Deal Breaker

  "Yes."

  "How do you sleep so soundly?" But Win didn't answer because he'd fallen asleep.

  On the phone Win asked, "What do you want?"

  "Did all go well last night?"

  "Mr. O'Connor hasn't called you yet?"

  "He has." End of subject. Myron didn't want details.

  "I know," Win continued, "that you did not awaken me to question my effectiveness."

  "Kathy Culver got only one A in her senior year at Ridgewood High. Guess who her teacher was."

  "Who?"

  "Gary Grady."

  "Hmm. Dial-a-porn and high school English. Interesting vocational mix."

  "I was thinking we could go see Mr. Grady this morning."

  "At the school?"

  "Sure. The two of us can pretend we're concerned parents."

  "For the same kid?"

  "Putting the rainbow curriculum to the test."

  Win laughed. "This is going to be fun."

  Chapter 15

  "How do we find him?" Win asked.

  They arrived at Ridgewood High School at nine-thirty. It was a warm June day, the kind of day where you stared at the window and daydreamed about the end of school. Not much movement around the building--as though the entire school, even the edifice, were coasting toward summer vacation.

  Myron remembered how miserable such days were. It gave him an idea.

  "Let's pull the fire alarm," he said.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "We'll get everyone outside. It'll be easier to spot him."

  "Idiotically ingenious," Win said.

  "Besides, I always wanted to pull a fire alarm."

  "Walk on the wild side."

  No one noticed them when they entered the school. There were no guards, no locks on the door, no hall monitors of any kind. This was not an urban high school. Myron found a fire alarm not too far from the entrance.

  "Kids, don't try this at home," Myron said. He pulled. Bells went off. Then cheers from the kids. Myron felt good about his deed. He thought about pulling alarms more often but decided some might construe the act as immature.

  Win held the door open and pretended to be a fire marshal. "Single file," he told the students. "And remember: Only you can prevent fires."

  Myron spotted Grady. "Bingo."

  "Where?"

  "Turning the corner. On the left. Mr. Fashion."

  Gary Grady was wearing a yellow Century 21-like blazer with Keith Partridge orange-striped pants. Win looked visibly pained at the sight. They made their approach.

  "Hi, Jerry."

  Grady's head shot around. "That's not my name."

  "Yeah, you told me. It's your alias, right? When you do business with Fred Nickler. Your real name is Gary Grady."

  Nearby students stopped walking.

  "Keep moving!" Gary snapped.

  The students restarted their grudging trudge.

  "Impatient teachers," Myron said.

  "Sad," Win agreed.

  Gary's thin face seemed to stretch even further. He stepped closer so that no one could overhear.

  "Perhaps we can continue this conversation later," he whispered.

  "I don't think so, Gary."

  "I'm in the middle of a class."

  "Tough tittie," Myron said.

  Win arched an eyebrow. "Tough tittie?"

  "Something about being back in high school," Myron said. "Besides, I thought it appropriate considering the situation."

  Win considered for a moment. "Okay, I can accept that."

  Myron turned back to Gary. "The fire drill will last a little while. Then it will take a little while for the kids to file back in. Then they'll want to goof around in the halls for a while. By then we'll be all done."

  Gary crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

  "Option two, then." Myron took out a copy of Nips. "We can play Show and Tell with the principal."

  Grady coughed into his fist. A loud fire whistle sounded. Sirens came closer. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, taking a few more steps away from the kids.

  "I followed you."

  "What?"

  Myron sighed, gave him exasperation. "You were in Hoboken yesterday morning. You picked up the mail at an address used for advertising sex lines in porno rags. Then you went home to Glen Rock, saw me, panicked, and called Fred Nickler, the managing editor of said rags."

  "Amateur," Win added with disgust.

  "Now, we can discuss this with you or with the school board. Up to you."

  Gary glanced at his watch. "You have two minutes."

  "Fine." Myron gestured to the right. "Why don't we step into the teachers' lavatory? I assume you have a key."

  "Yes."

  He opened the door. Myron had always wanted to see a teachers' bathroom, see how the other half lives. It was unremarkable in every way.

