“How old would you say she was?”
Hector checked the file again. “According to this, she was forty-five. That sounds about right.”
“How long has she worked here?” he asked.
“Two months.”
Myron nodded, rubbed his chin vigorously. “It sounds like an operative who goes by the name Carla.”
“Carla?”
“A notorious phone fraud,” Myron continued. “We’ve been after her for a while.” He glanced left, then right. Trying to look conspiratorial. “Have you ever heard her use the name Carla or hear someone call her Carla?”
Hector looked at his wife. She shook her head. “No, never.”
“Did she have any visitors? Any friends?”
Again Hector checked with his wife. Again the head shook. “No, none that we ever saw. She kept to herself most of the time.”
Myron decided to push a little further and confirm what he already knew. If Hector balked at this stage, so what? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He leaned forward; Hector and his wife did likewise. “This may sound insensitive,” Myron whispered, “but was this woman large chested?”
Both nods were immediate. “Very large,” Hector said.
Suspicion confirmed.
He asked a few more questions, but any useful information had already been culled from these waters. Before leaving, he told them that they were in the clear and could continue to violate code section 124B without fear. Hector almost kissed his hand. Myron felt like a louse.
Myron exited the Parkview Diner. He debated going to the park across the street, but suppose he became overcome by a lustful need to feed rats? No, he couldn’t risk it. He’d have to stay away. He began to head to the Dyckman Street subway station when a voice stopped him.
“You looking for Sally?”
Myron turned. It was the homeless-looking man with the Thom McAns from the diner. He sat on the pavement, his back leaning against the brick building. He had an empty plastic coffee cup in his hand. Panhandling.
“You know her?” Myron asked.
“She and I…” He winked and crossed his fingers. “We met because of that damn phone, you know.”
“Really.”
Using the wall for support the man stood. His facial hair was whitish, not full enough to be a beard yet past the stage of a
“Your phone?”
“The pay phone in the back,” he said, licking his lips. “It’s right by the back door. I hang out in the back alley a lot so I can hear it, you know? It’s kind of like my business phone.” Myron couldn’t guess his age. His face was boyish but leathered—from the passing years or hard living, Myron couldn’t say. His grin was missing a couple of prominent teeth, reminding Myron of that beloved Christmas classic “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.” Such a nice song really. No toys, no Sega Genesis video game. The kid just wanted teeth. So selfless really.
“I used to have my own cellular,” the man continued. “Two of them, as a matter of fact. But they got stolen. And the damn things are so unreliable, especially around the high buildings. And anyone can listen in with the right equipment. Me, I need to keep what I do secret, you see. Spies are everywhere. And they also give you brain tumors. The electrons or something. Brain tumors the size of beach balls.”
Myron kept his face blank. “Uh huh.” Speaking of tossing the bull.
“So anyway Sally started using it, too. It pissed me off, you know? I mean, I’m a businessman. I got important calls coming in. I can’t have the line tied up. Am I right?”
“As rain,” Myron said.
“See, I’m a Hollywood screenwriter.” He stuck out his hand. “Norman Lowenstein.”
Myron tried to remember the fake name he used with Hector. “Bernie Worley.”
“Nice to meet you, Bernie.”
“Do you know where Sally Guerro lives?”
“Sure. We used to be…” Norman Lowenstein crossed his fingers.
“So I heard. Could you tell me where she lives?”
Norman Lowenstein pursed his lips and used his pointer finger to scratch a spot near his throat. “I’m not real good with addresses and stuff,” he said. “But I could take you there.”
Myron wondered how big of a waste of time this was going to be. “Would you mind?”
“Sure, no problem. Let’s go.”
“Which way?”
“The A train,” Norman said. “Down to One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street.”
They walked toward the subway.
“You go the movies much, Bernie?” Norman asked.
“Much as the next guy, I guess.”
“Let me tell you something about movie-making,” he began, growing more animated. “It’s not all glamour and glitz. It’s a dog-eat-dog business like no other, making dreams for people. All the back-stabbing, all that money, all that fame and attention…it makes people act funny, you know? I got this screenplay with Paramount right now. They’re talking to Willis about it. Bruce Willis. He’s really interested.”
“Good luck with it,” Myron said.
Norman beamed. “Thanks, Bernie, that’s real nice of you. I mean it. Real nice. I’d like to tell you what my flick is about, but well, my hands are tied. You know how it is. Hollywood and all the theft out there. The studio wants it kept hush-hush.”
“I understand,” Myron said.
“I trust you, Bernie, it’s not that. But the studios insist. I can’t blame them really. They got to protect their interests, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s an action-adventure flick, that much I can tell you. But with heart too, you know? Not just a shoot-em- up. Harrison Ford wanted in, but he’s too old. I guess Willis is okay. He’s not my first choice, but what can you do?”
“Uh huh.”
One Twenty-fifth Street was not the nicest stop in the city. It was safe enough during the day, Myron surmised, but the fact that he was now carrying a gun made him feel a tad more secure. Myron did not like “packing heat” and rarely did so. It was not that Myron was particularly squeamish; it had more to do with comfort. The shoulder holster dug into his armpit and made it itch like he was wearing a tweed condom. But after last night’s soiree with Camouflage Pants and Brick Wall, it would be foolhardy to walk around unarmed.
“Which way?” Myron asked.
“Downtown.”
They headed south on Broadway. Norman regaled him with tales of Hollywood. The ins and outs. Myron nodded and kept walking. The farther south they headed, the better the area became. They passed the familiar iron gates of Columbia University, then turned left. “It’s right up here,” Norman said. “Toward the middle of the block.”
The street was lined with low-rise apartments that were mostly used by Columbia’s grad students and professors. Strange, Myron thought, that a diner waitress would live here. But then again nothing else about her involvement in all this made sense—why should where she lived? If she lived here at all, and not, say, with Bruce Willis in Hollywood.
Norman interrupted his thoughts. “You’re trying to help her, right?”
“What?”
