by Harlan Coben
Yes.
Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?
Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.
So what did Pat want?
He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.
Tonight?
Yes.
How did he know I'd call?
Again the smile. Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call
But Thrill does?
Bosoms are empowerment. And if you didn't, he told me I could look up your business number
in the phone book.
Which is what you did.
Yes. He also promised me you wouldn't be hurt.
How comforting. And your interest in all this?
Isn't it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you're tying this week's
murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.
I don't think I can help you.
Cow dooky.
Cowdooky?
She shrugged.
What else did Pat say to you? Myron asked.
Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.
If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.
Thrill, not the brightest bulb on the tree, didn't pick up on that.
But Nancy Sinclair did.
She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. Tat was also huddled up with Zorra.
Who?
That's their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.
Like Veronica Lake?
She nodded. He's absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.
Pardon?
He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in
the back room with him.
Made sense. Myron hadn't made him miss. Zorra Zorra? just wanted to brand him. I have
one.
He's seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover.
Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the
stories I've heard are true, he's killed dozens.
Just what he needed Cross-Dressing Mossad. Did they talk about Clu at all?
No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.
Me?
Yes.
They think I killed Clu?
I don't think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill
him.
Who?
No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.
They didn't say who?
If they did, I didn't hear them. She smiled. So do we have a date?
Guess so.
You're not scared?
I'll have backup.
Someone good?
Myron nodded. Oh, yeah.
Then I better go(home and strap up my breasts.
Need any help?
My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.
And if you can't?
I have your phone number, she said. See you tonight.
Chapter 21
Win frowned. Nonsurgical breast enhancements?
Yes. They're an accessory of some sort.
An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?
In a way. Then thinking about it, Myron added, But they're probably more noticeable.
Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.
False advertising, Win said.
Pardon?
Breast enhancements. It's false advertising. There should be a law.
Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington where are they when it comes to the real
issues?
Then you understand.
I understand that you're a snorting pig.
A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One. Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the
side. Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?
The catsuit, Myron said.
I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit
Hey, c'mon, I just ate a muffin.
Exactly.
Fine, I'm a pig too. Happy?
Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because
of what they do to a woman's self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable
beauty on a woman size four dresses with D cups.
The key word here being perhaps.
Win smiled. Love me for all my faults.
What else is there?
Win adjusted his tie. FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks.
Shall we?
Let's. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.
Sounds almost like a plan, Win said. They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the comer. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, Yeah, baby, like that, and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man
crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.
About tonight, Win said.
Yes.
You trust this Thrill?
She checks out.
There is of course a chance that they'll just shoot you when you show up.
I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn't want the trouble in his own place.
So you think they're extending this invitation to buy you a drink?
Could be, Myron said. With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I'm considered
something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.
Win chose not to argue.
They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When
they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. Young FJ is at a table with someone, Win reported. Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.
Myron nodded. Shall we?
You first, Win said. Let me trail.
Myron had stopped questioning Win's methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside
and headed toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.
FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers' direction. Hans and Franz froze.
Hi, FJ, Myron said. FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. Ah, Myron, he said with what he must have been sure was savoirfaire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. Please,
Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.
Oh?
You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit. FJ tossed Myron the snake smile.
Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. I guess it's kismet, huh, Myron? Your
coming here. Pure kismet.
FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.
Kismet, Myron repeated. Good one.
FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, / got a million like that. Please sit, Myron.
Myron pulled out a chair.
Care for a drink?
An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.
FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar. He's new, FJ confided.
Who?
The guy working the espresso machine. The last guy who worked here made a wonderful
latte.
But he quit for moral reasons.
Moral reasons?
They started selling Kenny G CDs, FJ said. Suddenly he couldn't sleep at night. It was tearing
him apart. Suppose an impressionable kid bought one? How could he live with himself? Pushing
caffeine was okay. But Kenny G the man had scruples.
Myron said, Commendable.
Win chose that moment to enter. FJ spotted him and looked over at Hans and Franz. Win did not
hesitate. He beelined straight toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz went to work. They stepped in
Win's path and expanded their chests to dimensions large enough to apply for a parking permit.
