by Harlan Coben
“A real man wouldn’t worry about being thought of as a fag.”
“It’s not what people think that bothers me.”
“It’s just the penis issue,” she finished for him.
“Bingo.”
“I still say you’re sexually insecure.”
Myron shrugged, palms raised. “Who isn’t?”
“True.” She shifted her rear. Vinyl on vinyl. Grrrr sound. “So why don’t you ask me out on a date?”
“I think we just went over this.”
“You find me attractive, right? What you see, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re having a nice talk?”
“Yes.”
“You find me interesting? Fun to be with?”
“Yes and yes.”
“And you’re single and unattached?”
He swallowed. “Two more yesses.”
“So?”
“So—and again, don’t take this personally—”
“But it’s that penis thing again.”
“Bingo.”
Thrill leaned back, fiddled with the neckline zipper, pulled it up a bit. “Hey, it’s a first date. We don’t have to end up naked.”
Myron thought about that. “Oh.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No … I mean—”
“Maybe I’m not that easy.”
“My mistake for presuming … I mean, you’re hanging out in this bar.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t think most of the patrons in here played hard to get. To quote Woody Allen, ‘How did I misread those signs?’ ”
Thrill didn’t hesitate. “Play It Again, Sam.”
“If you are a woman,” Myron said, “I may be falling in love.”
“Thank you. And if we’re reading signs from being in this bar, what are you doing here? You with your penis issue.”
“Good point.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So why don’t you ask me out?” Again with the smolder. “We could hold hands. Maybe kiss. You might even sneak a hand under my shirt, go for a little second base. The way you’ve been ogling, it’s almost like you’re there anyway.”
“I’m not ogling,” Myron said.
“No?”
“If I’ve been looking—and note I said if—it would be purely for the sake of gender clarification, I assure you.”
“Thanks for straightening that out. But my point is, we can just go and have dinner. Or go to a movie. We don’t have to have any genital contact.”
Myron shook his head. “I’d still be wondering.”
“Ah, but don’t you like a little mystery?”
“I like mystery in lots of arenas. But when it comes to trouser content, well, I’m a pretty traditional guy.”
Thrill shrugged. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
“I’m looking for someone.” He took out a photograph of Clu Haid and showed it to her. “Do you know him?”
Thrill looked at the photograph and frowned. “I thought you said you’re a sports agent.”
“I am. He was a client.”
“Was?”
“He was murdered.”
“He’s the baseball player?”
Myron nodded. “Have you seen him here?”
Thrill grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something down. “Here’s my phone number, Myron. Call me sometime.”
“What about the guy in the photograph?”
Thrill handed him the scrap of paper, jumped off the stool, and undulated away. Myron watched her movements closely, looking for, umm, a concealed weapon. Big Cyndi elbowed him. He almost fell off the stool.
“This is Pat,” Big Cyndi said.
Pat the bartender looked like someone Archie Bunker might have hired to work his place. He was mid-fifties, short, gray-haired, slouch-shouldered, world-weary. Even his mustache—one of those gray-turning-to-yellow models—drooped as though it’d seen it all. Pat’s sleeves were rolled up, revealing Popeye-size forearms covered with hair. Myron hoped like hell Pat was a guy. This place was giving him a headache.
Behind Pat was a giant mirror. Next to that, a wall with the words Customer Hall of Fame painted in pink. The wall was covered with framed head shots of big-time right-wingers. Pat Buchanan. Jerry Falwell. Pat Robertson. Newt Gingrich. Jesse Helms.
Pat saw him looking at the photographs. “Ever notice that.”
“Notice what?”
“How all the big antifags have sexually ambiguous first names? Pat, Chris, Jesse, Jerry. Could be a guy, could be a girl. See what I’m saying?”
Myron said, “Uh-huh.”
“And what kind of name is Newt?” Pat added. “I mean, how the hell do you grow up with a healthy sexual attitude with a name like Newt?”
