Not a hint of impatience had crept into his voice or face.
'May I be bold?'
'Go for it.'
'I don't believe a word you're saying.'
'Thanks for the boldness,' Myron said.
'No, thank you, sir. And do come again.'
'Another prostitution credo.'
'Pardon me?'
'Nothing,' Myron said. 'May I too be bold?'
'Yes.'
'I may punch you in the face very hard if you don't tell me if you've seen this kid.' Mr. Improvisation Loses His Cool.
The door swung open hard. A couple entwined about one another stumbled in. The woman was openly rubbing the man's crotch. 'We need a room pronto,' the man said.
Myron turned to them and said, 'Do you have your frequent visitor card?'
'What?' .
Still the smile from Smart Lipwitz. 'Good-bye, sir.
And have a nice day.' Then he rejuvenated the smile and moved toward the writhing mound. 'Welcome to the Court Manor Inn. My name is Smart Lipwitz. I'm the new manager.'
Myron headed out to his car. He took a deep breath in the parking lot and looked back behind him. The whole visit already had an unreal feeling, like one of those descriptions of alien abductions sans the anal probe. He got in the car and dialed Win's cellular. He just wanted to leave him a message on the machine. But to Myron's surprise, Win answered.
'Articulate,' he drolled.
Myron was momentarily taken aback. 'It's me,' he said. .
Silence. Win hated the obvious. 'It's me,' was both questionable grammar (at best) and a complete waste.
Win would know who it was by the voice. If he didn't, hearing 'It's me' would undeniably not help.
'I thought you didn't answer the phone on the course,' Myron said.
'I'm driving home to change,' Win said. 'Then I'm dining at Merion.' Mainliners never ate; they dined.
'Care to join me?'
'Sounds good,' Myron said.
'Wait a second.'
'What'?'
'Are you properly attired?'
'I don't clash,' Myron said. 'Will they still let me in?'
'My, my, that was very funny, Myron. I must write that one down. As soon as I stop laughing, I plan on locating a pen. However, I am so filled with mirth that I
may wrap my precious Jag around an upcoming telephone pole. Alas, at least I will die with jocularity in my heart.'
Win.
'We have a case,' Myron said.
Silence. Win made this so easy.
'I'll tell you about it at dinner.'
'Until then,' Win said, 'it'll be all I can do to douse my mounting excitement and anticipation with a snifter of cognac.'
Click. Gotta love that Win.
Myron hadn't driven a mile when the cellular phone rang. Myron switched it on.
It was Bucky. 'The kidnapper called again.'
Chapter 4
'What did he say?' Myron asked.
'They want money,' Bucky said.
'How much?'
'I don't know.'
Myron was confused. 'What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't they say?'
'I don't think so,' the old man said.
There was noise in the background. 'Where are you?' Myron asked.
'I'm at Merion. Look, Jack answered the phone. He's still in shock.'
'Jack answered?'
'Yes.'
Doubly confused. 'The kidnapper called Jack at Merion?'
'Yes. Please, Myron, can you get back over here? It'll be easier to explain.'
'On my way.'
He drove from the seedy motel to a highway and then into green. Lots of green. The Philadelphia suburbs were lush lawns and high bushes and shady trees. Amazing how close it was at least in a geographic sense to the meaner streets of Philly. Like most cities, there was tremendous segregation in Philadelphia. Myron remembered driving with Win to Veterans Stadium for an Eagles game a couple of years back. They'd gone through an Italian block, a Polish block, an African American block; it was as if some powerful, invisible force field again, like on Scar Trek isolated each ethnicity. The City of Brotherly Love could almost be called Little Yugoslavia.
Myron turned down Ardmore Avenue. Merion was about a mile away. His thoughts turned to Win. How, he wondered, would his old friend react to the maternal connection in this case?
Probably not well.
In all the years they had been friends, Myron had heard Win mention his mother on only one occasion.
It had been during their junior year at Duke. They were college roommates, just back from a wild frat party.
The beer had flowed. Myron was not what you'd call a good drinker. Two drinks and he'd usually end up trying to French-kiss a toaster. He blamed this on his ancestryhis people had never handled spirits well.
Win, on the other hand, seemed to have been weaned on schnapps. Liquor never really affected him much. But at this particular party, the grain alcohol laced punch made even his steps wobble a bit. It took Win three tries to unlock their dorm room door.
Myron quickly collapsed on his bed. The ceiling spun counterclockwise at a seemingly death-defying speed. He closed his eyes. His hands gripped the bed and held on in terror. His face had no color. Nausea clamped down painfully on his stomach. Myron wondered when he would vomit and prayed it would be soon.
Ah, the glamour of college drinking.
For a while neither of them said anything. Myron wondered if Win had fallen asleep. Or maybe Win was gone.
Vanished into the night. Maybe he hadn't held on to his spinning bed tightly enough and the centrifugal force had hurled him out the window and into the great beyond.
Then Win's voice cut through the darkness. 'Take a look at this.'
A hand reached out and dropped something on Myron's chest. Myron risked letting go of the bed with one hand. So far, so good. He fumbled for whatever it was, found it, lifted it into view. A streetlight from outside campuses are lit up like Christmas trees cast enough illumination to make out a photograph. The color was grainy and faded, but Myron could still make out what looked to be an expensive car.
'Is that a Rolls-Royce?' Myron asked. He knew nothing about cars.
'A Bentley S Three Continental Flying Spur,' Win corrected, ' 1962. A classic.'
'Is it yours?'
'Yes.'
The bed spun silently.
'How did you get it?' Myron asked.
