Deal Breaker

  "I bet that looks good on a resume," Myron said.

  "Let me put this in very simple terms for you, Myron: You fuck with us, I'll kill you."

  "Shiver. Tremble." Myron was not quite as confident as his sarcasm, but he knew better than to show fear. Guys like Aaron are like dogs. They smell fear, they pounce.

  Aaron laughed again. He was laughing a lot today. He was either very amused or had been sniffing gas. He turned his back and walked to the door. "This is your final warning," he said. "Landreaux honors his contract with Mr. O'Connor, or both of you end up worm food."

  Worm food. First oatmeal. Now worm food.

  "I like you, Myron. I'd really hate to see something bad happen. But you understand."

  "Business is business."

  "Exactly."

  Esperanza appeared at the door.

  Aaron gave her a sharklike smile. "Well, well," he said. Then he followed up with his best big-guy wink. Esperanza managed to keep her clothes on. Amazing restraint.

  "Pick up line two," she said.

  "Listen to this call closely, Myron," Aaron added with a final grin. "Appreciate the gravity of the situation. And remember. Worm food."

  "Worm food. I'll keep it in mind."

  Aaron winked at Esperanza again, blew her a kiss, and left.

  "Charming," she said.

  "Who's on the phone?"

  "Chaz Landreaux."

  Myron picked up the headset. "Hello."

  "Motherfuckers were at my mom's!" Chaz shouted. "They told her they were going to cut off my nuts and send them to her in a box! My mother, man! They said this to my mother!"

  Myron felt his fingers tighten into fists. "I'll take care of it," he said slowly. "They won't bother her again."

  Enough game playing. It was time to act.

  It was time to tell Win about Roy O'Connor.

  Win smiled like a kid on a snow day listening to the radio for a school closing. "Roy O'Connor," he said.

  "I don't want him hurt. Promise me."

  Win's eyes drifted dreamily. He might have nodded a yes, but Myron couldn't say for sure.

  Chapter 13

  Baumgart's on Palisades Avenue. Their old stomping grounds.

  Peter Chin greeted them at the door, his eyes widening in delight and surprise when he spotted Jessica. "Miss Culver! How wonderful to see you again."

  "Nice to see you, Peter."

  "You look as lovely as ever. You beautify my restaurant."

  Myron said, "Hi, Peter."

  "Yeah, whatever." He dismissed Myron with a hand wave. His full attention was on Jessica; a crocodile gnawing on his foot wouldn't have changed that. "You look a little too thin, Miss Culver."

  "The food's not as good in Washington."

  "Funny," Myron said. "I was thinking she looked a little chunky."

  Jessica eyed him. "Dead man."

  Baumgart's was an institution in Englewood, New Jersey. For fifty years it was an old Jewish deli and soda fountain, noted for its superb ice cream and desserts. When Peter Chin bought it eight years ago, he kept all of the tradition but added the best nouvelle Chinese cuisine in the state. The combination was a smash. The normal order might consist of Peking duck, sesame noodles, chocolate milk shake, french fries and a death-by-chocolate sundae for dessert. When Myron and Jessica had lived together, they ate at Baumgart's at least once a week.

  Myron still came once a week. Usually with Win or Esperanza. Sometimes alone. He never brought a date here.

  Peter walked them past the soda fountain and put them in a booth under a huge painting. Modern art. It was a portrait of either Cher or Barbara Bush. Maybe both. Very esoteric.

  Myron and Jessica sat across the table from each other, silently. The moment seemed weighed down, overwhelming. Being here together again--they had expected it to generate some light nostalgia. But the effect was more like a body blow.

  "I've missed this place," she said.

  "Yes."

  She reached her hand across the table and took his. "I've missed you."

  Her face was aglow, the way it used to be when she looked at him as though he were the only person in the entire world. Myron felt something squeeze his heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The rest of the world broke apart, diffused. There were only the two of them.

  "I'm not sure what to say."

  She smiled. "What? Myron Bolitar at a loss for words?"

  "Ripley's, huh?"

