by Harlan Coben
“And yet you suffer without complaint.”
“That is my way.” Win took one last look before snapping the visor back in place.
Clay Jackson lived in a row of houses whose backyards sat above Route 280. The neighborhood looked like working poor. The homes were all two-family, except for several corner residences that doubled as taverns. Tired neon Budweiser signs flickered through murky windows. Fences were all chain-link. So many overgrown weeds had popped through the sidewalk cracks that it was impossible to tell where pavement ended and lawn began.
Again all the inhabitants appeared to be black. Again Myron felt his customary and seemingly inexplicable discomfort.
There was a park across the street from Clay Jackson’s house. People were setting up for a barbecue. A softball game was going on. Loud laughter exploded everywhere. So did a boom box. When Myron and Win got out of the car, all eyes swerved in their direction. The boom box went suddenly silent. Myron forced up a smile. Win remained completely unbothered by the scrutiny.
“They’re staring,” Myron said.
“If two black men pulled up to your house in Livingston,” Win said, “what sort of reception would they receive?”
Myron nodded. “So you figure the neighbors are calling the cops and describing two ‘suspicious youths’ prowling the streets?”
Win raised an eyebrow. “Youths?”
“Wishful thinking.”
“Yes, I’d say.”
They headed up a stoop that looked like the one on Sesame Street. A man poked through a nearby garbage can, but he looked nothing like Oscar the Grouch. Myron knocked on the door. Win started with the eyes, the gliding movement, taking it all in. The softballers and barbecuers across the street were still staring. They did not seem pleased with what they saw.
Myron knocked again.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.
“My name is Myron Bolitar. This is Win Lockwood. We’d like to see Clay Jackson if he’s available.”
“Could you hold on a second?”
They held on for at least a full minute. Then they heard a chain rattle. The knob turned, and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was black and maybe forty years old. Her smile kept flickering like one of those neon Budweiser signs in the tavern windows. “I’m Clay’s mother,” she said. “Please come in.”
They followed her inside. Something good was cooking on the stove. An old air-conditioning unit roared like a DC-10, but it worked. The coolness was most welcome, though short-lived. Clay’s mother quickly hustled them through a narrow corridor and back out the kitchen door. They were outside again, in the backyard now.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked. She had to yell over the sounds of traffic.
Myron looked at Win. Win was frowning. Myron said, “No, thank you.”
“Okay.” The smile flickered faster now, almost like a disco strobe light. “Let me just go get Clay. I’ll be right back.” The screen door slammed shut.
They were alone outside. The yard was tiny. There were flower boxes bursting with colors and two large bushes that were dying. Myron moved to the fence and looked down at Route 280. The four-lane highway was moving briskly. Car fumes drifted slowly in this humidity, hanging there, not dissipating; when Myron swallowed, he could actually taste them.
“This isn’t good,” Win said.
Myron nodded. Two white men show up at your house. You don’t know either one. You don’t ask for ID. You just show them in and leave them out back. Something was definitely not right here.
“Let’s just see how it plays out,” Myron said.
It did not take long. Eight large men came from three different directions. Two burst through the back door. Three circled in from the right side of the house. Three more from the left. They all carried aluminum baseball bats and let’s-kick-some-ass scowls. They fanned out, encircling the yard. Myron felt his pulse race. Win folded his arms; only his eyes moved.
These were not street punks or members of a gang. They were the softball players from across the street, grown men with bodies hardened by daily labor—dockworkers and truck loaders and the like. Some held their bats in a ready-to-swing position. Others rested them on their shoulders. Still others bounced them gently against their legs, like Joe Don Baker in Walking Tall.
Myron squinted into the sun. “You guys finish your game?” he asked.
The biggest man stepped forward. He had an enormous iron-cauldron gut, calloused hands, and the muscular yet unchiseled arms of someone who could crush Nautilus equipment like so many Styrofoam cups. His Nike baseball cap was set on the largest size, but it still fitted him like a yarmulke. His T-shirt had a Reebok logo. Nike cap, Reebok T-shirt. Confusing brand loyalties.
