by Harlan Coben
“He usually hangs out at a Starbucks on Forty-ninth Street,” Win said.
“Starbucks?”
“The old mob espresso bars have gone the way of leisure suits and disco music.”
“Both of them are coming back.”
“No,” Win said, “bizarre mutations of them are coming back.”
“Like coffee bars in place of espresso bars?”
“Then you understand.”
“So let’s pay FJ a visit.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Win said before hanging up.
As soon as Myron hit the disconnect, Big Cyndi buzzed his line.
“Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes?”
“A Miss or Mr. Thrill is on the phone,” Big Cyndi said.
Myron closed his eyes. “You mean from last night?”
“Unless you know someone else named Thrill, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Take a message.”
“Both her words and tone suggest urgency, Mr. Bolitar.”
Suggest urgency? “Fine. Patch her—or him—through.”
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
There was a click.
“Myron?”
“Uh, yeah, hi, Thrill.”
“That was some exit you made last night, big fella,” Thrill said. “You really know how to impress a girl.”
“Yeah, I usually don’t jump through a plate glass window until the second date.”
“So how come you haven’t called me?”
“I’ve been really busy.”
“I’m downstairs,” Thrill said. “Tell the guard to let me up.”
“It’s not a good time. Like I said before—”
“Men rarely say no to Thrill. I must be losing my touch.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that the timing is all wrong.”
“Myron, my name isn’t really Thrill.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I kinda suspected it read something else on your birth certificate.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Look, let me up. We need to talk about last night. About something that happened after you left.”
So he shrugged and called down to the guard at the front desk and told him to let up anyone identifying themselves as Thrill. The guard was puzzled but said okay. The headset was still strapped on so Myron speed-dialed a sports apparel company. Before dashing to the Caribbean, Myron had been on the verge of landing a sneaker deal for a track and field client with said company. But now he was being put on hold. An assistant to an assistant finally came on the line. Myron asked him about the deal. It had fallen through, he was told. Why? he asked.
“Ask your client,” the assistant said. “Oh, and ask his new agent too.”
Click.
Myron closed his eyes and pulled off his headset. Damn.
There was a knock on his office door. The alien sound caused a ripple of pain. Esperanza had never knocked. Never. She prided herself on interrupting him. She would sooner give up a limb than knock.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Someone stepped inside and said, “Surprise.”
Myron tried not to stare. He took off the headset.
“You’re …?”
“Thrill, yup.”
Nothing was the same. Gone was the Cat Woman costume, the blond wig, the high heels, the, uh, prodigious bosom. Thrill was still female, thank heavens. Still quite attractive in her conservative navy suit with matching blouse, her hair done in a pixie style, her eyes less luminous behind round tortoiseshell glasses, her makeup now applied with a far lighter hand. Her figure was thinner, more toned, less, uh, shapely. Nothing to complain about, mind you. Just different.
“To answer your first question,” she said, “when I dress like Thrill, I wear the aptly named Raquel Wonder Breast Enhancements.”
Myron nodded. “That the stuff that looks like flattened Silly Putty?”
“The very. You jam them in your bra. Guess you’ve seen the infomercial on TV.”
“Seen it? I bought the video.”
Thrill laughed. Last night her laugh—not to mention her walk, her movements, her tone of voice, her choice of words—had been a double entendre. In the light of day the sound was melodic and almost childlike.
“I also strap on the aptly named Miracle Bra,” she continued. “To lift it all up high.”
“Any higher,” Myron said, “and they could have doubled as earrings.”
“Too true,” she said. “The legs and ass, however, are mine. And for the record, I do not have a penis.”
“So noted.”
“Can I sit down?”
Myron looked at his watch. “I hate to be a pest—”
“You’ll want to hear, this, believe me.” She sat in the chair in front of his desk. Myron folded his arms and leaned his butt on the desk’s lip. “My real name is Nancy Sinclair. I don’t dress like Thrill for kicks. I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a story on Take A Guess. An insider’s look at what goes on, what kind of people go there, what makes them tick. In order to get people to open up, I go undercover as Thrill.”
