by Harlan Coben
“Fine. So what happens next?”
“We order a drink, I guess.”
Five minutes passed. “Lonely Boy” came on the jukebox. Andrew Gold. Serious seventies AM bubble gum. Chorus: “Oh, oh, oh … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy.” By the time the chorus was repeated for the eighth time, Myron had it down pat so he sang along. Megamemory. Maybe he should do an infomercial.
Men at nearby tables checked out Thrill, some surreptitiously, most not. Thrill’s smile was practically a leer now, sinking deeper into the role.
“You get into this,” Myron said.
“It’s a part, Myron. We’re all actors on a stage and all that.”
“But you enjoy the attention.”
“So?”
“So I was just saying.”
She shrugged. “I find it fascinating.”
“What’s that?”
“What a large bosom does to a man. They get so obsessed.”
“You just reached the conclusion that men are mammary-obsessed? I hate to break this to you, Nancy, but the research has been done.”
“But it’s weird when you think about it.”
“I try not to.”
“Bosoms do weird things to men, no doubt,” she said, “but I don’t like what they do to women either.”
“How’s that?”
Thrill put her palms on the table. “Okay, everyone knows that we women put too much of our self-worth into our bodies. Old news, right?”
“Right.”
“I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And unlike my more feminist sisters, I don’t blame men for this.”
“You don’t?”
“Mademoiselle, Vogue, Bazaar, Glamour—those are run by women and have a totally female clientele. They want to change the image, start there. Why ask the men to change a perception that women themselves won’t change?”
“Refreshing viewpoint,” Myron noted.
“But bosoms do funny things to people. Men, okay, that’s obvious. They become brain-dead. It’s as if the nipples shoot out like two grapefruit spoons, dig into their frontal lobe, and scrape away all cognitive thought.”
Myron looked up, the imagery giving him pause.
“But for women, well, it starts when you’re young. A girl develops early. Adolescent boys start lusting after her. How do her girlfriends react? They take it out on her. They’re jealous of the attention or feeling inadequate or whatever. But they take it out on the young girl who can’t help what her body is going through. With me?”
“Yes.”
“Even now. Look at the glances the women in here give me. Pure hatred. You get a group of women together and a chesty counterpart walks by and they all sigh, ‘Oh, please.’ Professional women, for example, feel the urge to dress down—not just because of leering men but because of women. Because of how women treat them. A businesswoman sees a big-chested businesswoman with a better title—well, she got the job because of her tits. Plain and simple. Might be true, might not be. Is this animosity spawned again from dormant jealousy or a misplaced feeling of inadequacy or because they unfairly equate bosoms with stupidity? Any way you look at it, it’s an ugly thing.”
“I never really thought about it,” Myron said.
“And finally I don’t like what it does to me.”
“Your reaction to seeing a big chest or having one?”
“The latter.”
“Why?”
“Because the big-breasted woman gets used to it. She takes it for granted. She uses them to her advantage.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“All attractive people do that,” Myron said. “It’s not just bosoms. If a woman is beautiful, she knows it and uses it. Nothing wrong with that. Men use it too, if they can. Sometimes—I’m ashamed to admit this—even I shake my little tush to get my way.”
“Shocking.”
“Well, not really. Because it never works.”
“I think you’re being modest. But either way, don’t you see anything wrong with that?”
“With what?”
“With using a physical attribute to get your way.”
“I didn’t say there was nothing wrong with it. I’m simply noting that what you’re talking about is not merely a mammarial phenomenon.”
She made a face. “Mammarial phenomenon?”
Myron shrugged, and mercifully the waitress came over. Myron made a point of not looking anywhere near her chest, which was tantamount to telling yourself not to scratch that irksome itch. The waitress had a pen behind her ear. Her overtreated hair aimed for on-the-farm strawberry blond but landed far closer to fell-at-the-4H-fair cotton candy.
“Get you?” she said. Skipping the preliminaries like “Hello” and “What can I …?”
“Rob Roy,” Thrill said.
