by Harlan Coben
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 love 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 fi
sts. 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.
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.
“Who do you work for?” Bonnie asked.
“No one.”
“Then why would you care if he came here?”
“I’m just trying to put some things together,” he said.
“What things?”
“Just general stuff.”
Bonnie Franklin looked at Veronica Lake. Both nodded. Then Bonnie Franklin made a show of turning up the cattle prod. “‘General stuff’ is an unacceptable response.”
Panic squeezed Myron’s gut. “Wait—”
“No, I think not.” Bonnie reached toward him with the cattle prod.
Myron’s eyes widened. No choice really. He had to try it now. If the prod hit him again, he’d have nothing left. He just had to hope Veronica would not kill him.
He had been planning the move for the past ten seconds. Now he rolled all the way back over his neck and head. He landed on his feet and without warning shot himself forward as though from a cannon. The three cross-dressers backed off, prepared for the attack. But an attack would be suicide. Myron knew that. There were three of them, two armed, at least one very good. Myron could never beat them. He needed to surprise them. So he did. By not going for them.
He went instead for the one-way glass.
His legs had pushed off full throttle, propelling him rocket-ship fashion toward the glass. By the time his three captors realized what he was doing, it was too late. Myron squeezed his eyes shut, made two fists, and hit the glass with his full weight, Superman style. He held nothing back. If the glass did not give, he was a dead man.
The glass shattered on impact.
The sound was enormous, all-consuming. Myron flew through it, glass clattering to the floor around him. When he landed, he tucked himself into a tight ball. He hit the floor and rolled. Tiny shards of mirror bit into his skin. He ignored the pain, kept rolling, crashing hard into the bar. Bottles fell.
Big Cyndi had talked about the place’s reputation. Myron was counting on that. And the Take A Guess clientele did not disappoint.
A pure New York melee ensued.
Tables were thrown. People screamed. Someone flew over the bar and landed on top of Myron. More glass shattered. Myron tried to get to his feet, but it wasn’t happening. From his right, he saw a door open. Mall Girl emerged.
“Bitch!”
Mall Girl started toward him, carrying Bonnie’s cattle prod. Myron tried to scramble away, but he couldn’t get his bearings. Mall Girl kept coming, drawing closer.
And then Mall Girl disappeared.
It was like a scene from a cartoon, where the big dog punches Sylvester the Cat, and Sylvester flies across the room and the oversize fist stays there for a few seconds.
In this case the oversize fist belonged to Big Cyndi.
Bodies flew. Glasses flew. Chairs flew. Big Cyndi ignored it all. She scooped Myron up and threw him over her shoulder like a firefighter. They rushed outside as police sirens clawed through the milky night air.
CHAPTER 16
Back at the Dakota, Win tsk-tsked and said, “You let a couple of girls beat you up?”
“They weren’t girls.”
Win took a sip of cognac. Myron gulped some Yoo-Hoo. “Tomorrow night,” Win said, “we’ll go back to this bar. Together.”
It was not something Myron wanted to think about right now. Win called a doctor. It was after two in the morning, but the doctor, a gray-haired man straight from central casting, arrived in fifteen minutes. Nothing broken, he declared with a professional chuckle. Most of the medical treatment consisted of cleaning out the cuts from the heel blade and window bits. The two heel slices—the one on his stomach was shaped like a Z—required stitches. All in all, painful but relatively harmless.
The doctor tossed Myron some Tylenol with codeine, closed up his medical bag, tipped his hat, departed. Myron finished his Yoo-Hoo and stood slowly. He wanted to take a shower, but the doctor had told him to wait until the morning. He swallowed a couple of tablets and hit the sheets. When he fell asleep, he dreamed about Brenda.
In the morning he called Hester Crimstein at her apartment. The machine picked up. Myron said it was urgent. Midway through his message Hester took the call.
“I need to see Esperanza,” he told the attorney. “Now.”
Surprisingly, the attorney hesitated for only a moment before saying, “Okay.”
“I killed someone,” Myron said.
Esperanza sat across from him.
“I don’t mean I actually fired a gun. But I might as well have. In many ways what I did was worse.”
Esperanza kept her eyes on him. “This happened right before you ran away?”
“Within a couple of weeks, yes.”
“But that’s not why you left.”
His mouth felt dry. “I guess not.”
“You ran away because of Brenda.”
Myron did not answer.
Esperanza crossed her arms. “So why are you sharing thi
s little tidbit with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I am,” she said.
“Oh?”
“It’s something of a ploy. You hoped that your big confession would help me open up.”
“No,” Myron said.
“Then?”
“You’re the one I talk to about things like this.”
She almost smiled. “Even now?”
“I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out,” he said. “And okay, maybe I do hold out some hope that talking about this will help us return to—I don’t know—some kind of sense of normalcy. Or maybe I just need to talk about this. Win wouldn’t understand. The person I killed was evil incarnate. It would have presented him with a moral dilemma no more complex than choosing a tie.”
“And this moral dilemma haunts you?”
“The problem is,” Myron said, “it doesn’t.”
Esperanza nodded. “Ah.”
“The person deserved it,” he went on. “The courts had no evidence.”
“So you played vigilante.”
“In a sense.”
“And that bothers you? No, wait, it doesn’t bother you.”
“Right.”
“So you’re losing sleep over the fact that you’re not losing sleep.”
He smiled, spread his hands. “See why I come to you?”
Esperanza crossed her legs and looked up in the air. “When I first met you and Win, I wondered about your friendship. About what first attracted you to each other. I thought maybe Win was a latent homosexual.”
“Why does everyone say that? Can’t two men just—”
“I was wrong,” she interrupted. “And don’t get all defensive, it’ll make people wonder. You guys aren’t gay. I realized that early on. Like I said, it was just a thought. Then I wondered if it was simply the old adage ‘Opposites attract.’ Maybe that’s part of it.” She stopped.
“And?” Myron prompted.
“And maybe you two are more alike than either one of you wants to believe. I don’t want to get too deep here, but Win sees you as his humanity. If you like him, he reasons, how bad can he be? You, on the other hand, see him as a cold dose of reality. Win’s logic is scary, but it’s oddly appealing. There is a little part in all of us that likes what he does, the same side of us that thinks the Iranians might be on to something when they cut off a thief’s hand. You grew up with all that suburban liberal crap about the disadvantaged. But now real-life experience is teaching you that some people are just plain evil. It shifts you a little closer to Win.”