“I don’t know.”
“My theory?” Pat shrugged, wiped the bar with a dishrag. “These narrow assholes were all teased a lot as children. Makes them hostile on the whole gender issue.”
“Interesting theory,” Myron said. “But isn’t your name Pat?”
“Yeah, well, I hate fags too,” Pat said. “But they tip well.”
Pat winked at Big Cyndi. Big Cyndi winked back. The jukebox changed songs. Lou Rawls crooned “Love Is in the Air.” Timing.
The right-wing head shots were all “autographed.” Jesse Helms’s read: “I’m sore all over, Love and kisses, Jesse.” Blunt. Several Xs and Os followed. There was also a big lipstick kiss impression as though Jesse himself had puckered up and laid down a wet one. Eeeuw.
Pat started cleaning out a beer mug with the dishrag. Casually. Myron half expected him to spit in it like in an old western. “So what can I get you?”
“Are you a sports fan?” Myron asked.
“You taking a poll?”
That line. It was always such a riot. Myron tried again.
“Does the name Clu Haid mean anything to you?”
Myron watched for a reaction but didn’t get one. Meant nothing. The guy looked like a lifetime bartender. They show about as much range as a Baywatch regular. Hmm.
Now why was that show on his mind?
“I asked you—”
“Name means nothing to me.”
Big Cyndi said, “Please, Pat.”
He shot her a look. “You heard me, Big C. I don’t know him.”
Myron pressed it. “Never heard of Clu Haid?”
“That’s right.”
“How about the New York Yankees?”
“I haven’t followed them since the Mick retired.”
Myron put the photograph of Clu Haid on the bar. “Ever seen him in here?”
Someone called out for a draft. Pat drew it. When he came back, he spoke to Big Cyndi. “This guy a cop?”
“No,” Big Cyndi said.
“Then the answer is no.”
“And if I was a cop?” Myron asked.
“Then the answer would be no … sir.” Myron noticed that Pat had never so much as glanced at the photograph. “I might also add a little song and dance about how I’m too busy to notice faces in here. And how most people, especially celebrities, don’t show their real faces in here anyway.”
“I see,” Myron said. He reached into his wallet, took out a fifty. “And if I showed you a photograph of Ulysses S. Grant?”
The jukebox changed songs. The Flying Machine started crooning for Rosemarie to “smile a little smile for me, Rosemarie.” The Flying Machine. Myron had remembered the group’s name. What did that say about a man?
“Keep your money,” Pat said. “Keep your picture. Keep your questions. I don’t like trouble.”
“And this guy means trouble?”
“I haven’t even looked at the picture, pal. And I don’t plan to. Take a hike.”
Big Cyndi stepped in. “Pat,” she said, “please can’t you help”—she batted her eyelashes; picture two crabs on their backs in the blazing sun—“for me?”
“Hey, Big C, I lo
ve you, you know that. But suppose I came into Leather-N-Lust with pictures? You gonna be anxious to help?”
Big Cyndi thought about that. “I guess not.”
“There you go. I got customers.”
“Fine,” Myron said. He picked up the photograph. “Then maybe I’ll stick around. Pass the picture around the room. Ask some questions. Maybe I’ll stake this place out. Indiscreetly. Take photos of people entering and leaving this fine establishment.”
Pat shook his head, smiled a bit. “You’re one dumb son of a bitch, you know that.”
“I’ll do it,” Myron said. “I don’t want to, but I’ll camp out on your doorstep with a camera.”
Pat gave Myron a long look. Hard to read. Part hostile maybe. Mostly bored. “Big C, head out of here for a few minutes.”
“No.”
“Then I don’t talk.”
Myron turned to her, nodded. Big Cyndi shook her head. Myron pulled her aside. “What’s the problem?”
“You shouldn’t make threats in here, Mr. Bolitar.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I warned you about this place. I can’t leave you alone.”
