«Obviously.»
«That means that it has to be somebody with resources.»
«Indeed.»
«Then it has to be the Bradfords,» Myron said. «They’re looking for Anita Slaughter. For all we know, they’ve been looking for twenty years. It’s the only thing that makes sense. And you know what else this means?»
«Do tell,» Win said.
«Arthur Bradford has been conning me.»
Win gasped. «A less than truthful politician? Next you’ll tell me there’s no Easter Bunny.»
«It’s like we thought from the start,» Myron said. «Anita Slaughter ran because she was scared. And that’s why Arthur Bradford is being so cooperative. He wants me to find Anita Slaughter for him. So he can kill her.»
«And then he’ll try to kill you,» Win added. He studied his hair in the visor mirror. «Being this handsome. It is not easy, you realize.»
«And yet you suffer without complaint.»
«That is my way.» Win took one last look before snapping the visor back in place.
Clay Jackson lived in a row of houses whose backyards sat above Route 280. The neighborhood looked like working poor. The homes were all two-family, except for several corner residences that doubled as taverns. Tired neon Budweiser signs flickered through murky windows. Fences were all chain-link. So many overgrown weeds had popped through the sidewalk cracks that it was impossible to tell where pavement ended and lawn began.
Again all the inhabitants appeared to be black. Again Myron felt his customary and seemingly inexplicable discomfort.
There was a park across the street from Clay Jackson’s house. People were setting up for a barbecue. A softball game was going on. Loud laughter exploded everywhere. So did a boom box. When Myron and Win got out of the car, all eyes swerved in their direction. The boom box went suddenly silent. Myron forced up a smile. Win remained completely unbothered by the scrutiny.
«They’re staring,» Myron said.
«If two black men pulled up to your house in Livingston,» Win said, «what sort of reception would they receive?»
Myron nodded. «So you figure the neighbors are calling the cops and describing two 'suspicious youths' prowling the streets?»
Win raised an eyebrow. «Youths?»
«Wishful thinking.»
«Yes, I’d say.»
They headed up a stoop that looked like the one on Sesame Street. A man poked through a nearby garbage can, but he looked nothing like Oscar the Grouch. Myron knocked on the door. Win started with the eyes, the gliding movement, taking it all in. The softballers and barbecuers across the street were still staring. They did not seem pleased with what they saw.
Myron knocked again.
«Who is it?» a woman’s voice called.
«My name is Myron Bolitar. This is Win Lockwood. We’d like to see Clay Jackson if he’s available.»
«Could you hold on a second?»
They held on for at least a full minute. Then they heard a chain rattle. The knob turned, and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was black and maybe forty years old. Her smile kept flickering like one of those neon Budweiser signs in the tavern windows. «I’m Clay’s mother,» she said. «Please come in.»
They followed her inside. Something good was cooking on the stove. An old air-conditioning unit roared like a DC-io, but it worked. The coolness was most welcome, though short-lived. Clay’s mother quickly hustled them through a narrow corridor and back out the kitchen door. They were outside again, in the backyard now.
«Can I get you a drink?» she asked. She had to yell over the sounds of traffic.
Myron looked at Win. Win was frowning. Myron said, «No, thank you.»
«Okay.» The smile flickered faster now, almost like a disco strobe light. «Let me just go get Clay. I’ll be right back.» The screen door slammed shut.
They were alone outside. The yard was tiny. There were flower boxes bursting with colors and two large bushes that were dying. Myron moved to the fence and looked down at Route 280. The four-lane highway was moving briskly. Car fumes drifted slowly in this humidity, hanging there, not dissipating; when Myron swallowed, he could actually taste them.
«This isn’t good,» Win said.
Myron nodded. Two white men show up at your house. You don’t know either one. You don’t ask for ID. You just show them in and leave them out back. Something was definitely not right here.
«Let’s just see how it plays out,» Myron said.
It did not take long. Eight large men came from three different directions. Two burst through the back door. Three circled in from the right side of the house. Three more from the left. They all carried aluminum baseball bats and let’s-kick-some-ass scowls. They fanned out, encircling the yard. Myron felt his pulse race. Win folded his arms; only his eyes moved.
These were not street punks or members of a gang. They were the Softball players from across the street, grown men with bodies hardened by daily labor -dockworkers and truck loaders and the like. Some held their bats in a ready-to-swing position. Others rested them on their shoulders. Still others bounced them gently against their legs, like Joe Don Baker in Walking Tall.
Myron squinted into the sun. «You guys finish your game?» he asked.
The biggest man stepped forward. He had an enormous iron-cauldron gut, calloused hands, and the muscular yet unchiseled arms of someone who could crush Nautilus equipment like so many Styrofoam cups. His Nike baseball cap was set on the largest size, but it still fitted him like a yarmulke. His T-shirt had a Reebok logo. Nike cap, Reebok T-shirt. Confusing brand loyalties.
«Game is just beginning, fool.»
Myron looked at Win. Win said, «Decent delivery, but the line lacked originality. Plus, tagging the word fool on the end – that seemed forced. I’ll have to give him a thumbs-down, but I look forward to his next work.»
The eight men looped around Myron and Win. Nike/ Reebok, the obvious leader, gestured with the baseball bat. «Hey, Wonder bread, get your ass over here.»
Win looked at Myron. Myron said, «I think he means you.»
«Must be because I help build strong bodies in twelve ways.» Then Win smiled, and Myron felt his heart stutter. People always did that. They always homed in on Win. At five-ten Win was a half foot shorter than Myron. But it was more than that. The blond, pale-faced, blue-veined, china-boned exterior brought out the worst in people. Win appeared soft, unlabored, sheltered – the kind of guy you hit and he shatters like cheap porcelain. Easy prey. Everyone likes easy prey.
Win stepped toward Nike/Reebok. He arched an eyebrow and gave him his best Lurch. «You rang?»
«What’s your name, Wonder bread?»
«Thurgood Marshall,» Win said.
That reply didn’t sit well with the crowd. Murmurs began. «You making a racist crack?»
«As opposed to, say, calling someone Wonder bread?»
Win glanced at Myron and gave him a thumbs-up. Myron returned the gesture. If this were a school debate, Win would be up a point.
«You a cop, Thurgood?»
Win frowned. «In this suit?» He pulled at his own lapels. «Puleeze.»
«So what do you want here?»
«We wish to speak with one Clay Jackson.»
«What about?»
«Solar energy and its role in the twenty-first century.»
Nike/Reebok checked his troops. The troops tightened the noose. Myron felt a rushing in his ears. He kept his eyes on Win and waited.
