Ned Tunwell groaned – actually groaned – in satisfaction.
'You want a cigarette?' Myron asked.
Tunwell's smile doubled in wattage. 'What did I tell you, Myron? Huh? Fantastic or what?'
Myron nodded. It was good. Very good. Hip, well-made, responsible message but not too preachy. 'I like it,' he said.
'I told you. Didn't I tell you? I'm hard again. Swear to God, that's how much I like it. I might just come again. Right here, right now. As we speak.'
'Good to know.'
Tunwell broke into a seizurelike fit of laughter. He slapped Myron's shoulder.
'Ned?'
Tunwell's laughter faded away like the end of a song. He wiped his eyes. 'You kill me, Myron. I can't stop laughing. You really kill me.'
'Yeah, I'm a scream. Did you hear about Valerie Simpson's murder?'
'Sure. It was on the radio. I used to work with her, you know.' He was still smiling, his eyes wide and bright.
'She was with Nike?' Myron asked.
'Yep. And let me tell you, she cost us a bundle. I mean, Valerie seemed like a sure thing. She was only sixteen years old when we signed her and she'd already reached the finals of the French Open. Plus she was good-looking, all-American, the works. And she was already developed, if you know what I mean. She wasn't a cute little kid who might turn into a beast when she got a little older. Like Capriatti. Valerie was a babe.'
'So what happened?'
Ned Tunwell shrugged. 'She had a breakdown. Shit, it was in all the papers.'
'What caused it?'
'Hell if I know. Lot of rumors.'
'Like?'
He opened his mouth, then closed it. 'I forget.'
'You forget?'
'Look, Myron, most people thought it was just too much, you know? All that pressure. Valerie couldn't hack it. Most of these kids can't. They get it all, you know, reach such big heights and then poof, it's gone. You can't imagine what it's like to lose everything like… uh…' Ned stammered to a stop. Then he lowered his head. 'Ah, shit.'
Myron remained silent.
'I can't believe I said that, Myron. To you of all people.'
'Forget it.'
'No. I mean, look, I can pretend I didn't just put my foot in my mouth like that, but…'
Myron waved him off. 'A knee injury isn't a mental breakdown, Ned.'
'Yeah, I know but still…' He stopped again. 'When the Celts drafted you, were you a Nike guy?'
'No. Converse.'
'They dump you? I mean, right away?'
'I have no complaints.'
Esperanza opened the door without knocking. Nothing new there. She never knocked. Ned Tunwell's smile quickly returned. Hard to keep the man down. He stared at Esperanza. Appreciatively. Most men did.
'Can I see you for second, Myron?'
Ned waved. 'Hi, Esperanza.'
She turned and looked right through him. One of her many talents.
Myron excused himself and followed her out. Esperanza's desk was bare except for two photographs. One was of her dog, an adorable shaggy pooch named Chloe, winning a dog show. Esperanza was into dog shows – a sport not exactly dominated by inner-city Latinos, though she seemed to do pretty well. The desk's other picture showed Esperanza wrestling another woman. Professionally wrestling, that is. The lovely and lithe Esperanza had once wrestled professionally under the name Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess. For three years Little Pocahontas had been a crowd favorite of the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling organization, popularly known as FLOW (someone had once suggested calling it the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling, but the acronym was a problem for the networks). Esperanza's Little Pocahontas was a scantily clad (basically a suede bikini) sexpot whom fans cheered and leered at as she bravely took on enormous evil, cheating nemeses every week. A morality play, some called it A classic reenactment of Good vs. Evil. But to Myron the weekly action was more like those women-in-prison films. Esperanza played the beautiful, naive prisoner stuck in cell block C. Her opponent was Olga, the sadistic prison matron.
'It's Duane,' Esperanza said.
Myron took the call at her desk. 'Hey, Duane. What's up?'
His voice came fast. 'Get over here, man. Like now.'
'What's the matter?'
'The cops are in my face. They're asking me all kinds of shit'
'About what?'
'That girl who got shot today. They think I got something to do with it.'
Chapter 3
'Let me speak to the police officer,' Myron told Duane.
Another voice came on the line. 'This is homicide detective Roland Dimonte,' the voice barked with pure cop impatience. 'Who the hell is this?'
'I'm Myron Bolitar. Mr. Richwood's attorney.'
'Attorney, huh? I thought you were his agent.'
'I'm both,' Myron said.
'That a fact?'
'Yes.'
'You got a law degree?'
'It's hanging on my wall. But I can bring it if you'd like.'
Dimonte made a noise. Might have been a snicker. 'Ex-jock. Ex-fed. And now you tell me you're a goddamn lawyer?'
'I'm what you might call a Renaissance man,' Myron said.
'Yeah? Tell me, Bolitar, what law school would let in someone like you?'
'Harvard,' Myron said.
'Whoa, aren't we a big shot.'
'You asked.'
'Well, you got half an hour to get here. Then I drag your boy to the precinct. Got me?'
'I've really enjoyed this little chat, Rolly.'
'You got twenty-nine minutes. And don't call me Rolly.'
'I don't want my client questioned until I'm present. Understood?'
Roland Dimonte didn't answer.
'Understood?' Myron repeated.
Pause. Then: 'Must be a bad connection, Bolitar.' Dimonte hung up.
Pleasant guy.
Myron handed the phone back to Esperanza. 'Mind getting rid of Ned for me?'
'Done.'
Myron took the elevator to the ground floor and sprinted toward the Kinney lot. Someone shouted, 'Go, O.J!' at him. In New York everyone's a comedian. Mario tossed Myron the keys without glancing up from his newspaper.
Myron's car was parked on the ground floor. Unlike Win, Myron was not what one would label a 'car guy.' A car was a mode of transportation, nothing more. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. A gray Ford Taurus. When he cruised down the street, chicks did not exactly swarm.
He'd driven about twenty blocks when he spotted a powder-blue Cadillac with a canary-yellow roof. Something about it bothered Myron. The color maybe. Powder blue with a yellow roof? In Manhattan? A retirement community in Boca Raton, okay, driven by some guy named Sid who always had his left blinker on. Myron could see that. But not in Manhattan. And more to the point, Myron remembered sprinting past the exact same car on his way to the garage.
Was he being followed?
A possibility, though not a great one. This was mid-town Manhattan and Myron was heading straight down Seventh Avenue. About a million other cars were doing the same. Could be nothing. Probably was. Myron made a quick mental note and proceeded.
Duane had recently rented a place on the corner of Twelfth Street and Sixth Avenue. The John Adams Building, on the fringe of Greenwich Village. Myron illegally parked in front of a Chinese restaurant on Sixth, got passed through by the doorman, and took the elevator to Apartment 7G.
A man who had to be Detective Roland Dimonte answered the door. He was dressed in jeans, paisley green shirt, black leather vest He also had on the ugliest pair of snakeskin boots – snow-white with flecks of purple – Myron had ever seen. His hair was greasy. Several strands were matted to his forehead like to flypaper. A toothpick – an actual toothpick – was jutting out of his mouth. His eyes were set deep in a pudgy face, like someone had stuck two brown pebbles in at the last minute.
