The Final Detail

  So the fan let it drop. And the pounding rooms remained. Probably still do in some places.

  Veronica Lake giggled. It was not a pretty sound. "Care to dance, dreamboat?" he-she asked again.

  "Let's wait for a slow song," Myron said.

  A third cross-dresser stepped into the room. A redhead. He-she looked a lot like Bonnie Franklin, the plucky mother on the old sitcom One Day at a Time. The resemblance was, in fact, rather uncanny--the perfect mix of determination and cutes. Spunky. Scrappy.

  "Where's Schneider?" Myron asked.

  No reply.

  Veronica Lake said, "Stand up, dreamboat."

  "The blood on the floor," Myron said.

  "What?"

  "It's a nice touch, but it's overkill, don't you think?"

  Veronica Lake lifted her right foot and pulled on her heel. It came off. Sort of. The heel was a covering actually. A sheath. For a steel blade. Veronica showed it to Myron with an impressive display of martial art high kicks, the blade gleaming in the light.

  Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl started giggling.

  Myron kept the fear at bay and looked steadily at Veronica Lake. "Are you new at cross-dressing?" he asked.

  Veronica stopped kicking. "What?"

  "I mean, aren't you taking the whole stiletto heel thing too far?"

  Not his best joke, but anything to stall. Veronica looked at Mall Girl. Mall Girl looked at Bonnie Franklin. Then Veronica suddenly threw a sweep kick, leading with the blade heel. Myron saw the glint of steel shoot toward him. He rolled back, but the blade still sliced through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a little cry and looked down wide-eyed. The cut wasn't deep, but he was bleeding.

  The three spread out, making fists. Bonnie Franklin had something in her hand. A black club maybe. Myron did not like this. He tried to spring to his feet, but again Veronica threw a kick. He leaped high, but the blade still hit his lower leg. He actually felt the blade get caught on the shin bone before scraping itself off.

  Myron's heart was pounding now. More blood. Jesus Christ. Something about seeing your own blood. His breathing was too fast. Keep cool, he reminded himself. Think.

  He faked left to the spot where Bonnie Franklin stood with the baton. Then he coiled right, his fist at the ready. Without hesitating, he threw a punch at the advancing Mall Girl. His knuckles landed flush below the eye and Mall Girl went down.

  That was when Myron felt his heart stop.

  There was a zapping sound and the back of his knee exploded. Myron spun in pure agony. His body jolted. Searing pain burst out of the nerve bundle behind the knee and traveled everywhere in an electric surge. He looked behind him. Bonnie Franklin had merely touched him with the baton. His legs seized up, lost power. He collapsed back to the floor and writhed fish-on-boat-deck fashion. His stomach clenched. Nausea consumed him.

  "That was the lowest setting," Bonnie Franklin said, voice high-pitched little girl. "Just gets the cow's attention."

  Myron looked up, trying to stop his body from quaking. Veronica lifted his leg and placed the heel blade near his face. One quick stomp and he was done. Bonnie showed him the cattle prod again. Myron felt a fresh shiver go through him. He looked through the one-way glass. No sign of Big Cyndi or any cavalry.

  Now what?

  Bonnie Franklin did the talking. "Why are you here?"

  He focused on the cattle prod and how to avoid experiencing its wrath again. "I was asking about someone," he said.

  Mall Girl had recovered. She-he stood up over him holding her-his face. "He hit me!" Her tone was a little deeper now, the shock and hurt dropping the feminine facade a bit.

  Myron stayed still.

  "You bitch!"

  Mall Girl grimaced and threw a kick as though Myron's rib cage were a football. Myron saw the kick coming, saw the heel blade, saw the cattle prod, closed his eyes, and let it land.

  He fell back.

  Bonnie Franklin continued with the questions. "Who were you asking about?"

  No secret. "Clu Haid."

  "Why?"

  "Because I wanted to know if he'd been here."

  "Why?"

  Telling them he was looking for his killer might not be the wisest course of action, especially if said killer was in the room. "He was a client of mine."

  "So?"