“You’ll be right outside. I can take care of myself.”
When Big Cyndi frowned, her face resembled a freshly painted totem pole. “I don’t like it.”
“We have no choice.”
She sighed. Picture Mount Vesuvius bubbling up a bit of lava. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
She lumbered toward the exit. The place was packed and Big Cyndi took up a wide berth. Still, people parted with a speed that would have made Moses jot notes. When she was all the way out the door, Myron turned back to Pat. “Well?”
“Well, you’re a dumb asshole.”
It happened without warning. Two hands snaked under Myron’s arms, the fingers locking behind his neck. A classic full nelson. The hold was tightened, pushing back his arms like chicken wings. Myron felt something hot rip across his shoulder blades.
A voice near his ear whispered, “Care to dance, dream-boat?”
When it came to hand-to-hand combat, Myron was no Win, but he was no slouch either. He thus knew that if the perpetrator was good, there was no way to break a full nelson. That was why they were illegal in real wrestling matches. If you were standing, you could try to stomp on the person’s instep. But only a moron fell for that, and a moron would not have had the speed or the strength to get this far. And Myron was not standing.
Myron’s elbows were high up in the air, marionette fashion, his face helplessly exposed. The powerful arms locking him were covered in cardigan. Soft yellow cardigan, as a matter of fact. As in a soft yellow cardigan sweater. Jesus. Myron struggled. Nothing doing. The cardigan-clad arms pulled Myron’s head back and then snapped it toward the bar, face first. Myron could do nothing but close his eyes. He tucked his chin just enough to keep his nose from taking the brunt of the blow. But his head bounced off the varnished teak in a way it was never intended to, jarring his skull. Something on his forehead split open. His head swam. He saw stars.
Another set of hands scooped up Myron’s feet. He was in the air now and moving and very dizzy. Hands emptied his pockets. A door opened. Myron was carried through it into a dark room. The grip was released, and Myron fell like a potato sack onto his tailbone. The whole process, from the onset of the full nelson to the moment he was dumped on the floor, took all of eight seconds.
A light was snapped on. Myron touched his forehead and felt something sticky. Blood. He looked up at his attackers.
Two women.
No, cross-dressers. Both with blond wigs. One had gone with early-eighties Mall Girl hair—lots of height and teased more than a bed-wetter. The other one—the one with the soft yellow cardigan sweater (monogrammed, for those who cared)—had hair like Veronica Lake on a particularly nasty bender.
Myron started to get to his feet. Veronica Lake let out a squeal and threw a side kick. The kick was fast and landed hard on his chest. Myron heard himself make a noise like “pluuu” and landed back on his rear. His hand automatically reached for his cellular. He’d hit the memory button and call Win. Then stall.
The phone was gone.
He looked up. Mall Girl had it. Damn. He took in his surroundings. There was a great view of the bar and Pat the bartender’s back. He remembered the mirror. Of course. One-way glass. The patrons saw a mirror. The people back here saw, well, everything. Hard to steal from the till when you never knew who was watching.
The walls were corked and thus soundproof. The floor was cheap linoleum. Easier to clean, he guessed. Despite that, there were specks of blood on it. Not his. These specks were old and dried. But they were there. No mistaking them for something else. And Myron knew why. In a word: intimidation.
This was a classic pounding room. Lots of places have them. Especially sports arenas. Not so much now as in the old days. There was a time when an unruly fan was more than just escorted out of the stadium. The security guards took him into a back room and pounded on him a bit. It was fairly safe. What could the unruly fan claim after the fact? He was drunk off his rocker, had probably gotten into a fight in the stands, whatever. So the security boys added a few extra bruises for good measure. Who’s to say where the bruises came from? And if the unruly fan threatened to press charges or make noise, stadium officials could whack him back with charges of public drunkenness and assault and whatever else they could dream up. They could also produce a dozen security guards to back their story and none to back the unruly fan’s.
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.<
br />
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.
