Silence. They stood there, she holding his hand.
That sounds good, Sophie, but I'm not sure what it means.
You don't have children, do you?
No, Myron said. But that doesn't mean ? don't sympathize.
So let me ask you, Myron: What would you do if you were me? What would you do if the first
real clue in ten years just walked in your door?
The same thing you're doing.
So under the mounted deer, he told her he would keep his eyes open. He told her he would think
about it. He told her he would try to figure out the connection.
Chapter 20
Back at the office Myron strapped on the Ultra Slim phone headset and started making phone calls. Very Jerry Maguire. Not just in appearance but in the fact that clients were abandoning him left and right. And he hadn't even written a mission statement.
Win called. Newspaper Tail's name is Wayne Tunis. He lives in Staten Island and works in construction. He placed one call to a John McClain, telling him that he had been spotted. That's it. They're pretty careful.
So we don't yet know who hired him?
That would be correct.
When in doubt, Myron said, we should go with the obvious choice.
Young FJ?
Who else? He's been following me for months.
Course of action?
I'd like to get him off my back.
May I recommend a well-placed bullet through the back of the skull?
We've got enough problems without adding one more.
Fine. Course of action?
We confront him.
He usually hangs out at a Starbucks on Forty-ninth Street, Win said.
Starbucks?
The old mob espresso bars have gone the way of leisure suits and disco music.
Both of them are coming back.
No, Win said, bizarre mutations of them are coming back.
Like coffee bars in place of espresso bars?
Then you understand.
So let's pay FJ a visit
Give me twenty minutes, Win said before hanging up.
As soon as Myron hit the disconnect, Big Cyndi buzzed his line.
Mr. Bolitar?
Yes?
A Miss or Mr. Thrill is on the phone, Big Cyndi said.
Myron closed his eyes. You mean from last night?
Unless you know someone else named Thrill, Mr. Bolitar.
Take a message.
Both her words and tone suggest urgency, Mr. Bolitar.
Suggest urgency? Fine. Patch her or him through.
Yes, Mr. Bolitar.
There was a click.
Myron?
Uh, yeah, hi, Thrill.
That was some exit you made last night, big fella, Thrill said. You really know how to
impress a girl.
Yeah, I usually don't jump through a plate glass window until the second date.
So how come you haven't called me?
I've been really busy.
I'm downstairs, Thrill said. Tell the guard to let me up.
It's not a good time. Like I said before
Men rarely say no to Thrill. I must be losing my touch.
It's not that, he said. It's just that the timing is all wrong.
Myron, my name isn't really Thrill.
I hate to burst your bubble, but I kinda suspected it read something else on your birth
certificate.
No, that's not what I mean. Look, let me up. We need to talk about last night. About something that happened after you left. So he shrugged and called down to the guard at the front desk and told him to let up anyone identifying themselves as Thrill. The guard was puzzled but said okay. The headset was still
strapped on so Myron speed-dialed a sports apparel company. Before dashing to the Caribbean, Myron had been on the verge of landing a sneaker deal for a track and field client with said company. But now he was being put on hold. An assistant to an assistant finally came on the line. Myron asked him about the deal. It had fallen through, he was told. Why? he asked.
Ask your client, the assistant said. Oh, and ask his new agent too.
Click.
Myron closed his eyes and pulled off his headset. Damn.
There was a knock on his office door. The alien sound caused a ripple of pain. Esperanza had
never knocked. Never. She prided herself on interrupting him. She would sooner give up a limb
than knock.
Come in.
The door opened. Someone stepped inside and said, Surprise.
Myron tried not to stare. He took off the headset. You're ?
Thrill, yup.
Nothing was the same. Gone was the Cat Woman costume, the blond wig, the high heels, the, uh,
prodigious bosom. Thrill was still female, thank heavens. Still quite attractive in her conservative
navy suit with matching blouse, her hair done in a pixie style, her eyes less luminous behind
round tortoiseshell glasses, her makeup now applied with a far lighter hand. Her figure was
thinner, more toned, less, uh, shapely. Nothing to complain about, mind you. Just different.
To answer your first question, she said, when I dress like Thrill, I wear the aptly named
Raquel Wonder Breast Enhancements.
Myron nodded. That the stuff that looks like flattened Silly Putty?
The very. You jam them in your bra. Guess you've seen the infomercial on TV.
Seen it? I bought the video.
Thrill laughed. Last night her laugh not to mention her walk, her movements, her tone of voice,
her choice of words had been a double entendre. In the light of day the sound was melodic and
almost childlike.
I also strap on the aptly named Miracle Bra, she continued. To lift it all up high.
Any higher, Myron said, and they could have doubled as earrings.
Too true, she said. The legs and ass, however, are mine. And for the record, I do not have a
penis.
So noted.
Can I sit down?
Myron looked at his watch. I hate to be a pest
You'll want to hear, this, believe me. She sat in the chair in front of his desk. Myron folded his arms and leaned his butt on the desk's lip. My real name is Nancy Sinclair. I don't dress like Thrill for kicks. I'm a journalist,
