One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (30 page)

“I need some backup,” Myron said.

“Bitching,” Win said.

They met up at the Essex Green Mall in West Orange.

“How far is the ride?” Win asked.

“Ten minutes.”

“Bad area?”

“Yes.”

Win looked at his precious Jag. “We’ll take your car.”

They got into the Ford Taurus. The late-summer sun still cast long, thin shadows. Heat rose from the sidewalk in lazy tendrils, dark and smoky. The air was so thick that an apple falling from a tree would take several minutes to hit the ground.

“I looked into the Outreach Education scholarship,” Win said. “Whoever set up the fund had a great deal of financial acumen. The money was dumped in from a foreign source, more specifically the Cayman Islands.”

“So it’s untraceable?”

“Almost untraceable,” Win corrected. “But even in
places like the Caymans a greased palm is a greased palm.”

“So who do we grease?”

“Already done. Unfortunately the account was in a dummy name and closed four years ago.”

“Four years ago,” Myron repeated. “That would be right after Brenda received her last scholarship. Before she started medical school.”

Win nodded. “Logical,” he said. Like he was Spock.

“So it’s a dead end.”

“Temporarily, yes. Someone could prowl through old records, but it will take a few days.”

“Anything else?”

“The scholarship recipient was to be chosen by certain attorneys rather than any educational institution. The criteria were vague: academic potential, good citizenship, that type of thing.”

“In other words, it was fixed so the attorneys would select Brenda. Like we said before, it was a way of funneling her money.”

Another nod. “Logical,” he repeated.

They started moving from West Orange into East Orange. The transformation was gradual. The fine suburban homes turned into gated condo developments. Then the houses came back—smaller now, less land, more worn and crowded together. Abandoned factories started popping up. Subsidy housing too. It was a butterfly in reverse, turning back into a caterpillar.

“I also received a call from Hal,” Win said. Hal was an electronics expert they had worked with during their days working for the government. He’d been the one Myron had sent to check for phone taps.

“And?”

“All the residences contained telephone listening devices and traces—Mabel Edwards’s, Horace Slaughter’s, and Brenda’s dorm room.”

“No surprise,” Myron said.

“Except for one thing,” Win corrected. “The devices in the two households—that is, Mabel’s and Horace’s homes—were old. Hal estimated that they had been present for at least three years.”

Myron’s head started spinning again. “Three years?”

“Yes. It’s an estimate, of course. But the pieces were old and in some cases crusted over from dirt.”

“What about the tap on Brenda’s phone?”

“More recent. But she’s only lived there a few months. And Hal also found listening devices in Brenda’s room. One under her desk in her bedroom. Another behind a sofa in the common room.”

“Microphones?”

Win nodded. “Someone was interested in more than Brenda’s telephone calls.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Win almost smiled. “Yes, I thought you might find it odd.”

Myron tried to enter the new data into his brain. “Someone has obviously been spying on the family for a long time.”

“Obviously.”

“That means that it has to be somebody with resources.”

“Indeed.”

“Then it has to be the Bradfords,” Myron said.
“They’re looking for Anita Slaughter. For all we know, they’ve been looking for twenty years. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And you know what else this means?”

“Do tell,” Win said.

“Arthur Bradford has been conning me.”

Win gasped. “A less than truthful politician? Next you’ll tell me there’s no Easter Bunny.”

“It’s like we thought from the start,” Myron said. “Anita Slaughter ran because she was scared. And that’s why Arthur Bradford is being so cooperative. He wants me to find Anita Slaughter for him. So he can kill her.”

“And then he’ll try to kill you,” Win added. He studied his hair in the visor mirror. “Being this handsome. It is not easy, you realize.”

“And yet you suffer without complaint.”

“That is my way.” Win took one last look before snapping the visor back in place.

Clay Jackson lived in a row of houses whose backyards sat above Route 280. The neighborhood looked like working poor. The homes were all two-family, except for several corner residences that doubled as taverns. Tired neon Budweiser signs flickered through murky windows. Fences were all chain-link. So many overgrown weeds had popped through the sidewalk cracks that it was impossible to tell where pavement ended and lawn began.

