'Ooo,' Win said. 'Then we're going to get nasty.'
'Yes.'
'And here I thought you weren't going to break the rules anymore.'
'Just this once,' Myron said.
'Ah,' Win countered. 'That's what they all say.'
Chapter 31
Win, Esperanza, Big Cyndi, and Zorra were all in his office.
Zorra wore a yellow monogrammed sweater (the monogram being one letter: Z), large white pearls a la Wilma Flintstone, a plaid skirt, and white bobby socks. Her — or if you want to be anatomically correct, his — wig looked like early Bette Midler or maybe Little Orphan Annie on methadone. Shiny red high-heel shoes like something stolen from a trampy Dorothy in Oz adorned the men's-size-twelve feet.
Zorra smiled at Myron. 'Zorra is happy to see you.'
'Yeah,' Myron said. 'And Myron is happy to see you too.'
'This time, we're on the same side, yes?'
'Yes.'
'Zorra pleased.'
Zorra's real name was Shlomo Avrahaim, and she was a former Israeli Mossad agent. The two had had a nasty run-in not long ago. Myron still carried the wound near his rib cage — a scar-shaped Z made by a blade Zorra hid in her heel.
Win said, 'The Lex Building is too well guarded.'
'So we go with Plan B,' Myron said.
'Already in motion,' Win said.
Myron looked at Zorra. 'You armed?'
Zorra pulled a weapon out from under her skirt. 'The Uzi,' Zorra said. 'Zorra likes the Uzi.'
Myron nodded. 'Patriotic.'
'Question,' Esperanza said.
'What?'
Esperanza settled her eyes on his. 'What if this guy doesn't cooperate?'
'We don't have time to worry about it,' Myron said.
'Meaning?'
'This psycho has Jeremy,' Myron said. 'You understand that? Jeremy has to be the priority here.'
Esperanza shook her head.
'Then stay behind,' he said.
'You need me,' she said.
'Right. And Jeremy needs
Esperanza shook her head again, but she went along. The group — a sort of cut-rate Dirty (One-Third of a) Dozen — broke off when they reached the street. Esperanza and Zorra would walk. Win, Myron, and Big Cyndi headed into a garage three blocks away. Win had a car there. Chevy Nova. Totally untraceable. Win had a bunch of them. He referred to them as disposable vehicles. Like paper cups or something. The rich. You don't want to know what he does with them.
Win drove, Myron took the front passenger seat, and Big Cyndi squeezed into the back, which was a little like watching a film of childbirth on rewind. Then they were off.
The Stokes, Layton and Grace law firm was one of the most prestigious in New York. Big Cyndi stayed in reception. The receptionist, a skinny skirt-suit of gray, tried not to stare. So Big Cyndi stared at her, daring her not to look. Sometimes Big Cyndi would growl. Like a lion. No reason. She just liked to do it.
Myron and Win were ushered into a conference room that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm conference rooms. Myron doodled on a yellow legal pad that looked like a million other big Manhattan law firm legal pads, watched through the window the smug, pink, fresh-scrubbed Harvard grads stroll by, again all looking exactly the same as the ones at a million other big Manhattan law firms. Reverse discrimination maybe, but all young white male lawyers looked the same to him.
Then again, Myron was a white Harvard law school graduate. Hmm.
Chase Layton trollied in with his rolly build and well-fed face and chubby hands and gray comb-over, looking like, well, a name partner at a big Manhattan law firm. He wore a gold wedding band on one hand and a Harvard ring on the other. He greeted Win warmly — most wealthy people do — and then gave a firm, I'm-your-guy hand- shake to Myron.
'We're in a rush,' Win said.
Chase Layton shoved the big smile out of the room and strapped on his best battle-ready face. Everyone sat. Chase Layton folded his hands in front of him. He leaned forward, putting a bit of a belly push on the vest buttons. 'What can I do for you, Windsor?'
Rich people always called him Windsor.
'You've been after my business for a long time,' Win said.
'Well, I wouldn't say—'
'I'm here to give it to you. In exchange for a favor.'
Chase Layton was too smart to snap-bite at that. He looked at Myron. An underling. Maybe there'd be a clue how to play on this plebeian's face. Myron kept up the neutral. He was getting better at it. Must be from hanging around Win so much.
'We need to see Susan Lex,' Win said. 'You are her attorney. We'd like you to get her to come here immediately.'
'Here?'
'Yes,' Win said. 'At your office. Immediately.'
Chase opened his mouth, closed it, checked on the underling again. Still no clue. 'Are you serious, Windsor?'
'You do that, you get the Lock-Horne business. You know how much income that would generate?'
'A great deal,' Chase Layton said. 'And yet not even a third of what we receive from the Lex family.'
Win smiled. 'Talk about having your cake and eating it too.'
'I don't understand this,' Chase said.
'It's pretty straightfoward, Chase.'
'Why do you want to see Ms. Lex?'
'We can't divulge that.'
'I see.' Chase Layton scratched a ham-red cheek with a manicured finger. 'Ms. Lex is a very private person.'
'Yes, we know.'
'She and I are friends.'
'I'm sure,' Win said.
'Perhaps I can set up an introduction.'
'No good. It has to be now.'
'Well, she and I usually conduct business at her office—'
'Again no good. It has to be here.'
Chase rolled his neck a bit, stalling for time, trying to sort through this, find an angle to play. 'She's a very busy woman. I wouldn't even know what to say to get her here.'
'You're a good attorney, Chase,' Win said, steepling his fingers. 'I'm sure you'll come up with something.'
Chase nodded, looked down, studied his manicure.
'No,' he said. He looked back up slowly. 'I don't sell out clients, Windsor.'