  Peter came by. Without preamble, he said, "You'll start with the crispy duck appetizer and squab package with pine nuts. For your main course you'll have soft-shell crab in special sauce and the Baumgart lobster and shrimp."

  "Can we choose dessert?" Myron asked.

  "No. Myron, you'll have the pecan pie a la mode. And for Miss Culver." He stopped, building suspense like a game-show host.

  She smiled expectantly. "You don't mean ..."

  Peter nodded. "Banana pudding cake with vanilla wafers. There's only one piece left, but I put it away for you."

  "Bless you, Peter."

  "Each man does what he can. You didn't bring wine?" Baumgart's was BYO.

  "We forgot," Jessica said. She was dazzling Peter with her smile. Not fair. Jessica's looks were like a Star Trek laser set on stun. Her smile, kill.

  "I'll send someone across the street to get a bottle. Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay?"

  "You have a good memory," she said.

  "No. I just remember what is important." Myron rolled his eyes. Peter bowed slightly and left.

  She turned the smile back to Myron. He felt frightened and helpless and deliriously happy.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  He shook his head. He was afraid to open his mouth.

  "I never meant--" She was unsure how to continue. "I made a lot of mistakes in my life," she said. "I am dumb. I am self-destructive."

  "No," Myron said. "You're perfect."

  Her voice grew dramatic, her hand against her chest. "'Take the blinders from your eyes and see me as I really am.'"

  He thought a moment. "Dulcinea to Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha. And it's 'take the clouds,' not blinders."

  "Very impressive."

  "Win was playing it in the car." This was an old game of theirs. Guess the Quote.

  She fiddled with her water glass, making little water circles and then inspecting them for clarity and definition. Eventually she created an aquatic Olympics logo. "I'm not sure what I'm trying to say to you," she said at last. "I'm not sure what I want to happen here." She looked up. "One last confession, okay?"

  He nodded.

  "I came to you because I thought you would help. That was true. But that wasn't the only reason."

  "I know," he said. "I try not to think about it too much. It terrifies me."

  "So what do we do now?"

  His chance. He hoped there would be others. "Did you get your sister's file?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you gone through it yet?"

  "No. I just picked it up."

  "Then why don't we open it now?"

  She nodded. The crispy duck and squab package with pine nuts appeared. Jessica took out a manila envelope and slit the seal. "Why don't you look at it first?"

  "Okay," he said. "But save me some food."

  "Chance."

  He started sifting through the papers. The top page was Kathy's high school transcript. After her junior year her ranking had been twelfth in a class of three hundred. Not bad. But by the end of senior year her ranking had slipped considerably--to fifty-eighth.

  "Her grades dropped senior year of high school," Myron said.

  "Whose didn't drop senior year?" Jess countered. "She was probably just goofing off."

  "Probably." But usually that meant A students got B's or C's. Kathy had gotten one A, three D's and an F in her final semester. Her clean record was also muddied with several detentions--all in her senior year. Strange. But probably meaningless.

  "Do you want to fill me in on what happened
today?" Jessica asked between bites.

  She was even beautiful when pigging out. Amazing. He started by telling her about Win's discovery in the six magazines.

  "So what does it mean," she asked, "her picture being only in that one rag?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "But you have an idea?"

  He did. But it was too early to say anything. "Not yet."

  "Did you hear from your friend at the phone company?"

  He nodded. "Gary Grady placed two calls after we left. One was to Fred Nickler's office at Hot Desire Press. The other was someplace in the city. There was no answer when we called it. We got the information kind of late in the day."

  "And the handwriting analyst?"

  Best to dive right in. "The handwriting matches. It's either Kathy's or a very good forger."

  That slowed her chopsticks. "My God."

  "Yes."

  "Then she's alive?"

  "It's still just a possibility. Nothing more. That envelope could have been written before she died. Or like I said, it could be a clever forgery."

  "You're reaching."

  "I'm not so sure," he said. "If she's alive, where is she? Why is she doing all this?"

  "Maybe she's been kidnapped. Maybe she's being forced to."

  "Forced to address envelopes? Now who's reaching?"

  "Do you have a better explanation?" she asked.

  "Not yet. But I'm working on it." He started looking through the file again. "You ever hear of a guy named Otto Burke?"

