by Harlan Coben
Pause. Then: “Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“What the fuck are you involved in now?”
“Nothing. It’s just that he’s got all this weird security around his house—”
“What the fuck are you doing by his house?”
“Nothing.”
“Right,” Jake said. “Guess you were just strolling by.”
“Something like that.”
“Nothing like that.” Jake sighed. Then: “Ah what the hell, it ain’t on my beat anymore. Squires. Reginald Squires aka Big Blue.”
Myron made a face. “Big Blue?”
“Hey, all gangsters need a nickname. Squires is known as Big Blue. Blue, as in blue blood.”
“Those gangsters,” Myron said. “Pity they don’t channel their creativity into honest marketing.”
“ ‘Honest marketing,’ ” Jake repeated. “Talk about your basic oxymoron. Anyway Squires got a kiloton of family dough and all this blue-blood breeding and schooling and shit.”
“So what’s he doing keeping such bad company?”
“You want the simple answer? The son of a bitch is a serious wacko. Gets his jollies hurting people. Kinda like Win.”
“Win doesn’t get his jollies hurting people.”
“If you say so.”
“If Win hurts someone, there’s a reason. To prevent them from doing it again or to punish or something.”
“Sure, whatever,” Jake said. “Kinda touchy though, aren’t we, Myron?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“It’s only nine in the morning.”
Myron said, “For what breeds time but two hands on a clock?”
“Who said that?”
“No one. I just made it up.”
“You should consider writing greeting cards.”
“So what is Squires into, Jake?”
“Want to hear something funny? I’m not sure. Nobody is. Drugs and prostitution. Shit like that. But very upscale. Nothing very well organized or anything. It’s more like he plays at it, you know? Like he gets involved in whatever he thinks will give him a thrill, then dumps it.”
“How about kidnapping?”
Brief pause. “Oh shit, you are involved in something again, aren’t you?”
“I just asked you if Squires was into kidnapping.”
“Oh. Right. Like it’s a hypothetical question. Kinda like, ‘If a bear shits in the forest and no one is around, does it still reek’?”
“Precisely. Does kidnapping reek like his kind of thing?”
“Hell if I know. The guy is a major league loon, no question. He blends right into all that snobbish bullshit—the boring parties, the shitty food, the laughing at jokes that aren’t remotely funny, the talking with the same boring people about the same boring worthless bullshit—”
“It sounds like you really admire them.”
“Just my point, my friend. They got it all, right? On the outside. Money, big homes, fancy clubs. But they’re all so fucking boring—shit, I’d kill myself. Makes me wonder if maybe Squires feels that way too, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “And Win is the scary one here, right?”
Jake laughed. “Touché. But to answer your question, I don’t know if Squires would be into kidnapping. Wouldn’t surprise me though.”
Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.
What now?
For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. If he could also somehow land Tad Crispin …
Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble.
Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent—take your pick—is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents’ expense.
So the question remained: What now?
He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn’t go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.
But why would he do it at Porter Street?
Why not do it at a bank closer to home? And equally important, what was Chad Coldren doing in that area in the first place? There was nothing there. It wasn’t a stop between highways or anything like that. The only thing in that neighborhood that would require cash was the Court Manor Inn. Myron again remembered motelier extraordinaire Stuart Lipwitz’s attitude and wondered.
He started the car. It might be something. Worth looking into, at any rate.
Of course, Stuart Lipwitz had made it abundantly clear that he would not talk. But Myron thought he had just the tool to make him change his mind.
14
“Smile!”
The man did not smile. He quickly shifted the car in reverse and backed out. Myron shrugged and lowered the camera. It was on a neck strap and bounced lightly against his chest. Another car approached. Myron lifted the camera again.
“Smile!” Myron repeated.
Another man. Another no smile. This guy managed to duck down before shifting his car into reverse.
“Camera shy” Myron called out to him. “Nice to see in this age of paparazzi overkill.”
It didn’t take long. Myron had been on the sidewalk in front of the Court Manor Inn for less than five minutes when he spotted Stuart Lipwitz sprinting toward him. Big Stu was in full custom—gray tails, wide tie, a concierge key pin in the suit’s lapel. Gray tails at a no-tell motel. Like a maître d’ at Burger King. Watching Stu move closer, a Pink Floyd song came to mind: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody out there? David Bowie joined in: Ground control to Major Tom.
Ah, the seventies.
“You there,” he called out.
“Hi, Stu.”
No smile this time. “This is private property,” Stuart Lipwitz said, a little out of breath. “I must ask you to remove yourself immediately.”
“I hate to disagree with you, Stu, but I am on a public sidewalk. I got every right to be here.”
Stuart Lipwitz stammered, then flapped his arms in frustration. With the tails, the movement kind of reminded Myron of a bat. “But you can’t just stand there and take pictures of my clientele,” he semi-whined.
“ ‘Clientele,’ ” Myron repeated. “Is that a new euphemism for john?”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Ooooo. Stop scaring me like that.”
