by Harlan Coben
"That being?"
"A fake ID."
Esperanza shook her head. "The social security number exists."
"I don't doubt that. But I think someone pulled the classic tombstone-fake-ID trick."
"That being?"
"You go to a graveyard and find the tombstone of a dead child," Myron said. "Someone who would be about your age if he'd lived. Then you write and request his birth certificate and paperwork and voila, you've set up the perfect fake ID. Oldest trick in the book."
Esperanza gave him the look she saved for his most idiotic moments. "No," she said.
"No?"
"You think the police don't watch TV, Myron? That doesn't work anymore. Hasn't worked in years, except maybe on cop shows. But just to make sure, I double-checked."
"How?"
"Death records," she said. "There's a Web site that has the social security numbers of all the deceased."
"And the number isn't there."
"Ding, ding, ding," Esperanza said.
Myron leaned forward. "This makes absolutely no sense," he said. "Our phony Davis Taylor has gone to a great deal of trouble to create this phony ID — or at least to fly below the radar, right?"
"Right."
"He wants no records, no paperwork, nothing."
"Right again."
"Even changes his name."
"You go, boy."
Myron put his arms out. "Then why would he sign up to be a bone marrow donor?"
"Myron?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Esperanza said.
True enough. He'd called last night and asked her to check out Davis Taylor. He had not yet told her why.
"I guess I owe you an explanation," he said.
She shrugged.
"I sort of promised you I wouldn't be doing this anymore," he said.
"Investigating," she said.
"Right. And I meant it. I wanted this to be a straight agency from now on."
She didn't respond. Myron glanced at the wall behind her. The sparse Client Wall again reminded him of a hair transplant that hadn't taken. Maybe he should paint on a couple of coats of Rogaine.
"You remember Emily's call?" he said.
"It was yesterday, Myron. My memory can sometimes go back a whole week."
He explained it all. Some men — men Myron grudgingly admired — keep it all inside, bury their secrets, hide the pain, the whole cliche. Myron rarely did. He was not one to walk down the mean streets alone — he liked Win to be his backup. He didn't grab a bottle of whiskey and drown his sorrows — he discussed them with Esperanza. Not very macho, but there you have it.
Esperanza stayed silent as he spoke. When he got to the part about being Jeremy's father, she let out a small groan and closed her eyes and kept them shut for a very long time. When she finally opened them, she asked, "So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find the donor."
"That's not what I meant."
He knew that. "I don't know," he said.
She thought about it, shook her head in disbelief. "You have a son."
"Seems so."
"And you don't know what you're going to do about it?"
"That's right."
"But you're leaning," she said.
"Win made a pretty good case for not saying anything."
She made a sound. "Win would."
"Actually he claims to be using his heart."
"If only he had one."
"You don't agree?"
"No," she said. "I don't agree."
"You think I should tell Jeremy?"
"I think first and foremost you should put aside your Batman complex," she said.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means you always try a little too hard to be heroic."
"And that's bad?"
"Sometimes it clouds your thinking," she said. "The heroic thing is not always the right thing."
"Jeremy already has a family. He has a mother and a father—"
"He has," Esperanza interrupted, "a lie."
They sat there and stared at each other. The phone, usually so active, was silent, as it had been for too long now. Myron wondered how he could explain it so that she would understand. She stayed still, waiting.
"We were both lucky when it came to parents," Myron said.
"Mine are dead, Myron."
"That's not what I mean," he said. He took a deep breath. "How many days pass that you don't still miss them?"
"None," she said without hesitation.
He nodded. "We were both loved unconditionally and we both loved our parents the same way."
Esperanza's eyes started misting. "So?"
"So — and this was what Win said — isn't that what makes a mother or father? Isn't it about who raised us and loved us and not simply an accident of biology?"
Esperanza leaned back. "Win said that?"
Myron smiled. "He has his moments."
"That he does," she said.
"And think about your father — the one who raised and loved you. What happens to him?"
Her eyes were still misty. "My love for him is strong enough to survive the truth. Isn't yours?"
He tilted back as though the words were jabs at his chin. "Sure," he said. "But it would still hurt him."
"Your father would be hurt?"
"Of course."
"I see," Esperanza said. "So now you're worried about poor Greg Downing?"
"Hardly. You want to hear something awful?"
"Love to."
"When Greg constantly refers to Jeremy as 'my son,' I want to yell out the truth. Right in his smug face. Just to see his reaction. Just to watch his world crumble."
"So much for your Batman complex," Esperanza said.
Myron held out his hands. "I have my moments too," he said.
Esperanza stood and headed for the door.
"Where you going?"
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said.
He sat back.
"You're blocking," she said. "You know that?"
He nodded slowly.
"When you move past it — and you will — we'll talk about it again. Otherwise, we're wasting our time here, okay?"
"Okay."
"Just don't be stupid."
" 'Don't be stupid,'" he repeated. "Check."
Her departing smile was brief.
