by Harlan Coben
That was usually when you got popped.
“Be extra careful,” Win said. “The word has hit the streets.”
“What word?”
“A price has officially been put on your head,” Win said, as if it were amusing cocktail conversation. “Thirty thousand dollars to the man who takes you out.”
Myron made a face. “Thirty thousand? Hell, I used to be a fed. I should be worth sixty, seventy grand minimum.”
“Bad economy. Times are tough.”
“I’m being discounted?”
“Appears so, yes.”
Myron opened the revolver and checked the bullets. Just as he suspected. Win had loaded the gun with dumdums—bullets with cross-hatched tips to expose the lead. Wasn’t enough to be using hollow-point Winchester Silvertip bullets. Win had to doctor them for that extra little crunch. “These are illegal.”
Win put his hand against his chest. “My. Oh. My. How. Awful.”
“And unnecessary.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
“They are effective.”
“I don’t want them,” Myron said.
“Fine” He handed Myron uncut bullets. “Be a wimp.”
Chapter 21
Jessica listened to the message on the answering machine.
“Hi, Jessica. It’s Nancy Serat. I’m so sorry to hear about your father. He was such a nice man. I can’t believe it. He was here the morning he died. So weird. He was so nostalgic that day. He told me all about that favorite yellow sweater he gave Kathy. Such a sweet story. I wish I could have been more helpful. I just can’t believe—well, I’m rambling, sorry. I do that when I’m nervous Anyway I’ll be out until ten o’clock tonight. You can come by then or give me a call. Bye.”
Jessica rewound the message and played it back. Then a third time. Nancy Serat had seen her father on the morning of his murder.
Another coincidence?
She thought not.
Myron called his mother. “I won’t be home for a few days.”
“What?”
“I’m going to stay with Win.”
“In the city?”
“Yes.”
“New York City?”
“No, Mom. Kuwait City.”
“Don’t be such a wise guy with your mother, save it for your friends,” she said. “So why are you staying in the city?”
Hmm. Should he tell her the truth? Because, Mom, a mobster has a contract out on my head and I don’t want to put you and Dad in danger. Nah. Might make her worry. “I’m going to be working late the next few nights.”
“You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful, Myron. Don’t walk around alone at night.”
Esperanza opened the door. “Urgent call on line three,” she said, loud enough for Myron’s mother to hear.
“Mom, I gotta go. Urgent call.”
“Call us.”
“I will.” He hung up and looked up at Esperanza. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Is there anyone on the phone?”
She nodded. “Timmy Simpson again. I tried to handle it, but he says his problem needs your particular expertise.”
Timmy Simpson was a rookie shortstop for the Red Sox. A major-league pain in the ass.
“Hi, Timmy.”
“Hey, Myron, I’ve been waiting here two goddamn hours for your call.”
“I was out. What’s the problem?”
“I’m here in Toronto, okay, at the Hilton. And this hotel’s got no hot water.”
Myron waited. Then he said, “Did I hear you correctly, Timmy? Did you say—”
“Unfuckinbelievable, ain’t it?” Timmy shouted. “I go in the shower, right, wait five minutes, then ten minutes. The water’s fucking freezing, Myron. Ice cold. So finally I call down to the front desk, right? Some pissant manager tells me they’re having some kind of plumbing problem. Plumbing problem, Myron, like I’m staying in a fuckin’ trailer park or something. So I say, when’s it going to be fixed? He gives me this whole long spiel how he don’t know. Can you believe this shit?”
No, Myron thought. “Timmy, why exactly are you calling me?”
“Jesus Christ, Myron, I’m a pro, right? And I’m stuck in this hellhole with no hot water. I mean, isn’t there something in my contract about that?”
“A hot water clause, perhaps?” Myron tried.
“Or something. I mean, come on. Where do they get off? I need a shower before a game. A hot shower. Is that too much to expect? I mean, what am I going to do?”
Stick your head in the toilet and flush, Myron thought, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “I’ll see what I can do, Timmy.”
“Talk to the hotel manager, Myron. Make him understand the importance.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Myron said, “those orphans in Eastern Europe are a minor annoyance in comparison to this. But if the hot water doesn’t come back on soon, check into another hotel. We’ll send the bill to the Red Sox.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Myron.”
Click.
Myron stared at the phone. Unbelievable. He leaned back and wondered how to handle his three big problems: Chaz Landreaux’s sudden departure, Kathy Culver’s possible re-emergence, and the Toronto Hilton’s plumbing. He decided to forgo the last. Only so much one man can do.
Problem 1: Chaz Landreaux was climbing into bed with Frank Ache. There was only one way out of that. Big brother Herman.
Myron picked up the phone and dialed. He still knew the number by heart. It was picked up on the first ring. “Clancy’s Tavern.”
“It’s Myron Bolitar. I’d like to see Herman.”
“Hold on.” Five minutes passed before the voice came back on. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”
Click. No need to wait for an answer. Whatever time Herman Ache agreed to see you, you were free.
