kind of tombstone
decoration and quickly withdrew his hand.

He stayed perfectly still and tried to listen again. The only sound was a
rushing in his ears, like seashells were pressed against them. He debated
going back upstairs, but there was no way he could do that. Cole knew now
that his identity was in danger. He would go into hiding again and not
resurface. This was Myron's only chance.

He took another step, leading now with his foot. His toe hit something
hard and unyielding. Marble again, he figured. He circled around it. Then a
sound -- a scurrying sound -- made him freeze in his tracks. It had come
from the ground. Not a mouse. Too big for a mouse. He cocked his head
again and waited. His pulse raced. His eyes were just beginning to adjust to
the darkness, and he could make out a few shadowy, tall figures. Statues.
Lowered heads. He imagined the serene expressions of religious art on their
faces, looking down at him with the knowledge they were embarking on a
journey to a better place than the one in which they dwelled.

He took another step, and cold fingers of flesh grabbed his ankle.

Myron screamed.

The hand pulled and Myron fell hard against the cement. He kicked his
leg loose and scrambled backward. His back slammed into more marble. A
man giggled madly. Myron felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up.
Another man giggled. Then another. Like a group of hyenas were encircling
him.

Myron tried to get to his feet, but midway up, the men suddenly
pounced. He didn't know how many. Hands dragged him back to the
floor. He threw a blind fist and connected square into a face. Myron heard a
crunching sound and a man fell. But others reached their target. He found
himself sprawled on the wet cement, fighting blindly and frantically. He
heard grunts. The stench of body odor and alcohol was suffocating,
inescapable. The hands were everywhere now. One ripped off his watch.
One grabbed his wallet. Myron threw another punch. It hit ribs. Another
grunt and another man fell.

Somebody turned on a flashlight and shone it into his eyes. It looked like
a train heading toward him.

'Okay,' a voice said, 'back off him.'

The hands slid off like wet snakes. Myron tried to sit up.

'Before you get any cute ideas,' the voice behind the flashlight said, 'take a
look at this.'

The voice put a gun in front of the flashlight.

Another voice said, 'Sixty bucks? That's fuckin' all? Shit.'

Myron felt the wallet hit him in the chest.

'Put your hands behind your back.'

He did as the voice asked. Someone grabbed the forearms, pulling them
closer together, tearing at the shoulder tendons. A pair of handcuffs were
snapped on his wrists.

'Leave us,' the voice said. Myron heard the rustling movements. The air
cleared. Myron heard a door open, but the flashlight in his eyes prevented
him from seeing anything. Silence followed. After some time passed, the
voice said, 'Sorry to do this to you, Myron. They'll let you go in a few
hours.'

'How long you going to keep running, Cole?'

Cole Whiteman chuckled. 'Been running a long time,' he said. 'I'm used
to it.'

I'm not here to stop you.'

'Imagine my relief,' he said. 'So how did you figure out who I was?'

'It's not important,' Myron said.

'It is to me.'

I don't have any interest in bringing you down,' Myron said. I just want
some information.'

There was a pause. Myron blinked into the light. 'How did you get
involved in all this?' Cole asked.

'Greg Downing vanished. I was hired to find him.'

'You?'

'Yes.'

Cole Whiteman laughed deep and hearty. The sound bounced around
like balls of Silly Putty, the volume reaching a frightening crescendo before
mercifully fading away.

'What's so funny?' Myron asked.

'Inside joke.' Cole stood, the flashlight rising with him. 'Look, I have to
go. I'm sorry.'

More silence. Cole flicked off the flashlight, plunging Myron back into
total blackness. He heard footsteps receding.

'Don't you want to know who killed Liz Gorman?' Myron called out.

The footsteps continued unimpeded. Myron heard a switch and a dim
lightbulb came on. Maybe forty watts. It didn't come close to fully
illuminating the place, but it was a hell of an improvement. Myron blinked

away black spots left over from the flashlight assault and examined his
surroundings. The room was jammed with marble statues, lined and piled
up without reason or logic, some tilted over. It wasn't a tomb, after all. It
was some bizarre, church-art storage room.

Cole Whiteman came back over to him. He sat cross-legged directly in
front of Myron. The white stubble was still there - thick in some spots,
completely missing in others. His hair jutted up and out in every direction.
He lowered the gun to his side.

'I want to know how Liz died,' he said softly.

'She was bludgeoned with a baseball bat,' Myron said.

Cole's eyes closed. 'Who did it?'

'That's what I'm trying to find out. Right now, Greg Downing is the main
suspect.'

Cole Whiteman shook his head. 'He wasn't there long enough.'

Myron felt a knot in his stomach. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth
was too dry. 'You were there?'

'Across the street behind a garbage can. Like Oscar the fucking Grouch.'
His lips smiled, but there was nothing behind it. 'You want no one to notice
you? Pretend you're homeless.' He stood up in one fluid motion, like some
kind of yoga master. 'A baseball bat,' he said. He pinched the bridge of his
nose, turned away, and lowered his chin to his chest. Myron could hear
small sobs.

'Help me find her killer, Cole.'

'Why the fuck should I trust you?'

'Me or the police,' Myron said. 'It's up to you.'

That slowed him. 'The cops won't do shit. They think she's a murderer.'

'Then help me,' Myron said.

He sat back down on the floor and inched a bit closer to Myron. 'We're
not murderers, you know. The government labeled us that and now
everyone believes it. But it's not true. You understand?'

Myron nodded. 'I understand.'

Cole gave him a hard look. 'You patronizing me?'

'No.'

'Don't patronize me,' Cole said. 'You want me to stay and talk, don't you
dare patronize me. You stay honest - I'll stay honest.'

'Fine,' Myron said. 'But then don't hand me the "we're not killers, we're
freedom fighters" line. I'm not in the mood for a verse of "Blowin" in the
Wind."'

'You think that's what I'm talking about?'

'You're not being prosecuted by a corrupt government,' Myron said.
'You kidnapped and killed a man, Cole. You can dress it up in all the fancy
language you want, but that's what you did.'

Cole almost smiled. 'You really believe that.'

'Wait, don't tell me; let me guess,' Myron said. He feigned looking up in

thought. 'The government brainwashed me, right? This whole thing has
been a CIA plot to crush a dozen college students who threatened to
undermine our government.'

'No,' he said. 'But we didn't kill Hunt.'

'Who did?'

Cole hesitated. He looked up and blinked back what looked like tears.
'Hunt shot himself.'

His reddening eyes looked to Myron for a reaction. Myron remained still.

'The kidnapping was a hoax,' Cole went on. 'The whole thing was Hunt's
idea. He wanted to hurt his old man so he figured what better way than to
take his money and then embarrass the shit out of him? But then those
assholes surprised us and Hunt chose another revenge.' Cole's breathing
grew deep and erratic. 'He ran outside with the gun. He screamed, "Fuck
you, Dad." Then he blew his own head off.'

Myron said nothing.

