One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (6 page)

“We were at Clancy’s, right?”

“No, Frank, we weren’t.”

Frank looked puzzled. “Where were we?”

“On a road in Pennsylvania. You shot out my tires, threatened to kill members of my family, and then you told me to get out of your car before you used my nuts for squirrel food.”

Frank laughed and clapped Myron on the back. “Good times, eh?”

Myron kept very still. “What can I do for you, Frank?”

“You in a rush?”

“Just wanted to get to the heart of it.”

“Hey, Myron.” Frank opened his arms wide. “I’m trying to be friendly here. I’m a changed man. It’s a whole new me.”

“Find religion, did you, Frank?”

“Something like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Frank’s smile slowly faded. “You like my old ways better?”

“They’re more honest.”

The smile was gone completely now. “You’re doing it again, Myron.”

“What?”

“Crawling up the crack of my ass,” he said. “It cozy up there?”

“Cozy,” Myron said with a nod. “Yeah, Frank, that’s the word I’d use.”

The door behind them opened. Two men came in. One was Roy O’Connor, the figurative president of TruPro. He crept in silently, as though waiting for permission to exist. Probably was. When Frank was around, Roy probably raised his hand before going to the bathroom. The second guy was in his mid-twenties. He was immaculately dressed and looked like an investment banker fresh off his M.B.A.

Myron gave a big wave. “Hi, Roy. Looking good.”

Roy nodded stiffly, sat down.

Frank said, “This here’s my kid, Frankie Junior. Call him FJ.”

“Hi,” Myron said. FJ?

The kid gave him a hard glare and sat down.

“Roy here just hired FJ,” Frank said.

Myron smiled at Roy O’Connor. “The selection process must have been hell, Roy. Combing through all those resumes and everything.”

Roy said nothing.

Frank waddled around the desk. “You and FJ got something in common, Myron.”

“Oh?”

“You went to Harvard, right?”

“For law school,” Myron said.

“FJ got his M.B.A. there.”

Myron nodded. “Like Win.”

His name quieted the room. Roy O’Connor crossed his legs. His face lost color. He had experienced Win up close, but they all knew him. Win would be pleased by the reaction.

The room started up again slowly. Everyone took seats. Frank put two hands the size of canned hams on the desk. “We hear you’re representing Brenda Slaughter,” he said.

“Where did you hear that?”

Frank shrugged as if to say, silly question.

“Is it true, Myron?”

“No.”

“You’re not repping her?”

“That’s right, Frank.”

Frank looked at Roy. Roy sat like hardening plaster. Then he looked at FJ, who was shaking his head.

“Is her old man still her manager?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know, Frank. Why don’t you ask her?”

“You were with her yesterday,” Frank said.

“So?”

“So what were you two doing?”

Myron stretched out his legs, crossing the ankles. “Tell me something, Frank. What’s your interest in all this?”

Frank’s eyes widened. He looked at Roy, then at FJ; then he pointed a meaty finger at Myron. “Pardon my fucking French,” he said, “but do I look like I’m here to answer your fucking questions?”

“The whole new you,” Myron said. “Friendly, changed.”

FJ leaned forward and looked in Myron’s eyes. Myron looked back. There was nothing there. If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, these read
NO VACANCY.
“Mr. Bolitar?” FJ’s voice was soft and willowy.

“Yes?”

“Fuck you.”

He whispered the words with the strangest smile on his face. He did not lean back after he said it. Myron felt something cold scramble up his back, but he did not look away.

The phone on the desk buzzed. Frank hit a button. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Bolitar’s associate on the line,” a female voice said. “He wanted to speak with you.”

“With me?” Frank said.

“Yes, Mr. Ache.”

Frank looked confused. He shrugged his shoulders and hit a button.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Hello, Francis.”

The room became still as a photograph.

Frank cleared his throat. “Hello, Win.”

“I trust that I am not interrupting,” Win said.

Silence.

“How is your brother, Francis?”

“He’s good, Win.”

“I must give Herman a call. We haven’t hit the links together in ages.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, “I’ll tell him you asked for him.”

“Fine, Francis, fine. Well, I must be going. Please give my best to Roy and your charming son. How rude of me not to have said hello earlier.”

Silence.

“Hey, Win?”

