One False Move

  "That can't be helped."

  "Well, yes, of course you're right about that. And we also have your other two goals to consider." Win lowered the visor and checked his hair in the mirror. Not a blond hair out of place. He still patted about, frowning. When he finished, he snapped the visor back into place. "Let's start with finding Anita Slaughter, shall we?"

  Myron nodded, but he knew that he was not going to like where this was going.

  "That is the core of the matter, is it not? Finding Brenda's mother?"

  "Right," Myron said.

  "So--and again let me make sure I comprehend completely--you are taking on police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters to find a woman who ran off twenty years ago?"

  "Yes."

  "And the reason for this search?"

  "Brenda. She wants to know where her mother is. She has the right--"

  "Bah," Win interrupted.

  "Bah?"

  "What are you, the ACLU? What right? Brenda has no right here. Do you believe Anita Slaughter is being held against her will?"

  "No."

  "Then what, pray tell, are you trying to accomplish here? If Anita Slaughter craved a reconciliation with her daughter, she would seek it. Clearly she has opted not to do that. We know that she ran away twenty years ago. We know that she has worked hard to stay hidden. What we don't know, of course, is why. And instead of respecting her decision, you choose to ignore it."

  Myron said nothing.

  "Under normal circumstances," Win continued, "this search would be a close call. But when you add in the mitigating factors--the obvious danger upsetting these particular adversaries--the call is an easy one. Simply put, we are taking a tremendous risk for very little reason."

  Myron shook his head, but he saw the logic. Had he not wondered about these same issues himself? He was doing his tightrope act again, this time over a raging inferno, and he was dragging others, including Francine Neagly, with him. And for what? Win was right. He was pissing off powerful people. He might even be inadvertently helping those who wished Anita Slaughter great harm, flushing her out into the open where they could set their sights with greater ease. He knew that he had to step carefully here. One false move and ka-pow.

  "There's more to it," Myron tried. "A crime may have been covered up."

  "Are you speaking now of Elizabeth Bradford?"

  "Yes."

  Win frowned. "So is that what you're after, Myron? You're risking lives in order to give her justice after twenty years? Elizabeth Bradford is calling out to you from the grave or some such thing?"

  "There's also Horace to think about."

  "What about him?"

  "He was my friend."

  "And you believe that finding his killer will ease your guilt over not talking to him in ten years?"

  Myron swallowed at that one. "Low blow, Win."

  "No, my friend, I am merely trying to pull you back from the abyss. I am not saying that there is no value in what you are doing here. We have worked for questionable profit before. But you have to calculate some sort of cost-benefit analysis. You are trying to find a woman who does not want to be found. You are pushing against forces more powerful than you and me combined."

  "You almost sound afraid, Win."

  Win looked at him. "You know better."

  Myron looked at the blue eyes with the flecks of silver. He nodded. He did know better.

  "I'm talking about pragmatism," Win continued, "not fear. Pushing is fine. Forcing confrontation is fine. We've done that plenty of times before. We both know that I rarely back away from such instances, that I perhaps enjoy them too much. But there was always a goal. We were looking for Kathy to help clear a client. We were looking for Valerie's killer for the same reason. We searched for Greg because you were well compensated monetarily. The same could be said about the Coldren boy. But the goal here is too hazy."

  The volume switch on the car radio was set low, but Myron could still hear Seal "compare" his love to "a kiss from the rose on the grave." Romance.

  "I have to stick with this," Myron said. "For a little while longer anyway."

  Win said nothing.

  "And I'd like your help."

  Still nothing.

  "There were scholarships set up to help Brenda," Myron said. "I think her mother may have been funneling money to her through them. Anonymously. I want you to try to track the money trail."

  Win reached forward and turned off the radio. Traffic was almost nonexistent. The air conditioner hummed, but otherwise the silence was heavy. After a couple of minutes, Win broke it.

  "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

  The question hit him by surprise. Myron opened his mouth, closed it. Win had never asked a question like this before; he did, in fact, all he could do to avoid the subject. Explaining love relationships to Win had always seemed akin to explaining jazz music to a lawn chair.

  "I think I might be," Myron said.

