The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (103 page)

Mindy looked at Esperanza. “She’s your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

Esperanza began whistling “Dream Weaver.”

“But you can’t, like, make me stay with you.”

“I don’t get it, Mindy. You look like a nice girl.” Actually. she was wearing black leggings, too-high pumps, a red halter top, and what looked like a dog choker around her neck. “Are you trying to tell me that this guy is worth going to jail over? He deals drugs, Mindy. He tried to kill me.”

Esperanza hung up. “It’s a bar called the Parker Inn.”

“You know where it is?” he asked Mindy.

“Yeah.”

“Come on.”

Mindy pulled away. “Let go,” she said, stretching out the last word.

“Mindy, this isn’t fun and games here. You helped someone try to kill me.”

“So you say.”

“What?”

Mindy put her hands on her hips, chewed gum. “So, like, how do I know that you’re not the bad one, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“You, like, come up to us yesterday, right, all mysterious and stuff, right? You don’t, like, have a badge or nothing. How do I know that you aren’t, like, after Tito? How do I know that you aren’t another drug dealer trying to take over his turf?”

“ ‘Tito?’ ” Myron repeated, looking at Esperanza. “A neo-Nazi named Tito?”

Esperanza shrugged.

“None of his friends, like, call him Tito,” Mindy went on. “It’s way too long, you know? So they call him Tit.”

Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance, shook their heads. Too easy.

“Mindy,” Myron said slowly, “I wasn’t kidding back there. Tito is not a nice fellow. He may, in fact, be involved in kidnapping and maiming a boy about your age. Somebody cut off the boy’s finger and sent it to his mother.”

Her face pinched up. “Oh, that’s, like, so gross.”

“Help me, Mindy.”

“You a cop?”

“No,” Myron said. “I’m just trying to save a boy.”

She waved her hands dismissively. “Then, like, go. You don’t need me.”

“I’d like you to come with us.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t try to warn Tito.”

“I won’t.”

Myron shook his head. “You also know how to get to Parker Inn. It’ll save us time.”

“Uh-uh, no way. I’m not going with you.”

“If you don’t,” Myron said, “I’ll tell Amber and Trish and the gang all about your new boyfriend.”

That snared her attention. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she insisted. “We just, like, hung out a couple of times.”

Myron smiled. “So I’ll lie,” he said. “I’ll tell them you slept with him.”

“I did not!” she screamed. “That’s, like, so unfair.” Myron shrugged helplessly.

She crossed her arms and chewed her gum. Her version of defiance. It didn’t last long. “Okay, okay, I’ll go.” She pointed a finger at Myron. “But I don’t want Tit to see me, okay? I stay in the car.”

“Deal,” Myron said. He shook his head. Now they were after a man named Tit. What next?

The Parker Inn was a total redneck, biker, skeezer bar. The parking lot was packed with pickup trucks and motorcycles. Country music blared from the constantly opening door. Several men in John Deere baseball caps were using the side of the building as a urinal. Every once in a while one would turn and piss on another. Curses and laughter spewed forward. Fun city.

From his car parked across the street, Myron looked at Mindy and said, “You used to hang out here?”

She shrugged. “I, like, came here a couple of times,” she said. “For excitement, you know?”

Myron nodded. “Why didn’t you just douse yourself with gasoline and light matches?”

“Fuck you, all right? You my father now?”

He held his hands up. She was right. None of his business. “Do you see Tito’s truck?” Myron just couldn’t call him Tit. Maybe if he got to know him better.

Mindy scanned the lot. “No.”

Neither did Myron. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

Myron shook his head. “He deals drugs. He wears a swastika tattoo. And he has no ass. But don’t tell me … underneath all that, Tito is really sweet.”

Mindy shouted, “Fuck you, all right? Just fuck you.”

“Myron,” Esperanza said by way of warning.

Again Myron put his hands up. They all sat back and watched. Nothing happened.

Mindy sighed as audibly as possible. “So, like, can I go home now?”

Esperanza said, “I have a thought.”

“What?” Myron asked.

Esperanza pulled the tail of her blouse out of her jeans. She tied it up, making a knot under her rib cage and revealing plenty of flat, dark stomach. Then she unbuttoned her top to a daring low. A black bra was now visible, Myron noticed, trained detective that he was. She pulled down the visor mirror and began to apply makeup. Lots of makeup. Far too much makeup. She mussed up her hair a bit and rolled up her jeans cuffs. When she finished she smiled at Myron.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Even Myron felt a little weak at the knees. “You’re going to walk in there looking like that?”