'Look at our history,' Cole Whiteman said, his voice a semiplea. 'We were
a harmless group of stragglers. We protested at antiwar rallies. We got
stoned a lot. We never committed one act of violence. None of us even had
a gun, except for Hunt. He was my roommate and best friend. I could never
hurt him.'

Myron didn't know what to believe; more to the point, he didn't have
time now to worry about a twenty-year-old homicide. He waited for Cole to
continue, to let him talk out the past, but Cole remained still. Finally,
Myron tried to update the subject. 'You saw Greg Downing go into Liz
Gorman's building?'

Cole nodded slowly.

'She was blackmailing him?'

'Not just her,' he corrected. 'It was my idea.'

'What did you have on Greg?'

Cole shook his head. 'Not important.'

'She was probably killed over it.'

'Probably,' Cole agreed. 'But you don't need to know the specifics. Trust
me.'

Myron was in no position to push it. 'Tell me about the night of the
murder.'

Cole scratched at his stubble hard, like a cat on a post. 'Like I said,' he
began, I was across the street. When you live underground, you have
certain rules you live by -- rules that have kept us alive and free for the last
twenty years. One of them is that after we commit a crime, we never stay
together. The feds look for us in groups, not individuals. Since we've been
in the city, Liz and I have made sure we were never together. We only
communicated by phone.'

'What about Gloria Katz and Susan Milano?' Myron asked. 'Where are
they?'

Cole smiled without mirth or humor. Myron saw the missing teeth and
wondered if they were part of the disguise or something more sinister. I'll
tell you about them another time,' he said.

Myron nodded. 'Go on,' he said.

The lines in Cole's face seemed to deepen and darken in the bare light. He
took his time before continuing. 'Liz was all packed and ready to go,' he said
finally. 'We were going to score the cash and get out of the city, just like I
planned. I was just waiting across the street for her signal.'

'What signal?'

'After all the money was collected, she'd flicker the lights three times.
That meant she'd be down in ten minutes. We were going to meet at One
Hundred Sixteenth Street and take the One train out of here. But the signal
never came. In fact, her light never went off at all. I was afraid to go check
on her for obvious reasons. We got rules about that, too.'

'Who was Liz supposed to collect from that night?'

'Three people,' Cole said, holding up the pointer, middle man, and ring
man. 'Greg Downing' - he dropped ring man - 'his wife what'sher-name--

'Emily.'

'Right, Emily.' The middle finger went down. 'And the old guy who owns
the Dragons.' His hand made a fist now.

Myron's heart contracted. 'Wait a second,' he said. 'Clip Arnstein was supposed to show up?'

'Not supposed to,' Cole corrected. 'He did.'

A back coldness seeped into Myron's bones. 'Clip was there?'

'Yes.'

'And the other two?'

'All three showed up. But that wasn't the plan. Liz was supposed to meet
Downing at a bar downtown. They were going to make the transaction
there.'

'A place called the Swiss Chalet?'

'Right.'

'But Greg showed up at the apartment too?'

'Later on, yeah. But Clip Arnstein arrived first.'

Win's warning about Clip came back to him. You like him too much.
You're not being objective. 'How much was Clip supposed to pay?'

'Thirty thousand dollars.'

'The police only found ten thousand in her apartment,' Myron said. 'And
those bills were from the bank robbery.'

Cole shrugged. 'Either the old man didn't pay her or else the killer took
the money.' Then, thinking it through a little more he added, 'Or maybe
Clip Arnstein killed her. But he seems kind of old, don't you think?'

Myron didn't answer. 'How long was he inside?'

'Ten, fifteen minutes.'

'Who came by next?'

'Greg Downing. I remember he had a satchel. I figured it had the money
in it. He was in and out fast - couldn't have been more than a minute. And
he still had the satchel on him when he came out. That's when I started to
worry.'

'Greg could have killed her,' Myron said. 'It doesn't take long to hit
someone with a baseball bat.'

'But he wasn't carrying a bat,' Cole said. 'The satchel wasn't big enough
for one. And Liz had a bat in her apartment. She hated guns, so she kept it
for protection.'

Myron knew that no bat had been found at Gorman's apartment. That
meant the killer must have used Liz's. Could Greg have gone upstairs,
entered her apartment, found the bat, killed her with it, run out - all in such
a short time?

It seemed doubtful.

'What about Emily?' Myron asked.

'She came in last,' Cole said.

'How long was she there?'

'Five minutes. Something like that.'

Time enough to gather the evidence to plant. 'Did you see anybody else
go in and out of the building?'

'Sure,' Cole said. 'Lots of students live there.'

'But we can assume that Liz was already dead by the time Greg Downing
arrived, right?'

'Right.'

'So the question is, who do you remember going in between the time she
got back from the Swiss Chalet and the time Greg arrived? Besides Clip
Arnstein.'

Cole thought about it and shrugged. 'Mostly students, I guess. There was
a real tall guy--

'How tall?'

'I don't know. Very.'

I'm six-four. Taller than me?'

'Yeah, I think so.'

'Was he black?'

'I don't know. I was across the street and the light wasn't too good. I
wasn't watching that closely. He might have been black. But I don't think
he's our man.'

'Why do you say that?'

I watched the building until the next morning. He never came back out.
He must have lived there or at least stayed with someone overnight. I doubt
the killer would've hung around like that.'

Tough to argue, Myron thought. He tried to process what he was hearing
in a cold, computerlike way, but the circuits were starting to overload.
'Who else did you remember seeing? Anybody stand out?'

Cole thought again, his eyes wandering aimlessly. 'There was one woman
who went in not long before Greg got there. Now that I think of it, she left
before he got there too.'

'What did she look like?'

'I don't remember.'

'Blonde, brunette?'

Cole shook his head. 'I only remember her because she wore a long coat.
The students all wear windbreakers or sweat shirts or something like that. I
remember thinking she looked like an adult.'

'Was she carrying anything? Did she--

'Look, Myron, I'm sorry. I gotta get moving.' He stood and looked down
at Myron with a hollow, lost expression. 'Good luck finding the son of a
bitch,' he said. 'Liz was a good person. She never hurt anyone. None of us
did.'

Before he could turn away, Myron asked, 'Why did you call me last night?
What were you going to sell me?'

Cole smiled sadly and began to walk away. He stopped before he reached
the door and turned back around. 'I'm alone now,' he said. 'Gloria Katz was
shot in the initial attack. She died three months later. Susan Milano died in
a car crash in 1982. Liz and I kept their deaths a secret. We wanted the feds
searching for four of us, not two. We thought it would help us stay hidden.
So you see, there is only one of us left now.'

He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn't so sure the dead
weren't the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked
the handcuffs. 'Go,' he said.

Myron rose, rubbing his wrists. 'Thank you,' he said.

Cole merely nodded.

'I won't tell anyone where you are.'

'Yeah,' Cole said. 'I know.'

35

Myron sprinted to his car and dialed Clip's number. Clip's secretary
answered and told him that Mr Arnstein was not in at the moment. He
asked her to transfer the call to Calvin Johnson. She put him on hold. Ten
seconds later, the call was put through.

