One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (7 page)

“I don’t hate change.”

“—but one way or the other, things are going to be different. So get over it.”

Part of him wanted to yell, Why? Things were good the way they were. Hadn’t he been the one who encouraged her to get a law degree in the first place? A change, sure, he expected that after her graduation. He had been slowly giving her new responsibilities. But a partnership?

He pointed behind him. “I’m building you an office,” he said.

“So?”

“So doesn’t that scream commitment? You can’t expect me to rush this. I’m taking baby steps here.”

“You took one baby step, and then you fell on your ass.” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t pushed you on this since we were down at Merion.” The golf U.S. Open in Philadelphia. Myron was in the midst of finding a kidnap victim when she hit him with her partnership demands. Since then, he had been, well, er, stalling.

Esperanza stood. “I want to be a partner. Not full. I understand that. But I want equity.” She walked to the door. “You have a week.”

Myron was not sure what to say. She was his best friend. He loved her. And he needed her here. She was
a part of MB. A big part. But things were not that simple.

Esperanza opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You going to see Brenda Slaughter now?”

He nodded. “In a few minutes.”

“I’ll start the search. Call me in a few hours.”

She closed the door behind her. Myron went around to his chair and picked up the phone. He dialed Win’s number.

Win picked up on the first ring. “Articulate.”

“You got plans for tonight?”

“Moi?
But of course.”

“Typical evening of demeaning sex?”

“Demeaning sex,” Win repeated. “I told you to stop reading Jessica’s magazines.”

“Can you cancel?”

“I could,” he said, “but the lovely lass will be very disappointed.”

“Do you even know her name?”

“What? Off the top of my head?”

One of the construction workers started hammering. Myron put a hand over his free ear. “Could we meet at your place? I need to bounce a few things off you.”

Win did not hesitate. “I am but a brick wall awaiting your verbal game of squash.”

Myron guessed that meant yes.

Brenda Slaughter’s team, the New York Dolphins, practiced at Englewood High School in New Jersey. Myron felt a tightness in his chest when he entered the gym. He heard the sweet echo of dribbling basketballs; he savored the high school gym scent, that mix of strain and youth and uncertainty. Myron had played in huge venues, but whenever he walked into a new gymnasium, even as a spectator, he felt as if he’d been dropped through a time portal.

He climbed up the steps of one of those wooden space-saving pull-out stands. As always, it shook with each step. Technology may have made advancements in our daily lives, but you wouldn’t know it from a high school gymnasium. Those velvet banners still hung from one wall, showing a variety of state or country or group championships. There was a list of track and field records down one corner. The electric clock was off. A
tired janitor swept the hardwood floor, moving in a curling up-and-down pattern like a Zamboni on a hockey rink.

Myron spotted Brenda Slaughter shooting foul shots. Her face was lost in the simple bliss of this purest of motions. The ball backspun off her fingertips; it never touched the rim, but the net jumped a bit at the bottom. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt over what looked like a black tube top. Sweat shimmered on her skin.

Brenda looked over at him and smiled. It was an unsure smile, like a new lover on that first morning. She dribbled the ball toward him and threw him a pass. He caught it, his fingers automatically finding the grooves.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She nodded and sat next to him on the bench. Her face was wide and sweaty and real.

“Your father cleared out his bank account before he disappeared,” Myron said.

The serenity fled from her face. Her eyes flicked away, and she shook her head. “This is too weird.”

“What?” Myron said.

She reached toward him and took the ball from his hands. She held on to it as though it might grow wings and fly off. “It’s so like my mother,” she said. “First the clothes gone. Now the money.”

“Your mother took money?”

“Every dime.”

Myron looked at her. She kept her eyes on the ball. Her face was suddenly so guileless, so frail, Myron felt something inside him crumble. He waited a moment
before changing the subject. “Was Horace working before he disappeared?”

One of her teammates, a white woman with a ponytail and freckles, called out to her and clapped her hands for the ball. Brenda smiled and led her with a one-armed pass. The ponytail bounced up and down as the woman speed-dribbled toward the basket.

“He was a security guard at St. Barnabas Hospital,” Brenda said. “You know it?”

Myron nodded. St. Barnabas was in Livingston, his hometown.

“I work there too,” she said. “In the pediatric clinic. Sort of a work-study program. I helped him get the job. That’s how I first knew he was missing. His supervisor called me and asked where he was.”

“How long had Horace been working there?”

“I don’t know. Four, five months.”

“What’s his supervisor’s name?”

“Calvin Campbell.”

Myron took out a notecard and wrote it down.

“Where else does Horace hang out?”

“Same places,” she said.

“The courts?”

Brenda nodded. “And he still refs high school games twice a week.”

“Any close friends who might help him out?”

She shook her head. “No one in particular.”

“How about family members?”

“My aunt Mabel. If there is anyone he’d trust, it’s his sister Mabel.”

“She live near here?”

“Yeah. In West Orange.”

“Could you give her a call for me? Tell her I’d like to drop by.”

“When?”

“Now.” He looked at his watch. “If I hurry, I can be back before practice is over.”

Brenda stood. “There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’ll call her.”