“That’s how everyone in there dresses.”

“But everyone doesn’t look like you,” he said.

“Oh, my, my,” Esperanza said. “A compliment.”

“I meant, like a chorus dancer in
West Side Story
.”

“ ‘A boy like that,’ ” Esperanza sang, “ ‘he keel your brother, forget that boy, go find another—’ ”

“If I do make you a partner,” Myron said, “don’t dress like this at board meetings.”

“Deal,” Esperanza said. “Can I go now?”

“First call me on the cellular now. I want to make sure I can hear everything that goes on.”

She nodded, dialed the phone. He picked it up. They tested the connection.

“Don’t go playing hero,” he said. “Just find out if he’s there. Something gets out of hand, you get out of there pronto.”

“Okay.”

“And we should have a code word. Something you say if you need me.”

Esperanza nodded, feigning seriousness. “If I say the words premature ejaculation, it means I want you to come.”

“So to speak.”

Esperanza and even Mindy groaned.

Myron reached into his glove compartment. He snapped it open and pulled out a gun. He was not going to be caught unprepared again. “Go,” he said.

Esperanza hopped out of the car and crossed the street. A black Corvette with flame decals on the hood and an extra
vrooming
engine pulled up. A gold-chain-enmeshed primate raced the engine and leaned his head out the window. He smiled greasily at Esperanza. He hit the gas again, giving off a few more deep
vrooms
. Esperanza looked at the car, then at the driver. “Sorry to hear about your penis,” she deadpanned.

The car drove off. Esperanza shrugged and waved at Myron. It wasn’t an original line, but it never failed her.

“God, I love that woman,” Myron said.

“She’s, like, totally hot,” Mindy agreed. “I wish I looked like her.”

“You should wish to be like her,” he corrected.

“What’s the difference? She must, like, really work out, right?”

Esperanza entered the Parker Inn. The first thing that hit her was the smell—a pungent combination of dried vomit and body odor, only less olfactorily pleasing. She wrinkled her nose and continued inside. The floor was hardwood with lots of sawdust. The light was dingy, coming off the pool table ceiling fixtures that were supposed to look like imitation Tiffany lamps. The crowd
was probably two-to-one men over women. Everyone was dressed—in a word—cheesy.

Esperanza looked around the room. Then she spoke out loud so that Myron would hear her through the phone. “About a hundred guys in here fit your description,” she said. “It’s like asking me to find an implant in a strip club.”

Myron’s phone was on mute, but she’d bet he was laughing. An implant at a strip club. Not bad, she thought. Not bad at all.

So now what?

People were staring at her, but she was used to that. Three seconds passed before a man approached her. He had a long, kinky beard; bits of coagulated food were lodged in it. He smiled toothlessly, looked her up and down unapologetically.

“I’ve got a great tongue,” he said to her.

“Now all you need is some teeth.”

She pushed past him and made her way to the bar. Two seconds later, a guy jumped toward her. He wore a cowboy hat. Cowboy hat. Philadelphia. What’s wrong with this picture?

“Hey, sweetheart, don’t I know you?”

Esperanza nodded. “Another line that smooth,” she said, “and I may start to undress.”

The cowboy whooped it up like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “No, little darling, I’m not handing you a line. I’m serious here.…” His voice sort of drifted off. “Holy shit!” the man cried. “It’s Little Pocahontas! The Indian Princess! You’re Little Pocahontas, right? Don’t deny it now, darling. It’s you! I can’t believe it!”

Myron was probably laughing his ass off right now.

“Nice to see you,” Esperanza said. “Thank you very much for remembering.”

“Shit, Bobby, take a lookie here. It’s Little Pocahontas! Remember? That hot little vixen on FLOW?”

FLOW, of course, stood for the “Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling.” The organization’s original name had been the “Beautiful Ladies Of Wrestling,” but once they became popular enough for television, the networks insisted on a new acronym.

“Where?” Another man approached, eyes wide and drunk and happy “Holy shit, you’re right! It’s her! It’s really her!”

