One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel (26 page)

“Now Lester Ellis is Babe Ruth?”

“Let’s talk about this.”

“Nothing to talk about, Myron. And now, if you’ll excuse me, the wife is calling me. It’s strange.”

“What’s that?”

“This quality time stuff. This getting to know my children better. You know what I’ve learned, Myron?”

“What?”

“I hate my kids.”

Click.

Myron looked up at Esperanza.

“Get me Al Toney at the
Chicago Tribune
.”

“He’s being traded to Seattle.”

“Trust me here.”

Esperanza gestured to the phone. “Don’t ask me. Ask Big Cyndi.”

Myron hit the intercom. “Big Cyndi, could you please get me Al Toney? He should be at his office.”

“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”

A minute later Big Cyndi beeped in. “Al Toney on line one.”

“Al? Myron Bolitar here.”

“Hey, Myron, what’s up?”

“I owe you one, right?”

“At least one.”

“Well, I got a scoop for you.”

“My nipples are hardening as we speak. Talk dirty to me, baby.”

“You know Lester Ellis? He’s being traded tomorrow to Seattle. Lester is thrilled. He’s been bugging the Yankees to trade him all year. We couldn’t be happier.”

“That’s your big scoop?”

“Hey, this is an important story.”

“In New York or Seattle maybe. But I’m in Chicago, Myron.”

“Still. I thought you might want to know.”

“No good. You still owe me.”

Myron said, “You don’t want to check with your nipples first?”

“Hold on.” Pause. “Soft as overripe grapes already. But I could check again in a few minutes, if you’d like.”

“Pass, Al, thanks. Frankly I didn’t think it would fly with you, but it was worth a try. Between you and me, the Yankees are pushing hard on this trade. They want me to put on the best spin. I thought you could help.”

“Why? Who they getting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lester’s a pretty good player. Raw but good. Why the Yankees so interested in getting rid of him?”

“You won’t print this?”

Pause. Myron could almost hear Al’s brain awhirring. “Not if you tell me not to.”

“He’s hurt. Home accident. Damaged the knee. They’re keeping it quiet, but Lester will need surgery after the season.”

Silence.

“You can’t print it, Al.”

“No problem. Hey, I gotta go.”

Myron smiled. “Later, Al.”

He hung up.

Esperanza looked at him. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Al Toney is the master of the loophole,” Myron explained. “He promised
he
wouldn’t print it. He won’t. But he works by trading favors. He’s the best barterer in the business.”

“So?”

“So now he’ll call a friend at the
Seattle Times
and barter. The injury rumor will spread. If it gets public before the trade is announced, well, it’s doomed.”

Esperanza smiled. “Highly unethical.”

Myron shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s fuzzy.”

“I still like it.”

“Always remember the MB SportsReps credo: The client comes first.”

She nodded and added, “Even in sexual liaisons.”

“Hey, we’re a full-service agency.” Myron looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. Can you?”

“Why do you hate Jessica?”

Esperanza’s face clouded over. She shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“I’m serious.”

She crossed her legs, uncrossed them. “Let me just stick to taking cheap potshots, okay?”

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “I want to know why you don’t like her.”

Esperanza sighed, crossed the legs again, tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Jessica is bright, smart, funny, a great writer, and I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”

Bisexuals.

“But she hurt you.”

“So? She’s not the first woman to commit an indiscretion.”

“True enough,” Esperanza agreed. She slapped her knees and stood. “Guess I’m wrong. Can I go now?”

“So why do you still hold a grudge?”

“I like grudges,” Esperanza said. “They’re easier than forgiveness.”

Myron shook his head, signaled her to sit.

“What do you want me to say, Myron?”

“I want you to tell me why you don’t like her.”

“I’m just being a pain in the ass. Don’t take it seriously.”

Myron shook his head again.

Esperanza put her hand to her face. She looked away for a moment. “You’re not tough enough, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“For that kind of hurt. Most people can take it. I can. Jessica can. Win certainly can. But you can’t. You’re not tough enough. You’re just not built that way.”

“Then maybe that’s my fault.”

“It is your fault,” Esperanza said. “At least in part. You idealize relationships too much, for one thing. And you’re too sensitive. You used to expose yourself too much. You used to leave yourself too open.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

She hesitated. “No. In fact, it’s a good thing, I guess. A bit naive, but it’s a lot better than those assholes who hold everything back. Can we stop talking about this now?”

“I still don’t think you’ve answered my question.”

Esperanza raised her palms. “That’s as good as I can do.”

Myron flashed back to Little League again, to being hit by Joey Davito’s pitch, to never planting his feet in the batter’s box the same again. He nodded. Used to expose, Esperanza had said. “Used to.” A curious use of words.

Esperanza took advantage of the silence and changed subjects. “I checked into Elizabeth Bradford for you.”

“And?”

“There’s nothing there that would suggest her death was anything other than an accident. You can take a run at her brother, if you want. He lives in Westport. He’s also closely aligned to his old brother-in-law, so I doubt you’ll get anywhere.”

Waste of time. “Any other family?”

“A sister who also lives in Westport. But she’s spending the summer on the Côte d’Azur.”

Strike two.

“Anything else?”

“One thing bothered me a little,” Esperanza said. “Elizabeth Bradford was clearly a social animal, a society dame of the first order. Barely a week went by when her name wasn’t in the paper for some function or other. But about six months before she fell off the balcony, mentions of her stopped.”

“When you say ‘stopped’—”

“I mean, completely. Her name was nowhere, not even in the town paper.”

Myron thought about this. “Maybe she was on the Côte d’Azur.”

“Maybe. But her husband wasn’t there with her. Arthur was still getting plenty of coverage.”

Myron leaned back and spun his chair around. He checked out the Broadway posters behind his desk again. Yep, they definitely had to go. “You said there were a lot of stories on Elizabeth Bradford before that?”