  "It's affecting your judgment," Win said. "Emotion may be ruling over pragmatism."

  "I won't let it."

  "Pretend you are not in love with her. Would you still pursue this?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Win nodded. He understood better than most. Hypotheticals had nothing to do with reality. "Fine then," he said. "Give me the information on the scholarships. I'll see what I can find."

  They both settled into silence. Win as always looked perfectly relaxed and in a state of total readiness.

  "There is a very fine line between relentless and stupid," Win said. "Try to stay on the right side of it."

  The Sunday afternoon traffic remained light. The Lincoln Tunnel was a breeze. Win fiddled with the buttons on Myron's new CD player, settling on a recently purchased compilation CD of AM seventies classics. They listened to the "The Night Chicago Died." Then "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia." Nights, Myron surmised, were a dangerous time in the seventies. Then the theme song to the movie Billy Jack blasted its peace on earth message. Remember the Billy Jack movies? Win did. A little too well, in fact.

  The final song was a classic seventies tearjerker called "Shannon." Shannon dies pretty early in the song. In a very high pitch, we are told that Shannon is gone, that she drifted out to sea. Sad. The song always moved Myron. Mother is heartbroken at the loss. Dad always seems tired now. Nothing is the same without Shannon.

  "Did you know," Win said, "that Shannon was a dog?"

  "You're kidding."

  Win shook his head. "If you listen closely to the chorus, you can tell."

  "I can only make out the part about Shannon being gone and drifting out to sea."

  "That is followed by the hopes that Shannon will find an island with a shady tree."

  "A shady tree?"

  Win sang, "Just like the one in our backyard."

  "That doesn't mean it's a dog, Win. Maybe Shannon liked sitting under a tree. Maybe they had a hammock."

  "Perhaps," Win said. "But there is one other subtle giveaway."

  "What's that?"

  "The CD liner notes say the song is about a dog."

  Win.

  "Do you want me to drop you off at home?" Myron asked.

  Win shook his head. "I have paperwork," he said. "And I think it best if I stay close."

  Myron did not argue.

  "You have the weapon?" Win asked.

  "Yes."

  "Do you want another?"

  "No."

  They parked at the Kinney lot and took the elevator up together. The high-rise was silent today, the ants all away from the hill. The effect was sort of eerie, like one of those end-of-the-earth apocalypse movies where everything is abandoned and ghostlike. The dinging of the elevator echoed in the still air like a thunderclap.

  Myron got off at the twelfth floor. Despite its being Sunday, Big Cyndi was at her desk. As always, everything around Big Cyndi looked tiny, like that episode of The Twilight Zone where the house starts shrinking or like someone had j
ammed a large stuffed animal into Barbie's pink Corvette. Big Cyndi was wearing a wig today that looked like something stolen from Carol Channing's closet. Bad hair day, Myron supposed. She stood and smiled at him. Myron kept his eyes open and was surprised when he didn't turn to stone.

  Big Cyndi was normally six-six, but she was wearing high heels today. Pumps. The heels cried out in agony as she stood. She was dressed in what some might consider a business suit. The shirt was French-Revolution frilly, the jacket solid gray with a fresh tear along the shoulder stitch.

  She raised her hands and twirled for Myron. Picture Godzilla rearing back after getting nailed by a Taser gun.

  "Like it?" she asked.

  "Very much," Myron said. Jurassic Park III: The Fashion Show.

  "I bought it at Benny's."

  "Benny's?"

  "Down in the Village," Big Cyndi explained. "It's a clothing store for transvestites. But lots of us big girls shop there too."

  Myron nodded. "Practical," he said.

  Big Cyndi sniffled once, then suddenly began to cry. She still had on waaaay too much makeup, none of it waterproof, and she quickly started to look like a lava lamp left in the microwave.

  "Oh, Mr. Bolitar!"

  She ran toward him, her arms spread, the floor creaking from the thumping. An image of one of those cartoon scenes where characters keep falling through floors, forming cutout silhouettes in each floor as they pass through it, came to him.

  Myron put up his hands. No! Myron good! Myron like Cyndi! Cyndi no hurt Myron! But the gesture was useless.