Problem 2: Kathy Culver. Nips magazine had been mailed from a campus box. It had been mailed not only to Christian Steele but also to Dean Harrison Gordon. Why? Myron knew that Kathy had worked for the dean. Was there more to her job than just filing? An affair, perhaps? And what about the dean’s lovely wife? Did she wear underwear?
But Myron was digressing.
The catalyst of this whole thing was the ad in Nips. Gary Grady claimed he had nothing to do with it. Maybe. Maybe not. But either way the picture had to go through Fred Nickler. Good ol’ Freddy was at the center of this.
Myron looked up the number and dialed.
“HDP. May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Fred Nickler.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Please hold.”
A minute passed. Then Fred Nickler came on. “Hello?”
“Mr. Nickler, this is Myron Bolitar.”
“Yes, Myron. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to come by and ask you a few more questions about the ad.”
“I’m afraid I’m quite busy right now, Myron. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? Maybe we can set something up.”
Silence.
“Myron? You there?”
“Do you know who took that picture, Mr. Nickler?”
“Of course not.”
“Your friend Jerry denies any knowledge of it.”
“Myron, please. You’re a man of the world. What did you expect him to say?”
“He says he had nothing to do with putting that picture in the ad.”
“Well, that’s quite impossible. He was the advertiser. He submitted the photograph.”
“Then you have a copy of the photo?”
Pause. “It has to be in the file somewhere.”
“Maybe you can pull it out, and I’ll come pick it up.”
“Listen, Myron, I hate to be rude, but I’m really busy right now. It will just be the same photograph you already saw.”
“Kathy’s picture was only in Nips
,” Myron said.
“Pardon me?”
“Her picture. It wasn’t in any of your other magazines. Only Nips.”
Pause. “So?” But his voice was suddenly tottery.
“So the same ad was in all six magazines. The same exact page with the same exact pictures. Except for one small change in Nips. Someone had changed just one photograph in the bottom row. Someone had switched pictures for just that one magazine and not the others. Why?”
Fred Nickler coughed. “I really don’t know, Myron. Tell you what: I’ll check on it and let you know. Gotta zillion calls waiting. Gotta run. Bye.”
Another click.
Myron sat back. Fred Nickler was starting to panic.
With a shaking hand Fred Nickler dialed the number. After three rings the phone was picked up.
“County police.”
Fred cleared his throat. “Paul Duncan, please.”
Chapter 22
Nine P. M.
Myron called Jessica. He filled her in on his dean discovery.
“Do you really think Kathy was having an affair with the dean?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t know. But after seeing his wife, I’d tend to doubt it.”
“Good-looking?”
“Very,” Myron said. “And she knows her basketball. She even cried when I got hurt.”
Jessica made a noise. “The perfect woman.”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”
“Dream on,” Jessica said. “The fact that a man is married to a beautiful woman does not preclude him from having affairs with pretty co-eds.”
“True enough. So the question is: How did Dean Gordon get his name on this infamous mailing list?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” she said. “But I too found out something interesting today. My father visited Nancy Serat, Kathy’s roommate, the morning he died.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet. Nancy just left a message on my machine. I’m meeting her in an hour.”
“Good. Call me if you hear anything else.”
“Where are you going to be?” she asked.
“I work nights at Chippendale’s,” Myron said. “Stage name Zorro.”
“Should be Tiny.”
“Ouch.”
An uncomfortable silence engulfed them. Jessica finally broke it. “Why don’t you come by the house tonight?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone level.
Myron’s heart pounded. “It’ll be late.”
“That’s okay. I’m not sleeping much. Just knock on my bedroom window. Zorro.”
She hung up. For the next five minutes Myron sat perfectly still and thought about Jessica. They had first started dating a month before his career ended. She stayed with him. She nursed him. She loved him. He pushed her away under some macho disguise of protecting her. But she wouldn’t leave. Not then, anyway.
Esperanza opened the door without knocking. She looked at him and snapped, “Stop it.”
“What?”
“You’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
She imitated him. “That repulsive lovesick-puppy face.”
“I wasn’t making any face.”
“Right. You disgust me, Myron.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I think? I think you’re more interested in getting back in Jessica’s pants than you are in finding her sister.”
“Jesus, what the hell is with you?”
“I was there, remember? When she left.”
“Hey, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
Esperanza shook her head. “Déjà vu all over again.”
“What?”
“Take care of yourself. Bullshit. You sound just like Chaz Landreaux. Both of you have your head up your ass.”
Esperanza’s dark face reminded him of Spanish nights, golden sand, full moons against starless skies. There had been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always realized what it would mean and stopped it. Such temptations no longer came their way anymore. Aside from Win, Esperanza was his closest friend. Her concern, Myron knew, was genuine.
He changed subjects. “Was there a reason for your unannounced entrance?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
She read from a steno pad. Why she had a steno pad he could not say. She could not take dictation or type a lick. “I finally tracked down the other number Gary Grady called after your visit. It belongs to a photography studio called—get this—Global Globes Photos. Located off Tenth Avenue, near the tunnel.”
“Sleazy area.”
“The sleaziest,” she said. “I think the studio specializes in pornography.”
