The Final Detail

  The drive lasted maybe ten minutes. Not enough time to leave the city. Clue: He was still in Manhattan. Gee, that was helpful. Pat turned off the engine.

  "You can sit up," he said. "But keep the hood on."

  "You sure the hood goes with this ensemble? I want to look my best for Mr. Big."

  "Someone once tell you were funny, Bolitar?"

  "You're right. Black goes with everything."

  Pat sighed. When nervous, some people run. Some hide. Some grow silent. Some get chatty. And some make dumb jokes.

  Pat helped Myron out of the car and led him by the elbow. Myron again tried to pick up sounds. The cooing of a seagull maybe. That too always seemed to happen on TV. But in New York seagulls didn't coo as much as phlegm cough. And if you heard a seagull in New York, it was more likely you were near a trash canister than a pier. Myron tried to think of the last time he had seen a seagull in New York. There was a picture of one on a sign for his favorite bagel store. Caption: "If a bird flying over the sea is a seagull, what do you call a bird flying over the bay?" Clever when you think about it.

  The two men walked--where to, Myron had no idea. He stumbled on uneven pavement, but Pat kept him upright. Another clue. Find the spot in Manhattan with uneven pavement. Christ, he practically had the guy cornered.

  They walked up what felt like a stoop and entered a room with heat and humidity slightly more stifling than a Burmese forest fire. Myron was still blindfolded, but light from what might be a bare bulb filtered through the cloth. The room reeked of mildew and steam and dried sweat--like the most popular sauna at Jack La Lanne's gone to seed. It was hard to breathe through the hood. Pat put a hand on Myron's shoulder.

  "Sit," Pat said before pushing down slightly.

  Myron sat. He heard Pat's footsteps, then low voices. Whispers actually. Mostly from Pat. An argument of some sort. Footsteps again. Coming closer to Myron. A body suddenly cut off the bare lightbulb, bathing Myron in total darkness. One more step. Someone stopped directly over him.

  "Hello, Myron," the voice said.

  There was a tremor there, an almost manic twang in the tone. But there was no doubt. Myron was not great with names and faces, but voices were imprints. Memories flooded in. After all these years his recall was instantaneous.

  "Hello, Billy Lee."

  The missing Billy Lee Palms, to be exact. Former frat brother and Duke baseball star. Former best bud of Clu Haid. Son of Mrs. My-Life-Is-but-a-Wallpaper-Tapestry.

  "Mind if I take the hood off now?" Myron asked.

  "Not at all."

  Myron reached up and grabbed the top of the hood. He pulled it off. Billy Lee was standing over him. Or at least he assumed it was Billy Lee. It was as if the former pretty boy had been kidnapped and replaced with this fleshier counterpart. Billy Lee's formerly prominent cheekbones looked malleable, tallow skin in mid-shed clung to sagging features, his eyes sunken deeper than any pirate treasure, his complexion the gray of a city street after a rainfall. His hair was greasy and jutting all over the place, as unwashed as any MTV video jockey's.

  Billy Lee was also holding what looked liked a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from Myron's face.

  "He's holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from my face," Myron said for the benefit of the cell phone.

  Billy Lee giggled. That sound too was familiar.

  "Bonnie Franklin," Myron said.

  "What?"

  "Last night. You were the one who hit me with the cattle prod."

  Billy Lee spread his hands impossibly wide. "Bingo, baby!"

  Myron shook his head. "You definitely look better with the makeup, Billy Lee."

  Billy Lee giggled again and retrained the shotgun on Myron. Then he held out his free hand. "Give me the phone."

  Myron hesitated but not for long. The sunken eyes, once Myron could see them, were wet and unfocused and tinged with a dull red. Billy Lee's body was one tremor. Myron checked out the short sleeves and saw the needle tracks. Billy Lee looked like the wildest and most unpredictable of animals: a cornered junkie. Myron handed him the phone. Billy Lee put it to his ear.

  "Win?"

  Win's voice was clear. "Yes, Billy Lee."

  "Go to hell."

  Billy Lee giggled again. Then he clicked off the phone, untethering them from the outside world, and Myron felt the dread rise in his chest.

  Billy Lee stuck the phone in Myron's pocket and looked over at Pat. "Tie him to the chair."

