One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (25 page)

“Protect her from what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Ah,” Win said. “And—let me make sure I understand you here—you feel that the best way to protect
Ms. Slaughter is to agitate police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters?”

“That can’t be helped.”

“Well, yes, of course you’re right about that. And we also have your other two goals to consider.” Win lowered the visor and checked his hair in the mirror. Not a blond hair out of place. He still patted about, frowning. When he finished, he snapped the visor back into place. “Let’s start with finding Anita Slaughter, shall we?”

Myron nodded, but he knew that he was not going to like where this was going.

“That is the core of the matter, is it not? Finding Brenda’s mother?”

“Right,” Myron said.

“So—and again let me make sure I comprehend completely—you are taking on police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters to find a woman who ran off twenty years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And the reason for this search?”

“Brenda. She wants to know where her mother is. She has the right—”

“Bah,” Win interrupted.

“Bah?”

“What are you, the ACLU? What right? Brenda has no right here. Do you believe Anita Slaughter is being held against her will?”

“No.”

“Then what, pray tell, are you trying to accomplish here? If Anita Slaughter craved a reconciliation with her daughter, she would seek it. Clearly she has opted not
to do that. We know that she ran away twenty years ago. We know that she has worked hard to stay hidden. What we don’t know, of course, is why. And instead of respecting her decision, you choose to ignore it.”

Myron said nothing.

“Under normal circumstances,” Win continued, “this search would be a close call. But when you add in the mitigating factors—the obvious danger upsetting these particular adversaries—the call is an easy one. Simply put, we are taking a tremendous risk for very little reason.”

Myron shook his head, but he saw the logic. Had he not wondered about these same issues himself? He was doing his tightrope act again, this time over a raging inferno, and he was dragging others, including Francine Neagly, with him. And for what? Win was right. He was pissing off powerful people. He might even be inadvertently helping those who wished Anita Slaughter great harm, flushing her out into the open where they could set their sights with greater ease. He knew that he had to step carefully here. One false move and ka-pow.

“There’s more to it,” Myron tried. “A crime may have been covered up.”

“Are you speaking now of Elizabeth Bradford?”

“Yes.”

Win frowned. “So is that what you’re after, Myron? You’re risking lives in order to give her justice after twenty years? Elizabeth Bradford is calling out to you from the grave or some such thing?”

“There’s also Horace to think about.”

“What about him?”

“He was my friend.”

“And you believe that finding his killer will ease your guilt over not talking to him in ten years?”

Myron swallowed at that one. “Low blow, Win.”

“No, my friend, I am merely trying to pull you back from the abyss. I am not saying that there is no value in what you are doing here. We have worked for questionable profit before. But you have to calculate some sort of cost-benefit analysis. You are trying to find a woman who does not want to be found. You are pushing against forces more powerful than you and me combined.”

“You almost sound afraid, Win.”

Win looked at him. “You know better.”

Myron looked at the blue eyes with the flecks of silver. He nodded. He did know better.

“I’m talking about pragmatism,” Win continued, “not fear. Pushing is fine. Forcing confrontation is fine. We’ve done that plenty of times before. We both know that I rarely back away from such instances, that I perhaps enjoy them too much. But there was always a goal. We were looking for Kathy to help clear a client. We were looking for Valerie’s killer for the same reason. We searched for Greg because you were well compensated monetarily. The same could be said about the Coldren boy. But the goal here is too hazy.”

The volume switch on the car radio was set low, but Myron could still hear Seal “compare” his love to “a kiss from the rose on the grave.” Romance.

“I have to stick with this,” Myron said. “For a little while longer anyway.”

Win said nothing.

“And I’d like your help.”

Still nothing.

“There were scholarships set up to help Brenda,” Myron said. “I think her mother may have been funneling money to her through them. Anonymously. I want you to try to track the money trail.”

Win reached forward and turned off the radio. Traffic was almost nonexistent. The air conditioner hummed, but otherwise the silence was heavy. After a couple of minutes, Win broke it.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

The question hit him by surprise. Myron opened his mouth, closed it. Win had never asked a question like this before; he did, in fact, all he could do to avoid the subject. Explaining love relationships to Win had always seemed akin to explaining jazz music to a lawn chair.

“I think I might be,” Myron said.

“It’s affecting your judgment,” Win said. “Emotion may be ruling over pragmatism.”

“I won’t let it.”

“Pretend you are not in love with her. Would you still pursue this?”

“Does it matter?”

Win nodded. He understood better than most. Hypotheticals had nothing to do with reality. “Fine then,” he said. “Give me the information on the scholarships. I’ll see what I can find.”

They both settled into silence. Win as always looked perfectly relaxed and in a state of total readiness.

“There is a very fine line between relentless and stupid,” Win said. “Try to stay on the right side of it.”

The Sunday afternoon traffic remained light. The Lincoln Tunnel was a breeze. Win fiddled with the buttons on Myron’s new CD player, settling on a recently purchased compilation CD of AM seventies classics. They listened to the “The Night Chicago Died.” Then “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” Nights, Myron surmised, were a dangerous time in the seventies. Then the theme song to the movie
Billy Jack
blasted its peace on earth message. Remember the Billy Jack movies? Win did. A little too well, in fact.

The final song was a classic seventies tearjerker called “Shannon.” Shannon dies pretty early in the song. In a very high pitch, we are told that Shannon is gone, that she drifted out to sea. Sad. The song always moved Myron. Mother is heartbroken at the loss. Dad always seems tired now. Nothing is the same without Shannon.

“Did you know,” Win said, “that Shannon was a dog?”

“You’re kidding.”

Win shook his head. “If you listen closely to the chorus, you can tell.”

“I can only make out the part about Shannon being gone and drifting out to sea.”