Again all the inhabitants appeared to be black. Again Myron felt his customary and seemingly inexplicable discomfort.

There was a park across the street from Clay Jackson’s
house. People were setting up for a barbecue. A softball game was going on. Loud laughter exploded everywhere. So did a boom box. When Myron and Win got out of the car, all eyes swerved in their direction. The boom box went suddenly silent. Myron forced up a smile. Win remained completely unbothered by the scrutiny.

“They’re staring,” Myron said.

“If two black men pulled up to your house in Livingston,” Win said, “what sort of reception would they receive?”

Myron nodded. “So you figure the neighbors are calling the cops and describing two ‘suspicious youths’ prowling the streets?”

Win raised an eyebrow. “Youths?”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Yes, I’d say.”

They headed up a stoop that looked like the one on Sesame Street. A man poked through a nearby garbage can, but he looked nothing like Oscar the Grouch. Myron knocked on the door. Win started with the eyes, the gliding movement, taking it all in. The softballers and barbecuers across the street were still staring. They did not seem pleased with what they saw.

Myron knocked again.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.

“My name is Myron Bolitar. This is Win Lockwood. We’d like to see Clay Jackson if he’s available.”

“Could you hold on a second?”

They held on for at least a full minute. Then they heard a chain rattle. The knob turned, and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was black and maybe
forty years old. Her smile kept flickering like one of those neon Budweiser signs in the tavern windows. “I’m Clay’s mother,” she said. “Please come in.”

They followed her inside. Something good was cooking on the stove. An old air-conditioning unit roared like a DC-10, but it worked. The coolness was most welcome, though short-lived. Clay’s mother quickly hustled them through a narrow corridor and back out the kitchen door. They were outside again, in the backyard now.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked. She had to yell over the sounds of traffic.

Myron looked at Win. Win was frowning. Myron said, “No, thank you.”

“Okay.” The smile flickered faster now, almost like a disco strobe light. “Let me just go get Clay. I’ll be right back.” The screen door slammed shut.

They were alone outside. The yard was tiny. There were flower boxes bursting with colors and two large bushes that were dying. Myron moved to the fence and looked down at Route 280. The four-lane highway was moving briskly. Car fumes drifted slowly in this humidity, hanging there, not dissipating; when Myron swallowed, he could actually taste them.

“This isn’t good,” Win said.

Myron nodded. Two white men show up at your house. You don’t know either one. You don’t ask for ID. You just show them in and leave them out back. Something was definitely not right here.

“Let’s just see how it plays out,” Myron said.

It did not take long. Eight large men came from three different directions. Two burst through the back
door. Three circled in from the right side of the house. Three more from the left. They all carried aluminum baseball bats and let’s-kick-some-ass scowls. They fanned out, encircling the yard. Myron felt his pulse race. Win folded his arms; only his eyes moved.

These were not street punks or members of a gang. They were the softball players from across the street, grown men with bodies hardened by daily labor—dockworkers and truck loaders and the like. Some held their bats in a ready-to-swing position. Others rested them on their shoulders. Still others bounced them gently against their legs, like Joe Don Baker in
Walking Tall
.

Myron squinted into the sun. “You guys finish your game?” he asked.

The biggest man stepped forward. He had an enormous iron-cauldron gut, calloused hands, and the muscular yet unchiseled arms of someone who could crush Nautilus equipment like so many Styrofoam cups. His Nike baseball cap was set on the largest size, but it still fitted him like a yarmulke. His T-shirt had a Reebok logo. Nike cap, Reebok T-shirt. Confusing brand loyalties.

“Game is just beginning, fool.”

Myron looked at Win. Win said, “Decent deliver, but the line lacked originality. Plus, tagging the word
fool
on the end—that seemed forced. I’ll have to give him a thumbs-down, but I look forward to his next work.”

The eight men looped around Myron and Win. Nike/Reebok, the obvious leader, gestured with the
baseball bat. “Hey, Wonder bread, get your ass over here.”

Win looked at Myron. Myron said, “I think he means you.”

