So you asked Esperanza about the charges?
Yes.
And?
And she told me that she had the matter under control, Win said. And she told me not to
contact you. That she did not wish to speak with you.
Myron looked puzzled. Why not?
I haven't a clue.
He pictured Esperanza, the Hispanic beauty he had met in the days when she wrestled
professionally under the moniker Little Pocahontas. A lifetime ago. She had been with MB
SportsReps since its inception first as a secretary and now that she'd graduated law school, as a
full-fledged partner.
But I'm her best friend, Myron said.
As I am well aware.
So why would she say something like that?
Win guessed the question was rhetorical. He kept silent.
The island was out of sight now. In every direction there was nothing but the churning warm
blue of the Atlantic.
If I hadn't run away, Myron began.
Myron?
What?
You're whining again. I cannot handle whining.
Myron nodded and leaned against the teakwood.
Any thoughts? Win asked.
She'll talk to me, Myron said. Count on it.
I just tried to call her.
And?
No answer.
Did you try Big Cyndi?
She now rooms with Esperanza.
No surprise. What's today? Myron asked.
Tuesday.
Big Cyndi still bounces at Leather-N-Lust. She might be there.
During the day?
Myron shrugged. Sexual deviancy has no off hours.
Thank God, Win said.
They fell into silence, the ship gently rocking them.
Win squinted into the sun. Beautiful, no?
Myron nodded.
Must be sick of it after all this time.
Very, Myron said.
Come below deck. I think you'll be pleased.
Chapter 3
Win had stocked the yacht with videos. They watched episodes of the old Batman show (the one with Julie Newmar as Cat Woman and Lesley Gore as Pussycat double meow!), the Odd Couple (Oscar and Felix on Password), a Twilight Zone (To Serve Man), and for something more current, Seinfeld (Jerry and Elaine visit Jerry's parents in Florida). Forget pot roast. This was comfort food. But on the off chance that it wasn't substantial enough, there were also Doritos and Cheez Doodles and more Yoo-Hoos and even rewarmed pizza from Calabria's Pizzeria on Livingston Avenue.
Win. He might be a sociopath, but what a guy.
The effect of all this was beyond therapeutic, the time spent at sea and later in the air an emotional pressure chamber of sorts, a chance for Myron's soul to adjust to the bends, to the sudden reemergence into the real world.
The two friends barely spoke, except to sigh over Julie Newmar as Cat Woman (whenever she came on the screen in her tight black cat suit, Win said, Puuuurrrrfect). They'd both been five or six years old when the show first aired, but something about Julie Newmar as Cat Woman completely blew away any Freudian notions of latency. Why, neither man could say. Her villainy perhaps. Or something more primal. Esperanza would no doubt have an interesting opinion. He tried not to think about her useless and draining when he couldn't do anything about it but the last time he had done something like this was in Philadelphia with both Win and Esperanza. He missed her. Watching the videos was not the same without her running commentary.
The boat docked and they headed for the private jet.
We'll save her, Win said. We are, after all, the good guys.
Questionable.
Have confidence, my friend.
No, I mean us being the good guys.
You should know better.
Not anymore I don't, Myron said.
Win made his jutting jaw face, the one that had come over on the Mayflower. This moral crisis of yours, he said. It's tres unbecoming.
A breathy blond bombshell like something out of an old burlesque skit greeted them in the cabin of the Lock- Horne company jet. She fetched them drinks between giggles and wiggles. Win smiled at her. She smiled back.
Funny thing, Myron said.
What's that?
You always hire curvaceous stewardesses.
Win frowned. Please, he said. She prefers to be called a flight attendant.
Pardon my oafish insensitivity.
Try a little harder to be tolerant, Win said. Then: Guess what her name is.
Tawny?
Close. Candi. With an i And she doesn't dot it. She draws a heart over it.
Win could be a bigger pig, but it was hard to imag-gine how.
Myron sat back. The pilot came over the loudspeaker. He addressed them by name, and then they
took off. Private jet. Yacht. Sometimes it was nice having wealthy friends.
When they reached cruising altitude, Win opened what looked like a cigar box and pulled out a telephone. Call your parents, he said. Myron stayed still for a moment. A fresh wave of guilt rolled over him, coloring his cheeks. He nodded, took the phone, dialed. He gripped the phone a bit too tightly. His mother answered.
Myron said, Mom
Mom started bawling. She managed to yell for Dad. Dad picked up the downstairs extension.
Dad
And then he started bawling too. Stereo bawling. Myron held the phone away from his ear for a
moment.
I was in the Caribbean, he said, not Beirut.
An explosion of laughter from both. Then more crying. Myron looked at Win. Win sat
impassively. Myron rolled his eyes, but of course he was also pleased. Complain all you want,
but who didn't want to be loved like this?
His parents settled into a meaningless chatter meaningless on purpose, Myron supposed. While
they could undoubtedly be pests, Mom and Dad had a wonderful ability to know when to back
off. He managed to explain where he'd been. They listened in silence. Then his mother asked,
So where are you calling us from?