The pen came out of the ear holster, jotted it down, back in the holster. Wyatt Earp. “You?” she said to Myron.
Myron doubted that they had any Yoo-Hoo. “A diet soda, please.”
She looked at him as if he’d ordered a bedpan.
“Maybe a beer,” Myron said.
She clacked her gum. “Bud, Michelob, or some pansy brew?”
“Pansy would be fine, thank you,” Myron said. “And do you have any of those little cocktail umbrellas?”
The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.
They chatted for a while. Myron had just started relaxing and yes, even enjoying himself when Thrill said, “Behind you. By the door.”
He was not much in the mood for clandestine games. They wanted him here for a reason. No sense beating around the bush. He turned without an iota of subtlety and spotted Pat the bartender and Veronica Lake aka Zorra dressed again in a cashmere sweater—peach-toned, for those keeping score—long skirt, and a strand of pearls. Zorra, the Steroid Debutante. Myron shook his head. Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl were nowhere to be seen.
Myron gave a big wave. “Over here, fellas!”
Pat scowled, feigning surprise. He looked toward Zorra, She-Man of the Saber Heel. Zorra showed nothing. The great ones never do. Myron always wondered if their blaséness was an act or if, in truth, nothing really surprised them. Probably a bit of both.
Pat strode toward their table, acting as though he were shocked—shocked!—that Myron was in his bar. Zorra followed, more gliding than walking, the eyes soaking in everything. Like Win, Zorra moved economically—albeit in stylish red pumps—no motion wasted. Pat was still scowling when he reached the table.
“What the hell are you doing here, Bolitar?” Pat asked.
Myron nodded. “Not bad, but it could use work. Do me a favor. Try it again. But add a little gasp first. Gasp, what the hell are you doing here, Bolitar? Like that. Better yet, why not give a wry shake of your head and say something like ‘All the gin joints in all the world, you have to walk into mine—two nights in a row.’”
Zorra was smiling now.
“You’re crazy,” Pat said.
“Pat.” It was Zorra. He looked at Pat and shook his head just once. The shake said, Stop with the games.
Pat turned to Thrill. “Do me a favor, hon.”
Thrill offered up breathless. “Sure, Pat.”
“Go powder your nose or something, okay?”
Myron made a face. “Go powder your nose?” He looked pleadingly at Zorra. Zorra’s small shrug was semiapologetic. “What next, Pat? You going to threaten to make me sleep with the fishes? Make me an offer I can’t refuse. I mean, go powder your nose?”
Pat was fuming. He looked over at Thrill. “Please, hon.”
“No problem, Pat.” She slid out of the booth. Pat and Zorra immediately took her place. Myron frowned at the change in scenery.
“We need some information,” Pat said.
“Yeah, I picked up on that last night,” Myron said.
“That got out of control. I’m sorry.”
“I bet.”
“Hey,
we let you go, right?”
“As soon as I was electrocuted with a cattle prod, slashed twice with a heel blade, kicked in the ribs, and then jumped through a glass mirror. Yeah, you let me go.”
Pat smiled. “If Zorra here didn’t want you to escape, you wouldn’t have escaped. Get my meaning?”
Myron looked at Zorra. Zorra looked at Myron. Myron said, “A peach sweater with red pumps?”
Zorra smiled, shrugged.
“Zorra here could have killed you easy as pie,” Pat continued.
“Right, fine, Zorra is a tough guy, you’re supergenerous to me. Get to it.”
“Why were you asking about Clu Haid?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I was telling you the truth last night. I’m trying to find his killer.”
“So what does my club have to do with that?”
“Before I got dragged into the back room, I would have said, ‘Nothing.’ But now, well, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Pat looked at Zorra. Zorra did not move. Pat said, “We want to take you for a ride.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“You’d gone nearly three minutes without a mob cliché. Then you come up with the take a ride bit. It’s sad really. Can I powder my nose first?”
“You want to crack wise or you want to come with us?”
“I can do both,” Myron said. “I’m rather multitalented.”