  "The big record company magnate who owns the Titans?"

  "Right. He also knew about the magazine." Myron quickly summarized his visit to Titans Stadium.

  "So you think Otto Burke might be behind it?" she asked.

  "Otto has a motive: knocking down Christian's asking price. He certainly has the resources: lots of money. And it would also explain why Christian got a copy in the mail."

  "He was sending Christian a message," she added.

  "Right."

  "But how would Burke forge my sister's handwriting?"

  "He could have hired an expert."

  "Where did he get a writing sample?"

  "Who knows? It can't be that difficult."

  Her eyes glazed over. "So this was all a hoax? This was all some plot to gain leverage in a negotiation?"

  "It's possible. But I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "Something just doesn't mesh. Why would Burke go through all that trouble? He could have blackmailed us with just the photo. He didn't have to put it in a magazine. The photo was enough."

  "She grasped on to his hope as if it were a life preserver. "Good point," she said.

  "The question then becomes," he continued, "how did Otto get a copy of the magazine?"

  "Maybe someone in his organization picked up a copy at a newsstand."

  "Very unlikely. Nips"--the word felt grungy again, good--"has a very low circulation rate. The chances that someone in the Titans organization bought that particular magazine, had time to read it carefully, somehow spotted Kathy's picture in the bottom row on a page of ads in the back--it's fairly remote at best."

  Jessica snapped her fingers. "Someone mailed it to him too."

  He nodded. "Why should Christian have been the only one? For all we know, dozens of people were sent that magazine."

  "How do we find out?"

  "I'm working on it."

  He managed to salvage a sliver of crispy duck before it was sucked into the black hole. It was delicious. He turned his attention back to Kathy's files. Her bad grades continued during her first semester at Reston. By second semester, her grades had picked up considerably. He asked Jessica about this.

  "She settled into college life, I guess," she said. "She joined the drama group, became a cheerleader, started dating Christian. She went through culture shock in her first semester. It's not uncommon."

  "No. I guess not."

  "You don't sound convinced."

  He shrugged. Myron Bolitar, Senor Skepticalo.

  Kathy's recommendation letters were next. Three of them. Her high school guidance counselor called her "unusually gifted." Her tenth-grade history teacher said, "Her enthusiasm for life is contagious." Her twelfth-grade English teacher said, "Kathy Culver is bright, witty, and fun-spirited. She will be a welcome addition to any institution of learning." Nice comments. He scanned down to the bottom of the page.

  "Uh-oh," he said.

  "What is it?"

  He handed her the glowing recommendation letter from Kathy's twelfth-grade English teacher at Ridgewood High School. A Mr. Grady.

  A Mr. Gary, aka "Jerry" Grady.

  Chapter 14

  Myron was startled awake by the telephone. He'd been dreaming about Jessica. He tried to remember specifics, but the details disintegrated into small pieces and blew away, leaving behind only a few frustrating snippets. The clock on his nightstand read seven o'clock. Someone was calling him at home at seven o'clock in the morning. Myron had a pretty good idea who it was.

  "Hello?"

  "Good morning, Myron. I hope I didn't wake you."

  Myron recognized the voice. He smiled and asked, "Who is this?"

  "It's Roy O'Connor."

  "The Roy O'Connor?"

  "Uh, yes, I guess so. Roy O'Connor, the agent."

  "The superagent," Myron corrected. "To what do I owe this honor, Roy?"

  "Would it be possible for us to meet this morning?" The voice had a discernible quake to it.

  "Sure thing, Roy. My office, okay?"

  "Uh, no."

  "Your office, Roy?"

  "Uh, no."

  Myron sat up. "Should I keep guessing places and you can say hotter or colder?"

  "You know Reilly's Pub on Fourteenth Street?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll be in the booth in the back right-hand corner. One o'clock. We'll have lunch. If that's okay with you."

  "Peachy, Roy. Want me to wear anything special?"

  "Uh, no."

  Myron hung up, smiled. A night visit from Win, usually while sleeping soundly in your bedroom, your innermost sanctuary. Worked every time.

