a piston, shooting out and landing squarely on the knee of the unprepared Escape. Escape fell. Myron was already running.
'Get the fucker!'
They chased, but Myron had already slammed his shoulder into the fire door. The 'macho bullshit' part of him, as his friend at the Court Manor Inn had described it, wanted to try to take them on, but he knew that would be foolhardy. They were armed. He wasn't.
By the time Myron reached the end of the alley, his lead was only about ten yards. He wondered if he'd have enough time to open his car door and get in. No choice.
He'd have to try.
He grabbed the handle and swung the door open. He was sliding in when a tire iron whacked his shoulder.
Pain erupted. He kept rolling, closing the door. A hand grabbed it, offered resistance. Myron used his weight and leaned into the pull.
His window exploded.
Glass tinkled down into his face. Myron kicked his heel through the open window and hit face. The grip on the door released. He already had the key out and in the ignition. He tumed it as the other car window exploded.
Crusty leaned into the car, his eyes blazing with fury.
'Motherfucker, you're gonna die!'
The tire iron was heading toward his face again. Myron blocked it. From behind him, he felt a sharp blow connect with his lower neck. Numbness ensued. Myron shifted into reverse and flew out of the spot, tires squealing.
Crusty tried to leap into the car through the broken window. Myron elbowed him in the nose and Crusty's grip eased. He fell hard to the pavement, but then he jumped right back up. That was the problem with fighting cokeheads. Pain often does not register.
All three men ran for the pickup, but Myron already had too big a lead. The battle was over. For now. _
Chapter 16
Myron called in the pickup truck's license plate number, but that was a dead end. The plate had expired four years ago. Crusty must have taken it off a car in a dump or something. Not uncommon. Even petty crooks knew enough not to use their real plates when committing a traceable crime.
He circled back and checked the inside of the building for clues. Bent syringes and broken vials and empty bags of Doritos lay scattered about the cement. There was also an empty garbage can. Myron shook his head. Bad enough being a drug dealer. But a litterbug?
He looked around a bit more. The building was abandoned and half burned out. There was no one inside. And no clues.
Okay, so what did this all mean? Were the three cokeheads the kidnappers? Myron had a hard time picturing it. Cokeheads break into houses. Cokeheads jump people in alleyways. Cokeheads attack with tire irons.
Cokeheads, by and large, do not plan elaborate kidnappings.
But on the other hand, how elaborate was this kidnapping?
The first two times the kidnapper called, he didn't even know how much money to extort. Wasn't that a little `
odd? Could it be that all this was merely the work of some out-of-their league crusty cokeheads?
Myron got into his car and headed toward Win's house. Win had plenty of vehicles. He'd switch for a car without smashed windows. The residual damage to his body seemed to be clearing up. A bruise or two but nothing broken. None of the blows had landed plush, except the ones to his car windows.
He ran several possibilities through his head and eventually managed to come up with a pretty decent scenario.
Let's say that for some reason Chad Coldren decided to check into the Court Manor Inn. Maybe to spend some time with a girl. Maybe to buy some drugs. Maybe because he enjoyed the friendly service. Whatever. As per the bank surveillance camera, Chad grabbed some dough at a local ATM. Then he checked in for the night. Or the hour. Or whatever.
Once at the Court Manor Inn, something went awry.
Stu Lipwitz's denials notwithstanding, the Court Manor is a sleazy joint patronized by sleazy people. It wouldn't be hard to get in trouble there. Maybe Chad Coldren tried to buy drugs from Crusty. Maybe he witnessed a crime.
Maybe the kid just talked too much and some nasty people realized that he came from money. Whatever. The life orbits of Chad Coldren and the Crusty Nazi's crew dovetailed. The end result was a kidnapping.
It kinda fit.
The key word here: kinda.
On the road toward Merion, Myron helped deflate his own scenario with several well-placed puncture holes.
First of all, the timing. Myron had been convinced that the kidnapping had something to do with Jack's return to playing the U. S. Open at Merion. But in his Crusty-orbit scenario, the nagging timing question had to be written off as mere coincidence. Okay, maybe Myron could live with that. But then how, for example, had the Crusty Nazi stationed at a mall pay phone known that Esme Fong was in the Coldren house? How did the man who climbed out the window and disappeared on Green Acres Road a person Myron had been sure was either Matthew Squires or Chad Coldren fit into all this? Was the well-shielded Matthew Squires in cahoots with the Crusties? Or was it just a coincidence that the window man disappeared down Green Acres Road?
The scenario balloon was going ssssss in a very big way.
By the time Myron got to Merion, Jack Coldren was on the fourteenth hole. His partner for today's round was none other than Tad Crispin. No surprise there. First place and second place were normally the final twosome of the day.
Jack was still playing well, though not spectacularly.
He'd lost only one stroke off his lead, remaining a very comfortable eight strokes ahead of Tad Crispin. Myron trudged toward the fourteenth green. Green that word again. Everything was so dang green. The grass and trees, naturally, but also tents, overhangs, scoreboards, the many television towers and scaffolds everything was lush green to blend in with the picturesque natural surroundings, except, of course, for the sponsors' boards, which drew the eye with all the subtlety of Vegas hotel signs. But hey, the sponsors paid Myron's salary. Be kinda hypocritical to complain. 'Myron, sweetheart, get your wiggly ass over here.'
Norm Zuckerman beckoned Myron forward with a big wave. Esme Fong stood next to him. 'Over here,' he said.
'Hey, Norm,' Myron said. 'Hi, Esme.'
'Hi, Myron,' Esme said. She was dressed a bit more casual today, but she still clutched at her briefcase like it was a favorite stuffed animal.
Norm threw his arm around Myron's back, draping the hand over the sore shoulder. 'Myron, tell me the truth here. The absolute truth. I want the truth, okay?'
'The truth?' .
' 'Very funny. Just tell me this. Nothing more, just this.
Am I not a fair man? The truth, now. Am I a fair man?'
'Fair,' Myron said.
'Very fair, am I right? I am a very fair man.'
'Let's not push it, Norm.'
Norm put up both hands, palms out. 'Fine, be that way. I'm fair. Good enough, I'll take it.' He looked over toward Esme Fong. 'Keep in mind, Myron is my adversary.
My worst enemy. We're always on opposite sides.
Yet he is willing to admit that I'm a fair man. We straight on that?'
Esme rolled her eyes. 'Yes, Norm, but you're preaching to the converted. I already told you that I agreed with you on this '
'Whoa,' Norm said, as though reining in a frisky pony. 'Just hold the phone a sec, because I want Myron's opinion too. Myron, here's the deal. I bought a golf bag.