  Pat said, "What?"

  "Tie him to the chair. There's rope right behind it."

  "Tie him how? I look like a goddamn Boy Scout?"

  "Just wrap it around him and tie a knot. I want to slow him down in case he gets dumb before I kill him."

  Pat moved toward Myron. Billy Lee kept an eye on Myron.

  Myron said, "It's not really a good idea to upset Win."

  "Win doesn't scare me."

  Myron shook his head.

  "What?"

  "I knew you were strung out," Myron said. "But I didn't realize how badly."

  Pat started winding the rope around Myron's chest. "Maybe you should call him back," Pat said. If the San Andreas quaked like his voice, they'd be calling for an evacuation. "We don't need him searching for us too, you know what I'm saying?"

  "Don't worry about it," Billy Lee said.

  "And Zorra's still there--"

  "Don't worry about it!" Screaming this time. A shrill, awful scream. The shotgun bounced closer to Myron's face. Myron tensed his body, preparing to make a move before the rope was knotted. But Billy Lee jumped back suddenly, as if realizing for the first time that Myron was in the room.

  Nobody spoke. Pat tightened the rope and tied it in a knot. Not well done, but it'd serve its stated purpose--i.e., slow him down so that Billy Lee would have plenty of time to blow Myron's head off.

  "You trying to kill me, Myron?"

  Strange question. "No," Myron said.

  Billy Lee's fist slammed into the lower part of Myron's belly. Myron doubled over, the air gone, his lungs spasming in the pure, naked need for oxygen. He felt tears push into his eyes.

  "Don't lie to me, asshole."

  Myron fought for breath.

  Billy Lee sniffed, wiped his face with his sleeve. "Why are you trying to kill me?"

  Myron tried to respond, but it took too long. Billy Lee hit him hard with the butt of the shotgun, exactly on the Z spot Zorra had sliced into him the night before. The stitches split apart, and blood mushroomed onto Myron's shirt. His head began to swim. Billy Lee giggled some more. Then he raised the butt of the shotgun over his head and started it in an arc toward Myron's head.

  "Billy Lee!" Pat shouted.

  Myron saw it coming, but there was no escape. He managed to tilt the chair with his toes and roll back. The blow glanced the top of his head, scraping his scalp. The chair teetered over, and Myron's head banged against the wooden floor. His skull tingled.

  Oh Christ ...

  He looked up. Billy Lee was raising the butt of the shotgun again. A straight blow would crush his skull. Myron tried to roll, but he was hopelessly tangled up. Billy Lee smiled down at him. He held the shotgun high above his head, letting the moment drag out, watching Myron struggle the way some people watch an injured ant before stomping it with their foot.

  Billy Lee suddenly frowned. He lowered the weapon, studying it for a moment. "Hmm," he said. "Might break my gun that way."

  Myron felt Billy Lee grab his shoulders and lift him and the chair back up. The shotgun was at eye level now.

  "Fuck it," Billy Lee said. "Might as well just shoot your sorry ass, am I right?"

  Myron barely heard the giggling now. When a gun is pointed so directly in your face, it has a tendency to block out everything else. The double barrel's opening grows, moves closer, surrounds you until everything you are and see and hear is consumed in its black mouth.

  Pat tried again. "Billy Lee ..."

  Myron felt the sweat under his arms b
egin to gush. Calm. Keep the tone calm. Don't excite him. "Tell me what's going on, Billy Lee. I want to help."

  Billy Lee snickered, the shotgun still shaking in his hand. "You want to help me?"

  "Yes."

  That made him laugh. "Bullshit, Myron. Total bullshit."

  Myron kept still.

  "We were never even friends, were we, Myron? I mean, we were frat brothers, and we hung out and stuff. But we were never really friends."

  Myron tried to keep his eyes on Billy Lee's. "This is a heck of a time to go tiptoeing through the past, Billy Lee."

  "I'm trying to make a point here, asshole. You're peddling this crap about wanting to help me. Like we're friends. But that's a load of bullshit. We're not friends. You never really liked me."

  Never really liked me. Like they were third graders during recess. "I still helped pull your ass out of a few fires, Billy Lee."

