'Sure can,' Myron said.
'And so do you.'
'That's right.'
The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. 'Look, I know you won't be easy. And you know I won't be easy. lf push comes to shove, I don't know which one of us will win.'
'I will,' Myron said. 'Good always triumphs over evil.'
The man smiled. 'Not in this neighborhood.'
'Good point.'
'I'm also not sure it's worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we're both probably past the provinghimself, macho-bullshit stage.'
Myron nodded. 'We're too mature.'
'Right.' ' +
'lt seems then,' Myron continued, 'that we've hit an impasse.'
'Guess so,' the black man agreed. 'Of course, I
could always take out a gum and shoot you.'
Myron shook his head. 'Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved.'
'Yeah. I didn't think you'd go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know.'
'You're a pro,' Myron agreed. 'You'd feel remiss if you didn't at least try. Hell, I'd have felt cheated.'
'Glad you understand.'
'Speaking of which,' Myron said, 'aren't you a tad high-level to be dealing with this situation?'
'Can't say I disagree.' The black man walked closer to Myron. Myron felt his muscles tighten; a notunpleasant anticipatory chill steeled him.
'You look like a guy who can keep his mouth shut,'
the man said.
Myron said nothing. Proving the point.
'The kid you had in that picture, the one that got Leona Helmsley's panties in a bunch? He was here.'
'When?'
The black man shook his head. 'That's all you get.
I'm being very generous. You wanted to know if the kid was here. The answer is yes.'
'Nice of you,' Myron said.
'I'm just trying to make it simple. Look, we both know that Lipwitz is a dumb kid. Acts like this urinal is the Beverly Wilshire. But the people who come here, they don't want that. They want to be invisible. They don't even want to look at themselves, you know what I'm saying'?'
Myron nodded.
'So I gave you a freebie. The kid in the picture was here.'
'Is he still here?'
'You're pushing me, Myron.'
'Just tell me that.'
'No. He only stayed that one night.' He spread his hands. 'Now you tell me, Myron. Am I being fair with you?'
'Very.'
He nodded. 'Your turn.'
'I guess there's no way you'll tell me who you're working for.'
The black man made a face. 'Nice meeting you, Myron.'
'Same here.'
They shook hands. Myron got into his car and drove away.
He had almost reached Merion when the cellular rang.
He picked up and said hello.
'Is this, like, Myron?'
Mall girl. 'Hi, yes. Actually this is Myron, not just like him.'
'Huh?'
'Never mind. What's up?'
'That skank you were, like, looking for last night?'
'Right.'
'He's, like, back at the mall.'
'Where at the mall?'
'The food court. He's on line at the McDonald's.'
Myron spun the car around and hit the gas pedal.
'Chapter 15 .
The Crusty Nazi was still there.
He sat at a comer table by himself downing a burger of some sort like it had personally offended him. The girls were right. Skunk was the only word to describe him, even though Myron didn't know what the word meant or if it even existed. The punk's face was aiming for tough-guyunshaven, but a lack of testosterone made it land far closer to upkempt adolescent-Hasid. He wore a black baseball cap with a skull and crossbones decal. His ripped white T-shirt was rolled all the way up to reveal milky, reedy arms, one with a swastika tattoo. Myron shook his head. Swastika. The kid was too old to be so utterly clueless.
The Crusty Nazi took another vicious bite, clearly furious with his burger now. The mall girls were there, pointing toward Crusty like Myron might not know which guy they'd been talking about. Myron signaled them to stop with a shushing finger at his lips. They obeyed, overcompensating by engaging in a too-loud, too-casual conversation, sliding furtive-to-the-point-of-totally-obvious glances in his direction. Myron looked away.
The Crusty Nazi finished his burger and stood. Good timing. As advertised, Crusty was very skinny. The girls were right the boy had no ass. None at all. Myron couldn't tell if the kid was going for that too-big-jeans look or if it was because he lacked a true backside, but every few steps, Crusty paused to hitch up the pants. Myron suspected a bit of both.
He followed him outside into the blazing sun. Hot.
Damn hot. Myron felt almost a nostalgic longing for the omnipresent mall air-conditioning. Crusty strutted coollike into the lot. Going to his car, no doubt. Myron veered to the right so as to get ready to follow. He slid into his Ford Taurus (read: Chick Trawler) and started up the engine.
He slowly cruised the lot and spotted Crusty heading way out to the last row of cars. Only two vehicles were parked out there. One was a silver Cadillac Seville. The other was a pickup truck with those semi-monster wheels, a Confederate flag decal, and the words BAD TO THE BONE
painted on the side. Using his years of investigative knowhow, Myron deduced that the pickup truck was probably Crusty's vehicle. Sure enough, Crusty opened the door and hopped up and in. Amazing. Sometimes Myron's powers of deduction bordered on the psychic. Maybe he should get a 900 line like Jackie Stallone.
Tailing the pickup truck was hardly a challenge. The vehicle stuck out like a golfer's clothing in a monastery, and El Crust-ola wasn't heavy on the gas pedal. They drove for about half an hour. Myron had no idea where they were going, but up ahead he recognized Veterans Stadium. He'd gone with Win to several Eagles games there. Win always had seats on the fifty yard line, lower tier. Being an old stadium, the 'luxury' skyboxes at the Vet were too high up; Win did not care for them. So he chose instead to sit with the masses. Big of him.
About three blocks before the stadium, Crusty pulled down a side road. He threw his pickup into park and got out running. Myron once again debated calling Win for backup, but it was pointless. Win was at Merion. His phone would be off. He wondered again about last night and about Esperanza's accusations this morning. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was, at least partially, responsible for what Win did. But that wasn't the point. He knew that now. The truth, the one that scared Esperanza too, was far clearer: Maybe Myron didn't care so much.
You read the papers and you watch the news and you see what Myron has seen and your humanity, your basic faith in human beings, begins to look frighteningly Pollyanna. That was what was really eating away at him not that he was repulsed by what Win did, but that it really didn't bother him that much.