'Hey, Myron,' Calvin said, 'what's up?'

'Where's Clip?'

'He should be here in a couple of hours. By game time anyway.'

'Where is he now?'

'I don't know.'

'Find him,' Myron said. 'When you do, call me back.'

'What's going on?' Calvin asked.

'Just find him.'

Myron disconnected the call. He opened the car window and took deep
breaths. It was a few minutes after six. Most of the guys would already be
at the arena warming up. He headed up Riverside Drive and crossed the
George Washington Bridge. He dialed Leon White's number. A woman
answered.

'Hello?'

Myron disguised his voice. 'Is this Mrs Fiona White?' he asked.

'Yes, it is.'

'Would you like to subscribe to Popular Mechanics? We have a special
going on for a limited time.'

'No, thank you.' She hung up.

Conclusion: Fiona White, the Sepbabe and promisor of night ecstasy, was
home. Time to pay her a little visit.

He took Route 4 and got off at Kindermack Road. Five minutes later, he
was there. The house was a semi-nouveau ranch with orange-tinged brick
and diamond-shaped windows. This particular architectural look was all
the rage for maybe a two-month span in 1977, and it had aged about as well
as the leisure suit. Myron parked in the driveway. On either side of the
cement walkway were low-rise iron fences with plastic ivy snaked through
them. Classy.

He rang the bell. Fiona White opened the door. Her green, flower-print

blouse hung open over a white leotard. Her bleached-blonde hair was tied
in a bun that was falling apart, spare strands dangling down over her eyes
and ears. She looked at Myron and frowned. 'Yes?'

'Hi, Fiona. I'm Myron Bolitar. We met the other night at TC's house.'

The frown was still there. 'Leon isn't here.'

'I wanted to talk to you.'

Fiona sighed and crossed her arms under the ample bosom. 'What
about?'

'Can I come inside?'

'No. I'm busy right now.'

'I think it would be better in private.'

'This is private,' she said, her face unyielding. 'What do you want?'

Myron shrugged, conjured up his most charming smile, saw it would
take him nowhere. 'I want to know about you and Greg Downing.'

Fiona White's arms dropped to her side. She suddenly looked horror-stricken.
'What?'

'I know about your e-mail to him. Sepbabe. You were supposed to meet
last Saturday for the' - Myron made quote marks with his fingers
'"greatest night of ecstasy imaginable." Do you recall that?'

Fiona White went to close the door. Myron stuck his foot in the way.

'I've got nothing to say to you,' she said.

'I'm not trying to expose you.'

She pushed the door against his foot. 'Get out.'

'I'm just trying to find Greg Downing.'

'I don't know where he is.'

'Were you having an affair with him?'

'No. Now leave.'

'I saw the e-mail, Fiona.'

'Think what you want. I'm not talking to you.'

'Fine,' Myron said, moving back and throwing up his hands. I'll talk to
Leon instead.'

Her cheeks flushed. 'Do whatever you want,' she said. 'I did not have an
affair with him. I did not see him last Saturday night. I don't know where he
is.'

She slammed the door.

Gee, that went well.

Myron headed back to his car. As he reached the door, a black BMW
with tinted windows rocketed up the street and screeched to a halt in the
driveway. The driver's door opened and Leon flew out like an escaped bird.

'What the fuck you doing here?' he snapped.

'Take it easy, Leon.'

Fuck take it easy,' he shouted. Leon ran up and stuck his face within an
inch of Myron's. 'What the fuck you doing around here, huh?'

I came by to see you.'

'Bullshit.' The spittle hit Myron's cheeks. 'We're supposed to be in the
arena in twenty minutes.' He pushed Myron in the chest. Myron stumbled
back. 'Why you here, huh?' Leon pushed again. 'What are you sniffing
after?'

'Nothing.'

'You think you'd find my wife alone?'

'It's nothing like that.'

Leon lined himself up for another push. Myron was ready. When Leon's
hand reached him, Myron's right forearm shot across his body, pinning
Leon's hands helplessly against Myron's chest. Myron bent at the waist,
bending Leon's wrists back the wrong way. The pressure forced Leon to
drop to one knee. Myron's right hand slid until it met Leon's left. He grabbed it and quickly executed an elbow lock. Leon winced.

'You calm?' Myron asked.

'Motherfucker.'

'That doesn't sound like calm, Leon,' Myron applied a little pressure to
the elbow. Joint locks were about controlled pain. They worked by bending
joints in ways they were never intended to bend. The more the bend, the
more the pain. But go too far and the joint dislocated or the bone broke.
Myron was careful.
'Greg is missing again,' Myron said. 'That's why I'm on the team. I'm
supposed to find him.'

Leon was still on his knees, his arm locked and upright. 'So what does
that have to do with me?'

'You two have had a falling out,' Myron said. 'I want to know why.'

Leon looked up at him. 'Let go of me, Myron.'

If you attack me again--'

'I won't. Just let go already.'

Myron waited another second or two, then did as Leon asked. Leon
rubbed his arm and stood. Myron eyed him.

Leon said, 'You're here because you think Greg and Fiona were getting it
on.'

'Were they?'

He shook his head. 'Not from a lack of trying though.'

'What do you mean?'

'He's supposed to be my best friend. But he's not. He's just another
fucking superstar who takes what he wants.'

'Including Fiona.'

'He tried. Tried like hell. But she's not like that.'

Myron said nothing. Not his place.

'Guys are always hitting on Fiona,' he went on. 'Because of the way she
looks. And the whole racial thing. So when I saw you here when you figured
I wouldn't be around . . .' He shrugged into silence.

'Did you ever confront Greg?' Myron asked.

'Yeah,' he said. 'A couple of weeks ago.'

'What did you say to him?'

Leon's eyes narrowed, suddenly wary. 'What does this have to do with
finding him?' he asked, suspicious now. 'You trying to pin this on me?'

'Pin what on you?'

'You said he's disappeared. You trying to pin that on me?'

'I'm just trying to find out where he is.'

'I got nothing to do with it.'

'I didn't say you did. I just want to know what happened when you
confronted him.'

'What do you think happened?' Leon countered. 'The motherfucker
denied it. He made this big point of swearing he'd never sleep with any
married woman - especially his best friend's wife.'

Myron sort of gulped at that one. 'But you didn't believe him.'

'He's a superstar, Myron.'

'That doesn't make him a liar.'

'No, but it makes him something different. Guys like Greg and Michael
Jordan and Shaq and TC . . . they ain't like the rest of us. They got their
own thing going. Everyone else is a fucking underling to them. The whole
planet is set up to cater to their whims, you know what I'm saying?'

Myron nodded. In college he had been one of those who got to breathe
the rarified air of superstardom. He thought again about the bonds
superstars shared. He and Greg had not exchanged more than five words
before Greg visited him in the hospital, but there had been a bond. They
both knew. Superstars share that rarefied air with very few. As TC had told
him, it does indeed isolate in a very bizarre, often unhealthy way.

And with that thought came something of a revelation. Myron took a
step back.