Chapter 12
Myron spent the rest of the day working the phones. He strapped on his Ultra Slim headset and paced the office. He talked up college coaches, mining for potential free agents. He touched base with his clients and listened to their problems, both real and imagined, therapist-style, which was a large part of his job. He sifted through his Rolodex of companies, trying to conjure up a few endorsement deals.
One serious lead came a-knocking on its own: "Mr. Bolitar? I'm Ronny Angle from Rack Enterprises. Are you familiar with us?"
"You run a bunch of topless bars, right?" "We prefer they be called upscale exotic nightclubs." "And I prefer to be called a well-endowed stallion," Myron said. "What can I do for you, Mr. Angle?" "Ronny please. Can I call you Myron?" "Myron please."
"Great, Myron. Rack Enterprises is entering a new venture."
"Uh-huh."
"You've probably read about it. A chain of coffeehouses called La, La, Latte."
"For real?"
"Pardon?"
"Well, I think I did see something about this, but I figured it was a joke."
"It's no joke, Mr. Bolitar."
"So you guys are really going to open up topless coffee bars?"
"We prefer they be called upscale erotic coffee experiences."
"I see. But you're, uh, baristas will be topless, correct?"
"Correct."
Myron thought about it. "Makes asking for milk something of a double entendre, don't you think?"
"That's very funny, Myron."
"Thanks, Ronny."
"We're going to
open with a big splash."
"That another milk joke, Ronny?"
"No, Myron, but you're a pretty funny guy."
"Thanks, Ronny."
"Let me cut right to it, okay? We like Suzze T". Suzze T was Suzze Tamirino, a journeyman (or is it journey-woman?) on the pro tennis circuit. "We saw her picture in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, and, well, we were very impressed. We'd like her to do a cameo for our grand opening."
Myron rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "When you say cameo—"
"A brief performance."
"How brief?"
"No more than five minutes."
"I don't mean brief in terms of time. I mean in terms of clothing."
"We'd require full frontal nudity."
"Well, thanks for thinking of us, Ronny, but I don't think Suzze will be interested."
"We're offering two hundred thousand dollars."
Myron sat up. Easy to hang up, but with this kind of dough, he had a responsibility to follow up. "How about if she wears a small top?"
"No."
"A bikini?"
"No."
"An itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bikini?"
"Like in the song?"
"Exactly," Myron said. "Like in the song."
"I'm going to state this as plainly as I can," Ronny said. "There must be nipple visibility."
"Nipple visibility?"
"This point is nonnegotiable."
"So to speak."
Myron promised to call him back later in the week. The two men hung up. Negotiating nipple visibility. What a business.
Esperanza came in without knocking. Her eyes were wide and bright.
"Lamar Richardson is on line one," she said.
"Lamar himself?"
She nodded.
"No relative or personal manager or favorite astrologer?"
"Lamar himself," Esperanza repeated.
They both nodded. This was a good thing.
Myron picked up the phone. "Hello."
"Let's meet," Lamar said.
"Sure," Myron said.
"When?"
"You name it."
"When are you free?"
"You name it," Myron said.
"I'm in Detroit right now."
"I'll catch the next plane out."
"Just like that?" Lamar said.
"Yup."
"Shouldn't you pretend you're really busy?"
"We going to date, Lamar?"
Lamar chuckled. "No, I don't think so."
"Then I'll skip the playing-hard-to-get stage. Esperanza and I want you to sign up with MB Sports-Reps. We'll do a good job. We'll make you a priority. And we won't play mind games with you."
Myron smiled at Esperanza. Was he good or what?
Lamar said he was going to be in Manhattan later in the week and would like to meet then. They set up a time. Myron hung up. He and Esperanza sat there and smiled at each other.
"We have a chance," she said.
"Yep."
"So what's our strategy?"
"I thought I'd impress him with my nimble mind," he said.
"Hmm," Esperanza said. "Maybe I should wear something low cut."
"I was kinda counting on that."
"Hit him with brains and beauty."
"Yes," Myron said. "But which one of us is which?"
When Myron got back to the Dakota, Win was heading out with his leather gym bag and Terese was gone.
"She left a note," Win said, handing it to Myron.
Had to go back early. I'll call.
Terese
Myron read the note again. It didn't change. He folded it up and put it away.
"You going to Master Kwon's?" Myron asked. Master Kwon was their martial arts instructor.
Win nodded. "He's been asking for you."
"What did you tell him?" Myron asked.
"That you wigged out."
"Thanks."
Win gave a slight bow and lifted his gym bag. "May I make a suggestion?"
"Shoot."
"You haven't been to the dojang in a long while."
"I know."
"You have a great deal of stress in your life," Win said. "You need an outlet. You need some focus. Some balance. Some structure."
"You're not going to make me snatch a pebble from your hand, are you?"
"Not today, no. But come with me."
Myron shrugged. "I'll grab my stuff."
They were halfway out the door when Esperanza called. He told her they were just on their way out.
"Where?" she asked.
"Master Kwon's."