  "Bitch!" It was Mall Girl again. Another kick. It again landed on the bottom tip of the rib cage and hurt like hell. Myron swallowed away some bile that had worked its way up. He looked through the one-way glass again. Still no Big Cyndi. Blood flowed from the knife wounds to his chest and leg. His insides still trembled from the electric shock. He looked into the eyes of Veronica Lake. The calm eyes. Win had them too. The great ones always do.

  "Who do you work for?" Bonnie asked.

  "No one."

  "Then why would you care if he came here?"

  "I'm just trying to put some things together," he said.

  "What things?"

  "Just general stuff."

  Bonnie Franklin looked at Veronica Lake. Both nodded. Then Bonnie Franklin made a show of turning up the cattle prod. "'General stuff' is an unacceptable response."

  Panic squeezed Myron's gut. "Wait--"

  "No, I think not." Bonnie reached toward him with the cattle prod.

  Myron's eyes widened. No choice really. He had to try it now. If the prod hit him again, he'd have nothing left. He just had to hope Veronica would not kill him.

  He had been planning the move for the past ten seconds. Now he rolled all the way back over his neck and head. He landed on his feet and without warning shot himself forward as though from a cannon. The three cross-dressers backed off, prepared for the attack. But an attack would be suicide. Myron knew that. There were three of them, two armed, at least one very good. Myron could never beat them. He needed to surprise them. So he did. By not going for them.

  He went instead for the one-way glass.

  His legs had pushed off full throttle, propelling him rocket-ship fashion toward the glass. By the time his three captors realized what he was doing, it was too late. Myron squeezed his eyes shut, made two fists, and hit the glass with his full weight, Superman style. He held nothing back. If the glass did not give, he was a dead man.

  The glass shattered on impact.

  The sound was enormous, all-consuming. Myron flew through it, glass clattering to the floor around him. When he landed, he tucked himself into a tight ball. He hit the floor and rolled. Tiny shards of mirror bit into his skin. He ignored the pain, kept rolling, crashing hard into the bar. Bottles fell.

  Big Cyndi had talked about the place's reputation. Myron was counting on that. And the Take A Guess clientele did not disappoint.

  A pure New York melee ensued.

  Tables were thrown. People screamed. Someone flew over the bar and landed on top of Myron. More glass shattered. Myron tried to get to his feet, but it wasn't happening. From his right, he saw a door open. Mall Girl emerged.

  "Bitch!"

  Mall Girl started toward him, carrying Bonnie's cattle prod. Myron tried to scramble away, but he couldn't get his bearings. Mall Girl kept coming, drawing closer.

  And then Mall Girl disappeared.

  It was like a scene from a cartoon, where the big dog punches Sylvester the Cat, and Sylvester flies across the room and the oversize fist stays there for a few seconds.

  In this case the oversize fist belonged to Big Cyndi.

  Bodies flew. Glasses flew. Chairs flew. Big Cyndi ignored it all. She scooped Myron up and threw him over her shoulder like a firefighter. They rushed outside as police sirens clawed through the milky night air.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Back at the Dakota, Win tsk-tsked and said, "You let a couple of girls beat you up?"

  "They weren't girls."

  Win took a sip of cognac. Myron gulped some Yoo-Hoo. "Tomorrow night," Win said, "we'll go back to this bar. Together."

  It was not something Myron wanted to think about rig
ht now. Win called a doctor. It was after two in the morning, but the doctor, a gray-haired man straight from central casting, arrived in fifteen minutes. Nothing broken, he declared with a professional chuckle. Most of the medical treatment consisted of cleaning out the cuts from the heel blade and window bits. The two heel slices--the one on his stomach was shaped like a Z--required stitches. All in all, painful but relatively harmless.

  The doctor tossed Myron some Tylenol with codeine, closed up his medical bag, tipped his hat, departed. Myron finished his Yoo-Hoo and stood slowly. He wanted to take a shower, but the doctor had told him to wait until the morning. He swallowed a couple of tablets and hit the sheets. When he fell asleep, he dreamed about Brenda.

  In the morning he called Hester Crimstein at her apartment. The machine picked up. Myron said it was urgent. Midway through his message Hester took the call.

  "I need to see Esperanza," he told the attorney. "Now."

  Surprisingly, the attorney hesitated for only a moment before saying, "Okay."

  "I killed someone," Myron said.

  Esperanza sat across from him.