  "Okay, you have me here," Gary said. "What do you want?"

  "Tell me about this ad."

  Gary swallowed. His enlarged Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a boxer's head avoiding jabs. "I don't know anything about it."

  Myron and Win exchanged a glance.

  "Can I stick his head in a toilet?" Win asked.

  Gary straightened his back. "If you are trying to frighten me, it won't work."

  Win's voice was semipleading. "One quick dunk?"

  "Not yet." Myron turned his attention back to Gary. "I have no interest in busting you, Gary. You're a perv, that's your business. I want to know about your connection with Kathy Culver."

  Sweat appeared above Gary's upper lip. "She was a student of mine."

  "I know. Why is her picture in Nips? In your ad?"

  "I have no idea. I saw it for the first time yesterday."

  "But that's your ad, right?"

  He hesitated, giving silent half-shrugs to no one in particular. "Okay," he said, "I admit it. I advertise in Mr. Nickler's publications. No law against that. But I did not put that picture of Kathy in the ad."

  "Who did?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you admit operating sex lines?"

  "Yes. It's harmless. I do it to make extra money. Nobody gets hurt."

  "Another prince," Myron said. "How much extra money?"

  "In the business's heyday I was making twenty thousand dollars a month."

  Myron wasn't sure he heard right. "Twenty thousand dollars a month from phone sex?"

  "In the mid-eighties, yes. Before the government got involved and began to crack down on 900 lines. Now I'm lucky to clear eight grand a month."

  "Damn bureaucrats," Myron said. "So how does Kathy Culver fit into all this?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Gee, Gary, a naked picture of her is in your ad this month. Maybe that's what I mean."

  "I already told you. I had nothing to do with that."

  "Then I guess it's a coincidence, her being a student of yours and all."

  "Yes."

  "I won't hold him under long," Win promised. "Please."

  Myron shook his head. "You wrote her a glowing recommendation letter for college, correct?"

  "Kathy was a wonderful student," Gary replied.

  "And what else?"

  "If you are suggesting that my relationship with Kathy was something other than student-teacher--"

  "That's exactly what I'm suggesting."

  Once again he crossed his arms over his chest. "I will not dignify that with a response. And I am now terminating this conversation."

  Gary was addressing them in that way teachers do. Sometimes teachers forget that life is not a classroom.

  "Dunk him," Myron said.

  "With pleasure."

  Gary probably had two inches on Win. He leaned up on his toes and gave Win his most withering glare.

  "I'm not afraid of you," Gary said.

  "Mistake number one."

  Win moved with a speed that videocameras would not catch. He took hold of Gary's hand, twisted it, and pulled down. Hapkido move. Gar
y dropped to the tile floor. Win pressed his knee against the point of Gary's elbow. Gently. Not too much pain. Just enough to let him know who was in control.

  "Damn," Win said.

  "What?"

  "All the toilets are clean. I hate when that happens."

  "Anything to add before the dunk?" Myron asked.

  Gary's face was white. "Promise me you won't tell anyone," he managed.

  "You'll tell us the truth?"

  "Yes. But you have to swear you won't tell anyone. Not the principal, no one."

  "Okay." Myron nodded to Win. Win let go. Gary took back his hand and caressed it as though it were an abused puppy.

  "Kathy and I had an affair," he said.

  "When?"

  "Her senior year. It lasted a few months, that's all. I haven't seen her since, I swear."

  "And that's everything?"

  He nodded. "I don't know anything else. Somebody else put that picture in the ad."

  "If you're lying, Gary--"

  "I'm not. Hand to God."

  "Okay," Myron said. "You can go."

  Gary rushed out. He had not even paused to check his hair in the mirror.

  "Scum," Myron said. "The man is pure unadulterated scum. Seduces his students, operates a dial-a-porn line."

  "But a snappy dresser," Win said. "So what next?"

  "We finish the investigation. Then we go to the school board. We tell them all about Mr. Grady's extracurricular activities."

  "Didn't you just promise him you weren't going to tell?"

  Myron shrugged. "I lied."