“Yes, Francis.”

“I don’t like this cryptic shit, you hear?”

“I hear everything, Francis.”

Click.

Frank Ache gave Myron a hard glare. “Get out.”

“Why are you so interested in Brenda Slaughter?”

Frank lifted himself out of the chair. “Win’s scary,” he said. “But he ain’t bulletproof. Say one more word, and I’ll tie you to a chair and set your dick on fire.”

Myron did not bother with good-byes.

Myron took the elevator down. Win—real name Windsor Home Lockwood III—stood in the lobby. He was dressed this morning in Late American Prep. Blue blazer, light khakis, white button-down Oxford shirt, loud Lilly Pulitzer tie, the kind with more colors than a gallery at a golf course. His blond hair was parted by the gods, his jaw jutting in that way of his, his cheekbones high and pretty and porcelain, his eyes the blue of ice. To look at Win’s face, Myron knew, was to hate him, was to think elitism, class-consciousness, snobbery, anti-Semitism, racism, old-world money earned from the sweat of other men’s brows, all that. People who judged Windsor Home Lockwood III solely by
appearance were always mistaken. Often dangerously so.

Win did not glance in Myron’s direction. He looked out as though posing for a park statue. “I was just thinking,” Win said.

“What?”

“If you clone yourself, and then have sex with yourself, is it incest or masturbation?”

Win.

“Good to see you’re not wasting your time,” Myron said.

Win looked at him. “If we were still at Duke,” he said, “we’d probably discuss the dilemma for hours.”

“That’s because we’d be drunk.”

Win nodded. “There’s that.”

They both switched off their cellular phones and started heading down Fifth Avenue. It was a relatively new trick that Myron and Win used with great effect. As soon as the Hormonal He-Men pulled up, Myron had switched on the phone and hit the programmed button for Win’s cellular. Win had thus heard every word. That was why Myron had commented out loud on where they were heading. That was how Win knew exactly where he was and exactly when to call. Win had nothing to say to Frank Ache; he just wanted to make sure that Frank knew that Win knew where Myron was.

“Tie you to a chair and set your dick on fire,” Win repeated. “That would sting.”

Myron nodded. “Talk about having a burning sensation when you urinate.”

“Indeed. So tell me.”

Myron started talking. Win, as always, did not appear
to be listening. He never glanced in Myron’s direction, his eyes searching the streets for beautiful women. Midtown Manhattan during work hours was full of them. They wore business suits and silk blouses and white Reebok sneakers. Every once in a while Win would reward one with a smile; unlike almost anybody else in New York, he was often rewarded with one in return.

When Myron told him about bodyguarding Brenda Slaughter, Win suddenly stopped and broke out in song:
“AND I-I-I-I-I-I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU-OU-OU-OU-OU-OU-OU.”

Myron looked at him. Win stopped, put his face back in place, continued walking. “When I sing that,” Win said, “it’s almost like Whitney Houston is in the room.”

“Yeah,” Myron said. “Or something.”

“So what is the Aches’ interest in all this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps TruPro just wishes to represent her.”

“Doubtful. She’ll make somebody money but not enough for pulling this.”

Win thought about it, nodded his agreement. They headed east on Fiftieth Street. “Young FJ might pose a problem.”

“Do you know him?”

“A bit. He is something of an intriguing story. Daddy groomed him to go legit. He sent him to Lawrenceville, then to Princeton, finally Harvard. Now he’s setting him up in the business of representing athletes.”

“But.”

“But he resents it. He is still Frank Ache’s son and thus wants his approval. He needs to show that despite the upbringing, he’s still a tough guy. Worse, he is genetically Frank Ache’s son. My guess? If you trample through FJ’s childhood, you’ll stumble across many a legless spider and wingless fly.”

Myron shook his head. “This is definitely not a good thing.”

Win said nothing. They hit the Lock-Horne Building on Forty-seventh Street. Myron got off the elevator on the twelfth floor. Win stayed in, his office being two flights up. When Myron looked at the reception desk—the place where Esperanza usually sat—he nearly jumped back. Big Cyndi sat silently watching him. She was far too big for the desk—far too big for the building, really—and the desk actually teetered on her knees. Her makeup would be labeled “too garish” by members of Kiss. Her hair was short and seaweed green. The T-shirt she wore had the sleeves ripped off, revealing biceps the size of basketballs.