He'd always thought that if Greg was in trouble, he'd go to his closest
friend for help. But that wasn't the case. If Greg had indeed stumbled across
the dead body and panicked, if he had seen all his problems - the gambling
debts, the threat of exposure, the divorce, the child custody case, the
blackmail, the probability of being a suspect in a murder - closing in on
him, who would he go to for help?

He'd go to the guy who understood him best.

He'd go to the guy who could best relate to the unique troubles of superstardom.

He'd go to the guy who shared that rarefied air with him.

36

Myron wasn't sure what to do next.

In truth, he had nothing more than a suspicion. There was no proof. No
real evidence. But it could potentially answer a lot of questions. Why, for
example, had Thumper helped set up Emily on videotape? By all accounts,
she was not particularly close to Greg.

But she was to TC.

Again the superstar bond. Greg had feared losing his kids in a custody
battle. That's about as big a worry as a person can have. So whom did he
turn to for help?

TC.

When Win had leaned on Thumper last night, letting her know that he
was searching for Greg, whom had she warned?

TC.

No proof, of course. But it felt very right.

Myron could now put a lot of it together. Greg was under incredible
strain -- not the best situation for a man of his questionable mental fortitude
to be ensnared. What had gone through his mind when he saw Liz Gorman
dead on the floor? He'd have to have known that he would be the prime
suspect in her murder. As Emily had pointed out, Greg had motive,
opportunity, and was at the murder scene. Emily saw that. It was why she
set him up. Greg must have seen it too.

So what did he do?

He ran.

Seeing Liz Gorman dead had been the final straw. But Greg had also
known that he could not do it alone. People would be looking for him this
time. He needed help. He needed time and space.

So whom did Greg reach out to?

The guy who understood him best. Who could relate to the unique
troubles of superstardom. Who shared that rarefied air with him.

Myron stopped at a red light. He was close, so goddamn close. TC was
helping Greg hide; he was sure of it. But of course, TC was only part of the
solution. None of this answered the central question in all this:

Who killed Liz Gorman?

He put his mind on rewind and reviewed the night of the murder. He
thought about Clip being the first of the three to arrive. In many ways, Clip
was now his best suspect. But Myron still saw big problems with that
scenario. What was Clip's motive, for example? Yes, Liz Gorman's
information may have been detrimental to the team. The information may
have even been potent enough for him to lose the vote. But would Clip pick
up a baseball bat and murder a woman over that? People kill for money and
power all the time. Would Clip?

But there was still a larger problem at work here, one that Myron could
not get around no matter how hard he tried. Emily was the one who planted
the blood and murder weapon at Greg's house. That was established and
that made sense. Okay, fine. We know who planted the evidence . . .

. . . but who cleaned it up?

There were only three logical choices: 1. Greg Downing, 2. someone
trying to protect Greg, or 3. the killer.

But it couldn't have been Greg. Even if you accept the semi-impossible
premise that Greg went back into his house after going into hiding, how did
he find the blood? Did he just happen to go down into his playroom? No. It
was too ridiculous. The only way Greg would have gone down there was if
he'd known the blood had been planted.

Myron froze.

That was it. Whoever had cleaned up the blood had known what Emily
had done. They didn't just stumble across it by accident. So how did they
find out? From Emily? Uh uh, no way. Emily would be the last person to say
anything. Could she have been spotted in the act? Again, the answer was a
resounding no. If that had been the case, the bat would have been removed
too. More to the point, the blood would have been cleaned up right away before
Myron and Win found it. The timing of the clean-up was crucial -
it'd happened after Myron and Win had revealed their discovery. That
meant Myron and Win were the leak.

So whom had they told?

The finger pointed back to Clip.

He turned on Route 3 and entered the Meadowlands complex. The arena
loomed before him like a large UFO on a white landing pad. Did Clip
Arnstein murder Liz Gorman and clean up the blood? Myron wrestled with
the possibility, but he didn't like it. How had Clip gotten inside Greg's
house? There were no signs of forced entry. Had he picked the lock?
Doubtful. Did he have a key? Doubtful. Did he hire a professional? Still
doubtful. Clip hadn't even let a private investigator do a simple credit card
check on Greg for fear word would get out. Whom would he trust to clean
up the blood of a person he murdered?

And something else still jabbed at Myron with a sharpened, steel point:
the woman's clothes in the bedroom. They had been packed away too. Why
would Clip remove all traces of a secret girlfriend? Why would anybody?

The different scenarios swirled in Myron's head like rubber ducks in a
whirlpool. He concentrated again on the mystery girlfriend. Could it have
been Fiona White? She wasn't talking, but Myron firmly believed that she
was not the one. How could Fiona have lived with Greg and kept it hidden
from a husband as obsessively jealous as Leon? Perhaps there had been
some entanglement between Greg and Fiona - a casual fling in a motel
room or something - but Myron no longer believed even that. The more he
thought about it, the 'greatest night of sexual ecstasy' epistle was more of a
come-on than the talk of two familiar lovers. It seemed more logical that
Greg was telling Leon the truth when he said he would never sleep with
another man's wife. The thought gave Myron's old shame new life.

A commercial came on the radio. A very hip man and a very hip woman
were enjoying a Molson's Golden far too much. They spoke in low voices
and laughed at each other's lame jokes. Myron switched it off.

He still had more questions than answers. But when he picked up his
cellular phone to check Greg's answering machine, his fingers began to
tremble. Something tightened his chest, making it hard to breathe. This
feeling, however, was not like pregame jitters. In fact, it was the furthest
thing from them.

37

Myron rushed by Clip's secretary.

'He's not in there,' she cried.

Ignoring her, he opened the office door. The lights were off and the room
was empty. He spun back toward the secretary. 'Where is he?'

The secretary, a classic battle-ax who had probably been with Clip since
the Coolidge Administration, put her hands on her hips. 'I don't have the
slightest idea,' she huffed.

Calvin Johnson came out of the adjoining office. Myron approached
him. He waited until they were inside Calvin's office and the door was
closed. 'Where is he?'
Calvin held up his hands. I don't know. I tried his house, but there was
no answer.'

'Does he have a car phone?'

'No.'

Myron shook his head and began pacing. 'He lied to me,' Myron said.
'The son of a bitch lied.'

'What?'

'He met with the blackmailer.'

Calvin raised an eyebrow. He moved to the chair behind his desk and sat
down. 'What are you talking about?'

'The night she was murdered,' Myron said, 'Clip went to her apartment.'

'But she wasn't supposed to meet with us until Monday,' Calvin said.

'Did you hear her say that?'

Calvin plucked at his chin with his thumb and pointer. The track lights
from above his desk reflected off the receding forehead. His face remained
the ever placid pool. 'No,' he said slowly. 'Clip told me.'

'He lied to you.'

'But why?'

'Because he's hiding something.'

'Do you know what?'

'No,' Myron said. 'But I intend to find out tonight.'

'How?'
The blackmailer still wants to sell,' Myron said. 'I'm his new buyer.'

