I think I do.
You don't, believe me. The blood money has run dry here. Get out, Myron. Now.
He took one more look at the photograph. Now was not the time to argue the point. He hurried
out the door.
Chapter 18
Myron was starting to hurt. The Tylenol alone wasn't doing the trick. He had Tylenol with codeine in his back pocket, but he did not dare. He needed to stay sharp, and that stuff put him to sleep faster than, er, sex. He quickly cataloged the sore spots. His sliced-up shin hurt most, followed closely by his bruised ribs. The rest of the aches were an almost welcome distraction. But the pain made him conscious of every movement.
When he got back to his office, Big Cyndi handed him a huge pile of message slips.
How many reporters have called? he asked.
I stopped counting, Mr. Bolitar.
Any messages from Bruce Taylor?
Yes.
Bruce covered the Mets, not the Yankees. But every reporter wanted in on this story. Bruce was
also something of a friend. He would know about Sophie Mayor's daughter. The question was, of
course, how to raise the subject without getting him overly curious.
Myron closed his office door, sat down, dialed a number. A voice answered on the first ring.
Taylor.
Hey, Brucie.
Myron? Jesus Christ. Hey, I appreciate you calling me back.
Sure, Bruce. I love to cooperate with my favorite reporter.
Pause. Then: Uh-oh.
What? Myron said.
This is too easy.
Pardon.
Okay, Myron, let's skip the part where you break down my defenses with your supernatural
charisma. Cut to it.
I want to make a deal.
I'm listening.
I'm not willing to make a statement yet. But when I do, you get first crack. An exclusive.
An exclusive? Sheesh, Myron, you really do know your media lingo, don't you?
I could have said scoop. It's one of my favorite words.
Okay, Myron, great. So in return for your not telling me anything, you get what?
Just some information. But you don't read into anything that I ask and you don't report on it.
You're just my source.
More like your bitch, Bruce said.
If that's what you're into.
Not today, dear, I have a headache. So let me get this straight. You tell me nothing. I report
nothing. In return I get to tell you everything. Sorry, big guy, no deal.
Bye-bye, Brucie.
Whoa, whoa, Myron, hold up. Christ, I'm not a general manager. Don't pull that negotiating
crap on me. Look, let's stop tugging each other's chains here. This is what we do: You give me something. A statement, anything. it can be as innocuous as you want to make it. But I want to be the first with a statement from Myron Bolitar. Then I tell you what you want, I keep quiet, you give me the exclusive scoop or whatever before everyone else. Deal? Deal, Myron said. Here's your statement: Esperanza Diaz did not kill Clu Haid. I stand behind her one hundred percent.
Was she having an affair with Clu?
That's my statement, Bruce. Period.
Okay, line, but what's this about your being out of the country at the time of the murder?
A statement, Bruce. As in, 'no further comment.' As in, 'I'll be answering no questions today.'
Hey, it's already public knowledge. I just want a confirmation. You were in the Caribbean,
right?
Right.
Where in the Caribbean?
No comment.
Why not? Were you really in the Cayman Islands?
No, I was not in the Caymans.
Then where?
See how reporters work? No comment.
I called you immediately following Clu's positive drug test. Esperanza said you were in town
but would not comment.
And I still won't, Myron said. Now it's your turn, Bruce.
Come on, Myron, you're giving me nothing here.
We had a deal.
Yeah, all right, sure, I want to be fair, he said in a tone that made it clear he would start up
again later. Ask away.
Casual, casual. He couldn't just ask about Sophie Mayor's daughter. Subtlety. That was the key. Myron's office door opened, and Win swept into the room. Myron signaled with one finger. Win nodded and opened a closet door. There was a full-length mirror on the inside back. Win stared at his reflection and smiled. A nice way of passing the time.
What were the rumors about Clu? Myron asked.
You mean before the positive test results?
Yes.
Time bomb, Bruce said.
Explain.
He was pitching great, no question. And he looked good. Thinned down, seemed focused. But
then a week or so before the drug test, he started looking like hell Christ, you must have seen it,
right? Or were you out of the country then too?
Just go on, Bruce.
What else can I tell you? With Clu you've seen it a hundred times before. The guy breaks your
heart. His arm was touched by God. The rest of him was, well, just touched, if you follow my
meaning.
So there were signs before the positive test?
Yeah, I guess. In hindsight, sure there were lots of signs. I hear his wife threw him out. He was
unshaven, red-eyed, that kind of thing.
It didn't have to be drugs, Myron said.
True. It could have been booze.
Or maybe it was just the strain of marital discord.
Look, Myron, maybe some guys like Orel Hershiser get the benefit of the doubt. But when it
comes to Clu Haid or Steve Howe or some other perennial screwup, you figure it's substance abuse, and eleven times out of ten you're right.
Myron looked over at Win. Win had finished patting the blond locks and was now using the
mirror to practice his different smiles. Right now he was working on roguish.
Subtle, Myron reminded himself, subtle . Bruce?
Yeah?
What can you tell me about Sophie Mayor?
What about her?
Nothing specific.