“Nice to have a specialty.” Myron checked his watch. “Any word from Win?”
“Not yet.”
“Leave the photographer’s address on his voice mail. Maybe he’ll finish in time to meet me.”
“You going tonight?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Esperanza closed the pad with a snap. “Mind if I tag along?”
“To the photography studio?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have class tonight?” Esperanza was getting her law degree from NYU at night.
“No. And I’ve done all my homework, Daddy. Really I have.”
“Shut up and come on.”
Chapter 23
Hookerville.
There were all kinds. White, Black, Asian, Latino—a verifiable United Nations of prostitutes. Most were young, very young, stumbling on too-high heels, like children playing dress-up, which in a real sense they were. Most were thin, dried-up, needle tracks covering their arms like dozens of tiny insects, their skin pulled tightly around cheekbones, giving their faces a haunted skull look. Their eyes were hollow and set deep, their hair lifeless and strawlike.
Myron muttered, “Don’t they know they’re making love to what’s already dead?”
Esperanza paused, thinking. “Don’t know that one.”
“Fontine in Les Misérables. The musical.”
“I can’t afford Broadway musicals. My boss is cheap.”
“But cute.”
He watched a blond girl in sixties hot-pants negotiate with a sleazeball in a Ford station wagon. He knew her story. He had seen girls (boys sometimes) just like her get off the bus at the Port Authority, a Greyhound bus that had originated in West Virginia or western Pennsylvania or that great, barren mono-expanse New Yorkers simply referred to as the Midwest. She had run away from home—maybe to avoid abuse, but more likely because she was bored and “belonged” in a big city. She had high-stepped off the bus with a wide smile, mesmerized, without a penny. Pimps would eye her and wait with the patience of a vulture. When the time was right, they would sweep down and claim their carcass. They’d introduce her to the Big Apple, get her a place to stay, some food, a hot shower, maybe a room with a Jacuzzi and dazzling lights and a cool CD player and cable TV with a remote. They’d promise to set her up with a photographer, get her a few modeling gigs. Then they’d teach her how to party, really party, not that candy-ass shit she’d done in Hicks Falls with some beer and a zit-infested senior pawing at her in the backseat of a pickup. They’d show her how to have a good time with the prime stuff, the numero-uno white powder.
But things would change. Someone would have to pay for all these good times. The modeling job would fall through, and she couldn’t just be a freeloader. Besides, the partying was more a need now than a luxury. Like food or breathing. She could no longer exist without a snort or a pinch from her favorite needle.
It didn’t take long to plummet and hit bottom. And once there she didn’t have the strength—not even the desire, really—to get up.
She ended up here.
Myron parked. He and Esperanza got out of the car silently. Myron felt his stomach churn. It was night, of course. Places like this existed only at night. They fled with the onslaught of sunlight.
Myron had never been with a whore, but he knew Win had engaged their services on plenty of occasions. Win liked the convenience. His favorite spot was an Asian whorehouse on Eighth Street called Noble House. Back in the mid-eighties, Win and a few friends would have what they called “Chinese night” in Win’s apartment—Hunan Garden would deliver food, Noble House women. The truth was, Win had no feelings for women. He didn’t trust them. Whores were what he wanted. It wasn’t just the lack of attachment. Win never let women attach. But prostitutes were throwaways. Disposable.
Myron didn’t think Win still partook in such events—not in this disease-ridden era—but he didn’t know for sure. They never talked about it.
“Pretty spot,” Myron said. “Scenic.”
Esperanza nodded.
They passed a nightclub of some sort. The music was loud enough to crack the sidewalk. A teen—Myron couldn’t say if it was male or female—with green spiked hair bumped into him. Looked like the Statue of Liberty. There were lots of motorcycles, ear and nipple rings, tattoos, chain jewelry. A constant whore chorus of “Hey, baby” pelted him from every conceivable angle, their faces blurring into one mass of human debris. The place was like a carnival freak show.
The sign above the door read CLUB F. U. The logo was a raised middle finger. Subtle. A chalkboard read the following:
HEAVY “MEDICAL” NIGHT!
LIVE BANDS!
Featuring the only local appearances by:
PAP SMEAR
and RECTAL THERMOMETER
Myron could see through the open door. People weren’t dancing. They were jumping up and down, heads lolling lifelessly as if their necks were rubber bands, their arms tucked against their sides. Myron focused in on one kid, maybe fifteen years old, lost in the violet bliss, sweat matting his long hair to his face. He wondered if the group onstage was Pap Smear or Rectal Thermometer. Didn’t matter. Sounded like someone had jammed a rutting pig into a Cuisinart.
The whole scene was like Dickens meets Blade Runner.
“The studio is next door,” Esperanza said.
The building was either a disastrous brownstone or a small warehouse. Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.
“This is it?” Myron asked.
“Third floor,” Esperanza answered. She did not seem intimidated by the surroundings in the least, but she had come from streets not much better than this. Her face remained a placid pool. Esperanza never showed weakness. Her temper flared often, but for all their times together, Myron had never seen her cry. She could not say the same of him.