“Must be because I help build strong bodies in twelve ways.” Then Win smiled, and Myron felt his heart stutter. People always did that. They always homed in on Win. At five-ten Win was a half foot shorter than Myron. But it was more than that. The blond, pale-faced, blue-veined, china-boned exterior brought out the worst in people. Win appeared soft, unlabored, sheltered—the kind of guy you hit and he shatters like cheap porcelain. Easy prey. Everyone likes easy prey.

Win stepped toward Nike/Reebok. He arched an eyebrow and gave him his best Lurch. “You rang?”

“What’s your name, Wonder bread?”

“Thurgood Marshall,” Win said.

That reply didn’t sit well with the crowd. Murmurs began. “You making a racist crack?”

“As opposed to, say, calling someone Wonder bread?”

Win glanced at Myron and gave him a thumbs-up. Myron returned the gesture. If this were a school debate, Win would be up a point.

“You a cop, Thurgood?”

Win frowned. “In
this
suit?” He pulled at his own lapels. “Puleeze.”

“So what do you want here?”

“We wish to speak with one Clay Jackson.”

“What about?”

“Solar energy and its role in the twenty-first century.”

Nike/Reebok checked his troops. The troops tightened the noose. Myron felt a rushing in his ears. He kept his eyes on Win and waited.

“Seems to me,” the leader continued, “that you white boys are here to hurt Clay again.” Moving closer. Eye to eye. “Seems to me that we have the right to use lethal force to protect him. That right, fellas?”

The troops grunted their agreement, raising their bats.

Win’s move was sudden and unexpected. He simply reached out and snatched the bat away from Nike/Reebok. The big man’s mouth formed an O of surprise. He stared at his hands as though he expected the bat to rematerialize at any moment. It wouldn’t. Win chucked the bat into the corner of the yard.

Then Win beckoned the big man forward. “Care to tango, pumpernickel bread?”

Myron said, “Win.”

But Win kept his eyes on his opponent. “I’m waiting.”

Nike/Reebok grinned. Then he rubbed his hands together and wet his lips. “He’s all mine, fellas.”

Yep, easy prey.

The big man lunged forward like a Frankenstein monster, his thick fingers reaching for Win’s neck. Win remained motionless until the last possible moment. Then he darted inside, his fingertips pressed together, transforming his hand into something of a spear. The fingertips struck deep and quick at the big man’s larynx, the movement like a bird doing a fast peck. A
gagging sound not unlike a dental sucking machine forced its way out the big man’s mouth; his hands instinctively flew up to his throat. Win ducked low and whipped his foot around. The heel swept Nike/Reebok’s legs. The big man flipped midair and landed on the back of his head.

Win jammed his .44 into the man’s face. He was still smiling.

“Seems to me,” Win said, “that you just attacked me with a baseball bat. Seems to me that shooting you in the right eye would be viewed as perfectly justifiable.”

Myron had his gun out too. He ordered everyone to drop his bat. They did so. Then he had them lie on their stomachs, hands behind their heads, fingers locked. It took a minute or two, but everyone obeyed.

Nike/Reebok was now on his stomach too. He craned his neck and croaked, “Not again.”

Win cupped his ear with his free hand. “Pardon moi?”

“We ain’t gonna let you hurt that boy again.”

Win burst out laughing and nudged the man’s head with his toe. Myron caught Win’s eye and shook his head. Win shrugged and stopped.

“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Myron said. “We’re just trying to find out who attacked Clay on that rooftop.”

“Why?” a voice asked. Myron turned to the screen door. A young man hobbled out on crutches. The cast protecting the tendon looked like some puffy sea creature in the process of swallowing his entire foot.

“Because everyone thinks Horace Slaughter did it,” Myron said.

Clay Jackson balanced himself on one leg. “So?”

“So did he?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because he’s been murdered.”

Clay shrugged. “So?”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it, sighed. “It’s a long story, Clay. I just want to know who cut your tendon.”

The kid shook his head. “I ain’t talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“They told me not to.”

Win spoke to the boy for the first time. “And you have chosen to obey them?”

The boy faced Win now. “Yeah.”

“The man who did this,” Win continued. “You find him scary?”

Clay’s Adam’s apple danced. “Shit, yeah.”

Win grinned. “I’m scarier.”

No one moved.