The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (60 page)

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 dressing 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.

Chapter 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 séance.

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 also 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 seminecking 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 up 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! B-O-N-E! 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 semiblouse. 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 cha-cha?”

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.