Back Spin

by Harlan Coben

  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.

  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 gun. 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 fire 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 fingers 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 flash 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 I'm following you?"

  There was momentary confusion on Crusty's face. Then: "You think I'm fucking 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 fuck 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, sweet.

  "Frequent," Myron repeated. "As in occurring or appearing quite often or at close intervals. Frequent."

  "What?"

  Jesus. "My employer," Myron said, "he needs someone to handle certain territory. Somebody new. Somebody who wants to make ten percent on sales and get all the free blow they can."

  Eyes went buggy.

  Beneath turned to Crusty. "You hear that, man?"

  "Yeah, I hear him."

  "Shit, we don't get no commission from Eddie," Beneath went on. "The fucker is so small-time." He gestured at Myron with the tire iron. "This guy, man, look how fucking old he is. He's gotta be working for somebody with juice."

  "Got to be," Escape added.

  The Crusty One hesitated, squinted suspicion. "How did you find out about us?"

  Myron shrugged. "Word gets around." Shovel, shovel.

  "So you was just following me for some kinda fucking test?"

  "Right."

  "Just came to the mall and decided to follow me?"

  "Something like that."

  Crusty smiled. He looked at Escape and at Beneath. His grip on the tire iron tightened. Uh-oh. "Then how the fuck come you were asking about me last night, huh? How come you want to know about a call I made?"

  Uh-oh.

  Crusty stepped closer, eyes aglow.

  Myron raised his hand. "The answer is simple." They all hesitated. Myron took advantage. His foot moved like a piston, shooting out and landing squarely on the knee of the unprepared Escape. Escape fell. Myron was already running.

  "Get the fucker!"

  They chased, but Myron had already slammed his shoulder into the fire door. The "macho-bullshit" part of him, as his friend at the Court Manor Inn had described it, wanted to try to take them on, but he knew that would be foolhardy. They were armed. He wasn't.

  By the time Myron reached the end of the alley, his lead was only about ten yards. He wondered if he'd have enough time to open his car door and get in. No choice. He'd have to try.

  He grabbed the handle and swung the door open. He was sliding in when a tire iron whacked his shoulder. Pain erupted. He kept rolling, closing the door. A hand grabbed it, offered resistance. Myron used his weight and leaned into the pull.

  His window exploded.

  Glass tinkled down into his face. Myron kicked his heel through the open window and hit face. The grip on the door released. He already had the key out and in the ignition. He turned it as the other car window exploded. Crusty leaned into the car, his eyes blazing with fury.

  "Motherfucker, you're gonna die!"

  The tire iron was heading toward his face again. Myron blocked it. From behind him, he felt a sharp blow connect with his lower neck. Numbness ensued. Myron shifted into reverse and flew out of the spot, tires squealing. Crusty tried to leap into the car through the broken window. Myron elbowed him in the nose and Crusty's grip eased. He fell hard to the pavement, but then he jumped right back up. That was the problem with fighting cokeheads. Pain often does not register.

  All three men ran for the pickup, but Myron already had too big a lead. The battle was over.
For now.

  16

  Myron called in the pickup truck's license plate number, but that was a dead end. The plate had expired four years ago. Crusty must have taken it off a car in a dump or something. Not uncommon. Even petty crooks knew enough not to use their real plates when committing a traceable crime.

  He circled back and checked the inside of the building for clues. Bent syringes and broken vials and empty bags of Doritos lay scattered about the cement. There was also an empty garbage can. Myron shook his head. Bad enough being a drug dealer. But a litterbug?

  He looked around a bit more. The building was abandoned and half-burned out. There was no one inside. And no clues.

  Okay so what did this all mean? Were the three cokeheads the kidnappers? Myron had a hard time picturing it. Cokeheads break into houses. Cokeheads jump people in alleyways. Cokeheads attack with tire irons. Cokeheads, by and large, do not plan elaborate kidnappings.

  But on the other hand, how elaborate was this kidnapping? The first two times the kidnapper called, he didn't even know how much money to extort. Wasn't that a little odd? Could it be that all this was merely the work of some out-of-their-league crusty cokeheads?

  Myron got into his car and headed toward Win's house. Win had plenty of vehicles. He'd switch for a car without smashed windows. The residual damage to his body seemed to be clearing up. A bruise or two but nothing broken. None of the blows had landed flush, except the ones to his car windows.

  He ran several possibilities through his head and eventually managed to come up with a pretty decent scenario. Let's say that for some reason Chad Coldren decided to check into the Court Manor Inn. Maybe to spend some time with a girl. Maybe to buy some drugs. Maybe because he enjoyed the friendly service. Whatever. As per the bank surveillance camera, Chad grabbed some dough at a local ATM. Then he checked in for the night. Or the hour. Or whatever.

  Once at the Court Manor Inn, something went awry. Stu Lipwitz's denials notwithstanding, the Court Manor is a sleazy joint patronized by sleazy people. It wouldn't be hard to get in trouble there. Maybe Chad Coldren tried to buy drugs from Crusty. Maybe he witnessed a crime. Maybe the kid just talked too much and some nasty people realized that he came from money. Whatever. The life orbits of Chad Coldren and the Crusty Nazi's crew dovetailed. The end result was a kidnapping.

  It kinda fit.

  The key word here: kinda.

  On the road toward Merion, Myron helped deflate his own scenario with several well-placed puncture holes. First of all, the timing. Myron had been convinced that the kidnapping had something to do with Jack's return to playing the U.S. Open at Merion. But in his Crusty-orbit scenario, the nagging timing question had to be written off as mere coincidence. Okay, maybe Myron could live with that. But then how, for example, had the Crusty Nazi--stationed at a mall pay phone--known that Esme Fong was in the Coldren house? How did the man who climbed out the window and disappeared on Green Acres Road--a person Myron had been sure was either Matthew Squires or Chad Coldren--fit into all this? Was the well-shielded Matthew Squires in cahoots with the Crusties? Or was it just a coincidence that the window man disappeared down Green Acres Road?