I have your phone number, she said. See you tonight.
Chapter 21
Win frowned. Nonsurgical breast enhancements?
Yes. They're an accessory of some sort.
An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?
In a way. Then thinking about it, Myron added, But they're probably more noticeable.
Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.
False advertising, Win said.
Pardon?
Breast enhancements. It's false advertising. There should be a law.
Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington where are they when it comes to the real
issues?
Then you understand.
I understand that you're a snorting pig.
A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One. Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the
side. Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?
The catsuit, Myron said.
I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit
Hey, c'mon, I just ate a muffin.
Exactly.
Fine, I'm a pig too. Happy?
Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because
of what they do to a woman's self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable
beauty on a woman size four dresses with D cups.
The key word here being perhaps.
Win smiled. Love me for all my faults.
What else is there?
Win adjusted his tie. FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks.
Shall we?
Let's. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.
Sounds almost like a plan, Win said. They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the comer. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, Yeah, baby, like that, and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man
crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.
About tonight, Win said.
Yes.
You trust this Thrill?
She checks out.
There is of course a chance that they'll just shoot you when you show up.
I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn't want the trouble in his own place.
So you think they're extending this invitation to buy you a drink?
Could be, Myron said. With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I'm considered
something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.
Win chose not to argue.
They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When
they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. Young FJ is at a table with someone, Win reported. Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.
Myron nodded. Shall we?
You first, Win said. Let me trail.
Myron had stopped questioning Win's methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside
and headed toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.
FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers' direction. Hans and Franz froze.
Hi, FJ, Myron said. FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. Ah, Myron, he said with what he must have been sure was savoirfaire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. Please,
Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.
Oh?
You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit. FJ tossed Myron the snake smile.
Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. I guess it's kismet, huh, Myron? Your
coming here. Pure kismet.
FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.
Kismet, Myron repeated. Good one.
FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, / got a million like that. Please sit, Myron.
Myron pulled out a chair.
Care for a drink?
An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.
FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar. He's new, FJ confided.
Who?
The guy working the espresso machine. The last guy who worked here made a wonderful latte.
But he quit for moral reasons.
Moral reasons?
They started selling Kenny G CDs, FJ said. Suddenly he couldn't sleep at night. It was tearing
him apart. Suppose an impressionable kid bought one? How could he live with himself? Pushing
caffeine was okay. But Kenny G the man had scruples.
Myron said, Commendable.
Win chose that moment to enter. FJ spotted him and looked over at Hans and Franz. Win did not
hesitate. He beelined straight toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz went to work. They stepped in
Win's path and expanded their chests to dimensions large enough to apply for a parking permit.
Win kept walking. Both men wore turtlenecks so high and loose they looked like something
awaiting circumcision.
Hans managed a smirk. You Win?
Yes, Win said, me Win.
You don't look so tough. Hans looked at Franz. He look tough to you, Keith?
Keith said, Not so tough.
Win did not break stride. Almost casually and without the slightest warning, he struck Hans with
the knife-edge of his hand behind the ear. Hans's whole body stiffened and then collapsed as
though someone had ripped the skeleton out of him. Franz gaped at the sight. But not for long. In the same motion Win pirouetted and struck Franz in the oft vulnerable throat. An awful gurgling noise shot out of Franz's lips, as though he were choking on a slew of small bones. Win reached for the carotid artery, found it, and squeezed with his pointer and thumb. Franz's eyes closed, and he too slid into Nighty-Night Land.
The couple at the other table exited quickly. Win smiled down at the unconscious bruisers. Then he glanced at Myron. Myron shook his head. Win shrugged and turned to the guy manning the coffee bar.
Barista, Win said. One caffe mocha.