  The smile. "Not my ass, Myron. Clu's. It was always about Clu, wasn't it? The drunk driving thing when we were living in Massachusetts. You didn't drive up to save my ass. You drove up because of Clu. And that brawl at that bar in the city. That was also because of Clu."

  Billy Lee suddenly tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound. "Why weren't we friends, Myron?"

  "Because you didn't invite me to your birthday party at the roller rink?"

  "Don't fuck with me, asshole."

  "I liked you just fine, Billy Lee. You were a fun guy."

  "But it got tired after a while, didn't it? My whole act, I mean. While I was a college star, it was pretty cool, right? But when I failed in the pros, I wasn't so cute and funny anymore. I was suddenly pathetic. That sound about right, Myron?"

  "You say so."

  "So what about Clu?"

  "What about him?"

  "You were friends with him."

  "Yes."

  "Why? Clu partied the same way. Maybe even harder. He was always getting his ass in trouble. Why were you his friend?"

  "This is stupid, Billy Lee."

  "Is it?"

  "Put the gun down already."

  Billy Lee's smile was wide and knowing and somewhere just south of sane. "I'll tell you why you stayed friendly with Clu. Because he was a better baseball player than me. He was going to the bigs. And you knew that. That's the only difference between Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms. He got drunk and took drugs and screwed tons of women, but it was all so funny because he was a pro."

  "So what are you trying to say, Billy Lee?" Myron countered. "That pro athletes are treated differently from the rest of us? Hell of a revelation."

  But the revelation sat uneasily on Myron. Probably because Billy Lee's words, while wholly irrelevant, were at least in part true. Clu was charming and quirky simply because he was a pro athlete. But if the velocity of his fastball had dropped a few miles per hour, if the rotation of his arm had been just a little askew or if his finger position had not allowed for good ball movement on his pitches, Clu would have ended up like Billy Lee. Alternate worlds--totally different lives and fates--are right there, separated by a curtain no thicker than membrane. But with athletes, you can see your alternate life a little too clearly. You have the ability to throw the ball just a little faster than the next guy, you end up a god rather than the most pitiful of mortals. You get the girls, the fame, the big house, the money instead of the rats, the dull anonymity, the crummy apartment, the menial job. You get to go on TV and offer life insights. People want to be near you and hear you speak and touch the hem of your cloak. Just because you can hurl the rawhide with great velocity or put an orange ball in a metallic circle or swing a stick with a slightly more pure arc. You are special.

  Nuts when you think about it.

  "Did you kill him, Billy Lee?" Myron said.

  Billy Lee looked like he'd been slapped. "What?"

  "You were jealous of Clu. He had everything. He left you behind."

  "He was my best friend!"

  "A long time ago, Billy Lee."

  Myron again debated making a move. He could try to slip the ropes--they were not on very tightly--but it would take time and he was still too far away. He wondered how Win was reacting to being cut off from all this and shuddered. Not worth dwelling upon.

  A funny, tranquil flat line crossed Billy Lee's face. He stopped shaking, looked straight at Myron without jerking or twitching. His voice was suddenly soft.

  "Enough," he said.

  Silence.

  "I have to kill you, Myron. It's self-defense."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You killed Clu. And now you want to kill me."

  "That's crazy."

  "Maybe you had your secretary do it. And she got caught. Or maybe Win did it. That guy's always been your lapdog. Or maybe you did it yourself, Myron. The gun was found in your office, right? The blood in your car?"

  "Why would I kill Clu?"

  "You use people, Myron. You used him to start up your business. But after he failed his last drug test, Clu was finished. So you figured, why not cut your losses?"

  "That makes no sense," Myron said. "And even if it did, why would I want to kill you?"

  "Because I can talk too."

  "Talk about what?"

  "About how helpful you are."

  Tears started rolling down Billy Lee's face. His voice tailed off. And Myron knew he was in huge trouble.

  The moment of calm was over. The barrel of the gun was shaking. Myron tested the ropes. Nope. Despite the heat, something icy flooded his veins. He was trapped. No chance of making a move.

  Billy Lee tried to giggle again, but something inside him was too weary now. "Bye."

