once again don a suede bikini and grope aging nymphs in front of drooling trailer trash.' She paused. 'Still, it is a step above being a sports agent.'
'Ha-ha.' Myron walked over to Big Cyndi's desk. There was an envelope with his name scrawled across the top in glow-in-the-dark orange.
'She wrote it in crayon?' Myron said.
'Eye shadow.'
'I see.'
'So are you going to tell me what's wrong?' she asked.
'Nothing,' Myron said.
'Bullshit,' she said. 'You look like you just heard Wham split up.'
'Don't bring that up,' Myron said. 'Sometimes, late at night, I still suffer flashbacks.'
Esperanza studied his face a few more seconds. 'This have something to do with your college sweetheart?'
'Sort of.'
'Oh Christ.'
'What?'
'How do I say this nicely, Myron? You are beyond moronic in the ways of women. Exhibits A and B are Jessica and Emily.'
'You don't even know Emily.'
'I know enough,' she said. 'I thought you didn't want to talk to her.'
'I didn't. She found me at my parents' place.'
'She just showed up there?'
'Yep.'
'What did she want?'
He shook his head. He still wasn't ready to talk about it yet. 'Any messages?'
'Not as many as we'd like.'
'Win upstairs?'
'I think he went home already.' She picked up her coat. 'I think I'll do likewise.'
'Good night.'
'If you hear anything from Lamar—'
'I'll call you.'
Esperanza put on her coat, flipping the glistening black flow out of the collar. Myron headed into his office and made a few phone calls, mostly of a recruiting nature. It was not going well.
Several months ago, a friend's death had sent Myron into a tail-spin, causing him to — and we're using complex psychiatric jargon here — wig out. Nothing overly drastic, no nervous breakdown or institutional commitment. He had instead fled to a deserted Caribbean island with Terese Collins, a beautiful TV anchorwoman he didn't know. He had told no one — not Win, not Esperanza, not even Mom and Dad — where he was going or when he'd be back.
As Win put it, when he wigged out, he wigged out in style.
By the time Myron was forced to return, their clients were scattering into the night like kitchen help during an immigration bust. Now Myron and Esperanza were back, attempting to revive the comatose and perhaps dying MB SportsReps. This was no easy task. The competition in this business was a dozen starving lions, and Myron was one heavily limping Christian.
The MB SportsReps office was nicely situated on Park Avenue and Forty-sixth Street in the Lock-Horne Building, owned by the family of Myron's college-and-current roommate, Win. The building was in primo midtown location and offered up some semi-dazzling views of the Manhattan skyline. Myron soaked it in for a moment and then looked down at the suits speeding below. The sight of the working ants always depressed him, a chorus of 'Is That All There Is?' playing in his head.
He turned now toward his Client Wall, the one with action shots of all the athletes represented by MB SportsReps, which now looked as spotty and sparse as a bad hair transplant. He wanted to care, but unfair as it was to Esperanza, his heart wasn't really in it. He wanted to go back, to love MB and have that old hunger, but no matter how much he tried to stoke the old fire, it wouldn't flame up.
Emily called about an hour later.
'Dr. Singh doesn't have office hours tomorrow,' Emily said. 'But you can hook up during rounds tomorrow morning.'
'Where?'
'Babies and Children's Hospital. It's part of Columbia Presbyterian on 167th Street. Tenth floor, south.'
'What time?'
'Rounds start at eight,' Emily said.
'Okay.'
Brief silence.
'You okay, Myron?'
'I want to see him.'
It took her a few seconds. 'Like I said before, I can't stop you. But sleep on it, okay?'
'I just want to see him,' Myron said. 'I won't say anything. Not yet, at least.'
'Can we talk about this tomorrow?' Emily asked.
'Yeah, sure.'
She hesitated again. 'Do you have Web access, Myron?'
'Yes.'
'We have a private URL.'
'What?'
'A private Web address. I take photos with the digital camera and post them there. For my parents. They moved to Miami last year. They check it out every week. Get to see new pictures of the grandkids. So if you want to see what Jeremy looks like…'
'What's the address?'
She gave it to him and Myron typed it in. He hung up before hitting the return button. The images came up slowly. He drummed his fingers on the desk. On top of the screen was a banner saying HI, NANA AND POP-POP. Myron thought about his parents and shook it off.
There were four photographs of Jeremy and Sara. Myron swallowed. He placed the arrow on Jeremy's image and clicked the mouse, zooming in closer, enlarging the boy's face. He tried to keep his breathing steady. He stared at the boy's face for a long time without really registering anything. Eventually his vision blurred, his own face reflecting on the monitor over the boy's, blending the images together, creating a visual echo of he knew not what.
Chapter 5
Myron heard the cries of ecstasy through the door.
Win — real name: Windsor Horne Lock-wood III — was letting Myron temporarily crash at his apartment in the Dakota on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. The Dakota was an old New York landmark whose rich and lush history had been totally eclipsed by the murder of John Lennon twenty-some-odd years ago. Entering meant crossing over the spot where Lennon had bled to death, the feeling not unlike trampling over a grave. Myron was finally getting used to it.
From the outside, the Dakota was beautiful and dark and resembled a haunted house on steroids. Most apartments, including Win's, had more square footage than a European principality. Last year, after a lifetime of living in Mom and Dad's suburban sprawl, Myron had finally moved out of the basement and into a SoHo loft with his ladylove, Jessica. It was a huge step, the first sign that after more than a decade, Jessica was ready to — gasp! — commit. So the two lovers clasped hands and took the live-together plunge. And like so many plunges in life, it