“You are interfering with my business.”
“And you are interfering with mine.”
Stuart Lipwitz put his hands on his hips and tried to look threatening. “This is the last time I’ll ask you nicely. Leave the premises.”
“That wasn’t nice.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said it was the last time you’d ask me nicely,” Myron explained. “Then you said, ‘Leave the premises.’ You didn’t say please. You didn’t say, ‘Kindly leave the premises.’ Where’s the nice in that?”
“I see,” Lipwitz said. Beads of sweat dotted his face. It was hot and the man was, after all, in tails. “Please kindly leave the premises.”
“Nope. But now, at least, you’re a man of your word.”
Stuart Lipwitz took several deep breaths. “You want to know about the boy, don’t you? The one in the picture.”
“You bet.”
“And if I tell you if he was here, will you leave?”
“Much as it would pain me to leave this quaint locale, I would somehow tear myself away.”
“That, sir, is blackmail.”
Myron looked at him. “I would say ‘blackmail is such an ugly word,’ but that would be too cliché. So instead I’ll just say ‘Y
up.’ ”
“But”—Lipwitz started stammering—“that’s against the law!”
“As opposed to, say, prostitution and drug dealing and whatever other sleazy activity goes on in this fleabag?”
Stuart Lipwitz’s eyes widened. “Fleabag? This is the Court Manor Inn, sir. We are a respectable—”
“Stuff it, Stu. I got pictures to take.” Another car pulled up. Gray Volvo station wagon. Nice family car. A man about fifty years old was neatly attired in a business suit. The young girl in the passenger seat must have shopped—as the mall girls had recently taught him—at Sluts “R” Us.
Myron smiled and leaned toward the window. “Whoa, sir, vacationing with your daughter?”
The man splashed on a classic deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. “Hey, Mel, he thinks I’m your daughter!” She whooped again.
Myron raised the camera. Stuart Lipwitz tried to step in his way, but Myron swept him away with his free hand. “It’s Souvenir Day at the Court Manor,” Myron said. “I can put the picture on a coffee mug if you’d like. Or maybe a decorative plate?”
The man in the business suit reversed the car. They were gone several seconds later.
Stuart Lipwitz’s face reddened. He made two fists. Myron looked at him. “Now Stuart …”
“I have powerful friends,” he said.
“Ooooo. I’m getting scared again.”
“Fine. Be that way.” Stuart turned away and stormed up the drive. Myron smiled. The kid was a tougher nut to crack than he’d anticipated, and he really didn’t want to do this all day. But let’s face it: There were no other leads and besides, playing with Big Stu was fun.
Myron waited for more customers. He wondered what Stu was up to. Something frantic, no doubt. Ten minutes later, a canary yellow Audi pulled up and a large black man slid out. The black man was maybe an inch shorter than Myron, but he was built. His chest could double as a jai alai wall and his legs resembled the trunks of redwoods. He glided when he moved—not the bulky moves one usually associated with the overmuscled.
Myron did not like that.
The black man had sunglasses on and wore a red Hawaiian shirt with blue jean shorts. His most noticeable feature was his hair. The kinks had been slicked straight and parted on the side, like old photographs of Nat King Cole.
Myron pointed at the top of the man’s head. “Is that hard to do?” he asked.
“What?” the black man said. “You mean the hair?”
Myron nodded. “Keeping it straight like that.”
“Nah, not really. Once a week I go to a guy named Ray. In an old-fashioned barbershop, as a matter of fact. The kind with the pole in front and everything.” His smile was almost wistful. “Ray takes care of it for me. Also gives me a great shave. With hot towels and everything.” The man stroked his face for emphasis.
“Looks smooth,” Myron said.
“Hey, thanks. Nice of you to say. I find it relaxing, you know? Doing something just for me. I think it’s important. To relieve the stress.”
Myron nodded. “I hear you.”
“Maybe I’ll give you Ray’s number. You could stop by and check it out.”
“Ray,” Myron repeated. “I’d like that.”
The black man stepped closer. “Seems we have a little situation here, Mr. Bolitar.”
“How did you know my name?”
He shrugged. Behind the sunglasses, Myron sensed that he was being sized up. Myron was doing the same. Both were trying to be subtle. Both knew exactly what the other was doing.
“I’d really appreciate it if you would leave,” he said very politely.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Myron said. “Even though you did ask nicely.”
The black man nodded. He kept his distance. “Let’s see if we can work something out here, okay?”
“Okeydokey.”
“I got a job to do here, Myron. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”
“Sure can,” Myron said.
“And so do you.”
“That’s right.”
The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. “Look, I know you won’t be easy. And you know I won’t be easy. If push comes to shove, I don’t know which one of us will win.”
“I will,” Myron said. “Good always triumphs over evil.”
The man smiled. “Not in this neighborhood.”
“Good point.”
