«Which one?»
«Frank.»
Silence. This was not good. The Ache brothers were leading mob figures in New York. Herman Ache, the older brother, was the leader, a man responsible for enough suffering to make a third world dictator envious. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was about as scary as Winnie-the-Pooh.
The muscleheads cracked their necks and smiled at Myron’s silence. «Not so funny now, are you, smart guy?»
«Testicles,» Myron said, stepping toward the car. «They shrink when you use steroids.»
It was an old Bolitar rejoinder, but Myron never got tired of the classics. He had no choice really. He had to go. He slid into the backseat of the stretch limo. There was a bar and a television tuned in to Regis and Kathie Lee. Kathie Lee was regaling the audience with Cody’s most recent exploits.
«No more, I beg you,» Myron said. «I’ll tell you everything.»
The bulldozers did not get it. Myron leaned forward and snapped the television off. No one protested.
«We going to Clancy’s?» Myron asked.
Clancy’s Tavern was the Aches’ hangout. Myron had been there with Win a couple of years back. He had hoped never to return.
«Sit back and shut up, asshole.»
Myron kept still. They took the West Side Highway north – in the opposite direction of Clancy’s Tavern. They turned right at Fifty-seventh Street. When they hit a Fifth Avenue parking garage, Myron realized where they were headed.
«We’re going to TruPro’s office,» he said out loud.
The bulldozers said nothing. Didn’t matter. He had not said it for their benefit anyway.
TruPro was one of the larger sports agencies in the country. For years it’d been operated by Roy O’Connor, a snake in a suit, who had been nothing if not an expert in how to break the rules. O’Connor was the master of illegally signing athletes when they were barely out of diapers, using payoffs and subtle extortion. But like so many who flitted in and out of the world of corruption, Roy inevitably got nuked. Myron had seen it happen before. A guy figures he can be a «little pregnant», a tad enmeshed with the underworld. But the mob does not work that way. You give them an inch, they take the whole damn yardstick. That was what had happened to TruPro. Roy owed money, and when he couldn’t pay up, the appropriately named Ache brothers took control.
«Move it, asshole.»
Myron followed Bubba and Rocco – if those weren’t their names, they should have been – into the elevator. They got out on the eighth floor and headed past the receptionist. She kept her head down but sneaked a glance. Myron waved to her and kept moving. They stopped in front of an office door.
«Search him.»
Bulldozer One started patting him down.
Myron closed his eyes. «God,» he said. «This feels good. A little left.»
Bulldozer stopped, threw him a glare. «Go in.»
Myron opened the door and entered the office.
Frank Ache spread his arms and stepped toward him. «Myron!»
Whatever fortune Frank Ache had amassed, the man never did spend it on clothes. He favored chintzy velour sweat suits, like something the guys on Lost in Space might consider casual wear. The one Frank sported today was burnt orange with yellow trim. The top was zippered lower than a Cosmo cover, his gray chest hair so thick it looked like a natty sweater. He had a huge head, tiny shoulders, and a spare tire that was the envy of the Michelin man – an hourglass figure with all the time run out. He was big and puffy and the kind of bald where the top of the head looks like it exploded through the hair during an earthquake.
Frank gave Myron a ferocious bear hug. Myron was taken aback. Frank was usually about as cuddly as a jackal with shingles.
He pulled Myron to arm’s length. «Sheesh, Myron, you’re looking good.»
Myron tried not to wince. «Thanks, Frank.»
Frank offered him a big smile – two rows of corn-kernel teeth jam-packed together. Myron tried not to flinch. «How long’s it been?»
«A little over a year.»
«We were at Clancy’s, right?»
«No, Frank, we weren’t.»
Frank looked puzzled. «Where were we?»
«On a road in Pennsylvania. You shot out my tires, threatened to kill members of my family, and then you told me to get out of your car before you used my nuts for squirrel food.»
Frank laughed and clapped Myron on the back. «Good times, eh?»
Myron kept very still. «What can I do for you, Frank?»
«You in a rush?»
«Just wanted to get to the heart of it.»
«Hey, Myron.» Frank opened his arms wide. «I’m trying to be friendly here. I’m a changed man. It’s a whole new me.»
«Find religion, did you, Frank?»
«Something like that.»
«Uh-huh.»
Frank’s smile slowly faded. «You like my old ways better?»
«They’re more honest.»
The smile was gone completely now. «You’re doing it again, Myron.»
«What?»
«Crawling up the crack of my ass,» he said. «It cozy up there?»
«Cozy,» Myron said with a nod. «Yeah, Frank, that’s the word I’d use.»
The door behind them opened. Two men came in. One was Roy O’Connor, the figurative president of TruPro. He crept in silently, as though waiting for permission to exist. Probably was. When Frank was around, Roy probably raised his hand before going to the bathroom. The second guy was in his mid-twenties. He was immaculately dressed and looked like an investment banker fresh off his M.B.A.
Myron gave a big wave. «Hi, Roy. Looking good.»
Roy nodded stiffly, sat down.
Frank said, «This here’s my kid. Frankie Junior. Call him FJ.»
«Hi,» Myron said. FJ?
The kid gave him a hard glare and sat down.
«Roy here just hired FJ,» Frank said.
Myron smiled at Roy O’Connor. «The selection process must have been hell, Roy. Combing through all those resumes and everything.»
Roy said nothing.
Frank waddled around the desk. «You and FJ got something in common, Myron.»
«Oh?»
«You went to Harvard, right?»
«For law school,» Myron said.
«FJ got his M.B.A. there.»
Myron nodded. «Like Win.»
His name quieted the room. Roy O’Connor crossed his legs. His face lost color. He had experienced Win up close, but they all knew him. Win would be pleased by the reaction.
The room started up again slowly. Everyone took seats. Frank put two hands the size of canned hams on the desk. «We hear you’re representing Brenda Slaughter,» he said.
«Where did you hear that?»
Frank shrugged as if to say, silly question.
«Is it true, Myron?»
«No.»
