What makes you say that?
Clu found out, didn't he?
She thought about it, nodded.
Did you tell him? he asked.
No.
What did you say when you threw him out?
She shrugged. That there was no one else. That was true in a sense. It wasn't about Esperanza.
So how did he find out?
I don't know. I assumed he became obsessed. That he followed me.
And he found out the truth?
Yes.
And then he went after Esperanza and attacked her?
Yes.
And before he has a chance to tell anyone else about this, before it has a chance of getting out
and hurting either of you, he ends up dead. And the murder weapon ends up with Esperanza. And Clu's blood ends up in the car she's been driving. And the E-Z Pass records show Esperanza came back to New York an hour after the murder.
Again, yes.
Myron shook his head. It doesn't look good, Bonnie.
That's what I've been trying to tell you, she said. If even you won't believe us, how do you
think a jury is going to react?
There was no need to answer. They headed back to the house then. The two young boys were
still at play, oblivious of what was going on around them. Myron watched for a moment.
Fatherless, he thought, shuddering at the word. With one last look he turned and walked away.
Chapter 24
Thrill, not Nancy Sinclair, met him outside a bar called the Biker Wannabee. Honesty in advertising. Nice to see.
Howdy, Myron said. Tex Bolitar.
Her smile was full of pornographic promise. Totally into Thrill mode now. Howdy yourself,
pardner, she cooed. With some women, every syllable is cooed. How do I look?
Mighty tasty, ma'am. But I think I prefer you as Nancy.
Liar.
Myron shrugged, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. This whole thing reminded him of
when Barbara Eden would play her evil sister on / Dream of Jeannie. He was often torn back then too, not sure if Larry Hagman should stay with Jeannie or run off with the enticingly evil sister. But hey, talk about your great dilemmas.
I thought you were bringing backup, Thrill said.
I am.
Where is he?
If things go well, you won't see him.
How mysterious.
Isn't it?
They headed inside and grabbed a corner booth in the back. Yep, biker wanna-be. Lots of guys
aiming for that hairy, Vietnam vet-cum-hit-the-road look. The jukebox played God Only Knows (What I'd Be Without You) the Beach Boys, but unlike anything else the Beach Boys did. The song was a plaintive wail, and despite its pop misgivings, it always struck Myron to the bone, the trepidation of what the future might hold so naked in Brian's voice, the words so hauntingly simple. Especially now.
Thrill was studying his face. You okay? she asked.
Fine. So what happens next?
We order a drink, I guess.
Five minutes passed. Lonely Boy came on the jukebox. Andrew Gold. Serious seventies AM
bubble gum. Chorus: Oh, oh, oh oh what a lonely boy oh what a lonely boy oh what a lonely boy. By the time the chorus was repeated for the eighth time, Myron had it down pat so he sang along. Megamemory. Maybe he should do an infomercial.
Men at nearby tables checked out Thrill, some surreptitiously, most not. Thrill's smile was practically a leer now, sinking deeper into the role.
You get into this, Myron said.
It's a part, Myron. We're all actors on a stage and all that.
But you enjoy the attention.
So?
So I was just saying.
She shrugged. I find it fascinating.
What's that?
What a large bosom does to a man. They get so obsessed.
You just reached the conclusion that men are mammary-obsessed? I hate to break this to you,
Nancy, but the research has been done.
But it's weird when you think about it.
I try not to.
Bosoms do weird things to men, no doubt, she said, but I don't like what they do to women
either.
How's that?
Thrill put her palnds on the table. Okay, everyone knows that we women put too much of our
self-worth into our bodies. Old news, right?
Right.
I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And unlike my more feminist sisters, I don't blame
men for this.
You don't?
Mademoiselle, Vogue, Bazaar, Glamour those are run by women and have a totally female
clientele. They want to change the image, start there. Why ask the men to change a perception
that women themselves won't change?
Refreshing viewpoint, Myron noted.
But bosoms do funny things to people. Men, okay, that's obvious. They become brain-dead. It's
as if the nipples shoot out like two grapefmit spoons, dig into their frontal lobe, and scrape away
all cognitive thought.
Myron looked up, the imagery giving him pause.
But for women, well, it starts when you're young. A girl develops early. Adolescent boys start
lusting after her. How do her girlfriends react? They take it out on her. They're jealous of the
attention or feeling inadequate or whatever. But they take it out on the young girl who can't help what her body is going through. With me?
Yes. Even now. Look at the glances the women in here give me. Pure hatred. You get a group of women together and a chesty counterpart walks by and they all sigh, Oh, please.' Professional women, for example, feel the urge to dress down not just because of leering men but because of women. Because of how women treat them. A businesswoman sees a big-chested businesswoman with a better title well, she got the job because of her tits. Plain and simple. Might be true, might not be. Is this animosity spawned again from dofrnant jealousy or a misplaced feeling of inadequacy or because they unfairly equate bosoms with stupidity? Any way you look at it, it's an ugly thing.
I never really thought about it, Myron said.
And finally I don't like what it does to me.
Your reaction to seeing a big chest or having one?
