“Oh.” Myron looked over at Win. Win nodded. Myron excused himself and made his way over.
Without preamble, Win said, “The last cash transaction Greg made was at an ATM machine at eleven oh three P.M. the night he vanished.”
“Where?”
“Manhattan. A Chemical Bank near Eighteenth Street on the West Side.”
“It makes sense,” Myron said. “Greg gets a call at nine eighteen P.M. from Carla. Carla tells him to meet her in the back booth. So he drives himself to the city and picks up cash before he sees her.”
Win looked at him with flat eyes. “Thank you for that analysis of the obvious.”
“It’s a gift really.”
“Yes, I know,” Win said. “Moving right along, there are eight saloons within a four-block radius of this particular ATM. I limited my search to those. Of the eight only two have what one might term a ‘back booth.’ The others had tables or dining facilities sans booths in the rear. Here are the names.”
Myron had long since gotten past asking how Win did it. “You want me to drive?”
“I can’t go,” Win said.
“Why not?”
“I’m going away for a few days.”
“When?”
“I leave from Newark airport in an hour,” Win said.
“This is sudden.”
Win didn’t bother responding. The two men headed out the players’ entrance. Five kids ran up to Myron and asked for his autograph. Myron obliged. One kid who looked to be around ten years old took back the paper, squinted at Myron’s scrawl, and said, “Who the hell is he?”
Another kid said, “Some scrub.”
“Hey!” Win snapped. “That’s
Myron looked at him. “Thanks.”
Win made an it’s-nothing gesture.
The first kid looked at Win. “You anybody?”
“I’m Dwight D. Eisenhower,” Win replied.
“Who?”
Win spread his hands. “Our blessed youth.” He walked away then without saying another word. Win was not big on good-byes. Myron reached his car. When he put the key in the door, he felt a slap on the back. It was TC. He pointed at Myron with a finger holding more jewelry than a Gabor-family reunion. “Remember,” TC said.
Myron nodded. “Thumped.”
“Exacto.”
Then he, too, was gone.
Chapter 7
Myron arrived at MacDougal’s Pub, the first bar on Win’s list. The back booth was empty so he grabbed it. He sat there for a moment, hoping a psychic force would tell him if this was the place where Greg had met up with Carla. He felt nothing—positive or negative. Maybe he should hold a seance.
The waitress came over slowly, as if the effort of crossing the floor was synonymous with wading through deep snow and she should be rewarded for it. Myron warmed her up with one of his patented smiles. The Christian Slater model—friendly yet devilish. Not to be mistaken for the Jack Nicholson model which was also friendly yet devilish.
“Hi,” he said.
She put down a Rolling Rock cardboard coaster. “What can I get you?” she asked, trying to toss up a friendly tone and falling way short. You rarely find a friendly barmaid in Manhattan, except for those born-again waitresses at chains like TGI Friday’s or Bennigan’s where they tell you their name and that they’ll be your “server” like you might mistake them for something else, like your “legal consultant” or “medical advisor.”
“Got any Yoo-Hoo?” Myron asked.
“Any what?”
“Never mind. How about a beer?”
She gave him flat eyes. “What kind?”
Subtlety was not going to work here. “Do you like basketball?” he asked her.
Shrug.
“Do you know who Greg Downing is?”
Nod.
“He told me about this place,” Myron said. “Greg said he was here the other night.”
Blink.
“Did you work last Saturday night?”
Nod.
“Same station? I mean, this booth?”
Quicker nod. Getting impatient.
“Did you see him?”
“No. I got tables. Michelob okay?”
Myron looked at his watch, faked shock. “Whoops, look at the time. I gotta go.” He gave her two dollars. “Thanks for your time.”
The next bar on the list was called the Swiss Chalet. Not even close. A dive. The wallpaper was supposed to trick you into believing that the place was wood paneled; the effect may have worked better had the wallpaper not been peeling in so many spots. The fireplace had a flickering, Christmas-light log in it, hardly giving the place the desired ski-lodge warmth. For some reason there was one of those disco-mirrored balls in the middle of the bar. No dance floor. No lights. Just the disco-mirrored ball—another staple of authentic Swiss chalets, Myron surmised. The place had the stale smell of spilled beer mixed with just a hint of what might have been vomit, the kind of smell only certain bars or frat houses held, the kind where the odor had seeped into the walls like rodents that ended up dying and rotting.
The jukebox blared “Little Red Corvette” by Prince. Or was it by the Artist Formerly Known As Prince? Wasn’t that what he called himself now? But of course when “Little Red Corvette” had been released he had been Prince. So which was it? Myron tried to reconcile this crucial dilemma, but it began to confuse him like one of those time paradoxes in the
The place was pretty empty. A guy with a Houston Astros baseball cap and bushy mustache was the sole patron seated at the bar. There was a man and woman seminecking at a table in the center of the room—the most conspicuous table in the place, as a matter of fact. No one seemed to mind. Another male patron skulked around the back like he was in the adult movie area at his local video store.
Again Myron took the back booth. Again he struck up a conversation with a far more animated waitress. When he reached the part about Greg Downing telling him about the Swiss Chalet, she said, “Yeah, no kidding? I only seen him in here once.”
Bingo.
“Would that have been Saturday night?”
She scrunched up her face in thought.
“Hey, Joe,” the waitress shouted to the bartender. “Downing was in here Saturday night, right?”
“Who the fuck wants to know?” Joe shouted back from his spot behind the bar. He looked like a weasel with mousy hair. Weasel and mouse. Nice combination.
“This guy and me, we was just talking.”
Joe Weasel squinted with beady, ferret eyes. The eyes widened. “Hey, you’re the new guy, right? On the Dragons? I saw you on the news. With the dorky name.”
“Myron Bolitar,” Myron said.