  She embraced him, wrapping both arms around him and lifting him off his feet. It felt as though a water bed had come to life and attacked him. He closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.

  "Thank you," she whispered through her tears.

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Esperanza. She watched the scene with crossed arms, smiling slightly. The new job, Myron suddenly remembered. Rehiring her full-time.

  "You're welcome," he managed.

  "I won't let you down."

  "Could you at least put me down?"

  Big Cyndi made a noise that might have been a giggle. Children in the tristate area screamed and reached for Mommy's hand.

  She lowered him gently back to the floor like a child placing a block on the top of a pyramid. "You won't be sorry. I'll work night and day. I'll work weekends. I'll pick up your laundry. I'll make coffee. I'll fetch Yoo-Hoos. I'll even give you backrubs."

  The image of a steamroller approaching a bruised peach flashed through his mind.

  "Er, a Yoo-Hoo would be great."

  "Right away." Big Cyndi bounced toward the refrigerator.

  Myron moved toward Esperanza.

  "She does give a great backrub," Esperanza said.

  "I'll take your word for it."

  "I told Big Cyndi you were the one who wanted to hire her full-time."

  Myron nodded. "Next time," he said, "just let me pull a thorn out of her paw, okay?"

  Big Cyndi held up the can of Yoo-Hoo. "Do you want me to shake it for you, Mr. Bolitar?"

  "I'll handle that, Cyndi, thanks."

  "Yes, Mr. Bolitar." She hopped back over, and Myron was reminded of the scene where the boat flips over in the Poseidon Adventure. She handed him the Yoo-Hoo. Then she smiled again. And the gods shielded their eyes.

  Myron spoke to Esperanza. "Any more word on Lester's trade?"

  "No."

  "Get me Ron Dixon on the phone. Try his home number."

  Big Cyndi took that one. "Right away, Mr. Bolitar."

  Esperanza shrugged. Big Cyndi dialed and used her English accent. She sounded like Maggie Smith in a Noel Coward play. Myron and Esperanza went into his office. The call was transferred.

  "Ron? It's Myron Bolitar, how are you?"

  "I know who the hell this is, moron. Your receptionist told me. It's Sunday, Myron. Sunday is my day off. Sunday is my family day. My quality time. My chance to get to know the kids better. So why are you calling me on a Sunday?"

  "Are you trading Lester Ellis?"

  "That's why you're calling me at home on a Sunday?"

  "Is it true?"

  "No comment."

  "You told me you wouldn't trade him."

  "Wrong. I told you I wouldn't actively put him on the block. If you recall, Mr. Super Agent, you wanted to put in a trade approval clause in his contract. I said, no, unless you wanted to shave fifty grand off his salary. You refused. Now it's coming back and biting your ass cheek, ain't it, hotshot?"

  Myron shifted in his seat. Sore ass cheek and all. "Who are you getting for him?"

  "No comment."

  "Don't do this, Ron. He's a great talent."

  "Yeah. Too bad he's not a great baseball player."

  "You're going to look foolish. Remember Nolan Ryan for Jim Fregosi? Remember Babe Ruth, uh"--Myron forgot who they got in the trade--"being traded by the Red Sox?"

  "Now Lester Ellis is Babe Ruth?"

  "Let's talk about this."

  "Nothing to talk about, Myron. And now, if you'll excuse me, the wife is calling me. It's strange."

  "What's that?"

  "This quality time stuff. This getting to know my children better. You know what I've learned, Myron?"

  "What?"

  "I hate my kids."

  Click.

  Myron looked up at Esperanza.

  "Get me Al Toney at the Chicago Tribune."

  "He's being traded to Seattle."

  "Trust me here."

  Esperanza gestured to the phone. "Don't ask me. Ask Big Cyndi."

  Myron hit the intercom. "Big Cyndi, could you please get me Al Toney? He should be at his office."

  "Yes, Mr. Bolitar."

  A minute later Big Cyndi beeped in. "Al Toney on line one."

  "Al? Myron Bolitar here."

  "Hey, Myron, what's up?"

  "I owe you one, right?"

  "At least one."

