The usual death hyperbole?
Perhaps. But school records backed the teachers up. Curtis had never been on report. He also had the best attendance record in his grade. On top of that, his transcript reported a 3.9 average, his sole B coming in some sort of health class. Both teachers firmly believed that Curtis Yeller was incapable of violence. Mrs. Elright blamed Curtis's cousin Errol Swade, but no specifics were given.
Myron sat back. He stared at a movie still from Casablanca on the far wall. Sam was serenading Bogie and Bergman as the Nazis moved in. Here's looking at you, kid. We'll always have Paris. You're getting on that plane. Myron wondered if young Curtis Yeller had ever seen the movie, if he had had the opportunity to behold the celluloid image of Ingrid Bergman with tears in her eyes at a foggy airport.
He picked up the basketball from behind his desk and began spinning it on his finger. He slapped it at just the right angle to increase the speed rotation without dislodging the ball from its axis. He stared at his handiwork as though it were a Gypsy's crystal ball. He saw an alternate universe, one with a younger version of himself hitting a three-pointer at the buzzer on the Boston Garden 's parquet floor. He tried not to let himself dwell on this image too long, but there it stayed, front and center, refusing to leave.
Esperanza came in. She sat down and waited in silence.
The ball stopped spinning. Myron put it down and handed her the article. "Take a look at this."
She read it. "A couple of teachers said something nice about a dead kid. So what? Probably misquoted anyway."
"But this is more than just a couple of casual comments. Curtis Yeller had no police record, no school record, a nearly perfect attendance record, and a 3.9 GPA. For most kids that's a hell of a statement. But this was a kid from one of the worst parts of Philadelphia."
Esperanza shrugged. "I don't see the relevance. What difference does it make if Yeller was Einstein or an idiot?"
"None. Except it's just one more thing that doesn't add up. Why did Curtis's mother say he was a no-good thief?"
"Maybe she knew more than his teachers."
Myron shook his head. He thought about Deanna Yeller. The proud, beautiful woman who answered the door. The suddenly hostile, defensive woman at the mention of her dead son. "She was lying."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Win thinks she's being bought off."
"Sounds like a good possibility," Esperanza said.
"What, a mother taking bribes to protect her son's murderer?"
Esperanza shrugged again. "Sure, why not?"
"You really think a mother…?" Myron stopped. Esperanza's face was totally impassive – another one who always believed the worst. "Just look at this whole scenario for a second," he tried. "Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade break into this ritzy tennis club at night. Why? To rob the place? Of what? It was night. It wasn't like they were going to find wallets in the locker room. So what were they going to steal? Some tennis sneakers? A couple of rackets? That's a hell of a long way to go for some tennis equipment."
"Stereo equipment, maybe," Esperanza said. "The clubhouse could have a big-screen TV."
"Fine. Assume you're right. Problem is, the boys didn't take a car. They took public transportation and walked. How were they going to carry the loot? By hand?"
"Maybe they planned on stealing one."
"From the club's valet lot?"
She shrugged. "Could be," she said. Then: "Mind if I change subjects for a second?"
"Go ahead."
"How did it go with Eddie Crane last night?"
"He's a big fan of Little Pocahontas. He said she was 'hot.'"
"Hot?"
"Yup."
She shrugged. "Kid's got taste."
"Nice too. I liked him. He's smart, got his head on straight. Helluva good kid."
"You going to adopt him?"
"Uh, no."
"How about represent him?"
"They said they'll be in touch."
"What do you think?"
"Hard to say. The kid liked me. The parents are worried about me being small-time." Pause. "How did it go with Burger City?"
She handed him some papers. "Prelim contract for Phil Sorenson."
"TV commercial?"
"Yeah, but he has to dress up as a burger condiment."
"Which one?"
"Ketchup, I think. We're still talking."
"Fine. Just don't let it be mayonnaise or pickle." He studied the contract. "Nice work. Good figures."
Esperanza looked at him.
"Very good, in fact." He smiled at her. Widely.
"Is this the part where I get all excited by your praise?" she asked.
"Forget I said anything."
She pointed to the stack of articles. "I managed to track down Valerie's shrink from her days at Dilworth. Her name is Julie Abramson. She has a private office on Seventy-third Street. She won't see you, of course. Refuses to discuss her patient."
"A woman doctor," Myron mused. He put his hands behind his head. "Maybe I can entice her with my rapier wit and brawny body."
"Probably," Esperanza said, "but on the off chance she's not comatose, I went with an alternative plan."
"And that is?"
"I called her office back, changed my voice, and pretended you were a patient. I made an appointment for you to see her tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."
"What's my psychosis?"
"Chronic priapism," she said. "But that's just my opinion."
"Funny."
"Actually, you've been much better since what's-her-name left town."
What's-her-name was Jessica, which Esperanza knew very well. Esperanza did not care much for the love of Myron's life. A casual observer might offer up jealousy as the culprit, but that'd be way off base. True, Esperanza was extraordinarily beautiful. Sure, there'd been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always been prudent enough to douse the flames before any real damage was done. There was also the fact that Esperanza liked a bit of diversity when it came to beaus – diversity that went well beyond tall or short, fat or thin, white or black. Right now, for example, Esperanza was dating a photographer. The photographer's name was Lucy. Lucy. As in a female, for those having trouble catching the drift.
No, the reason for her strong dislike was far simpler: Esperanza had been there when Jessica left the first time. She had seen it all firsthand. And Esperanza held grudges.
Myron returned to his original question. "So what did you tell them was wrong with me?"
"I was vague," she said. "You hear voices. You suffer from paranoid schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, something like that."
"How did you get an appointment so fast?"
"You're a very famous movie star."
"My name?"
"I didn't dare give one," Esperanza said. "You're that big."
Chapter 18
Dr. Julie Abramson's office was on the corner of Seventy-third Street and Central Park West. Ritzy address. One block north, overlooking the park, was the San Remo building. Dustin Hoffman and Diane Keaton lived there. Madonna had tried to move in, but the board decided she was not San Remo material. Win lived a block south, in the Dakota, where John Lennon had lived and literally died. Whenever you entered the Dakota's courtyard you crossed over the spot where Lennon had been gunned down. Myron had walked it a hundred times since the shooting, but he still felt the need to be silent when he did.
There was an ornate, wrought-iron gate on Dr. Abramson's door. Protective or decorative? Myron couldn't decide, but he saw some irony in a psychiatric office being guarded by a "wrought" iron gate.