  He got out of bed. He heard his mother in the kitchen above him, his father in the den watching television. Early morning at the Bolitar house. The basement door opened.

  "Are you awake, Myron?" his mother shouted.

  Myron. What a goddamn awful name. He hated it with a passion. The way he looked at it, he'd been born with all his fingers and toes, he didn't have a harelip or a cauliflower ear or a limp of any kind--so to compensate for his lack of ill fortune, his parents had christened him Myron.

  "I'm awake," he answered.

  "Daddy bought some fresh bagels. They're on the table."

  "Thanks."

  He got out of bed and climbed the steps. With one hand he felt the rough beard he'd have to shave; with the other he picked the yellow sleep-buggers out of the corner of his eyes. His father was sprawled on the den couch like a wet sock, wearing an Adidas sweatsuit and eating a bagel oozing with whitefish spread. As he did every morning, Myron's father was watching a videocassette of people exercising. Getting in shape through osmosis.

  "Good morning, Myron. There're some bagels on the table."

  "Uh, thanks." It was like one parent never heard the other.

  He entered the kitchen. His mom was nearly sixty, but she looked much younger. Say, forty-five. She acted much younger too. Say, sixteen.

  "You came in late last night," she said.

  Myron made a grunting noise.

  "What time did you finally get home?"

  "Really late. It was almost ten." Myron Bolitar, the late-night scream machine.

  "So," Mom began, struggling to look and sound casual, "who were you out with?" Mistress of the Subtle.

  "Nobody," he said.

  "Nobody? You were out all night with nobody?"

  Myron looked left and right. "When are you going to bring in the hot lights and jumper cables?"


  "Fine, Myron. If you don't want to tell me--"

  "I don't want to tell you."

  "Fine. Was it a girl?"

  "Mom ..."

  "Okay, forget I asked."

  Myron reached for the phone and dialed Win's number. After the eighth ring he began to hang up when a weak, distant voice coughed. "Hello?"

  "Win?"

  "Yeah."

  "You okay?"

  "Hello?"

  "Win?"

  "Yeah."

  "What took you so long to answer the phone?"

  "Hello?"

  "Win?"

  "Who is this?"

  "Myron."

  "Myron Bolitar?"

  "How many Myrons do you know?"

  "Myron Bolitar?"

  "No, Myron Rockefeller."

  "Something's wrong," Win said.

  "What?"

  "Terribly wrong."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Some asshole is calling me at seven in the morning pretending to be my best friend."

  "Sorry, I forgot the time." Win was not what one would call a morning person. During their years at Duke, Win was never out of bed before noon--even on the days he had a morning class. He was, in fact, the heaviest sleeper Myron had ever known or imagined. Myron's parents, on the other hand, woke up when somebody in the Western hemisphere farted. Before Myron moved into the basement, the same scenario was played out nightly: Around three in the morning, Myron would get out of bed to go to the bathroom. As he tiptoed past his parents' bedroom, his father would stir ever so slowly, as though someone had dropped a Popsicle on his crotch.

  "Who's that?" his father would shout.

  "Just me, Dad."

  "Is that you, Myron?"

  "Yes, Dad."

  "Are you okay, son?"

  "Fine, Dad."

  "What are you doing up? You sick or something?"

  "I'm just going to the bathroom, Dad. I've been going to the bathroom by myself since I was fourteen."

  During their sophomore year at Duke, Myron and Win lived in the smallest double on campus with a bunk bed that Win said "creaks slightly" and Myron said "sounds like a duck being run over by a back hoe." One morning, when the bed was quiet and he and Win were asleep, a baseball crashed through their window. The noise was so deafening that their entire dorm jumped out of bed and rushed to see if Myron and Win had survived the wrath of whatever gigantic meteorite had fallen through the roof. Myron rushed to the window to yell obscenities. Dorm members stamped across the underwear-carpeted floor to join in the tirade. The ensuing reverberations were loud enough to disturb a diner waitress on her coffee break.

  Win just lay asleep, a blanket of broken glass strewn over his blanket.

  The next night, Myron called through the darkness of his bottom bunk. "Win?"