Win kept walking. Both men wore turtlenecks so high and loose they looked like something
awaiting circumcision.
Hans managed a smirk. You Win?
Yes, Win said, me Win.
You don't look so tough. Hans looked at Franz. He look tough to you, Keith?
Keith said, Not so tough.
Win did not break stride. Almost casually and without the slightest warning, he struck Hans with
the knife-edge of his hand behind the ear. Hans's whole body stiffened and then collapsed as
though someone had ripped the skeleton out of him. Franz gaped at the sight. But not for long. In the same motion Win pirouetted and struck Franz in the oft vulnerable throat. An awful gurgling noise shot out of Franz's lips, as though he were choking on a slew of small bones. Win reached for the carotid artery, found it, and squeezed with his pointer and thumb. Franz's eyes closed, and he too slid into Nighty-Night Land.
The couple at the other table exited quickly. Win smiled down at the unconscious bruisers. Then he glanced at Myron. Myron shook his head. Win shrugged and turned to the guy manning the coffee bar.
Barista, Win said. One caffe mocha.
What size?
Grande, please.
Skim or whole milk?
Skim. I'm watching my figure.
Right away.
Win joined Myron and FJ. He sat and crossed his legs. Nice sports coat, FJ.
Glad you like it, Win.
It really brings out the demonic red in your eyes.
Thank you.
So where were we?
Myron played along. I was just about to tell FJ that I'm getting a little tired of the tail.
And I was just about to tell Myron that I'm getting tired of him meddling in my affairs, FJ said.
Myron looked at Win. Meddling? Does anybody really use that word anymore?
Win thought about it. The old man at the end of every Scooby Doo.
Right. You meddling kids, stuff like that.
You will never guess who does the voice for Shaggy, Win said.
Who?
Casey Kasem.
Get out, Myron said. The top-forty radio guy?
The very same.
Live and learn.
On the floor Hans and Franz started to stir. Win showed FJ the gun he had semihidden in his one hand. For the safety of all concerned, Win said, please ask your employees to refrain from moving.
FJ told them. He was not scared. His father was Frank Ache. That was protection enough. The
muscles here were for show.
You've been following me for weeks now, Myron said. I want it to end.
Then I suggest that you stop interfering with my company.
Myron sighed. Fine, FJ, I'll bite. How am I interfering with your company?
Did you or did you not visit Sophie and Jared Mayor this morning? FJ asked.
You know I did.
For what purpose?
It had nothing to do with you, FJ.
Wrong answer.
Wrong answer?
You visited the owner of the New York Yankees even though you currently represent no one
who plays for the team.
So?
So why were you there?
Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged. Not that I need to explain myself to you, FJ, but just to
assuage your paranoid delusions, T was there about Clu Haid.
What about him?
I was asking about his drug tests.
FJ's eyes narrowed. That's interesting.
Glad you think so, FJ.
You see, I'm just a new guy trying to learn this confusing business.
Uh-huh.
I'm young and inexperienced.
Win said, Ah, how often I've heard that line.
Myron just shook his head.
FJ leaned forward, his scaly features coming closer. Myron feared his tongue would dart out and sniff him. I want to learn, Myron. So please tell me: What possible significance could Clu's drug test results have now?
Myron quickly debated answering and decided, What's the harm? If I can show the drug test
was faulty, his contract would still be active.
FJ nodded, seeing the thought trail now. You'd be able to get his contract paid out.
Right.
Do you have reason to believe that the test was faulty?
I'm afraid that's confidential, FJ. Agent-client privilege or whatever you want to call it. I'm sure
you understand.
I do, FJ said.
Good.
But you, Myron, are not his agent.
I am still responsible for his estate's financial well-being. Clu's death doesn't alter my
obligation.
Wrong answer.
Myron looked at Win. Again with the wrong answer?
You are not responsible. FJ reached to the floor and pulled a briefcase into view. He snapped it
open with as much flair as possible. His finger danced through a stack of papers before withdrawing the one he sought. He handed it to Myron and smiled. Myron looked into FJ's eyes, and again he was reminded of the eyes of that mounted deer.