“Game is just beginning, fool.”
Myron looked at Win. Win said, “Decent deliver, but the line lacked originality. Plus, tagging the word fool on the end—that seemed forced. I’ll have to give him a thumbs-down, but I look forward to his next work.”
The eight men looped around Myron and Win. Nike/Reebok, the obvious leader, gestured with the baseball bat. “Hey, Wonder bread, get your ass over here.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron said, “I think he means you.”
“Must be because I help build strong bodies in twelve ways.” Then Win smiled, and Myron felt his heart stutter. People always did that. They always homed in on Win. At five-ten Win was a half foot shorter than Myron. But it was more than that. The blond, pale-faced, blue-veined, china-boned exterior brought out the worst in people. Win appeared soft, unlabored, sheltered—the kind of guy you hit and he shatters like cheap porcelain. Easy prey. Everyone likes easy prey.
Win stepped toward Nike/Reebok. He arched an eyebrow and gave him his best Lurch. “You rang?”
“What’s your name, Wonder bread?”
“Thurgood Marshall,” Win said.
That reply didn’t sit well with the crowd. Murmurs began. “You making a racist crack?”
“As opposed to, say, calling someone Wonder bread?”
Win glanced at Myron and gave him a thumbs-up. Myron returned the gesture. If this were a school debate, Win would be up a point.
“You a cop, Thurgood?”
Win frowned. “In this suit?” He pulled at his own lapels. “Puleeze.”
“So what do you want here?”
“We wish to speak with one Clay Jackson.”
“What about?”
“Solar energy and its role in the twenty-first century.”
Nike/Reebok checked his troops. The troops tightened the noose. Myron felt a rushing in his ears. He kept his eyes on Win and waited.
“Seems to me,” the leader continued, “that you white boys are here to hurt Clay again.” Moving closer. Eye to eye. “Seems to me that we have the right to use lethal force to protect him. That right, fellas?”
The troops grunted their agreement, raising their bats.
Win’s move was sudden and unexpected. He simply reached out and snatched the bat away from Nike/Reebok. The big man’s mouth formed an O of surprise. He stared at his hands as though he expected the bat to rematerialize at any moment. It wouldn’t. Win chucked the bat into the corner of the yard.
Then Win beckoned the big man forward. “Care to tango, pumpernickel bread?”
Myron said, “Win.”
But Win kept his eyes on his opponent. “I’m waiting.”
Nike/Reebok grinned. Then he rubbed his hands together and wet his lips. “He’s all mine, fellas.”
Yep, easy prey.
The big man lunged forward like a Frankenstein monster, his thick fingers reaching for Win’s neck. Win remained motionless until the last possible moment. Then he darted inside, his fingertips pressed together, transforming his hand into something of a spear. The fingertips struck deep and quick at the big man’s larynx, the movement like a bird doing a fast peck. A gagging sound not unlike a dental sucking machine forced its way out the big man’s mouth; his hands instinctively flew up t
o his throat. Win ducked low and whipped his foot around. The heel swept Nike/Reebok’s legs. The big man flipped midair and landed on the back of his head.
Win jammed his .44 into the man’s face. He was still smiling.
“Seems to me,” Win said, “that you just attacked me with a baseball bat. Seems to me that shooting you in the right eye would be viewed as perfectly justifiable.”
Myron had his gun out too. He ordered everyone to drop his bat. They did so. Then he had them lie on their stomachs, hands behind their heads, fingers locked. It took a minute or two, but everyone obeyed.
Nike/Reebok was now on his stomach too. He craned his neck and croaked, “Not again.”
Win cupped his ear with his free hand. “Pardon moi?”
“We ain’t gonna let you hurt that boy again.”
Win burst out laughing and nudged the man’s head with his toe. Myron caught Win’s eye and shook his head. Win shrugged and stopped.