Myron gave her a tentative wave. “Hello, Cyndi.”

“Hello, Mr. Bolitar.”

Big Cyndi was six-six, three hundred pounds and had been Esperanza’s tag team wrestling partner, known in the ring as Big Chief Mama. For years Myron had only heard her growl, never speak. But her voice could be anything she wanted. When she worked as a bouncer at Leather-N-Lust on Tenth Street, she put on an accent that made Arnold Schwarzenegger sound like a Gabor sister. Right now, she was doing her perky Mary-Richards-off-decaf.

“Is Esperanza here?” he asked.

“Miss Diaz is in Mr. Bolitar’s office.” She smiled at him. Myron tried not to cringe. Forget what he’d said about Frank Ache—this smile made his fillings hurt.

He excused himself and headed into his office. Esperanza was at his desk, talking on the phone. She wore a bright yellow blouse against the olive skin that always made him think of stars shimmering off the warm water in the Amalfi bay. She looked up at him, signaled to give her a minute with a finger, and kept on talking. Myron sat down across from her. It was an interesting perspective, seeing what clients and corporate sponsors saw when they sat in his office. The Broadway musical posters behind his chair—too desperate, he decided. Like he was trying to be irreverent for irreverence sake.

When she finished the call, Esperanza said, “You’re late.”

“Frank Ache wanted to see me.”

She crossed her arms. “He need a fourth for mah-jongg?”

“He wanted to know about Brenda Slaughter.”

Esperanza nodded. “So we got trouble.”

“Maybe.”

“Dump her.”

“No.”

She looked at him with flat eyes. “Tattoo me surprised.”

“Did you get anything on Horace Slaughter?”

She grabbed a piece of paper. “Horace Slaughter. None of his credit cards have been used in the past week. He has one bank account at Newark Fidelity. Balance: zero dollars.”

“Zero?”

“He cleaned it out.”

“How much?”

“Eleven grand. In cash.”

Myron whistled and leaned back. “So he was planning on running. That fits with what we saw in his apartment.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I got a harder one for you,” Myron said. “His wife, Anita Slaughter.”

“They still married?”

“I don’t know. Maybe legally. She ran away twenty years ago. I don’t think they ever bothered with a divorce.”

She frowned. “Did you say twenty years ago?”

“Yes. Apparently no one has seen her since then.”

“And what exactly are we trying to find?”

“In a word: her.”

“You don’t know where she is?”

“Not a clue. Like I said, she’s been missing for twenty years.”

Esperanza waited a beat. “She could be dead.”

“I know.”

“And if she’s managed to stay hidden this long, she could have changed her name. Or left the country.”

“Right.”

“And there’d be few records, if any, from twenty years ago. Certainly nothing on the computer.”

Myron smiled. “Don’t you hate it when I make it too easy?”

“I realize I’m only your lowly assistant—”

“You’re not my lowly assistant.”

She gave him a look. “I’m not your partner either.”

That quieted him.

“I realize that I’m only your lowly assistant,” she said again, “but do we really have time for this bullshit?”

“Just do a standard check. See if we get lucky.”

“Fine.” Her tone was like a door slamming shut. “But we got other things to discuss here.”

“Shoot.”

“Milner’s contract. They won’t renegotiate.”

They dissected the Milner situation, batted it around a bit, developed and fine-tuned a strategy, and then concluded that their strategy would not work. Behind them Myron could hear the construction starting. They were cutting space out of the waiting area and conference room to make a private office for Esperanza.

After a few minutes Esperanza stopped and stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re going to follow through with this,” she said. “You’re going to search for her parents.”

“Her father is an old friend of mine.”

“Oh Christ, please don’t say, ‘I owe him.’”

“It’s not just that. It’s good business.”

“It’s not good business. You’re out of the office too much. Clients want to talk to you directly. So do the sponsors.”

“I have my cellular.”

Esperanza shook her head. “We can’t keep going on like this.”

“Like what?”

“Either you make me a partner or I walk.”

“Don’t hit me with that now, Esperanza. Please.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

She gave him a look that was half harsh, half pity. “I know how you hate change—”