  "I don't mean I actually fired a gun. But I might as well have. In many ways what I did was worse."

  Esperanza kept her eyes on him. "This happened right before you ran away?"

  "Within a couple of weeks, yes."

  "But that's not why you left."

  His mouth felt dry. "I guess not."

  "You ran away because of Brenda."

  Myron did not answer.

  Esperanza crossed her arms. "So why are you sharing this little tidbit with me?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I am," she said.

  "Oh?"

  "It's something of a ploy. You hoped that your big confession would help me open up."

  "No," Myron said.

  "Then?"

  "You're the one I talk to about things like this."

  She almost smiled. "Even now?"

  "I don't understand why you're shutting me out," he said. "And okay, maybe I do hold out some hope that talking about this will help us return to--I don't know--some kind of sense of normalcy. Or maybe I just need to talk about this. Win wouldn't understand. The person I killed was evil incarnate. It would have presented him with a moral dilemma no more complex than choosing a tie."

  "And this moral dilemma haunts you?"

  "The problem is," Myron said, "it doesn't."

  Esperanza nodded. "Ah."

  "The person deserved it," he went on. "The courts had no evidence."

  "So you played vigilante."

  "In a sense."

  "And that bothers you? No, wait, it doesn't bother you."

  "Right."

  "So you're losing sleep over the fact that you're not losing sleep."

  He smiled, spread his hands. "See why I come to you?"

  Esperanza crossed her legs and looked up in the air. "When I first met you and Win, I wondered about your friendship. About what first attracted you to each other. I thought maybe Win was a latent homosexual."

  "Why does everyone say that? Can't two men just--"

  "I was wrong," she interrupted. "And don't get all defensive, it'll make people wonder. You guys aren't gay. I realized that early on. Like I said, it was just a thought. Then I wondered if it was simply the old adage 'Opposites attract.' Maybe that's part of it." She stopped.

  "And?" Myron prompted.

  "And maybe you two are more alike than either one of you wants to believe. I don't want to get too deep here, but Win sees you as his humanity. If you like him, he reasons, how bad can he be? You, on the other hand, see him as a cold dose of reality. Win's logic is scary, but it's oddly appealing. There is a little part in all of us that likes what he does, the same side of us that thinks the Iranians might be on to something when they cut off a thief's hand. You grew up with all that suburban liberal crap about the disadvantaged. But now real-life experience is teaching you that some people are just plain evil. It shifts you a little closer to Win."

  "So you're saying I'm becoming like Win? Gee, that's comforting."

  "I'm saying your reaction is human. I don't like it. I don't think it's right. You may indeed be sinking into a quagmire. Bending the rules is getting easier and easier for you. Maybe the person you killed deserved it, but if you want to hear that, if you want absolution, go to Win."

  Silence.

  Esperanza's fingers fluttered near her mouth, debating between biting the nails and plucking her lower lip. "You've always been the finest person I know," she said. "Don't let anybody change that, okay?"

  He swallowed, nodded.

  "You're not bending the rules anymore," she continued. "You're decimating them. Just yesterday you told me you'd lie under oath to protect me."

  "That's different."

  Esperanza looked straight at him. "Are you sure about that?"

  "Yes. I'll do whatever I have to to protect you."

  "Including breaking laws? That's my point, Myron."

  He shifted in his chair.

  "And one other thing," she said. "You're using this whole moral dilemma thing to distract yourself from two truths you don't want to face."

  "What truths?"

  "One, Brenda."

  "And two?"

  Esperanza smiled. "Skipped over one pretty fast."

  "And two?" he repeated.

  Her smile was gentle, understanding. "Two, it gets your mind off why you're really here."

  "And why's that?"

  "You're starting to do more than wonder if I killed Clu. And you're trying to find a way to rationalize it away if I did. You killed once, ergo it may be justifiable if I killed too. You just want to hear a reason."

  "He hit you," Myron said. "In the parking garage."

  She said nothing.

  "The radio said they found pubic hairs in his apartment--"

  "Don't go there," she said.

  "I have to."

  "Just stay out."

  "I can't."

  "I don't need your help."

  "There's more to it than that. I'm involved in this."

  "Only because you want to be."

  "Did Clu tell you I was in danger?"

  She said nothing.