“So you do all this for a story?”
“I do all what?”
“Dress up and, uh …” His gestures were unintelligible.
“Not that I see where it’s even vaguely any of your concern, but the answer is no. I dress a part. I strike up conversations. I flirt. Period. I like to watch people’s reaction to me.”
“Oh.” Then Myron cleared his throat and said, “Just, uh, out of curiosity, I’m not going to be in your story, am I? I mean, I’ve really never been there before and I was—”
“Relax. I recognized you as soon as you came in the door.”
“You did?”
“I follow basketball. I got season tickets to the Dragons.”
“I see.” The Dragons were New Jersey’s pro basketball team. Myron had tried a comeback with them not long ago.
“That’s why I approached you.”
“To see if I was into, uh, gender ambiguity?”
“Everyone else there is. Why not you?”
“But I explained to you that I was there to ask about someone.”
“Clu Haid, right. Still, your reaction to me was interesting.”
“I found you to be a witty conversationalist,” Myron said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And I also have a Julie-Newmar-as-Cat-Woman fetish.”
“You’d be surprised how many people have that same fetish.”
“No, I don’t think I would be,” Myron said. “So why are you here, Nancy?”
“Pat saw us talking last night.”
“The bartender?”
“He’s also one of the owners. He has shares in a couple of places in the city.”
“And?”
“And after the smoke cleared from your exit, Pat pulled me aside.”
“Because he saw us talking?”
“Because he saw me giving you my phone number.”
“So?”
“So I’d never done that before.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I’m just making a point. I come on to a ton of girls and guys and whatever in there. But I never give out a phone number.”
“So why did you give it to me?”
“Because I was curious to see if you’d call. You rebuffed Thrill, so you clearly weren’t there for sex. I wondered what you were up to.”
Myron frowned. “That was the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.”
“So what did Pat want?”
“He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know I’d call?” Again the smile. “Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call …”
“But Thrill does?”
“Bosoms are empowerment. A
nd if you didn’t, he told me I could look up your business number in the phone book.”
“Which is what you did.”
“Yes. He also promised me you wouldn’t be hurt.”
“How comforting. And your interest in all this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you’re tying this week’s murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Cow dooky.”
“Cow dooky?”
She shrugged.
“What else did Pat say to you?” Myron asked.
“Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.”
“If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.”
“Thrill, not the brightest bulb on the tree, didn’t pick up on that.”
“But Nancy Sinclair did.”
She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. “Pat was also huddled up with Zorra.”
“Who?”
“That’s their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.”
“Like Veronica Lake?”
She nodded. “He’s absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.”
“Pardon?”
“He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in the back room with him.”
Made sense. Myron hadn’t made him miss. Zorra—Zorra?—just wanted to brand him. “I have one.”
“He’s seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover. Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the stories I’ve heard are true, he’s killed dozens.”
Just what he needed—Cross-Dressing Mossad. “Did they talk about Clu at all?”
“No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“They think I killed Clu?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill him.”
“Who?”
“No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.”
“They didn’t say who?”
“If they did, I didn’t hear them.” She smiled. “So do we have a date?”
“Guess so.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I’ll have backup.”
“Someone good?”
Myron nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“Then I better go home and strap up my breasts.”
“Need any help?”
“My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I have your phone number,” she said. “See you tonight.”
CHAPTER 21
Win frowned. “Nonsurgical breast enhancements?”
“Yes. They’re an accessory of some sort.”
“An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?”
“In a way.” Then thinking about it, Myron added, “But they’re probably more noticeable.”
Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.
“False advertising,” Win said.
“Pardon?”
“Breast enhancements. It’s false advertising. There should be a law.”
“Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington—where are they when it comes to the real issues?”
“Then you understand.”
“I understand that you’re a snorting pig.”
“A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One.” Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the side. “Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?”
“The catsuit,” Myron said.
“I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit—”
“Hey, c’mon, I just ate a muffin.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine, I’m a pig too. Happy?”
“Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because of what they do to a woman’s self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable beauty on a woman—size four dresses with D cups.”
“The key word here being perhaps.”
Win smiled. “Love me for all my faults.”
“What else is there?”
Win adjusted his tie. “FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks. Shall we?”
“Let’s. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.”
“Sounds almost like a plan,” Win said.
They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the corner. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, “Yeah, baby, like that,” and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.
“About tonight,” Win said.
“Yes.”
“You trust this Thrill?”
“She checks out.”
“There is of course a chance that they’ll just shoot you when you show up.”
“I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn’t want the trouble in his own place.”
“So you think they’re extending this invitation to buy you a drink?”
“Could be,” Myron said. “With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I’m considered something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.”
Win chose not to argue.
They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. “Young FJ is at a table with someone,” Win reported. “Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.”
Myron nodded. “Shall we?”
“You first,” Win said. “Let me trail.”
Myron had stopped questioning Win’s methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside and headed toward FJ’s table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.
FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers’ direction. Hans and Franz froze.
“Hi, FJ,” Myron said.
FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. “Ah, Myron,” he said with what he must have been sure was savoir faire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. “Please, Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.”
“Oh?”
“You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit.” FJ tossed Myron the snake smile. Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. “I guess it’s kismet, huh, Myron? Your coming here. Pure kismet.”
FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.
“Kismet,” Myron repeated. “Good one.”
FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, I got a million like that. “Please sit, Myron.”
Myron pulled out a chair.
“Care for a drink?”
“An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.”
FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar.
“He’s new,” FJ confided.
“Who?”
“The guy working the espresso machine. The last guy who worked here made a wonderful latte. But he quit for moral reasons.”
“Moral reasons?”
“They started selling Kenny G CDs,” FJ said. “Sudden
ly he couldn’t sleep at night. It was tearing him apart. Suppose an impressionable kid bought one? How could he live with himself? Pushing caffeine was okay. But Kenny G … the man had scruples.”
Myron said, “Commendable.”
Win chose that moment to enter. FJ spotted him and looked over at Hans and Franz. Win did not hesitate. He beelined straight toward FJ’s table. Hans and Franz went to work. They stepped in Win’s path and expanded their chests to dimensions large enough to apply for a parking permit. Win kept walking. Both men wore turtlenecks so high and loose they looked like something awaiting circumcision.
Hans managed a smirk. “You Win?”
“Yes,” Win said, “me Win.”
“You don’t look so tough.” Hans looked at Franz.
“He look tough to you, Keith?”
Keith said, “Not so tough.”
Win did not break stride. Almost casually and without the slightest warning, he struck Hans with the knife-edge of his hand behind the ear. Hans’s whole body stiffened and then collapsed as though someone had ripped the skeleton out of him. Franz gaped at the sight. But not for long. In the same motion Win pirouetted and struck Franz in the oft vulnerable throat. An awful gurgling noise shot out of Franz’s lips, as though he were choking on a slew of small bones. Win reached for the carotid artery, found it, and squeezed with his pointer and thumb. Franz’s eyes closed, and he too slid into Nighty-Night Land.
The couple at the other table exited quickly. Win smiled down at the unconscious bruisers. Then he glanced at Myron. Myron shook his head. Win shrugged and turned to the guy manning the coffee bar.
“Barista,” Win said. “One caffe mocha.”
“What size?”
“Grande, please.”
“Skim or whole milk?”
“Skim. I’m watching my figure.”
“Right away.”
Win joined Myron and FJ. He sat and crossed his legs.
“Nice sports coat, FJ.”
“Glad you like it, Win.”
“It really brings out the demonic red in your eyes.”
“Thank you.”
“So where were we?”
Myron played along. “I was just about to tell FJ that I’m getting a little tired of the tail.”
“And I was just about to tell Myron that I’m getting tired of him meddling in my affairs,” FJ said.
Myron looked at Win. “Meddling? Does anybody really use that word anymore?”
Win thought about it. “The old man at the end of every Scooby Doo.”