“Hey, thanks for the memories, fellas, but—”

“I remember this one time, you were fighting Tatiana the Siberian Husky? Remember that one? Shit, my hard-on nearly poked a hole clean through my bedroom window.”

Esperanza hoped to file that little tidbit under Too Much Information.

An enormous bartender came over. He looked like the pullout centerfold for
Leather Biker Monthly
. Extra big and extra scary. He had long hair, a long scar, and tattoos of snakes slithering up both arms. He shot the two men a glare and—poof—they were gone. Like the glare had evaporated them. Then he turned his eyes toward Esperanza. She met the glare and gave him one back. Neither backed down.

“Lady, what the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Is that a new way of asking what I’m drinking?”

“No.” The mutual glaring continued. He leaned two massive snake-arms on the bar. “You’re too good-looking to be a cop,” he said. “And you’re too good-looking to be hanging out in this toilet.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Esperanza said. “And you are?”

“Hal,” he said. “I own this toilet.”

“Hi, Hal.”

“Hi back. Now what the fuck do you want?”

“I’m trying to score some blow,” she said.

“Nah,” Hal said with a shake of his head. “You’d go to Spic City for that. Buy it from one of your own kind, no offense.” He leaned even closer now. Esperanza couldn’t help but wonder if Hal would be a good match for Big Cyndi. She liked big biker guys. “Let’s cut the crap, sweetheart. What do you want?”

Esperanza decided to try the direct approach. “I’m looking for a sliver of scum named Tito. People call him Tit. Skinny, shaved head—”

“Yeah, yeah, I
might
know him. How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

Hal made a scoffing sound. “You want me to sell out a customer for fifty bucks?”

“A hundred.”

“Hundred and fifty. The deadbeat sack of shit owes me money.”

“Deal,” she said.

“Show me the money.”

Esperanza took the bills out of her wallet. Hal reached it for it, but she pulled back. “You first,” she said.

“I don’t know where he lives,” Hal said. “He and his goose-stepping faggots come in every night except Wednesdays and Saturdays.”

“Why not Wednesdays and Saturdays?” she asked.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Bingo night and Saturday night mass maybe. Or maybe they all do a circle jerk crying ‘Heil, Hitler’ when they shoot off. How the fuck do I know?”

“What’s his real name?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked around the bar. “Any of the boys here know?”

“Nah,” Hal said. “Tit always comes in with the same limpdicked crew and they leave together. They don’t talk to no one else. It’s verboten.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him.”

“He’s a stupid punk. They all are. Assholes who blame the fact that they’re genetic mutations on other people.”

“So why do you let them hang out here?”

“Because unlike them, I know that this is the U.S. of A. You can do what you want. Anyone is welcome here. Black, white, Spic, Jap, whatever. Even stupid punks.”

Esperanza almost smiled. Sometimes you find tolerance in the strangest places. “What else?”

“That’s all I know. It’s Saturday night. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Esperanza said. She ripped the bills in half. “I’ll give you the other half of the bills tomorrow.”

Hal reached out his big hand and closed it over her forearm.
His glare grew a little meaner. “Don’t be too smart, hot legs,” he said slowly. “I can yell
gang bang
and have you on your back on a pool table in five seconds. You give the hundred and fifty now. Then you rip another hundred in half to keep my mouth shut. You got it?”

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. “Got it,” she said. She handed him the other half of the bills. Then she took out another hundred, ripped it, and handed it to him.

“Get out, sweet buns. Like now.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice.

There was nothing else they could do tonight. To approach the Squires estate would be foolhardy at best. He couldn’t call or contact the Coldrens. It was too late to try to reach Lloyd Rennart’s widow. And lastly—and perhaps most important—Myron was bone-tired.

So he spent the evening at the guest house with his two best friends in the world. Myron, Win, and Esperanza lay sprawled on separate couches like Dalí clocks. They wore T-shirts and shorts and buried themselves deep within puffy pillows. Myron drank too much Yoo-Hoo; Esperanza drank too much diet Coke; Win drank almost enough Brooklyn Lager (Win drank only lager, never beer). There were pretzels and Fritos and Ruffles and freshly delivered pizza. The lights were out. The big-screen television was on. Win had recently taped a whole bunch of
Odd Couple
episodes. They were on the fourth in a row. The best thing about the
Odd Couple
, Myron surmised, was the consistency. They never had a weak episode—how many shows could say that?