“Not stories,” Esperanza corrected. “Mentions. Her name was almost always preceded by ‘Hosting the
event was’ or ‘Attendees included’ or ‘Pictured from right to left are.’”

Myron nodded. “Were these in some kind of column or general articles or what?”

“The
Jersey Ledger
used to have a social column. It was called ‘Social Soirees.’”

“Catchy.” But Myron remembered the column vaguely from his childhood. His mother used to skim it, checking out the boldface names for a familiar one. Mom had even been listed once, referred to as “prominent local attorney Ellen Bolitar.” That was how she wanted to be addressed for the next week. Myron would yell down, “Hey, Mom!” and she would reply, “That’s Prominent Local Attorney Ellen Bolitar to you, Mr. Smarty Pants.”

“Who wrote the column?” Myron asked.

Esperanza handed him a sheet of paper. There was a head shot of a pretty woman with an overstylized helmet of hair, à la Lady Bird Johnson. Her name was Deborah Whittaker.

“Think we can get an address on her?”

Esperanza nodded. “Shouldn’t take long.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Esperanza’s deadline hung over them like a reaper’s scythe.

Myron said, “I can’t imagine you not in my life.”

“Won’t happen,” Esperanza replied. “No matter what you decide, you’ll still be my best friend.”

“Partnerships ruin friendships.”

“So you tell me.”

“So I know.” He had avoided this conversation long enough. To use basketball vernacular, he had gone into
four corners, but the twenty-four-second clock had run down. He could no longer delay the inevitable in the hope that the inevitable would somehow turn to smoke and vanish in the air. “My father and my uncle tried it. They ended up not talking to each other for four years.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Even now their relationship is not what it was. It never will be. I know literally dozens of families and friends—good people, Esperanza—who tried partnerships like this. I don’t know one case where it worked in the long run. Not one. Brother against brother. Daughter against father. Best friend against best friend. Money does funny things to people.”

Esperanza nodded again.

“Our friendship could survive anything,” Myron said, “but I’m not sure it can survive a partnership.”

Esperanza stood again. “I’ll get you an address on Deborah Whittaker,” she said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’ll give you three weeks for the transition. Will that be long enough?”

Myron nodded, his throat dry. He wanted to say something more, but whatever came to mind was even more inane than what preceded it.

The intercom buzzed. Esperanza left the room. Myron hit the button.

“Yes?”

Big Cyndi said, “The
Seattle Times
on line one.”

The Inglemoore Convalescent Home was painted bright yellow and cheerfully maintained and colorfully landscaped and still looked like a place you went to die.

The inner lobby had a rainbow on one wall. The furniture was happy and functional. Nothing too plush. Didn’t want the patrons having trouble getting out of chairs. A table in the room’s center had a huge arrangement of freshly cut roses. The roses were bright red and strikingly beautiful and would die in a day or two.

Myron took a deep breath.
Settle, boy, settle
.

The place had a heavy cherry smell like one of those dangling tree-shaped car fresheners. A woman dressed in slacks and a blouse—what you’d call “nice casual”—greeted him. She was in her early thirties and smiled with the genuine warmth of a Stepford Wife.

“I’m here to see Deborah Whittaker.”

“Of course,” she said. “I think Deborah is in the rec room. I’m Gayle. I’ll take you.”

Deborah. Gayle. Everyone was a first name. There was probably a Dr. Bob on the premises. They headed down a corridor lined with festive murals. The floors sparkled, but Myron could still make out fresh wheelchair streaks. Everyone on staff had the same fake smile. Part of the training, Myron supposed. All of them—orderlies, nurses, whatever—were dressed in civilian clothes. No one wore a stethoscope or beeper or name tag or anything that implied anything medical. All buddies here at Inglemoore.

Gayle and Myron entered the rec room. Unused Ping-Pong tables. Unused pool tables. Unused card tables. Oft-used television.

“Please sit down,” Gayle said. “Becky and Deborah will be with you momentarily.”

“Becky?” Myron asked.

Again the smile. “Becky is Deborah’s friend.”

“I see.”

Myron was left alone with six old people, five of whom were women. No sexism in longevity. They were neatly attired, the sole man in a tie even, and all were in wheelchairs. Two of them had the shakes. Two were mumbling to themselves. They all had skin a color closer to washed-out gray than any flesh tone. One woman waved at Myron with a bony, blue-lined hand. Myron smiled and waved back.

Several signs on the wall had the Inglemoore slogan:

INGLEMOORE—NO DAY LIKE TODAY.

Nice, Myron guessed, but he couldn’t help but think up a more appropriate one:

INGLEMOORE—BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE.

Hmm. He’d drop it in the suggestion box on the way out.

“Mr. Bolitar?”

Deborah Whittaker shuffled into the room. She still had Le Helmet de Hair from the newspaper portrait—black as shoe polish and shellacked on until it resembled fiberglass—but the overall effect was still like something out of Dorian Gray, as though she had aged a zillion years in one fell swoop. Her eyes had that soldier’s thousand-yard stare. She had a bit of a shake in her face that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn. Parkinson’s maybe, but he was no expert.

Her “friend” Becky had been the one who called his name. Becky was maybe thirty years old. She too was dressed in civilian clothes rather than whites, and while nothing about her appearance suggested nursing, Myron still thought of Louise Fletcher in
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.

He stood.

“I’m Becky,” the nurse said.

“Myron Bolitar.”

Becky shook his hand and offered him a patronizing smile. Probably couldn’t help it. Probably couldn’t smile genuinely until she was out of here for at least an hour. “Do you mind if I join you two?”

Deborah Whittaker spoke for the first time. “Go away,” she rasped. Her voice sounded like a worn tire on a gravel road.