Deal Breaker

An awkward impasse. No one knew exactly how to say good-bye. A wave? A handshake? A kiss?

“We’ve got to go,” Myron said. He sprinted past her, never getting too close. Win shrugged at her in a what- can-you-do fashion and followed. She watched them disappear around the corner. Batman and Robin heading to the Bat-poles.

She left then. She had seen Myron twice now, and they had not yet touched-not even brushed up against one another.

It was an odd thing to wonder about.

Chapter 6

“What did you find out?” Myron asked.

Win whipped the wheel to the right. The Jag XJR responded with nary a squeal. They had been driving without speaking for the past ten minutes, Win’s CD player the only sound. Win favored show tunes. Man of La Mancha was on now. Don Quixote serenaded his beloved Dulcinea.

“Nips magazine is published by HDP,” Win answered.

“HDP?”

“Hot Desire Press.” Another Bat-turn. The Jag accelerated past eighty.

“Speed limits,” Myron said. “Heard of them?”

Win ignored him. “Their editorial office is located in Fort Lee, New Jersey.”

“Editorial office?”

“Whatever. We have an appointment with Mr. Fred Nickler, managing editor.”

“His mother must be proud.”

“Moralizing,” Win mused. “Nice.”

“What did you tell Mr. Nickler?” Myron asked.

“Nothing. I called and asked if we could see him. He said yes. Seemed like a very pleasant fellow.”

“I’m sure he’s a prince.” Myron looked out the window. Buildings blurred. They fell back into silence. “You’re probably wondering what Jessica was doing in my office.”

Win gave a halfhearted shrug. It was not his way to pry.

“It’s her father’s murder. The police say it was a robbery. She thinks otherwise.”

“How does she see it?”

“She thinks there’s a connection between his murder and Kathy.”

“So the plot thickens. Are we going to help her?”

“Yes.”

“Goodie. So do we think there is a connection?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Win agreed.

They pulled into the driveway of a building that could have been either a nice warehouse or low-rent office space. No elevator, but then again, only three levels. HDP, Inc., was on the second floor. When they entered the outer office, Myron was a bit surprised. He was not sure what he’d expected, but he had thought the dwellings of a sleaze merchant would not be so… nondescript. The walls were white with inexpensive but tastefully framed art posters-McKnight, Fanch, Behrens. Mostly scenery shots of beaches and sunset. Nothing with naked breasts. Surprise number one. Surprise number two was the unremarkable receptionist. She was strictly standard issue, not an overaged, bleach-blond, flabby ex-bunny/sexpot/porno starlet with a breathy giggle and seductive wink.

Myron was almost disappointed.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

Win said, “We’re here to see Mr. Nickler.”

“Your names, please?”

“Windsor Lockwood and Myron Bolitar.”

She picked up the phone, buzzed in, and a moment later said, “Right through that door.”

Nickler greeted them with a firm handshake. He was dressed in a blue suit, red tie, white shirt-conservative as a Republican senatorial candidate. Surprise number three. Myron had expected gold chains or a Joey Buttafuoco earring or at the very least a pinkie ring. But Fred Nickler wore no jewelry, except for a plain wedding band. His hair was gray, his complexion a bit washed out.

Win whispered, “He looks like your uncle Sid.”

It was true. The publisher of Nips magazine looked like Sidney Griffin, popular suburban orthodontist.

“Please have a seat,” Nickler said, moving back behind his desk. He smiled at Myron. “I was at the Final Fours when you guys beat Kansas. Twenty-seven points including the game winner. Hell of a performance Incredible.”

“Thank you,” Myron said.

“Never seen anything like it. The way that final shot kissed the backboard.”

“Thank you.”

“Just incredible.” Nickler renewed his smile, shaking his head in awe at the memory. Then he sat back. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

Myron said, “We have a couple of questions about an ad in one of your, uh, publications.”

“Which one?”

“Nips.” Saying the word felt grungy. Myron tried not to make a face.

“Interesting,” Nickler replied.

“What makes you say that?”

“Nips is a relatively new publication, and it’s doing poorly-far and away the worst of HDP’s monthlies. I’m going to give it another month or two, and then it’ll probably fold.”

“How many magazines do you publish?”

“Six.”

“Are they all like Nips?”

Nickler chuckled lightly. “They are all pornographic magazines, yes. And they are all completely legal.”

Myron handed him the magazine Christian had given him. “When was this printed?”

Fred Nickler barely glanced at it. “Four days ago.”

“That’s all?”

“It’s our most recent issue-they’ve barely hit the stands. I’m surprised you found one.”

Myron opened to the proper page. “We’d like to know who paid for this advertisement.”

Nickler put on a pair of half-moon glasses. “Which one?”

“Bottom row. The Lust Line.”

“Oh,” he said. “A sex phone.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No. But this ad wasn’t paid for.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the nature of the business,” Nickler explained. “Someone calls me up to place an ad for a dial-a-porn line. I tell him it costs X amount. He says, wow, I’m just starting out, I can’t afford it. So if it looks like a good idea, I go in fifty-fifty with him. In other words, I take care of the marketing, if you will, while my partner takes care of the technical side-phones, cables, girls to work the phones, whatever else. Then we split it down the middle. It limits both of our risks.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

He nodded. “Ninety percent of my advertising comes for fantasy lines. I’d say I have a piece of the action in three-quarters of them.”

“Can you give us the name of your partner on this particular venture?”

Nickler studied the picture in the magazine. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

“No.”