  Chapter 16

  In something of a trance, Jessica thanked Myron and hung up the phone. She half-stumbled into the kitchen and sat down. Her mother and her younger brother Edward looked up.

  "Honey," Carol Culver began, "are you okay?"

  "Fine," she managed.

  "Who was on the phone?"

  "Myron."

  Silence.

  "We were talking about Kathy," she continued.

  "What about her?" Edward asked.

  Her brother had always been Edward, not Ed or Eddie or Ted. He was only a year out of college and already he owned a successful computer business, IMCS (Interactive Management Computer Systems), which developed software systems for several prestigious corporations. Edward wore only jeans, even in the office, and obnoxious T-shirts, the kind with chintzy iron-on decals that say stuff like "Keep on Truckin'." He didn't own a tie. He had a wide, almost-feminine face with delicate porcelain features. Women would kill for his eyelashes. Only the buzz-cut hair--and the pithy phrase on his T-shirt--hinted at what Edward was proud to be: COMPUTER WEENIES HAVE THE BEST HARDWARE.

  Jessica took a deep breath. She could not be concerned with delicacies or feelings anymore. She opened her purse and pulled out a copy of Nips. "This magazine hit the stands a few days ago," she said.

  She tossed it on the table, cover up. A cross between puzzlement and disgust blanketed her mother's face.

  Edward remained stoic. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

  Jessica flipped to the page in the back. "There," she said simply, pointing to the picture of Kathy in the bottom row.

  It took a few moments for them to comprehend what they were seeing, as though the information had been waylaid somewhere between the eye and brain. Then Carol Culver let out a groan. Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering a scream. Edward's eyes narrowed into thin slits.

  Jessica did not give her time to recover. "There's more," she said.

  Her mother looked up at her with hollow, haunted eyes. There was no life behind them anymore, as though a final cold gust had put out a flickering flame.

  "A handwriting expert checked the envelope it came in. The writing matches Kathy's."

  Edward inhaled sharply. Carol's legs finally gave out, folding at the knees. She landed hard in her chair and crossed herself. Tears came to her eyes.

  "She's alive?" Carol managed.

  "I don't know."

  "But there's a chance?" Edward followed up.

  Jessica nodded. "There's always been a chance."

  Stunned silence.

  "But I need some information," Jessica continued. "I need to know what happened to Kathy. What made her change."

  Edward's eyes narrowed again. "What do you mean?"

  "Kathy had an affair with her high school English teacher. Senior year."

  More silence. Jessica was not so sure it was stunned.

  "The teacher, a maggot named Gary Grady, has admitted it."

  "No," her mother said weakly. She lowered her head, her crucifix dangling like a pendulum. She began to weep. "Sweet Jesus, not my baby ..."

  Edward stood. "That's enough, Jess."

  "It's not enough."

  Edward grabbed his jacket. "I'm out of here."

  "Wait. Where are you going?"

  "Good-bye."

  "We need to talk this out."

  "The hell we do."

  "Edward--"

  He ran out the back door, slamming it behind him.

  Jessica turned back to her mother. Her sobs were gut-wrenching. Jessica watched for a minute or two. Then she turned and left the kitchen.

  Roy O'Connor was already in the back booth when Myron arrived. His glass was empty, and he was sucking on an ice cube. He sounded like an aardvark near an anthill.

  "Hey, Roy."

  O'Connor nodded to the seat across the table, not bothering to stand. He wore gold rings that disappeared under the folds of flesh in his chubby unstained hands. His fingernails were manicured. He was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five years old, but it was impossible to tell where. He was balding, wearing the ever-desirable swept-over look, parting his hair just below the armpit.

  "Nice place, Roy," Myron said. "A table in the back, low lights, soft romantic music. If I didn't know better--"

  O'Connor shook his head. "Look, Bolitar, I know you think you're a regular Buddy Hackett, but give it a rest, okay?"

  "I guess flowers are out, then." Pause. Then: "Buddy Hackett?"

  "We need to talk."

  "I'm all ears."

  A waitress came over. "Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?"

  "Another," Roy said, pointing to his glass.