"I'll meet you there."
"Why? What's up?"
"I got some information on Davis Taylor."
"And?"
"And it's more than a little strange. Is Win going with you?"
"Yes."
"Ask him if he knows anything about Raymond Lex's family."
Silence. "Raymond Lex is dead, Esperanza."
"Duh, Myron. I said family."
"This has something to do with Davis Taylor?"
"It'll be easier to explain in person. I'll see you down there in an hour."
She hung up.
One of the doormen had already fetched Win's Jag. It sat waiting for them on Central Park West. The rich. Myron settled into the lush leather. Win hit the accelerator pad. He was big with the accelerator pad; he had a bit more trouble when it came to the brake.
"Do you know Raymond Lex's family?"
"They used to be clients," Win said.
"You're kidding?"
"Oh yes, I'm a regular Red Buttons."
"Were you directly involved in this inheritance squabble?"
"Calling this a squabble would be similar to calling nuclear Armageddon a campfire."
"Hard to divide up billions, huh?"
"Indeed. So why are we discussing the Lex clan?"
"Esperanza is going to meet us down at the dojang. She has some information on Davis Taylor. Somehow the Lex family is connected."
Win arched his eyebrow. "The plot doth thicken."
"So tell me a little about them."
"Most of it was in the media. Raymond Lex writes a controversial bestseller called Midnight Confessions. Said bestseller becomes an Oscar-winning blockbuster. Suddenly he goes from obscure junior-college instructor to millionaire. Unlike most of his artistic brethren, he understands business. He invests and amasses private holdings with a substantial yet confidential net worth."
"The papers place it in the billions."
"I won't argue."
"That's a lot of money."
"The way you word things," Win said. "It's like Proust."
"He never wrote another book?"
"No."
"Odd."
"Not really," Win said. "Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell never wrote another book. And at least Lex kept busy. It's hard to build one of the largest privately held corporations and do book signings."
"So now that he's dead, his family is — how to say it? — nuclear Armageddoning?"
"Close enough."
Master Kwon had moved his headquarters and main dojang into the second floor of a building on Twenty-third Street near Broadway. Five rooms — studios really — with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, high-tech sound system, sleek and shiny Nautilus equipment — oh, and some of those rice-paper Oriental scroll-posters. Gave the place a real Old World Asia feel.
Myron and Win slipped into their dobok, a white uniform, and tied their black belts. Myron had been studying tae kwon do and hapkido since Win had first introduced him to them in college, but he hadn't been to a dojang more than five times in the past three years. Win, on the other hand, remained devoutly lethal. Don't tug on Superman's cape, don't spit in the wind, don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Win. Bah, bah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee.
Master Kwon was in his mid-seventies but could easily pass for two decades younger. Win had met him during his Asia
n travels when he was fifteen. As near as Myron could tell, Master Kwon had been a high priest or some such thing at a small Buddhist monastery straight out of a Hong Kong revenge flick. When Master Kwon emigrated to the United States, he spoke very little English. Now, some twenty years later, he spoke almost none. As soon as the wise master hit our shores, he opened up a chain of state-of-the-art tae kwon do schools — with Win's financial backing, of course. Once he saw the Karate Kid movies, Master Kwon started playing the old wise man to the hilt. His English disappeared. He started dressing like the Dalai Lama and began every sentence with the words "Confucius say," ignoring the small fact that he was Korean and Confucius was Chinese.
Win and Myron headed to Master Kwon's office. At the entrance, both men bowed deeply.
"Please in," Master Kwon said.
The desk was fine oak, the chair rich leather and orthopedic looking. Master Kwon was standing near a corner. He held a putter in his hands and wore a splendidly tailored suit. His face brightened when he saw Myron, and the two men embraced.
When they broke apart, Master Kwon said, "You better?"
"Better," Myron agreed.
The old man smiled and grabbed his own lapel. "Armani," he said.
"I thought so," Myron said.
"You like?"
"Very nice."
Satisfied, Master Kwon said, "Go."
Win and Myron bowed deeply. Once in the dojang, they fell into their customary roles: Win led and Myron followed. They started with meditation. Win loved meditating, as we already graphically witnessed. He sat in the lotus position, palms tilted up, hands resting on knees, back straight, tongue folded against the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose, forcing the air down, letting his abdomen do all the work. Myron tried to duplicate — had been trying for years — but he had never quite gotten the hang of it. His mind, even during less chaotic times, wandered. His bad knee tightened. He got fidgety.
They cut down the stretching to only ten minutes. Again Win was effortless, executing splits and toe touches and deep bends with ease, his bones and joints as flexible as a politician's voting record. Myron had never been a naturally limber guy. When he was training seriously, he could touch his toes and complete a hurdle stretch with little problem. But just then, that felt like a long time ago.
"I'm already sore," Myron said through a grunt.
Win tilted his head. "Odd."
"What?"
"That's precisely what my date said last night."
"You weren't kidding before," Myron said. "You really are another Red Buttons."