One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (5 page)

He did not hear any clacking on the computer keyboard, but that didn’t mean anything. He made his way into the bedroom, closed the door, and checked the answering machine. When Jessica was writing, she never answered the phone.

Myron hit the play button. “Hello, Myron? This is your mother.” Like he wouldn’t recognize the voice. “God, I hate this machine. Why doesn’t she pick up? I know she’s there. Is it so hard for a human being to pick up a phone and say hello and take a message? I’m in my office, my phone rings, I pick it up. Even if I’m working. Or I have my secretary take a message. Not a machine. I don’t like machines, Myron, you know that.” She continued on in a similar vein for some time. Myron longed for the old days when there was a time limit on answering machines. Progress was not always a good thing.

Finally Mom began to wind down. “Just calling to say hello, doll face. We’ll talk later.”

For the first thirty-plus years of his life, Myron had lived with his parents in the New Jersey suburb of Livingston. As an infant he’d started life in the small nursery upstairs on the left. From the age of three to sixteen, he lived in the bedroom upstairs on the right; from sixteen to just a few months ago, he’d lived in the basement. Not all the time, of course. He went to Duke down in North Carolina for four years, spent summers working basketball camps, stayed on occasion with Jessica or Win in Manhattan. But his true home had always been, well, with Mommy and Daddy—by choice, strangely enough, though some might suggest that serious therapy would unearth deeper motives.

That changed several months ago, when Jessica asked him to move in with her. This was a rarity in their relationship, Jessica making the first move, and Myron had been deliriously happy and heady and scared out of his mind. His trepidation had nothing to do with fear
of commitment—that particular phobia plagued Jessica, not him—but there had been rough times in the past, and to put it simply, Myron never wanted to be hurt like that again.

He still saw his folks once a week or so, going out to the house for dinner or having them make the trip into the Big Apple. He also spoke to either his mom or his dad nearly every day. Funny thing is, while they were undoubtedly pests, Myron liked them. Crazy as it might sound, he actually enjoyed spending time with his parents. Uncool? Sure. Hip as a polka accordionist? Totally. But there you go.

He grabbed a Yoo-Hoo from the refrigerator, shook it, popped the top, took a big swig. Sweet nectar. Jessica yelled in, “What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t care.”

“You want to go out?”

“Do you mind if we just order in?” he asked.

“Nope.” She appeared in the doorway. She wore his oversize Duke sweatshirt and black knit pants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Several hairs had escaped and fell in front of her face. When she smiled at him, he still felt his pulse quicken.

“Hi,” he said. Myron prided himself on his clever opening gambits.

“You want Chinese?” she asked.

“Whatever, sure. Hunan, Szechwan, Cantonese?”

“Szechwan,” she said.

“Okay. Szechwan Garden, Szechwan Dragon, or Empire Szechwan?”

She thought a moment. “Dragon was greasy last time. Let’s go with Empire.”

Jessica crossed the kitchen and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Her hair smelled like wildflowers after a summer storm. Myron gave her a quick hug and grabbed the delivery menu from the cabinet. They figured out what they’d get—the hot and sour soup, one shrimp entree, one vegetable entree—and Myron called it in. The usual language barriers applied—why don’t they ever hire a person who speaks English at least to take the phone order?—and after repeating his telephone number six times, he hung up.

“Get much done?” he asked.

Jessica nodded. “The first draft will be finished by Christmas.”

“I thought the deadline was August.”

“Your point being?”

They sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen, living room, dining room, TV room were all one big space. The ceiling was fifteen feet high. Airy. Brick walls with exposed metal beams gave the place a look that was both artsy and railroad station-like. The loft was, in a word, neat-o.

The food arrived. They chatted about their day. Myron told her about Brenda Slaughter. Jessica sat and listened in that way of hers. She was one of those people who had the ability to make any speaker feel like the only person alive. When he finished, she asked a few questions. Then she stood up and poured a glass of water from their Brita pitcher.

She sat back down. “I have to fly out to L.A. on Tuesday,” Jessica said.

Myron looked up. “Again?”

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A week or two.”

“Weren’t you just out there?”

“Yeah, so?”

“For that movie deal, right?”

“Right.”

“So why are you going out again?” he asked.

“I got to do some research for this book.”

“Couldn’t you have done both when you were there last week?”

“No.” Jessica looked at him. “Something wrong?”

Myron fiddled with a chopstick. He looked at her, looked away, swallowed, and just said it: “Is this working?”

“What?”

“Our living together.”

“Myron, it’s just for a couple of weeks. For research.”

“And then it’s a book tour. Or a writer’s retreat. Or a movie deal. Or more research.”

“What, you want me to stay home and bake cookies?”

“No.”

“Then what’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” Myron said. Then: “We’ve been together a long time.”

“On and off for ten years,” she added. “So?”

He was not sure how to continue. “You like traveling.”

“Hell, yes.”

“I miss you when you’re gone.”

“I miss you too,” she said. “And I miss you when
you go away on business too. But our freedom—that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? And besides”—she leaned forward a little—“I give great reunion.”

He nodded. “You do at that.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “I don’t want to do any pseudoanalysis, but this move has been a big adjustment for you. I understand that. But so far I think it’s working great.”

She was, of course, right. They were a modern couple with skyrocketing careers and worlds to conquer. Separation was part of that. Whatever nagging doubts he had were a by-product of his innate pessimism. Things were indeed going so well—Jessica had come back, she had asked him to move in—that he kept waiting for something to go wrong. He had to stop obsessing. Obsession does not seek out problems and correct them; it manufactures them out of nothing, feeds them, makes them stronger.

He smiled at her. “Maybe this is all a cry for attention,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Or maybe it’s a ploy to get more sex.”