Calvin tilted his head. 'I thought you said the blackmailer was dead.'

'She had a partner.'

'I see,' Calvin said with a slow nod. 'And you're meeting tonight?'

'Yep. But I don't know when or where. He's supposed to call.'

'I see,' Calvin said again. He made a neat fist and coughed into it. 'If it's
something damaging. I mean, something that could affect the outcome of
the vote tomorrow . . .'

I'll do whatever is right, Calvin.'

'Of course. I didn't mean to imply otherwise.'

Myron rose. 'Let me know when he gets here.'

'Sure.'

Myron entered the locker room. TC was in his pregame pose -- sprawled on
a chair in the corner with a Walkman plugged into his ears, his eyes blazing
straight ahead and unmoving. He did not acknowledge Myron. Leon was
also there. He, too, studiously avoided Myron's gaze. Not surprising.

Audrey approached. 'How did it go with--?'

Myron shook his head to silence her. She nodded, understanding. 'You
okay?' she asked.

'Fine.'

'You think they can hear us?'

'I'm not taking any chances.'

Audrey looked left, then right. 'You find something new?'

'Plenty,' Myron said. 'You should have your story tonight. And then
some.'

The gleam in her eye expanded. 'You know where he is?'

Myron nodded. The locker room door opened. Calvin popped his head
in. He leaned over and spoke to the Kipper for a moment. When he left,
Myron noticed that he turned right, which led to the exit, as opposed to left
which would have taken him back to his office.

The cellular phone in Myron's pocket rang. He looked up at Audrey.
Audrey looked back. He moved closer to the corner and picked it up.

'Hello?'

An electronically altered voice said, 'You got the money?'

'You got lousy timing,' Myron said.

'Answer my question.'

Leon pulled up his gym shorts. TC stood and bobbed his head in rhythm
to the music.

'I have it,' Myron said. 'I also have a game tonight.'

'Forget the game. Do you know Overpeck Park?'

'The one in Leonia? Yeah, I know it.'

'Turn in the right side off Route Ninety-five. Then go down a quarter
mile and make another right. You'll see a cul-de-sac. Park there and look for
a flashlight. Approach with both your hands raised.'

'Do I get to say a password?' Myron asked. 'I loves passwords.'

'Fifteen minutes. Don't be late. And for the record, I know your
superhero partner is in his Park Avenue office. I have a man watching it. If
he leaves between now and then, the deal is off.'

Myron turned off the phone. It was coming to a head now. In fifteen
minutes it would all be over - one way or another. 'Could you hear?' he
asked.

Audrey nodded. 'Most of it.'

'There's going to be some weird stuff going down,' Myron said. 'I need an
unbiased journalist to record it. You want to come along?'

She smiled. 'That was a rhetorical question, right?'

'You'll have to keep on the floor in the backseat,' he went on. I can't risk
having you spotted.'

'No problem,' she said. 'It'll remind me of my high school dates.'

Myron turned toward the door. His nerves were as frayed as an old horse
whip. He tried to look nonchalant as they exited. Leon was lacing up his
sneakers. TC remained still, but this time his eyes followed them out.

38

Rain beat down, blackening the pavement. Cars were just starting to enter
the arena lot in force. Myron took the back exit over the New Jersey
Turnpike and onto the northbound lanes just past the final toll booth. He
veered to the right, staying on Route 95.

'So what's going on?' Audrey asked.

'The man I am about to meet,' he said, 'killed Liz Gorman.'

'Who's Liz Gorman?'

'The blackmailer who was murdered.'

'I thought her name was Carla.'

'That was an alias.'

'Wait a minute. Isn't Liz Gorman the name of some sixties radical?'

Myron nodded. 'It's a long story; I don't have time to go into details.
Suffice to say the guy we're about to meet was part of the blackmail scheme.
Something went awry. She ended up dead.'

'Do you have evidence?' Audrey asked.

'Not really. That's what I need you for. You have your microcassette
player?'

'Sure.'

'Let me have it.'

Audrey reached into her purse and handed it up front.

'I'm going to try to get him to talk,' Myron said.

'How?'

'By pushing the right buttons.'

She frowned. 'You think he'll fall for that?'

'Yeah, I do. If I push the right ones.' He picked up the car phone. 'I have
two separate phones here: the car phone and the cellular in my pocket. I'm
going to dial the car phone with the cellular and keep the line open. This
way, you can listen in. I want you to take down every word. If something
happens to me, go to Win. He'll know what to do.'

She leaned forward and nodded. The windshield wipers whipped
shadows across her face. The rain picked up its tempo, glistening the road
in front of them. Myron took the next exit. A sign reading Overpeck Park
greeted them a quarter-mile later.

'Get down,' he said.

She disappeared from view. He made the right turn. Another sign told
him the park was closed. He ignored it and proceeded ahead. It was too
dark to see anything, but he knew there were woods on his left and a horse
stables straight ahead. He made the first right. The car's headlights danced
across a picnic area, illuminating tables, benches, garbage cans, a swing set,
a sliding board. He reached the cul-de-sac and stopped the car. He killed the
lights, turned off the engine, and dialed the car's number on his cellular. He
answered with the car's speakerphone so Audrey could listen in. Then he
waited.

For several minutes nothing happened. The rain pelted down on the roof
like tiny pebbles. Audrey remained still in the back. Myron put his hands
back on the wheel and felt his grip tighten. He could hear his heart
thumping in his chest.

Without warning, a beacon of light sliced through the night like a
reaper's scythe. Myron shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted. He
slowly opened the car door. The wind had picked up now, spraying the rain
into his face. He hefted himself out of the car.

A male voice, distorted by the elements, shouted, 'Put your hands up.'

Myron raised them above his head.

'Open your coat. I know you're carrying a gun in a shoulder holster. Take
it out with two fingers and toss it onto the seat of the car.'

Keeping one hand in the air, Myron unbuttoned his coat. He was already
drenched from the rain, his hair matted against his forehead. He took out
the gun and put it on his car seat.

'Close the door.'

Again Myron obeyed the voice.

'Do you have the money?'

'First I want to see what you brought,' Myron said.

'No.'

'Hey, be reasonable here. I don't even know what I'm buying.'

A brief hesitation. 'Come closer.'

Myron stepped toward the light, ignoring the symbolism. 'Whatever
you're selling,' he said, 'how do I know you haven't made copies?'

'You don't,' the voice said. 'You'll have to trust me.'

'Who else knows about this?'

'I'm the only one,' the voice said, 'who is still alive.'

Myron picked up the pace. His hands were still in the air. The wind
whipped into his face. His clothes were sopping. 'How do I know you won't
talk?'

'Again, you don't. Your money buys my silence.'

'Until someone ups the bid.'

'No. I'm leaving after this. You won't hear from me again.' The flashlight
flickered. 'Please stop.'

Ten feet in front of him stood a man wearing a ski mask. He had a
flashlight in one hand and a box in the other. He nodded at Myron and
lifted the box. 'Here.'

'What is it?'

'First, the money.'