Pat shook his head. “Let’s go.” Myron started to slide out the booth.
“No,” Zorra said.
Everyone stopped. “What’s wrong?” Pat said.
Zorra looked at Myron. “We are not interested in hurting you,” Zorra said.
More reassurances.
“But we can’t let you know where you’re going, dreamboat. You’ll have to be blindfolded.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“Fine, blindfold me. Let’s go.”
“No,” Zorra said again.
“What now?”
“Your friend Win. Zorra assumes he’s close by.”
“Who?”
Zorra smiled. He-she wasn’t pretty. Lots of transvestites are. Lots of times you can’t even tell. But Zorra had a five o’clock shadow (a look Myron found to be less than alluring in a woman), big hands with hairy knuckles (ditto), a skewered wig (call him picky), a rather masculine, whispery voice (comme ci, comme ça) and despite the outer trappings, Zorra looked like, well, a guy wearing a dress. “Don’t insult Zorra’s intelligence, dreamboat.”
“You see him?”
“If Zorra could,” Zorra said, “then someone has grossly overexaggerated his reputation.”
“So what makes you so sure Win’s here?”
“You’re doing it again,” Zorra said.
“Doing what?”
“Insulting Zorra’s intelligence.”
Nothing like a psycho who refers to himself in the third person.
“Please ask him to come forward,” Zorra said. “We have no interest in hurting anyone. But Zorra knows that your colleague will follow wherever you go. Then Zorra will have to follow him. It will lead to conflict. None of us wants that.”
Win’s voice came from Myron’s cell phone. Must have taken off the mute. “What guarantee do we have that Myron will return?”
Myron lifted the cell phone into view.
“You and Zorra will sit and enjoy a drink, dreamboat,” Zorra said into the phone. “Myron will travel with Pat.”
“Travel where?” Myron asked.
“We can’t tell you.”
Myron frowned. “Is this cloak-and-dagger stuff really necessary?”
Pat leaned back now, letting Zorra handle it. “You have questions, we have questions,” Zorra said. “This meeting is the only way to satisfy both.”
“So why can’t we talk here?”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“You have to go with Pat.”
“Where?”
“Zorra cannot tell you.”
“Who are you taking me to see?”
“Zorra cannot tell you that either.”
Myron said, “Does the fate of the free world rest in Zorra’s maintaining silence?”
Zorra adjusted his lips, forming what he probably read someplace was known as a smile. “You mock Zorra. But Zorra has kept silent before. Zorra has seen horrors you cannot imagine. Zorra has been tortured. For weeks on end. Zorra has felt pain that makes what you felt with that cattle prod seem like a lover’s kiss.”
Myron nodded solemnly. “Wow,” he said.
Zorra spread his hands. Hairy knuckles and pink nail polish. Hold me back. “We can always choose to part ways, dreamboat.”
From the cell phone Win said, “Good idea.”
Myron lifted the receiver. “What?”
“If we agree to their terms,” Win said, “I cannot guarantee they won’t kill you.”
“Zorra guarantees it,” Zorra said. “With her life.”
Myron said, “Excuse me?”
“Zorra stays here with Win,” Zorra went on, the glint in the overmascaraed eye sparkling anew. Something was there, and it was not lucidity. “Zorra will be unarmed. If you don’t return in perfect health, Win kills Zorra.”
“Heck of a guarantee,” Myron said. “Ever thought about becoming a car mechanic?”
Win entered the bar now. He walked straight toward the table, sat down, hands under it. “If you’d be so kind,” Win said to Zorra and Pat, “please put all hands on the table.”
They did.
“And, Ms. Zorra, if you wouldn’t mind kicking off your heels?”
“Sure, dreamboat.” Win kept his eyes on Zorra. Zorra kept his on Win. There would be no blinking here. Win said, “I still cannot guarantee his safety. Yes, I have the option of killing you if he does not return. But for all I know, Pat the Bunny here doesn’t give a rodent’s buttocks about you.”
“Hey,” Pat said, “you have my word.”