“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Myron said. “We’re just trying to find out who attacked Clay on that rooftop.”
“Why?” a voice asked. Myron turned to the screen door. A young man hobbled out on crutches. The cast protecting the tendon looked like some puffy sea creature in the process of swallowing his entire foot.
“Because everyone thinks Horace Slaughter did it,” Myron said.
Clay Jackson balanced himself on one leg. “So?”
“So did he?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because he’s been murdered.”
Clay shrugged. “So?”
Myron opened his mouth, closed it, sighed. “It’s a long story, Clay. I just want to know who cut your tendon.”
The kid shook his head. “I ain’t talking about it.”
“Why not?”
“They told me not to.”
Win spoke to the boy for the first time. “And you have chosen to obey them?”
The boy faced Win now. “Yeah.”
“The man who did this,” Win continued. “You find him scary?”
Clay’s Adam’s apple danced. “Shit, yeah.”
Win grinned. “I’m scarier.”
No one moved.
“Would you care for a demonstration?”
Myron said, “Win.”
Nike/Reebok decided to take a chance. He started to scramble up on his elbows. Win raised his foot and slammed an ax kick into the spot where the spine met the neck. Nike/Reebok slumped back to the ground like wet sand, his arms splayed. He did not move at all. Win rested his foot on the back of the man’s skull. The Nike hat slipped off. Win pushed the still face into the muddy ground as though he were grinding out a cigarette.
Myron said, “Win.”
“Stop it!” Clay Jackson cried. He looked to Myron for help, his eyes wide and desperate. “He’s my uncle, man. He’s just looking out for me.”
“And doing a wonderful job,” Win added. He stepped up, gaining leverage. The uncle’s face sank deeper into the soft earth. His features were fully embedded in the mud now, his mouth and nose clogged.
The big man could no longer breathe.
One of the other men started to rise. Win leveled his gun at the man’s head. “Important note,” Win said. “I’m not big on warning shots.”
The man slinked back down.
With his foot still firmly planted on the man’s head, Win turned his attention to Clay Jackson. The boy was trying to look tough, but he was visibly quaking. So, quite frankly, was Myron.
“You fear a possibility,” Win said to the boy, “when you should fear a certainty.”
Win raised his foot, bending his knee. He angled himself for the proper heel strike.
Myron started to move toward him, but Win froze him with a glance. Then Win gave that smile again, the little one. It was casual, slightly amused. The smile said that he would do it. The smile hinted that he might even enjoy it. Myron had seen the smile many times, yet it never failed to chill his blood.
“I’ll count to five,” Win told the boy. “But I’ll probably crush his skull before I reach three.”
“Two white guys,” Clay Jackson said quickly. “With guns. A big guy tied us up. He was young and looked like he worked out. The little old guy—he was the leader. He was the one who cut us.”
Win turned to Myron. He spread his hands. “Can we go now?”
Back in the car, Myron said, “You went too far.”
“Uh-hmm.”
“I mean it, Win.”
“You wanted the information. I got it.”
“Not like that I didn’t.”
“Oh, please. The man came at me with a baseball bat.”
“He was scared. He thought we were trying to hurt his nephew.”
Win played the air violin.
Myron shook his head. “The kid would have told us eventually.”
“Doubtful. This Sam character had the boy scared.”
“So you had to scare him more?”
“That would be a yes,” Win said.
“You can’t do that again, Win. You can’t hurt innocent people.”
“Uh-hmm,” Win said again. He checked his watch. “Are you through now? Is your need to feel morally superior satiated?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Win looked at him. “You know what I do,” he said slowly. “Yet you always call on me.”
Silence. The echo of Win’s words hung in the air, caught in the humidity like the car fumes. Myron gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles turned white.
They did not speak again until they reached Mabel Edwards’s house.
“I know you’re violent,” Myron said. He put the car in park and looked at his friend. “But for the most part you only hurt people who deserve it.”
Win said nothing.