'For all I know, the box is empty.'

'Fine. Go back to your car and leave then.' The man in the ski mask
turned around.

'No, wait,' Myron said. I'll get the money.'

The ski mask faced Myron again. 'No games.'

Myron headed back to the car. He had moved about twenty paces when
he heard the gunshots. Three of them. The noises did not startle him. He
slowly turned around. The man with the ski mask was down. Audrey was
running toward the still body. She was carrying Myron's gun.

'He was going to kill you,' Audrey cried. I had to shoot.'

Audrey kept running. When she reached the still body, she ignored it and
scooped up the box. Myron slowly walked toward her.

'Open it,' he said.

'Let's get out of this rain first. The police--

'Open it.'

She hesitated. No thunder bellowed. No lightning struck.

'You were right before,' Myron said.

Audrey looked puzzled. 'About what?'

'I was looking at this the wrong way.'

'What are you talking about?'

Myron took another step toward her. 'When I asked myself who knew
about the blood in the basement,' he began, 'I only remembered Clip and
Calvin. I forgot I told you. When I wondered why Greg's lover would have
to keep her identity a secret, I thought about Fiona White and Liz Gorman.
Again I forgot about you. It's hard enough for a woman to get respect as a
female sports reporter. Your career would be ruined if anybody found out
you were dating one of the players you covered. You had to keep it quiet.'

She looked at him, her face a wet, white blank.

'You're the only one who fits, Audrey. You knew about the blood in the
basement. You had to keep a relationship with Greg a secret. You had a key
to his house so access would be no problem. And you were the one who had
a motive to clean up the blood in order to protect him. After all, you killed
to protect him. What's cleaning up some blood?'

She brushed her hair away from her eyes and blinked into the rain. 'You
can't seriously believe that I--'

'That night after TC's party,' Myron interrupted, 'when you told me how
you had put it all together. I should have wondered then. Sure, my joining the team was unusual. But only somebody with a personal connection somebody
who truly knew that Greg had vanished and why -- would have

been able to come up with it so fast. You were the mystery lover, Audrey.
And you don't know where Greg is either. You cooperated with me not
because you wanted the story, but because you wanted to find Greg. You're
in love with him.'

'That's ridiculous,' she said.

'The police will comb the house, Audrey. They'll find hairs.'

'That doesn't mean anything,' she said. I interviewed him a couple of
times--'

'In his bedroom? In his bathroom? In his shower?' Myron shook his
head. 'They'll also comb the murder scene now that they know about you.
There'll be evidence there too. A hair or something.' He took another step
toward her. Audrey raised the gun with a quivering hand.

'Beware the Ides of March,' Myron said.

'What?'

'You were the one who pointed it out to me. The Ides are the fifteenth of
March. Your birthday was the seventeenth. March seventeenth. Three-one
seven. The code Greg set on his answering machine.'

She pointed the gun at his chest. 'Turn off the tape recorder,' she said.
'And the phone.'

Myron reached into his pocket and did as she asked.

Tears and rain mixed together and cascaded down her cheeks. 'Why
couldn't you just keep your mouth shut?' she wailed. She pointed to the still
body on the wet grass. 'You heard what he said: no one else knows. All the
blackmailers are dead. I could have destroyed this thing' - she held up the
box - 'once and for all. I wouldn't have had to hurt you. It would have
finally been over.'

'And what about Liz Gorman?'

Audrey made a scoffing noise. 'That woman was nothing more than a
conniving blackmailer,' she said. 'She couldn't be trusted. I told Greg that.
What was to stop her from making copies and bleeding him dry? I even
went to her house that night and pretended I was an ex-girlfriend with an ax
to grind. I told her I wanted to buy a copy. She said sure. Don't you see? Paying her off would do no good. There was only one way to keep her
quiet.'

He nodded. 'You had to kill her.'

'She was just a low-life criminal, Myron. She'd robbed a bank, for
chrissake. Greg and I ... we were perfect together. You were right about
my career. I had to keep our relationship a secret. But not much longer. I
was going to get transferred to another beat. Baseball. The Mets or Yankees.
Then we could be open about it. It was going so well, Myron, and then this
low-life bitch comes along . . .' Her voice drifted off with a hard shake of
the head. 'I had to think about our future,' she said. 'Not just Greg's. Not
just mine. But our baby's too.'

Myron's eyes closed in pain. 'You're pregnant,' he said softly.

'Now do you see?' Her wide-eyed enthusiasm was back, though it took
on a more twisted dimension now. 'She wanted to destroy him. Destroy us.
What choice did I have? I'm not a killer but it was either us or her. And I
know how it looks - Greg running off and not telling me. But it's just the
way he is. We've been together for more than six months. I know he loves
me. He just needed time.'

Myron swallowed. 'It's over now, Audrey.'

She shook her head and held the gun with both hands. 'I'm sorry, Myron.
I don't want to do it. I'd almost rather die first.'

'It doesn't matter.' Myron took another step. She moved back. The gun
trembled in her hand. 'They're blanks,' he said.

Her eyes squinted in confusion. The man in the ski mask sat up like Bela
Lugosi in an old Dracula film. He pulled off the mask and showed his
badge. 'Police,' Dimonte shouted. Win and Krinsky came over the crest.
Audrey's mouth formed a perfect circle. Win had made the fake blackmailer
call; Myron had set his cellular phone's volume on high to be sure Audrey
overheard it. The rest was easy.

Dimonte and Krinsky made the arrest. Myron watched, no longer feeling
the rain. After Audrey was put into the back of a cruiser, he and Win walked
toward the car.

'Superhero partner?' Myron said.

Win shrugged.

39

Esperanza was still in the office when the fax machine rang. She crossed the
room and watched the machine begin to spew out paper. The facsimile was
addressed to her attention, from the FBI:

Re: FIRST CITY NATIONAL BANK - TUCSON, ARIZONA

Subject: Renters of Safe-Deposit Boxes.

She'd been waiting for this transmission all day.

Esperanza's theory on the blackmail plot had gone something like this:
The Raven Brigade robbed the bank. They hit the safe-deposit boxes. People
keep all kinds of things in those. Money, jewelry, important documents.
That was what hooked the timing together. Simply put, the Raven Brigade
had found something in one of those boxes that was damaging to Greg
Downing. Then they hatched their little blackmail scheme.

The names came out in alphabetical order. Esperanza read down the list
while the paper was still being transmitted. The first page ended in the Ls.
No name was familiar. The second page ended in the Ts. No name was
familiar. On the third page, when she reached the Ws, her heart leapt into
her throat. Her hand fluttered to her mouth, and for a moment she feared
that she might scream.

It took several hours to sort through the mess. Statements had to be taken.
Explanations made. Myron told Dimonte practically the whole story. He
left out the videotape of Thumper and Emily. Again, it was nobody's
business. He also left out the part about meeting up with Cole Whiteman.
Myron somehow felt he owed him. For her part, Audrey would not talk at
all, except to ask for a lawyer.