  "And for you?"

  "Do you have Yoo-Hoo?" Myron asked.

  "I think so."

  "Great. I'll have one."

  She left. Roy shook his head. "A fucking Yoo-Hoo," he mumbled.

  "Did you say something?"

  "Your goon visited me last night."

  "Your goons visited me first," Myron said.

  "I had nothing to do with that."

  Myron gave him his best "come off it" look of pure skepticism. The waitress put down the drinks Roy scooped up his martini as if it held a life-saving antidote. Myron, by contrast, sipped his Yoo-Hoo daintily. Ever the gentleman.

  "Look, Myron," O'Connor continued, "it's like this. I signed Landreaux. I gave him money up front. I gave him money every month. I kept my part of the bargain."

  "You signed him illegally."

  "I'm not the first guy to do it," he said.

  "Nor the last. What's your point, Roy?"

  "Look, you know me. You know how I operate."

  Myron nodded. "You're a chicken-shitted crook."

  "I might have threatened the kid. Fine. I've done that before. But that's it. I'd never really hurt anybody."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Word would get out to the athletes. I'd be ruined."

  "Damn shame that would be."

  "Bolitar, you're not making this any easier."

  "I'm not trying to."

  O'Connor grabbed the drink again. He finished it and signaled to the waitress for another. "I've gotten involved with the wrong people," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I worked up some big-time gambling debts. Debts I couldn't pay off."

  "So they took a piece of your business."

  Roy nodded. "They control me now.
Your--your friend from last night." A Geiger counter could have registered the quake in his voice when he mentioned Win. "I want to do just what he said, but I don't have the power anymore."

  Myron took another sip of his Yoo-Hoo, hoping he wasn't getting one of those chocolate mustaches. "My friend won't be pleased to hear that."

  "You have to tell him it's not me."

  "Then who is it?"

  Roy sat back, shaking his head. "I can't say. But I can tell you they play for keeps. And they don't understand a thing about this business. They think they can just scare everyone into compliance. They want to make an example out of someone."

  "And Landreaux is the example?"

  "Landreaux. And you. They want to hurt Landreaux. They want to kill you. They're putting out a contract on your head."

  Another cool sip. Myron said nothing.

  "You don't seem very worried," Roy said.

  "I laugh in the face of death," Myron replied. "Well, maybe not laugh. More like a snicker. A quiet snicker."

  "Jesus, you're a lunatic."

  "And I wouldn't do it directly in death's face. So it's more like a quiet snicker behind his back."

  "Bolitar, this isn't funny."

  "No," Myron agreed. "It's not. I strongly suggest you call them off."

  "Haven't you heard a word I've said? I got no control here."

  "If something happens to me, my friend will be very upset. He'll take it out on you."

  Roy swallowed. "But I'm powerless. You have to believe that."

  "Then tell me who's calling the shots."

  "I can't."

  Myron shrugged. "Maybe we can be buried next to one another. One of those romantic tragedy things."

  "They'll kill me if I say anything."

  "What do you think my friend will do to you?"

  Roy shuddered. He sucked on the ice again, trying to salvage the last remnants of the whiskey. "Where is that damn bimbo with my drink?"

  "Who's calling the shots, Roy?"

  "You didn't hear it from me, right?"

  "Right."

  "You won't tell them?"

  "Mum's the word."

  One more ice suck. Then Roy said, "Ache."

  "Herman Ache?" Myron asked, surprised. "Herman Ache is behind this?"

  Roy shook his head. "His younger brother. Frank. He's out of control. I don't know what the psycho will do next."

  Frank Ache. It made sense. Herman Ache was one of New York's leading mobsters, responsible for countless misery. But next to his younger brother Frank, Herman was an Alan Alda clone. Aaron would enjoy working for someone like Frank.

  This was not good news. Myron toyed with the idea of dropping the snicker altogether. "Anything else you can tell me?"

  "No. I just don't want anyone hurt."

  "You're some guy, Roy. So selfless."

  O'Connor stood. "I got nothing more to say."

  "I thought we were going to have lunch."