“If the boy hadn’t talked, would you have gone through with your threat?”
“Not an issue,” Win said. “I knew the boy would talk.”
“But suppose he hadn’t.”
Win shook his head. “You are dealing with something out of the realm of possibility.”
“Humor me then.”
Win thought about it for a moment. “I never intentionally hurt innocent people,” he said. “But I never threaten idly either.”
“That’s not an answer, Win.”
Win looked at Mabel’s house. “Go inside, Myron. Time’s awasting.”
Mabel Edwards sat across from him in a small den. “So Brenda remembers the Holiday Inn,” she said.
A small yellowish trace of the bruise remained around her eye, but hey, it would go away before the soreness in Big Mario’s groin did. Mourners were still milling about, but the house was hushed now; reality set in with the darkness. Win was outside, keeping watch.
“Very vaguely,” Myron replied. “It was more like déjà vu than anything concrete.”
Mabel nodded as though this made sense. “It was a long time ago.”
“Then Brenda was at the hotel?”
Mabel looked down, smoothed the bottom of her dress, reached for her cup of tea. “Brenda was there,” she said, “with her mother.”
“When?”
Mabel held the cup in front of her lips. “The night Anita disappeared.”
Myron tried not to look too confused. “She took Brenda with her?”
“At first, yes.”
“I don’t understand. Brenda never said anything—”
“Brenda was five years old. She doesn’t remember. Or at least that’s what Horace thought.”
“But you didn’t say anything before.”
“Horace didn’t want her knowing about it,” Mabel said. “He thought it would hurt her.”
“But I still don’t get it. Why did Anita take Brenda to a hotel?”
Mabel Edwards finally took a sip of the tea. Then she set it back down gently. She smoothed the dress again and fiddled with the chain around her neck. “It’s like I told you before. Anita wrote Horace a note saying she was running awa
y. She cleared out all his money and took off.”
Myron saw it now. “But she planned on taking Brenda with her.”
“Yes.”
The money, Myron thought. Anita’s taking all of it had always bothered him. Running away from danger is one thing. But leaving your daughter penniless—that seemed unusually cruel. But now there was an explanation: Anita had intended to take Brenda.
“So what happened?” Myron asked.
“Anita changed her mind.”
“Why?”
A woman poked her head through the doorway. Mabel fired a glare, and the head disappeared like something in a shooting gallery. Myron could hear kitchen noises, family and friends cleaning up to prepare for another day of mourning. Mabel looked like she’d aged since this morning. Fatigue emanated from her like a fever.
“Anita packed them both up,” she managed. “She ran away and checked them into that hotel. I don’t know what happened then. Maybe Anita got scared. Maybe she realized how impossible it would be to run away with a five-year-old. No matter. Anita called Horace. She was crying and all hysterical. It was all too much for her, she said. She told Horace to come pick up Brenda.”
Silence.
“So Horace went to the Holiday Inn?” Myron asked.
“Yes.”
“Where was Anita?”
Mabel shrugged. “She’d run off already, I guess.”
“And this all happened the first night she ran away?”
“Yes.”
“So Anita could not have been gone for more than a few hours, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So what made Anita change her mind so fast?” Myron asked. “What could possibly have made her decide to give up her daughter that quickly?”
Mabel Edwards rose with a great sigh and made her way to the television set. Her normally supple, fluid movements had been stiffened by her grief. She reached out with a tentative hand and plucked a photograph off the top. Then she showed it to Myron.
“This is Terence’s father, Roland,” she said. “My husband.”
Myron looked at the black-and-white photograph.
“Roland was shot coming home from work. For twelve dollars. Right on our front stoop. Two shots in the head. For twelve dollars.” Her voice was a monotone now, dispassionate. “I didn’t handle it well. Roland was the only man I ever loved. I started drinking. Terence was only a little boy, but he looked so much like his father I could barely stand to look at his face. So I drank some more. And then I took some drugs. I stopped taking care of my son. The state came and put him in a foster home.”