Myron skimmed it over. He read the first line, felt a thump, checked the signature. What the
hell is this?
FJ's smile was like a dripping candle now. Exactly what it looks like. Clu Haid changed
representation. He fired MB SportsReps and hired TruPro.
He remembered what Sophie Mayor had said in her office, about his having no legal standing.
He never told us.
Never told us, Myron, or never told you ?
What the hell does that mean?
You weren't around. Perhaps he tried to tell you. Perhaps he told your associate.
So he just happened by you, FJ?
How I recruit is none of your business. If you kept your clients happy, the best recruitment
efforts wouldn't work.
Myron checked the date. This is quite a coincidence, FJ.
What's that?
He dies two days after he signs with you.
Yes, Myron, I agree. I don't think it was a coincidence. Fortunately for me, it means that I had
no motive to kill him. Unfortunately for the sizzling Esperanza, the opposite is true.
Myron glanced over at Win. Win was staring down at Hans and Franz. They were both awake now, face to the floor, hands behind their heads. Customers occasionally came into the coffee bar. Some saw the two men on the floor and exited right away. Others were unfazed, walking past as though Hans aiid Franz were just two more Manhattan panhandlers.
Very convenient, Myron said.
What's that?
Clu signing with you so close to his death. On the surface it eliminates you as a serious
suspect.
On the surface?
It draws attention away from you, makes it look like his death hurts your interests.
It does hurt my interests.
Myron shook his head. He had failed a drug test. His contract was null and void. He's thirty-five
years old with several suspensions. As a monetary commodity Clu was fairly worthless.
Clu had overcome adversity before, FJ said.
Not like this. He was through.
I
f he stayed with MB, yes, that's probably true. But TruPro has influence. We would have found
a way to relaunch his career.
Doubtful. But all this raised some interesting questions. The signature looked real, the contract
legit. So maybe Clu had left him. Why? Well, lots of reasons. His life was being flushed down
the toilet while Myron lollygagged in the sands of the Caribbean. Okay, but why TruPro? Clu
knew their reputation. He knew what the Aches were all about. Why would he choose them?
Unless he had to.
Unless Clu was in debt to them. Myron remembered the missing two hundred thousand dollars.
Could Clu have been in debt to FJ? Had he gotten in too deep so deep he had to sign with TruPro? But if that was the case, why not take out more money? He still had more in the account.
No, maybe this was far simpler. Maybe Clu got himself in big trouble. He looked to Myron for help. Myron wasn't there. Clu felt abandoned. He had no one. In desperation he turned to his old friend Billy Lee Palms. But Billy Lee was too messed up to help anyone. He looked again for Myron. But Myron was still gone, possibly avoiding him. Clu was weak and alone, and FJ was there with promises and power.
So maybe Clu didn't have an affair with Esperanza after all. Maybe Clu told her he was leaving the agency and she got upset and then he got upset. Maybe Clu gave her a good-bye smack in that garage.
Hmm.
But there were problems with that scenario too. If there was no affair, how do you explain
Esperanza's hairs at the crime scene? How do you explain the blood in the car, the gun in the
office, and Esperanza's continued silence?
FJ was still smiling.
Let's cut to it, Myron said. How do 1 get you off my back?
Stay away from my clients.
The same way you stayed away from mine?
Tell you what, Myron. FJ sipped more shaving cream. If I desert my clients for six weeks, I
give you carte blanche to pursue them with as much gusto as you can muster.
Myron looked at Win. No solace. Scary as it might sound, FJ had a point.
Esperanza has been indicted for Clu's murder, Myron said. I'm involved until she's cleared.
Outside of that, I'll stay out of your business. And you stay out of mine.
Suppose she's not cleared, FJ said.
What?
Have you considered the possibility that Esperanza did indeed kill him?
You know something I don't, FJ?
FJ put his hand to his chest. Me? The most innocent lamb ever to lie next to a lion. What
would I know? He finished his coffee whatever and stood. He looked down at his goons, then at Win. Win nodded. FJ told Hans and Franz to get up. They did. FJ ordered them out the door. They went out, heads high, chests out, eyes up, but still looking like a pair of whipped dogs.
