Drew would point out that it’s all relative, that he, Drew Van Dyne, lived alone in a crap-hole that was smaller than Wolf’s garage, but why bother? Drew could also point out that he didn’t have a tennis court or three cars or gold statues or a theater room or even really a wife since the separation, much less one with a hot enough body to model in bikinis.
“He’s a big-time lawyer,” Jake droned on. “Went to Yale and never lets anyone forget it. He has a Yale decal on his car window. He wears Yale T-shirts when he takes his daily jog. He hosts Yale parties. He interviews Yale applicants in his big castle. His son is a dope, but guess what school still accepted him?”
Drew Van Dyne shifted in the chair.
“The world is not a level playing field, Drew. You need an in. Or you have to make one. You, for example, wanted to be a big rock star. The guys who make it — who sell a zillion CDs and fill up outdoor arenas — do you think they’re more talented than you? No. The big difference, maybe the only difference, is that they were willing to take advantage of some situation. They exploited something. And you didn’t. Do you know what the world’s greatest truism is?”
Drew could see that there was no stopping him. But that was okay. The man was talking. He was revealing things in his own way. Drew was getting the picture now. He had a pretty good idea of where this was heading. “No, what?”
“Behind every great fortune is a great crime.”
Jake stopped and let that sink in. Drew felt his breathing go a little funny.
“You see someone with beaucoup bucks,” Jake Wolf went on, “a Rockefeller or Carnegie or someone. Do you want to know the difference between them and us? One of their great-grandpas cheated or stole or killed. He had balls, sure. But he understood that the playing field is never level. You want a break, you make it yourself. Then you peddle that hard-work, nose-to-the-grindstone fiction to the masses.”
Drew Van Dyne remembered the warning call:
“This Bolitar guy,” Drew said. “You already had your cop friends lay into him. He didn’t budge.”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“That’s not much of a comfort, Jake.”
“Well,” Jake said, “let’s just remember whose fault this is.”
“Your son’s.”
“Hey!” Again Jake pointed with the beefy finger. “Keep Randy out of it.”
Drew Van Dyne shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to place blame.”
“He’s going to Dartmouth. That’s a done deal. No one, especially not some dumb slut, is going to ruin that.”
Drew took a long deep breath. “Still. The question is, if Bolitar keeps digging, what is he going to find?”
Jake Wolf looked at him. “Nothing,” he said.
Drew Van Dyne felt a twinge start in the base of his spine.
“How can you be so sure?”
Wolf said nothing.
“Jake?”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my son is on his way to college. He’s done with all this.”
“You also said that behind every great fortune is a great crime.”
“So?”
“She means nothing to you, does she, Jake?”
“It’s not about her. It’s about Randy. It’s about his future.”
Jake Wolf turned back to the window, to his Ivy League neighbor’s castle. Drew gathered his thoughts, reined in his emotions. He looked at this man. He thought about what he had said, what it all meant. He thought again about the warning call.
“Jake?”
“What?”
“Did you know that Aimee Biel was pregnant?”
The room went quiet. The background music was between songs now. When it started up again, the beat had picked up a step, an old ditty from Supertramp. Jake Wolf slowly turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. Drew Van Dyne could see that the news was a surprise.
“That doesn’t change anything,” Jake said.
“I think maybe it does.”
“How?”
Drew Van Dyne reached into his shoulder holster. He removed the gun and aimed it at Jake Wolf. “Take a wild guess.”
CHAPTER 42
The storefront was a nail salon called Nail-R-Us in a not-yet-redeveloped section of Queens. The building had that decrepit thing going on, as if leaning against it would cause a wall to collapse. The rust on the fire escape was so thick that tetanus seemed a far greater threat than smoke inhalation. Every window was blocked by either a heavy shade or a plank of wood. The structure was four levels and ran almost the entire length of the block.
Myron said to Win, “The
“That’s intentional.”
“Why?”
Win looked at him, waited. Myron did it in his head. Nail-R-Us had become Nail Us.
“Oh,” Myron said. “Cute.”
“They have two armed guards stationed at windows,” Win said.
“They must do a mean manicure.”
Win frowned. “Moreover, the two guards didn’t take up position until your Ms. Rochester and her beau returned.”
“They’re worried about her father,” Myron said.
“That would be a logical deduction.”
“You know anything about the place?”
“The clientele is below my level of expertise.” Win nodded behind Myron. “But not hers.”
Myron turned. The setting sun was blocked now as though by an eclipse. Big Cyndi was ambling toward them. She was dressed entirely in white spandex. Very tight white spandex. No undergarments. Tragically, you could tell. On a seventeen-year-old runway model, the spandex jumpsuit would be a fashion risk. On a woman of forty who weighed more than three hundred pounds… well, it took guts, lots of them, all of which were on full display, thank you very much. Everything jiggled as she trundled toward them; various body parts seemed to have lives of their own, moving of their own accord, as if dozens of animals were trapped in a white balloon and trying to squirm their way out.
Big Cyndi kissed Win on the cheek. Then she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Bolitar.” She hugged him, wrapping her arms around him, a feeling not unlike being wrapped in wet attic insulation.
“Hey, Big Cyndi,” Myron said when she put him down. “Thanks for getting down here so quick.”
“When you call, Mr. Bolitar, I run.”
Her face remained placid. Myron never knew if Big Cyndi was putting him on or not.
“Do you know this place?” he asked.
“Oh yes.”
She sighed. Elk within a forty-mile radius began to mate. Big Cyndi wore white lipstick like something out of an Elvis documentary. Her makeup had sparkles. Her fingernails were in a color she’d once told him was called Pinot Noir. Back in the day, Big Cyndi had been the bad-guy professional wrestler. She fit the bill. For those who have never watched professional wrestling, it is merely a morality play with good pitted against evil. For years, Big Cyndi had been the evil “warlordess” named Human Volcano. Then one night, after a particularly grueling match where