  Panic squeezed Myron's insides. Billy Lee was only seconds away from killing him. Period. There was no chance of talking him out of it. The combo of drugs and paranoia had scooped out all his ability to reason. Myron accessed his options and liked none of them.

  "Win," Myron said.

  "I already told you. I ain't afraid of him."

  "I'm not talking to you." Myron glanced over at Pat. The bartender was breathing hard, and his shoulders were drooping as though someone had packed them with wet sand. "Once he pulls that trigger," Myron said to him, "I'm better off than you are."

  Pat started toward Billy Lee. "Let's just calm down a second, Billy Lee. Think this through, okay?"

  "I'm going to kill him."

  "Billy Lee, this Win guy. I've heard stories--"

  "You don't understand, Pat. You just don't get it."

  "Then tell me, man. I'm here to help."

  "After I kill him."

  Billy Lee stepped toward Myron. He put the barrel of the gun against Myron's temple. Myron went rigid.

  "Don't!"

  Pat was close enough now. Or at least that was what he thought. He made his move, diving for Billy Lee's legs. But beneath the diminished drug addict lurked some of the athlete's old reflexes. Enough of them anyway. Billy Lee spun and fired. The bullet hit Pat's chest. For the briefest moment Pat looked surprised. Then he went down.

  Billy Lee screamed, "Pat!" He dropped onto his knees and crawled toward the still body.

  Myron's heart was flapping like a caged condor. He did not wait. He struggled with the ropes. No go. He slid down in a frenzied slither. The rope was tighter than he thought, but he made some headway.

  "Pat!" Billy Lee screamed again.

  Myron's knees were on the floor now, his body contorted, his spine bow-bending in a way it was never supposed to. Billy Lee was wailing over a too-silent Pat. The rope got caught under Myron's chin, pushing his head back and temporarily strangling him. How long did he have? How long before Billy Lee regained his senses? Impossible to say. Myron tilted his chin even higher, and the rope began to pass over him. He was almost out.

  Billy Lee startled and turned around.

  Myron was still caught in the rope. The two men locked eyes. It was over. Billy Lee lifted the shotgun. Maybe eight feet separated them. Myron saw the barrel, saw Billy Lee's eyes, saw the di
stance.

  No chance. Too late.

  The gun fired.

  The first bullet hit Billy Lee's hand. He screamed in pain and dropped the shotgun. The second bullet hit Billy Lee's knee. Another scream. Blood spurted. The third bullet came so fast Billy Lee didn't have time to hit the floor. His head flew back from the impact, his legs splaying in midair. Billy Lee dropped out of sight like something at a shooting gallery.

  The room was still.

  Myron pulled the rope the rest of the way off and rolled into a corner.

  "Win?" he shouted.

  No answer.

  "Win?"

  Nothing.

  Pat and Billy Lee did not so much as twitch. Myron stood, the only sound his own breath. Blood. Everywhere blood. They had to be dead. Myron pressed back into the corner. Someone was watching him. He knew that now. He crossed the room and looked out a window. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right.

  Someone stood in the shadows. A silhouette. Fear engulfed Myron. The silhouette seemed to hover and then vanished into the darkness. Myron spun around and found the doorknob. He threw the door open and began to run.

  CHAPTER

  26

  He vomited three blocks away. He pulled up, leaned against a building, and puked his guts out. Several homeless men stopped and applauded. Myron gave a wave, acknowledging his fans. Welcome to New York.

  Myron tried his cell phone, but it'd been crushed in the melee. He found a street sign and saw that he was only ten blocks south of the Biker Wannabee bar, in the meatpacking district near the West Side Highway. He jogged, holding his side, trying to stop the blood flow. He located a working pay phone, a feat that in this section of Manhattan normally involved a burning bush, and dialed Win's cellular.

  Win picked up on the first ring. "Articulate."

  "They're dead," Myron said. "Both of them."

  "Explain."

  Myron did.

  When he finished, Win said, "I'll be there in three minutes."

  "I have to call the cops."

  "Unwise."

  "Why?"

  "They will not believe your tale of woe," Win said, "especially the part about a mystery savior."

  "Meaning they'll think you killed them?"

  "Precisely."

  Win had a point.

  "But we'd be able to clear it up," Myron said.

  "Yes perhaps, eventually. But it would take serious time."