“That is followed by the hopes that Shannon will find an island with a shady tree.”

“A shady tree?”

Win sang, “Just like the one in our backyard.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a dog, Win. Maybe Shannon liked sitting under a tree. Maybe they had a hammock.”

“Perhaps,” Win said. “But there is one other subtle giveaway.”

“What’s that?”

“The CD liner notes say the song is about a dog.”

Win.

“Do you want me to drop you off at home?” Myron asked.

Win shook his head. “I have paperwork,” he said. “And I think it best if I stay close.”

Myron did not argue.

“You have the weapon?” Win asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you want another?”

“No.”

They parked at the Kinney lot and took the elevator up together. The high-rise was silent today, the ants all away from the hill. The effect was sort of eerie, like one of those end-of-the-earth apocalypse movies where everything
is abandoned and ghostlike. The dinging of the elevator echoed in the still air like a thunderclap.

Myron got off at the twelfth floor. Despite its being Sunday, Big Cyndi was at her desk. As always, everything around Big Cyndi looked tiny, like that episode of
The Twilight Zone
where the house starts shrinking or like someone had jammed a large stuffed animal into Barbie’s pink Corvette. Big Cyndi was wearing a wig today that looked like something stolen from Carol Channing’s closet. Bad hair day, Myron supposed. She stood and smiled at him. Myron kept his eyes open and was surprised when he didn’t turn to stone.

Big Cyndi was normally six-six, but she was wearing high heels today. Pumps. The heels cried out in agony as she stood. She was dressed in what some might consider a business suit. The shirt was French-Revolution frilly, the jacket solid gray with a fresh tear along the shoulder stitch.

She raised her hands and twirled for Myron. Picture Godzilla rearing back after getting nailed by a Taser gun.

“Like it?” she asked.

“Very much,” Myron said.
Jurassic Park III: The Fashion Show
.

“I bought it at Benny’s.”

“Benny’s?”

“Down in the Village,” Big Cyndi explained. “It’s a clothing store for transvestites. But lots of us big girls shop there too.”

Myron nodded. “Practical,” he said.

Big Cyndi sniffled once, then suddenly began to cry. She still had on waaaay too much makeup, none of it
waterproof, and she quickly started to look like a lava lamp left in the microwave.

“Oh, Mr. Bolitar!”

She ran toward him, her arms spread, the floor creaking from the thumping. An image of one of those cartoon scenes where characters keep falling through floors, forming cutout silhouettes in each floor as they pass through it, came to him.

Myron put up his hands.
No! Myron good! Myron like Cyndi! Cyndi no hurt Myron!
But the gesture was useless.

She embraced him, wrapping both arms around him and lifting him off his feet. It felt as though a water bed had come to life and attacked him. He closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.

“Thank you,” she whispered through her tears.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Esperanza. She watched the scene with crossed arms, smiling slightly. The new job, Myron suddenly remembered. Rehiring her full-time.

“You’re welcome,” he managed.

“I won’t let you down.”

“Could you at least put me down?”

Big Cyndi made a noise that might have been a giggle. Children in the tristate area screamed and reached for Mommy’s hand.

She lowered him gently back to the floor like a child placing a block on the top of a pyramid. “You won’t be sorry. I’ll work night and day. I’ll work weekends. I’ll pick up your laundry. I’ll make coffee. I’ll fetch Yoo-Hoos. I’ll even give you backrubs.”

The image of a steamroller approaching a bruised peach flashed through his mind.

“Er, a Yoo-Hoo would be great.”

“Right away.” Big Cyndi bounced toward the refrigerator.

Myron moved toward Esperanza.

“She does give a great backrub,” Esperanza said.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I told Big Cyndi you were the one who wanted to hire her full-time.”

Myron nodded. “Next time,” he said, “just let me pull a thorn out of her paw, okay?”

Big Cyndi held up the can of Yoo-Hoo. “Do you want me to shake it for you, Mr. Bolitar?”

“I’ll handle that, Cyndi, thanks.”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.” She hopped back over, and Myron was reminded of the scene where the boat flips over in the
Poseidon Adventure
. She handed him the Yoo-Hoo. Then she smiled again. And the gods shielded their eyes.

Myron spoke to Esperanza. “Any more word on Lester’s trade?”

“No.”

“Get me Ron Dixon on the phone. Try his home number.”

Big Cyndi took that one. “Right away, Mr. Bolitar.”

Esperanza shrugged. Big Cyndi dialed and used her English accent. She sounded like Maggie Smith in a Noel Coward play. Myron and Esperanza went into his office. The call was transferred.

“Ron? It’s Myron Bolitar, how are you?”

“I know who the hell this is, moron. Your receptionist
told me. It’s Sunday, Myron. Sunday is my day off. Sunday is my family day. My quality time. My chance to get to know the kids better. So why are you calling me on a Sunday?”

“Are you trading Lester Ellis?”

“That’s why you’re calling me at home on a Sunday?”

“Is it true?”

“No comment.”

“You told me you wouldn’t trade him.”

“Wrong. I told you I wouldn’t actively put him on the block. If you recall, Mr. Super Agent, you wanted to put in a trade approval clause in his contract. I said, no, unless you wanted to shave fifty grand off his salary. You refused. Now it’s coming back and biting your ass cheek, ain’t it, hotshot?”

Myron shifted in his seat. Sore ass cheek and all. “Who are you getting for him?”

“No comment.”

“Don’t do this, Ron. He’s a great talent.”

“Yeah. Too bad he’s not a great baseball player.”

“You’re going to look foolish. Remember Nolan Ryan for Jim Fregosi? Remember Babe Ruth, uh”—Myron forgot who they got in the trade—“being traded by the Red Sox?”