by Harlan Coben
Ground control to Major Tom.
Ah, the seventies.
. "You there," he called out.
"Hi, Stu."
+ No smile this time. "This is private property," Smart 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."
Smart 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 uied 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 clichT. So instead I'll just say 'Yup.' "
"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-theheadlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. "Hey, Mel, he thinks I'm your daughter!?' She whooped again.
Myron raised the camera. Smart 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.
"l'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. lf 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 provinghimself, macho-bullshit stage."
Myron nodded. "We're too mature."
"Right." " +
"lt seems then," Myron continued, "that we've hit an impasse."
"Guess so," the black man agreed. "Of course, I
could always take out a gum 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 notunpleasant 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.
'Chapter 15 .
The Crusty Nazi was still there.
He sat at a comer table by himself downing a burger of some sort like it had personally offended him. The girls were right. Skunk 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-guyunshaven, but a lack of testosterone made it land far closer to upkempt 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 coollike 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 knowhow, 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.
About three blocks before the stadium, Crusty pulled down a side road. He threw his pickup into park and got out running. Myron once again debated calling Win for backup, but it was pointless. Win was at Merion. His phone would be off. He wondered again about last night and about Esperanza's accusations this morning. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was, at least partially, responsible for what Win did. But that wasn't the point. He knew that now. The truth, the one that scared Esperanza too, was far clearer: Maybe Myron didn't care so much.
You read the papers and you watch the news and you see what Myron has seen and your humanity, your basic faith in human beings, begins to look frighteningly Pollyanna. That was what was really eating away at him not that he was repulsed by what Win did, but that it really didn't bother him that much.
Win had an eerie way of seeing the world in black and white; lately, Myron had found his own gray areas blackening.
He didn't like that. He did not like the change that experience seeing the cruelty man inflicts on man was forcing upon him. He tried to hold on to his old values, but the rope was getting awfully slick. And why was he holding on, anyway? `Was it because he truly believed in these values, or because he liked himself more as a person who believed?
He didn't know anymore.
He should have brought a gim. Stupid. Still he was only following some grunge-ball. Of course, even a grunge-ball could fire a gun and kill him. But what choice did he have? Should he call the police? Well, that would appear a bit extreme based on what he had. Come back later with a firearm of some sort? By that time, Crusty could be gone along with Chad Coldren maybe.
Nope, he had to follow. He'd just be careful.
Myron was not sure what to do. He stopped the car at the end of the block and got out. The street was crowded with low-rise brick dwellings that all looked the same. At one time, this might have been a nice area, but now the neighborhood looked like a man who'd lost his job and stopped bathing. There was an overgrown, faded quality to it, like a garden that no one bothered to tend anymore.
Crusty turned down an alleyway. Myron followed.
Lots of plastic garbage bags. Lots of rusted tire escapes.
Four legs stuck out of a refrigerator box. Myron heard snoring. At the end of the alley, Crusty turned right. Myron trailed slowly. Crusty had gone into what looked like an abandoned building through a fire door. There was no knob or anything, but the door was slightly ajar. Myron reached in with his lingers and pried it open.
As soon as he crossed the musty threshold, Myron heard a primal scream. Crusty. Right in front of him.
Something swung toward Myron's face. Fast reflexes paid off. Myron managed to duck enough so that the iron bar only clipped his shoulder blade. A quick Hash of pain bolted down his arm. Myron dropped to the ground. He rolled across the cement floor and stood back up.
There were three of them now. All armed with crowbars or tire irons. All with shaved heads and tattooed swastikas. They were like sequels to the same awful movie. The Crusty Nazi was the original. Beneath the Planet of Crusty Nazi the one on his left was smiling with idiotic glee. The one on his right Escape from the Planet of Crusty Nazi looked a bit more frightened. The weak link, Myron thought.
"Changing a tire'?" Myron asked.
The Crusty Nazi slapped the tire iron against his palm for emphasis. "Gonna flatten yours."
Myron raised his hand in front of him with the palm facing down. He shook it back and forth and said, "Eh."
"Why the fuck you following me, asshole?"
"Me?" _
"Yeah, you. Why the fuck you following me?"
"Who says l'm following you?"
There was momentary confusion on Crusty's face.
Then: "You think I'm flicking stupid or something?"
"No, I think you're Mr. Mensa."
"Mister what?"
Beneath the Planet of Crusty Nazi said, "He's just fucking with
you, man."
"Yeah," Escape chimed in. "Fucking with you."
Crusty's wet eyes bulged out. "Yeah? Is that what you're doing, asshole? You fucking with me, huh? Is that what you're doing? Fucking with me?"
Myron looked at him. "Can we move on please?"
Beneath said, "Let's fuck him up a little. Soften his ass up."
Myron knew that three of them were probably not experienced fighters, but he also knew that three armed men beat one good man on almost any given day. They were also a bit too jittery, their eyes as glazed as morning doughnuts. They were constantly sniffing and rubbing their noses.
Two words: Coked up. Or Nose Candy. Or Toot Sweet. Take your pick.
Myron's best chance was to confuse and strike. Risky.
You wanted to piss them off, to upset their already-tipsy equilibrium. But at the same time, you wanted to control it, to know when to back off a bit. A delicate balance requiring Myron Bolitar, darling of the high wire, to perform high above the crowd without the benefit of a safety net.
Once again Crusty asked, "Why the fuck you following me, asshole?"
"Maybe I'm just attracted to you," Myron said.
"Even if you don't have an ass."
Beneath started cackling. "Oh man, oh man, let's fuck him up. Let's fuck him up good."
Myron tried to give them the tough guy look. Some mistook this for constipation, but he was getting better at it. Practice. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Oh no?" It was Crusty. "Give me one good reason why we don't just fiick you up. Give me one good reason why I don't break every fucking rib in your body with this." He raised the tire iron. In case Myron thought he was being too subtle.
+ ' 'You asked before if I thought you were stupid,' ' Myron said.
"Yeah, so?"
"So do you think I'm stupid? Do you think somebody who meant you harm would be dumb enough to follow you in here knowing what was about to go down?"
That made all three of them pause.
"I followed you," Myron continued, "as a test."
"What the fuck you talking about?"
"I work for certain people. We won't mention names." Mostly, Myron thought, because he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Let's just say they are in a business you guys frequent."
"Frequent?" More nose rubbing. Toot, sweet, toot, _