Do you know where Downing is?' Dimonte asked Myron.
'I think so.'

'But you don't want to tell me.' Myrpn shook his head. 'He's not your business.'
Ain't that the truth,' Dimonte agreed. 'Go on. Get out of here.'
They were downtown at One Police Plaza. Myron and Win walked out into
the night. Large municipal structures consumed the neighboring area.

Modern bureaucracy in its most extreme and intimidating form. Even this
late at night, you could visualize lines of people heading out the door.

'It was a good plan,' Win said.

'Audrey is pregnant.'

'I heard.'

'Her baby will be born in jail.'

'Not your doing.'

'She thought it was her only way out,' Myron said.

Win nodded. 'She saw a blackmailer who stood in the way of all her
dreams. I'm not so sure I would have behaved any differently.'

'You don't commit murder to stave off life's inconveniences,' Myron
said.

Win didn't argue, but he didn't agree either. They kept walking. When
they reached the car, Win said, 'So where does that leave us?'

'With Clip Arnstein,' Myron said. 'He has some explaining to do.'

'You want me to come along?'

'No. I want to talk to him alone.'

40

By the time Myron arrived at the arena, the game was over. Cars tapped
the exits, making it hard to go the opposite way. Myron managed to
weave through. He showed his ID to the guard and drove into the players'
lot.

He ran to Clip's office. Someone called his name. He ignored it. When he
reached the outer office door, he tried the knob. It was locked. He was
tempted to break it down.

'Yo, Myron.'

It was one of the towel boys. Myron forgot the kid's name. 'What's up?'
he said.

'This came for you.'

The kid handed Myron a manila envelope.

'Who dropped this off?' Myron asked.

'Your uncle.'

'My uncle?'

'That's what the guy said.'

Myron looked at the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in
giant block letters. He tore it open and turned it upside down. First, a letter
slid out. He shook again and a black cassette tape fell into the palm of his
hand. He put the cassette down and unfolded the letter.

Myron,

I should have given this to you at the cathedral. I'm sorry I didn't, but I
got too caught up in Liz's murder. I wanted you to concentrate on
catching the killer, not on this tape. I was afraid it would distract you. I
still think it will, but that doesn't give me the right to keep it from you. I
just hope you stay focused enough to find the bastard who killed Liz. She
deserves justice.

I also wanted to tell you that I'm thinking about turning myself in.
Now that Liz is gone, there's no reason to keep hiding. I spoke to some
old lawyer buddies about it. They've already started reaching out to all the
mercenaries Hunt's father hired. They're sure one of them will corroborate
my story. We'll see.

Don't listen to this tape alone, Myron. Listen to it with a friend.
Cole

Myron folded the letter. He had no idea what to think.
He glanced down the corridor. No sign of Clip.
He jogged toward the exit. Most of the players
had already left the arena. TC, of course. Last in, first out. Myron got in his
car and turned the key. Then he stuck the tape into the car's player and
waited.

Esperanza tried dialing Myron's car phone. No answer. Then his cellular.
Same deal. He always carried his cellular. If he wasn't picking up, it was
because he didn't want to. She quickly dialed Win's cellular. He picked up
on the second ring.

'Do you know where Myron is?' she asked.

'He went to the arena.'

'Go find him, Win.'

'Why? What's wrong?'

'The Raven Brigade robbed the safe-deposit boxes. That's where they got
the information they used to blackmail Downing.'

'What did they find?'

I don't know,' she said, 'but I have a list of the people who rented the
boxes.'

'So?'

'One was rented to a Mr and Mrs B. Wesson.'

Silence.

Win said, 'Are you sure it's the same B. Wesson who injured Myron?'

I already checked,' she said. 'The B stands for Burt, listed on his
application as a thirty-three-year-old high school basketball coach. It's
him, Win. It's the same Burt Wesson.'

41

Nothing.

Myron fiddled with the volume knob. Static feedback screeched through
the car speakers. He turned it down a second, then back up. He heard
muffled sounds, but he had no idea what they were. Then the sounds faded
away.

Silence.

Two minutes of blank tape passed before Myron finally heard voices. His
ears perked up, but he couldn't make out much. Then the voices grew a
little louder, a little clearer. He leaned closer to the speaker and suddenly he
heard a gruff voice with frightening clarity:

'You have the money?'

A hand reached into Myron's chest, grabbed his heart, and squeezed. He
hadn't heard the voice in ten years, but recognition was instantaneous. It
was Burt Wesson. What the hell--?

Then the second voice jarred him like a body blow:

'I got half now. A thousand dollars now. You get the other half when he goes
down . . .'

Myron's entire body shuddered. A flash of rage unlike anything he had
ever known warmed and then engulfed him. His hands tightened into fists.
Tears forced their way forward. He remembered wondering why the
blackmailers had contacted him to buy the dirt on Greg; he remembered
Cole Whiteman's laugh and Marty Felder's ironic smile when they'd
learned that he'd been hired to find Greg Downing; he remembered the
voice on Greg's answering machine saying, 'He's willing to pay. Is that what
you want?' and most of all, he remembered Greg's pained face at the
hospital all those years ago. It hadn't been a bond that brought Greg to
Myron's bedside.

It'd been guilt.

'Don't hurt him too bad, Burt. I just want Bolitar banged up for a few
games . . .'

Something in the deep recesses of Myron's mind snapped like a dry twig.
Without conscious thought, Myron shifted into reverse.

'Look, I really need the money. Can't you give me another five hundred?

They're going to cut me soon. It's my last scrimmage and then I'm
unemployed . . .'

He straightened out his car and shifted into drive. His foot pressed down
upon the pedal. The speedometer climbed. Myron's face twisted into a
mask of incognizant fury. Tears sheeted down his cheeks but no sound
came with them. He drove without really seeing.

When he reached the Jones Road exit, Myron wiped his face with his
sleeve. He turned into TC's driveway. The security gate blocked his path.

The guard stepped out of his little hut. Myron waved him closer to the
car. When the guard was fully out of the box, Myron showed the gun.

'Move and I'll blow your head off.'

The guard's hands went up. Myron got out of the car and opened the
gate. He ordered the guard inside the car. The car roared up the driveway.
Myron slammed on the brake just feet before the front door. He jumped
out on the run and without hesitating, he kicked in TC's front door. He ran
into the den.

The television was on. TC looked up, startled. 'What the fuck--?'

Myron bounded across the room, grabbed TC's arm, twisted it behind
his back.

'Hey--'

'Where is he?' Myron demanded.

I don't know what--

Myron pulled up on the arm. 'Don't make me break it, TC. Where is he?'

'What the fuck are you--?'

Myron silenced him by pushing the arm farther up his back. TC cried
out, his huge frame bent at the waist to lessen the pressure. 'Last time I ask,'
Myron said. 'Where's Greg?'

'I'm here.'

Myron let go and spun toward the voice. Greg Downing stood in the
doorway. Myron did not hesitate. Letting out a guttural scream, he
pounced.