  "He told my parents that. And Jessica. I thought at first it was hyperbole. But maybe it's not. I got this weird diskette in the mail. There was an image of a young girl."

  "You're ranting," she said. "You think you're ready for this, but you're not. Learn something from your past mistakes. Keep away from this."

  "But it won't keep away from me," Myron said. "Why did Clu say I was in danger? Why did he hit you? What happened at the Take A Guess bar?"

  She shook her head. "Guard."

  The guard opened the door. Esperanza kept her eyes down. She turned and left the room without looking back at Myron. Myron sat alone for a few seconds, gathered his thoughts. He checked his watch. Nine forty-five. Plenty of time to get to Yankee Stadium for his eleven o'clock meeting with Sophie and Jared Mayor. He had barely left the room when a man approached him.

  "Mr. Bolitar?"

  "Yes."

  "This is for you."

  The man handed him an envelope and disappeared. Myron opened it. A subpoena from the Bergen County district attorney's office. Case heading: "People of Bergen County v. Esperanza Diaz." Well, well. Esperanza and Hester had been right not to tell him anything.

  He stuffed it into his pocket. At least now he wouldn't have to lie.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Myron did what every good boy should do when he gets into legal trouble: He called his mommy.

  "Your aunt Clara will handle the subpoena," Mom said.

  Aunt Clara wasn't really his aunt, just an old friend from the neighborhood. On the High Holy Days she still pinched Myron's cheek and cried out, "What a punim!" Myron sort of hoped she wouldn't do that in front of the judge: "Your Honor, I ask you to look at this face: Is that a punim or is that a punim?"

  "Okay," Myron sa
id.

  "I'll call her, she'll call the DA. In the meantime you say nothing, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "See now, Mr. Smarty Pants? See what I was telling you now? About Hester Crimstein being right?"

  "Yeah, Mom, whatever."

  "Don't whatever me. They've subpoenaed you. But because Esperanza wouldn't tell you anything, you can't hurt her case."

  "I see that, Mom."

  "Good. Now let me go call Aunt Clara."

  She hung up. And Mr. Smarty Pants did likewise.

  Bluntly put, Yankee Stadium was located in a cesspool section of the ever-eroding Bronx. It didn't much matter. Whenever you first caught sight of the famed sports edifice, you still fell into an immediate church hush. Couldn't help it. Memories swarmed in and burrowed down. Images flashed in and out. His youth. A small child crammed standing on the 4 train, holding Dad's seemingly giant hand, looking up into his gentle face, the pregame anticipation tingling through every part of him. Dad had caught a fly ball when Myron was five years old. He could still see it sometimes--the arc of white rawhide, the crowd standing, his dad's arm stretching to an impossible height, the ball landing on the palm with a happy smack, the warm beam coming off Dad's face when he handed the prized possession to his son. Myron still had that ball, browning in the basement of his parents' house.

  Basketball was Myron's sport of choice, and football was probably his favorite to watch on TV. Tennis was the game of princes, golf the game of kings. But baseball was magic. Early childhood memories are faint, but almost every boy can recall his first major-league baseball game. He can remember the score, who hit a home run, who pitched. But mostly he remembers his father. The smell of his after-shave is wrapped up in the smells of baseball--the freshly cut grass, the summer air, the hot dogs, the stale popcorn, the spilled beer, the overoiled glove complete with baseball breaking in the pocket. He remembers the visiting team, the way Yaz tossed grounders to warm up Petrocelli at short, the way the hecklers made gentle fun of Frank Howard's TV commercials for Nestle's Quik, the way the game's greats rounded second and slid headfirst into third. You remember your sibling keeping stats, studying the lineups the way rabbinical scholars study the Talmud, baseball cards gripped in your hand, the ease and pace of a slow summer afternoon, Mom spending more time sunning herself than watching the action. You remember Dad buying you a pennant of the visiting team and later hanging it on your wall in a ceremony equal to the Celtics raising a banner in the old Boston Garden. You remember the way the players in the bullpen looked so relaxed, big wads of chew distorting their cheeks. You remember your healthy, respectful hate for the visiting team's superstars, the pure joy of going on Bat Day and treasuring that piece of wood as though it'd come straight from Honus Wagner's locker.