She gave him a look that curled his chopsticks. “Maybe it’s working,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll slip into something more comfortable,” he said.

“Not that Batman mask again.”

“Aw, c’mon, you can wear the utility belt.”

She thought about it. “Okay, but no stopping in the middle and shouting, ‘Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.’”

“Deal.”

Jessica stood, walked over to him, and sat on his lap. She hugged him and lowered her lips toward his ear. “We’ve got it good, Myron. Let’s not fuck it up.”

She was right.

She got off his lap. “Come on, let’s clear the table.”

“And then?”

Jessica nodded. “To the Batpoles.”

As soon as Myron hit the street the next morning, a black limousine pulled in front of him. Two mammoth men—muscle-headed, neckless wonders—lumbered out of the car. They wore ill-fitted business suits, but Myron did not fault their tailor. Guys built like that always looked ill fitted. They both had Gold’s Gym tans, and though he could not confirm this by sight, Myron bet that their chests were as waxed as Cher’s legs.

One of the bulldozers said, “Get in the car.”

“My mommy told me to never get in a car with strangers,” Myron said.

“Oh,” the other bulldozer said, “we got ourselves a comedian here.”

“Yeah?” The bulldozer tilted his head at Myron. “That right? You a comedian?”

“I’m also an exciting vocalist,” Myron said. “Want to hear my much-loved rendition of ‘Volare’?”

“You’ll be singing out the other end of your ass if you don’t get in the car.”

“Other end of my ass,” Myron said. He looked up as though in deep thought. “I don’t get it. Out of the end of my ass, okay, that makes sense. But out of the
other
end? What does that mean exactly? I mean, technically, if we follow the intestinal tract, isn’t the other end of your ass simply your mouth?”

The bulldozers looked at each other, then at Myron. Myron was not particularly scared. These thugs were delivery boys; the package was not supposed to be delivered bruised. They would take a little needling. Plus, you never show these guys fear. They smell fear, they swarm in and devour you. Of course Myron could be wrong. They might be unbalanced psychotics who’d snap at the slightest provocation. One of life’s little mysteries.

“Mr. Ache wants to see you,” Bulldozer One said.

“Which one?”

“Frank.”

Silence. This was not good. The Ache brothers were leading mob figures in New York. Herman Ache, the older brother, was the leader, a man responsible for enough suffering to make a third world dictator envious. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was about as scary as Winnie-the-Pooh.

The muscleheads cracked their necks and smiled at Myron’s silence. “Not so funny now, are you, smart guy?”

“Testicles,” Myron said, stepping toward the car. “They shrink when you use steroids.”

It was an old Bolitar rejoinder, but Myron never got tired of the classics. He had no choice really. He had to go. He slid into the backseat of the stretch limo. There was a bar and a television tuned in to Regis and Kathie Lee. Kathie Lee was regaling the audience with Cody’s most recent exploits.

“No more, I beg you,” Myron said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

The bulldozers did not get it. Myron leaned forward and snapped the television off. No one protested.

“We going to Clancy’s?” Myron asked.

Clancy’s Tavern was the Aches’ hangout. Myron had been there with Win a couple of years back. He had hoped never to return.

“Sit back and shut up, asshole.”

Myron kept still. They took the West Side Highway north—in the opposite direction of Clancy’s Tavern. They turned right at Fifty-seventh Street. When they hit a Fifth Avenue parking garage, Myron realized where they were headed.

“We’re going to TruPro’s office,” he said out loud.

The bulldozers said nothing. Didn’t matter. He had not said it for their benefit anyway.

TruPro was one of the larger sports agencies in the country. For years it’d been operated by Roy O’Connor, a snake in a suit, who had been nothing if not an expert in how to break the rules. O’Connor was the master of illegally signing athletes when they were barely out of diapers, using payoffs and subtle extortion. But like so many who flitted in and out of the
world of corruption, Roy inevitably got nuked. Myron had seen it happen before. A guy figures he can be a “little pregnant,” a tad enmeshed with the underworld. But the mob does not work that way. You give them an inch, they take the whole damn yardstick. That was what had happened to TruPro. Roy owed money, and when he couldn’t pay up, the appropriately named Ache brothers took control.

“Move it, asshole.”

Myron followed Bubba and Rocco—if those weren’t their names, they should have been—into the elevator. They got out on the eighth floor and headed past the receptionist. She kept her head down but sneaked a glance. Myron waved to her and kept moving. They stopped in front of an office door.

“Search him.”

Bulldozer One started patting him down.

Myron closed his eyes. “God,” he said. “This feels good. A little left.”

Bulldozer stopped, threw him a glare. “Go in.”

Myron opened the door and entered the office.

Frank Ache spread his arms and stepped toward him. “Myron!”

Whatever fortune Frank Ache had amassed, the man never did spend it on clothes. He favored chintzy velour sweat suits, like something the guys on
Lost in Space
might consider casual wear. The one Frank sported today was burnt orange with yellow trim. The top was zippered lower than a
Cosmo
cover, his gray chest hair so thick it looked like a natty sweater. He had a huge head, tiny shoulders, and a spare tire that was the envy of the Michelin man—an hourglass figure with
all the time run out. He was big and puffy and the kind of bald where the top of the head looks like it exploded through the hair during an earthquake.

Frank gave Myron a ferocious bear hug. Myron was taken aback. Frank was usually about as cuddly as a jackal with shingles.

He pulled Myron to arm’s length. “Sheesh, Myron, you’re looking good.”

Myron tried not to wince. “Thanks, Frank.”

Frank offered him a big smile—two rows of corn-kernel teeth jam-packed together. Myron tried not to flinch. “How long’s it been?”

“A little over a year.”