Greg put up his hands, but it was like quieting a volcano with a squirt
gun. Myron's fist landed square in Greg's face. Greg toppled back from the
assault. Myron fell on him, his knee landing in his ribs. Something cracked.
He straddled Greg's chest and threw another punch.

'Stop!' TC shouted. 'You're gonna kill him.'

Myron barely heard him.

He cocked his other fist, but TC was on him before he could throw it. Myron rolled with the tackle, digging his elbow into TC's solar plexus.
When they hit the wall, the air whooshed out of TC, his eyes bulging as he
gasped for air. Myron rose. Greg was scrambling away. Myron vaulted over
the couch. He grabbed Greg by the leg and pulled him toward him.

'You fucked my wife!' Greg shouted. 'You think I didn't know? You
fucked my wife!'

The words slowed Myron, but they didn't stop him. Through his tears, he
threw another punch. Greg's mouth filled with blood. Myron cocked his
fist again. A hand of iron reached out and grabbed his arm, holding it in
place.

'Enough,' Win said.

Myron looked up, his face distorted by confusion and rage. 'What?'

'He's had enough.'

'But it's like you said,' Myron pleaded. 'Wesson did do it on purpose.
Greg hired him.'

'I know,' Win said. 'But he's had enough.'

'What the hell are you talking about? If it was you--

'I'd probably kill him,' Win finished for him. He looked down and
something flickered in his eyes. 'But you wouldn't.'

Myron swallowed. Win nodded again and let go of Myron's wrist. Myron let his arm fall to his side. He got off Greg Downing.

Greg sat up, coughing blood into his hand. I followed Emily that night,'
Greg managed through the hacks. 'I saw you two ... I just wanted payback,
that's all. You weren't supposed to get hurt that bad.'

Myron swallowed and breathed deeply. The adrenaline rush would soon
ebb, but for now it was still there. 'You been hiding here since the
beginning?'

Greg touched part of his face, winced, then nodded. I was afraid they'd
think I killed that woman,' he said. 'And I had the mob chasing me and the
custody battle and my girlfriend is pregnant.' He looked up. I just needed
some time.'

'Do you love Audrey?'

Greg said, 'You know?'

'Yes.'

'Yeah,' Greg said, I love her a lot.'

'Then give her a call,' Myron said. 'She's in jail.'

'What?'

Myron didn't elaborate. He'd hoped throwing that in Greg's face would
give him some sort of perverse pleasure, but it didn't. All it did was remind
him that he was far from blameless in this.

He turned and walked away.

Myron found Clip alone in that same corporate skybox they'd met in when
this all began. He was looking down at the empty court, his back to Myron.
He didn't move when Myron cleared his throat.

'You knew all along,' Myron said.

Clip said nothing.

'You went to Liz Gorman's apartment that night,' Myron continued. 'She
played the tape for you, didn't she?'

Clip clasped his hands behind his back. Then he nodded.

'That's why you hired me. This wasn't all a coincidence. You wanted me
to find out the truth.'

'I didn't know how else to tell you.' Clip finally turned and faced Myron.
His eyes were dazed and hazy. All color was gone from his face. 'It wasn't an
act, you know. The emotion at the press conference . . .' He lowered his
head, gathered himself, raised it again. 'You and I lost touch after your
injury. I wanted to call you a thousand times, but I understood. You wanted
to stay away. The injury never leaves the great ones, Myron. I knew it would
never leave you.'

Myron opened his mouth but nothing came out. His entire being felt
exposed and raw. Clip came closer. 'I thought this would be a way for you
to learn the truth,' Clip said. I also hoped this would be something of a
catharsis. Not a complete one. Like I said, it never leaves the great ones.'

For several moments, they both just stood and stared.

'You told Walsh to play me the other night,' Myron said.

'Yes.'

'You knew I wouldn't be able to match up.'

Clip nodded slowly.

Myron felt the tears come back to his eyes. He blinked them down.

Clip set his jaw. There were tiny tremors in his face, but he stood rigid. 'I
wanted to help you,' he said, 'but my reasons for hiring you were not all
altruistic. I knew, for example, that you'd always been a team player. You
loved that aspect of basketball, Myron - being part of a team.'

'So?'

'My plan included making you feel like a member of the team. A real
member. So much so that you would never hurt us.'

Myron understood. 'You figured that if I bonded with my teammates, I
wouldn't blow the whistle when I learned the truth.'

'It's not in your nature,' Clip said.

'But it will come out,' Myron said. 'There's no way to avoid it now.'

I know that.'

'You could lose the team.'

Clip smiled, shrugged. 'There are worse things,' he said. 'Just as you now
know there are worse things than never being able to play again.'

I always knew,' Myron said. 'I just maybe needed a reminder.'

42

He and Jessica sat on the couch in her loft. He told her everything. Jess
hugged her knees and rocked back and forth. Her eyes looked pained.

'She was my friend,' Jessica said.

'I know.'

'I wonder.'

'What?'

'What would I have done in the same situation? To protect you.'

'You wouldn't have killed.'

'No,' she said. 'I guess not.'

Myron watched her. She looked on the verge of tears. He said, 'I think I
learned something about us in all this.'

She waited for him to elaborate.

'Win and Esperanza didn't want me to play again. But you never tried to
stop me. I was afraid that maybe you didn't understand me as well as they
do. But that wasn't the case at all. You saw what they couldn't.'

Jessica studied his face with a penetrating gaze. She let go of her knees
and slid her feet to the floor. 'We've never really talked about this before,'
she said.

He nodded.

'The truth is, you never mourned the end of your career,' Jessica went on. 'You never showed weakness. You stuffed it all in some internal suitcase and
moved on. You tackled everything else in your life with a smothering
desperation. You didn't wait. You seized whatever was left and pressed it
against you, afraid your whole world was as fragile as that knee. You rushed
off to law school. You ran off and helped Win. You frantically clung to
whatever you could.' She stopped.

'Including you,' he finished.

'Yes. Including me. Not just because you loved me. Because you were
afraid of losing more than you already had.'

I did love you,' he said. I still do.'

I know. I'm not trying to put this all on you. I was an idiot. It was mostly
my fault. I admit that. But your love back then bordered on the desperate.
You channeled your grief into a grasping need. I was afraid of suffocating. I

don't want to sound like an amateur shrink, but you needed to mourn. You
needed to put it behind you, not suppress it. But you wouldn't face it.'

'You thought my playing again would make me face it,' he said.

'Yes.'

'It's not like this was a cure-all.'

'I know,' she said. 'But I think it helped you let go a little.'

'And that's why you think now is a good time for me to move in.'

Jessica swallowed hard. 'If you want,' she said. 'If you feel ready.'

He looked up in the air and said, 'I'll need more closet space.'

'Done,' she whispered. 'Whatever you want.'

She snuggled into him. He put his arms around her, pulled her close, and
felt very much at home.

It was a sweltering morning in Tucson, Arizona. A big man opened his front
door.

'Are you Burt Wesson?'

The big man nodded. 'Can I help you with something?'

Win smiled. 'Yes,' he said. 'I think you can.'