by Harlan Coben
“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.”
“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.”
&
nbsp; “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.