On the ride to Mabel Edwards’s house, Myron’s cellular phone rang. It was Esperanza. “Norm Zuckerman is on the line,” she said.

“Patch it through.”

There was a click.

“Norm?” Myron said.

“Myron, sweetie, how are you?”

“Fine.”

“Good, good. You learn anything yet?”

“No.”

“Good, okay, fine.” Norm hesitated. His jocular tone was a little off, forced. “Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“I see, I see, okay. Look, Myron, you going to go over to Brenda’s practice?”

“I just came from there.”

“You left her alone?”

“She’s at practice. A dozen people are there with her. She’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Look, Myron, we need to talk. When can you get back to the gym?”

“I should be back in an hour. What’s this about, Norm?”

“An hour. I’ll see you then.”

Aunt Mabel lived in West Orange, a suburb outside Newark. West Orange was one of those “changing” suburbs, the percentage of white families sinking bit by bit. It was the spreading effect. Minorities scratched their way out of the city and into the nearest suburbs; the whites then wanted out of said suburbs and moved still farther away from the city. In real estate terms this was known as progress.

Still, Mabel’s tree-lined avenue seemed a zillion light-years from the urban blight that Horace called home. Myron knew the town of West Orange well. His own hometown of Livingston bordered it. Livingston too was starting to change. When Myron was in high school, the town had been white. Very white. Snow white. It had been so white that of the six hundred kids in Myron’s graduating class, only one was black—and he was on the swim team. Can’t get much whiter than that.

The house was a one-level structure—fancier folks might call it a ranch—the kind of place that probably had three bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a finished basement with a used pool table. Myron parked his Ford Taurus in the driveway.

Mabel Edwards was probably late forties, maybe
younger. She was a big woman with a fleshy face, loosely curled hair, and a dress that looked like old drapes. When she opened the door, she gave Myron a smile that turned her ordinary features into something almost celestial. A pair of half-moon reading glasses hung from a chain, resting on her enormous chest. There was a puffiness in her right eye, remnants of a contusion maybe. She gripped some sort of knitting project in her hand.

“Goodness me,” she said. “Myron Bolitar. Come in.”

Myron followed her inside. The house had the stale smell of a grandparent. When you’re a kid, the smell gives you the creeps; when you’re an adult, you want to bottle it and let it out with a cup of cocoa on a bad day. “I put coffee on, Myron. Would you like some?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“Sit down over there. I’ll be right back.”

Myron grabbed a seat on a stiff sofa with a flowered print.

For some reason he put his hands in his lap. As if he were waiting for a schoolteacher. Myron glanced about. There were African sculptures made of wood on the coffee table. The fireplace mantel was lined with family photographs. Almost all of them featured a young man who looked vaguely familiar. Mabel Edwards’s son, he guessed. It was the standard parental shrine—that is, you could follow the offspring’s life from infancy through adulthood with the images in these frames. There was a baby photo, those school portraits with the rainbow background, a big Afro playing basketball, a tuxedo-and-date prom, a couple of graduations, blah, blah, blah. Corny, yes, but these
photo montages always touched Myron, exploiting his overtuned sensitivity like a sappy Hallmark commercial.

Mabel Edwards came back into the living room with a tray. “We met once before,” she said.

Myron nodded, trying to remember. Something played along the edges, but it wouldn’t come into focus.

“You were in high school.” She handed him a cup on a saucer. Then she pushed the tray with cream and sugar toward him. “Horace took me to one of your games. You were playing Shabazz.”

It came back to Myron. Junior year, the Essex County tournament. Shabazz was short for Malcolm X Shabazz High School of Newark. The school had no whites. Its starting five featured guys named Rhahim and Khalid. Even back then Shabazz High had been surrounded by a barbwire fence with a sign that read
GUARD DOGS ON DUTY
.

Guard dogs at a high school. Think about it.

“I remember,” Myron said.

Mabel burst into a short laugh. When she did, every part of her jiggled. “Funniest thing I ever saw,” she said. “All these pale boys walking in scared out of their wits, eyes as big as saucers. You were the only one at home, Myron.”

“That’s because of your brother.”

She shook her head. “Horace said you were the best he ever worked with. He said nothing would have stopped you from being great.” She leaned forward. “You two had something special, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Horace loved you, Myron. Talked about you all
the time. When you got drafted, I tell you, it was the happiest I’d seen him in years. You called him, right?”

“As soon as I heard.”

“I remember. He came over and told me all about it.” Her voice was wistful. She paused and adjusted herself in the seat. “And when you got hurt, well, Horace cried. Big, tough man came to this house and sat right where you are now, Myron, and he cried like a little baby.”

Myron said nothing.

“You want to know something else?” Mabel continued. She took a sip of her coffee. Myron held his cup, but he could not move. He managed a nod.

“When you tried that comeback last year, Horace was so worried. He wanted to call you, talk you out of it.”

Myron’s voice was thick. “So why didn’t he?”

Mabel Edwards gave him a gentle smile. “When was the last time you spoke to Horace?”

“That phone call,” Myron said. “Right after the draft.”

She nodded as though that explained everything. “I think Horace knew you were hurting,” she said. “I think he figured you’d call when you were ready.”