“I’m also not sure it’s worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we’re both probably past the proving-himself, macho-bullshit stage.”
Myron nodded. “We’re too mature.”
“Right.”
“It seems then,” Myron continued, “that we’ve hit an impasse.”
“Guess so,” the black man agreed. “Of course, I could always take out a gun and shoot you.”
Myron shook his head. “Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know.”
“You’re a pro,” Myron agreed. “You’d feel remiss if you didn’t at least try. Hell, I’d have felt cheated.”
“Glad you understand.”
“Speaking of which,” Myron said, “aren’t you a tad high-level to be dealing with this situation?”
“Can’t say I disagree.” The black man walked closer to Myron. Myron felt his muscles tighten; a not-unpleasant anticipatory chill steeled him.
“You look like a guy who can keep his mouth shut,” the man said.
Myron said nothing. Proving the point.
“The kid you had in that picture, the one that got Leona Helmsley’s panties in a bunch? He was here.”
“When?”
The black man shook his head. “That’s all you get. I’m being very generous. You wanted to know if the kid was here. The answer is yes.”
“Nice of you,” Myron said.
“I’m just trying to make it simple. Look, we both know that Lipwitz is a dumb kid. Acts like this urinal is the Beverly Wilshire. But the people who come here, they don’t want that. They want to be invisible. They don’t even want to look at themselves, you know what I’m saying?”
Myron nodded.
“So I gave you a freebie. The kid in the picture was here.”
“Is he still here?”
“You’re pushing me, Myron.”
“Just tell me that.”
“No. He only stayed that one night.” He spread his hands. “Now you tell me, Myron. Am I being fair with you?”
“Very.”
He nodded. “Your turn.”
“I guess there’s no way you’ll tell me who you’re working for.”
The black man made a face. “Nice meeting you, Myron.”
“Same here.”
They shook hands. Myron got into his car and drove away.
He had almost reached Merion when the cellular rang. He picked up and said hello.
“Is this, like, Myron?”
Mall girl. “Hi, yes. Actually this is Myron, not just like him.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. What’s up?”
“That skank you were, like, looking for last night?”
“Right.”
“He’s, like, back at the mall.”
“Where at the mall?”
“The food court. He’s on line at the McDonald’s.”
Myron spun the car around and hit the gas pedal.
15
The Crusty Nazi was still there.
He sat at a corner table by himself, downing a burger of some sort like it had personally offended him. The girls were right. Skank was the only word to describe him, even though Myron didn’t know what the word meant or if it even existed. The punk’s face was aiming for tough-guy-unshaven, but a lack of testosterone made it land far closer to unkempt-adolescent-Hasid. He wore a black baseball cap with a skull and crossbones decal. His ripped white T
-shirt was rolled all the way up to reveal milky, reedy arms, one with a swastika tattoo. Myron shook his head. Swastika. The kid was too old to be so utterly clueless.
The Crusty Nazi took another vicious bite, clearly furious with his burger now. The mall girls were there, pointing toward Crusty like Myron might not know which guy they’d been talking about. Myron signaled them to stop with a shushing finger at his lips. They obeyed, overcompensating by engaging in a too-loud, too-casual conversation, sliding furtive-to-the-point-of-totally-obvious glances in his direction. Myron looked away.
The Crusty Nazi finished his burger and stood. Good timing. As advertised, Crusty was very skinny The girls were right—the boy had no ass. None at all. Myron couldn’t tell if the kid was going for that too-big-jeans look or if it was because he lacked a true backside, but every few steps, Crusty paused to hitch up the pants. Myron suspected a bit of both.
He followed him outside into the blazing sun. Hot. Damn hot. Myron felt almost a nostalgic longing for the omnipresent mall air-conditioning. Crusty strutted cool-like into the lot. Going to his car, no doubt. Myron veered to the right so as to get ready to follow. He slid into his Ford Taurus (read: Chick Trawler) and started up the engine.
He slowly cruised the lot and spotted Crusty heading way out to the last row of cars. Only two vehicles were parked out there. One was a silver Cadillac Seville. The other was a pickup truck with those semi-monster wheels, a Confederate flag decal, and the words BAD TO THE BONE painted on the side. Using his years of investigative know-how, Myron deduced that the pickup truck was probably Crusty’s vehicle. Sure enough, Crusty opened the door and hopped up and in. Amazing. Sometimes Myron’s powers of deduction bordered on the psychic. Maybe he should get a 900 line like Jackie Stallone.
Tailing the pickup truck was hardly a challenge. The vehicle stuck out like a golfer’s clothing in a monastery, and El Crust-ola wasn’t heavy on the gas pedal. They drove for about half an hour. Myron had no idea where they were going, but up ahead he recognized Veterans Stadium. He’d gone with Win to several Eagles games there. Win always had seats on the fifty-yard line, lower tier. Being an old stadium, the “luxury” skyboxes at the Vet were too high up; Win did not care for them. So he chose instead to sit with the masses. Big of him.