Win just looked at him for a moment. Then he turned back to Zorra. “Myron goes armed. Pat drives. Myron keeps the gun on him.”
Zorra shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Then we have no deal.”
Zorra shrugged. “Then Zorra and Pat must bid you adieu.”
They rose to leave. Myron knew that Win wouldn’t call them back. He whispered to Win, “I need to know what’s going on here.”
Win shrugged. “It’s a mistake,” he said, “but it’s your call.”
Myron looked up. “We agree,” he said.
Zorra sat back down. Under the table Win kept the gun on him.
“Myron keeps his cell phone on,” Win said. “I listen to every word.”
Zorra nodded. “Fair enough.”
Pat and Myron started to leave.
“Oh, Pat?” Win said.
Pat stopped.
Win’s voice was how’s-the-weather casual. “If Myron isn’t returned, I may or may not kill Zorra. I will decide at the appropriate time. Either way, I will use all my considerable influence and money and time and effort to find you. I will offer rewards. I will search. I will not sleep. I will find you. And when I do, I won’t kill you. Do you understand?”
Pat swallowed, nodded.
“Go,” Win said.
CHAPTER 25
When they reached the car, Pat frisked him. Nothing. Then he handed Myron a black hood. “Put this on.”
Myron made a face. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Put it on. Then lie down in the backseat. Don’t look up.”
Myron rolled his eyes, but he did as he was asked. His six-four frame wasn’t all that comfortable, but he made do. Big of him. Pat got in the front seat and started the car.
“Quick suggestion,” Myron said.
“What did you say?”
“Next time you do this, try vacuuming out the car first. It’s disgusting back here.”
Pat drove. Myron tried to concentrate, listening fo
r sounds that would give him a clue where they were going. That always worked on TV. The guy would hear, say, a boat horn and know he’d gone to Pier 12 or something, and they’d all rush in and find him. But all Myron heard were, not surprisingly, traffic noises: the occasional horn, cars passing or being passed, loud radios, that kind of thing. He tried to keep track of turns and distances but quickly realized the futility. What did he think he was, a human compass?
The drive lasted maybe ten minutes. Not enough time to leave the city. Clue: He was still in Manhattan. Gee, that was helpful. Pat turned off the engine.
“You can sit up,” he said. “But keep the hood on.”
“You sure the hood goes with this ensemble? I want to look my best for Mr. Big.”
“Someone once tell you were funny, Bolitar?”
“You’re right. Black goes with everything.”
Pat sighed. When nervous, some people run. Some hide. Some grow silent. Some get chatty. And some make dumb jokes.
Pat helped Myron out of the car and led him by the elbow. Myron again tried to pick up sounds. The cooing of a seagull maybe. That too always seemed to happen on TV. But in New York seagulls didn’t coo as much as phlegm cough. And if you heard a seagull in New York, it was more likely you were near a trash canister than a pier. Myron tried to think of the last time he had seen a seagull in New York. There was a picture of one on a sign for his favorite bagel store. Caption: “If a bird flying over the sea is a seagull, what do you call a bird flying over the bay?” Clever when you think about it.
The two men walked—where to, Myron had no idea. He stumbled on uneven pavement, but Pat kept him upright. Another clue. Find the spot in Manhattan with uneven pavement. Christ, he practically had the guy cornered.
They walked up what felt like a stoop and entered a room with heat and humidity slightly more stifling than a Burmese forest fire. Myron was still blindfolded, but light from what might be a bare bulb filtered through the cloth. The room reeked of mildew and steam and dried sweat—like the most popular sauna at Jack La Lanne’s gone to seed. It was hard to breathe through the hood. Pat put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.
“Sit,” Pat said before pushing down slightly.
Myron sat. He heard Pat’s footsteps, then low voices. Whispers actually. Mostly from Pat. An argument of some sort. Footsteps again. Coming closer to Myron. A body suddenly cut off the bare lightbulb, bathing Myron in total darkness. One more step. Someone stopped directly over him.