  "Well, I got a scoop for you."

  "My nipples are hardening as we speak. Talk dirty to me, baby."

  "You know Lester Ellis? He's being traded tomorrow to Seattle. Lester is thrilled. He's been bugging the Yankees to trade him all year. We couldn't be happier."

  "That's your big scoop?"

  "Hey, this is an important story."

  "In New York or Seattle maybe. But I'm in Chicago, Myron."

  "Still. I thought you might want to know."

  "No good. You still owe me."

  Myron said, "You don't want to check with your nipples first?"

  "Hold on." Pause. "Soft as overripe grapes already. But I could check again in a few minutes, if you'd like."

  "Pass, Al, thanks. Frankly I didn't think it would fly with you, but it was worth a try. Between you and me, the Yankees are pushing hard on this trade. They want me to put on the best spin. I thought you could help."

  "Why? Who they getting?"

  "I don't know."

  "Lester's a pretty good player. Raw but good. Why the Yankees so interested in getting rid of him?"

  "You won't print this?"

  Pause. Myron could almost hear Al's brain awhirring. "Not if you tell me not to."

  "He's hurt. Home accident. Damaged the knee. They're keeping it quiet, but Lester will need surgery after the season."

  Silence.

  "You can't print it, Al."

  "No problem. Hey, I gotta go."

  Myron smiled. "Later, Al."

  He hung up.

  Esperanza looked at him. "Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

  "Al Toney is the master of the loophole," Myron explained. "He promised he wouldn't print it. He won't. But he works by trading favors. He's the best barterer in the business."

  "So?"

  "So now he'll call a friend at the Seattle Times and barter. The injury rumor will spread. If it gets public before the trade is announced, well, it's doomed."

  Esperanza smiled. "Highly unethical."

  Myron shrugged. "Let'
s just say it's fuzzy."

  "I still like it."

  "Always remember the MB SportsReps credo: The client comes first."

  She nodded and added, "Even in sexual liaisons."

  "Hey, we're a full-service agency." Myron looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, "Can I ask you something?"

  She tilted her head. "I don't know. Can you?"

  "Why do you hate Jessica?"

  Esperanza's face clouded over. She shrugged. "Habit, I guess."

  "I'm serious."

  She crossed her legs, uncrossed them. "Let me just stick to taking cheap potshots, okay?"

  "You're my best friend," he said. "I want to know why you don't like her."

  Esperanza sighed, crossed the legs again, tucked a loose strand behind her ear. "Jessica is bright, smart, funny, a great writer, and I wouldn't throw her out of bed for eating crackers."

  Bisexuals.

  "But she hurt you."

  "So? She's not the first woman to commit an indiscretion."

  "True enough," Esperanza agreed. She slapped her knees and stood. "Guess I'm wrong. Can I go now?"

  "So why do you still hold a grudge?"

  "I like grudges," Esperanza said. "They're easier than forgiveness."

  Myron shook his head, signaled her to sit.

  "What do you want me to say, Myron?"

  "I want you to tell me why you don't like her."

  "I'm just being a pain in the ass. Don't take it seriously."

  Myron shook his head again.

  Esperanza put her hand to her face. She looked away for a moment. "You're not tough enough, okay?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "For that kind of hurt. Most people can take it. I can. Jessica can. Win certainly can. But you can't. You're not tough enough. You're just not built that way."

  "Then maybe that's my fault."

  "It is your fault," Esperanza said. "At least in part. You idealize relationships too much, for one thing. And you're too sensitive. You used to expose yourself too much. You used to leave yourself too open."

  "Is that such a bad thing?"

  She hesitated. "No. In fact, it's a good thing, I guess. A bit naive, but it's a lot better than those assholes who hold everything back. Can we stop talking about this now?"

  "I still don't think you've answered my question."

  Esperanza raised her palms. "That's as good as I can do."

  Myron flashed back to Little League again, to being hit by Joey Davito's pitch, to never planting his feet in the batter's box the same again. He nodded. Used to expose, Esperanza had said. "Used to." A curious use of words.

  Esperanza took advantage of the silence and changed subjects. "I checked into Elizabeth Bradford for you."