"Nice wheels, Frank," Myron said.
Frank wore his customary garb – a velour sweat suit a couple of sizes too small. This one was green with yellow trim. The front zipper was down midway, like those guys in the seventies wore at discos. His gut was enormous enough to be mistaken for a multiple gestation. He was bald. He stared at Myron for several seconds before he spoke.
"You enjoy crawling up my ass crack, Bolitar?"
Myron blinked. "Gee, Frank, there's an appetizing thought."
"You're a crazy fuck, you know that? Why you always trying to piss me off? Huh?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who sent goons to rape his girlfriend," Myron said.
Frank pointed his finger at Myron's chest. "And what – you didn't have that coming? You didn't ask for that?"
Myron remained still. Stupid to raise Jessica with this man. Impossible as it seemed, you couldn't let it get personal. You had to separate, to stop thinking of Frank as the man who tried to do grievous harm to the love of your life. To think such thoughts would be at best counterproductive. At worst, suicide.
"I warned you," Frank continued. "I even sent Aaron so you'd know I was serious. You know what Aaron costs per day?"
"Not much anymore," Myron said.
"Ho, ho, I'm dying of laughter," Frank countered, but he wasn't laughing. "I tried to be reasonable with you. I let you have that Crane kid. And how do you thank me? By fucking around with my business."
"I'm trying to find a killer," Myron said.
"And I'm supposed to give a rat's ass? You want to go play fucking Batman, fine, do it without costing me any money. Once you cost me money, you cross the line. Pavel meant money to me."
"Pavel also slept with underage girls," Myron said.
Frank held up his hands. "Hey, what a guy does in the privacy of his own bedroom, that don't concern me."
"You're so progressive, Frank. You voting Democratic now?"
"Look, ass-wipe, you want to hear I knew about Pavel? Fine, I knew. I knew Pavel fucked kiddies. So what? I work with guys who make Pavel Menansi looked like Mother Teresa. I can't go picking and choosing in my line of work. So I ask myself one simple question: Is the guy making me money? If the answer is yes, then that's it. That's my rule. Pavel was making me money. End of story."
Myron said nothing. He was waiting for Ache to get to the point, which he sincerely hoped was not a bullet in the skull.
Frank took out a packet of chewing gum. Dentyne. He popped one in his mouth. "But I ain't here to get in no philosophy talk with you. Fact is, Pavel is dead. He's not making me money anymore, so my rule don't apply no more. You see?"
"Yes."
"I'm a simple businessman," Frank went on. "Pavel can't make me money no more. That means you and me don't have a beef no more. So you get to live. Wasting you would no longer be profitable to me. You understand?"
Myron nodded. "Are we having a tender moment, Frank?"
Frank leaned forward. His eyes were small and black. "No, ass-wipe, we're not. Next time I ain't gonna fuck around. Hiding your girlfriend won't help you. I'll find her. Or I'll waste someone else instead. Your mommy, your daddy, your friends – hell, even your fucking barber."
"His name is Pierre. And he prefers the term 'beauty technician.'"
Frank looked him square in the eye. "You fucking joking with me?"
"You just threatened my parents," Myron said. "What's the proper way to respond?"
Frank nodded slowly and sat back. "It's over. For now." He pressed a button and the partition slid down.
Billy said, "Yes, Mr. Ache?"
"Call a towing service for Bolitar's car."
"Yes, Mr. Ache."
Frank turned back to Myron. "Get the fuck out of my car."
"No hug first?"
"Out."
"Can I ask you one quick question?"
"What?"
"Did you have Valerie killed to protect Pavel?"
Frank grinned with bad, ferretlike teeth. "Get out," he said. "Or I'll use your nuts for snack foods."
"Right, thanks. Nice chatting with you, Frank, stay in touch." He opened the door and got out.
Frank slid across the seat and leaned his head through the open door. "You tell Win we talked, okay?"
"Why?"
"None of your business why. You just tell Win. Got it?"
"Got it," Myron said.
Frank closed the door. The limo drove away.
Chapter 42
Triple A got there pretty quickly. Myron reached his office at six-thirty. Ned wasn't there yet. Esperanza handed him his messages. He went into his office and returned calls.
Esperanza buzzed. "The bitch. Line three."
"Stop calling her that." He picked up the phone. "You're back at the loft?"
"Yes," Jessica said. "That didn't take long."
"I work fast," he said.
"And yet I never complain," she said.
"Ouch."
"So what happened?" she asked.
"Someone murdered Pavel Menansi. There's nothing for Ache to protect anymore."
"It's that simple?"
"It's business. Business with these guys is very simple."
"No profit, no kill."
"The cardinal rule," Myron said.
"Will you come over tonight?" she asked.
"Yes."
"But one rule of our own," she said.
"Oh?"
"No talking about Valerie Simpson or murder or any of this. We forget it all."
"What will we do instead?" Myron asked.
"Screw each other's brains out."
Myron said, "I guess I can live with that."
Esperanza leaned her head in and said, "He's heeeee-ere.
He nodded at Esperanza and said to Jessica, "I'll call you later."
Myron put the phone back in the cradle. He stood and waited. An evening alone with Jessica. Sounded perfect. It also sounded scary. Things were moving too fast. He had no control. Jess was back and things appeared to be better than ever. Myron wondered about that. Mostly he wondered if he could survive another crash like last time, if he could go through the pain again. He also wondered what he could do to protect himself, realized the answer was nothing, and wished he was better at putting up defenses.
Ned Tunwell practically leaped into his office, hand extended – like an enthusiastic late-show guest coming through a curtain. Myron half expected him to wave to the crowd. He pumped Myron's hand. "Hey, Myron!"
"Hi, Ned. Have a seat."
Ned's smile dropped at Myron's tone. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with Duane, is there?"
"No."
Still standing but his voice was panicky. "He's not hurt?"
"No, Duane is fine."
"Great." The smile was back. Tough to keep a good man down. "That match yesterday – he was fantastic. Fantastic, Myron. I tell you, the way he came back – it's all anyone's talking about. The exposure was awesome. Simply awesome. We couldn't have scripted it better. I practically wet myself."
"Uh-huh. Sit down, Ned."
"Sure." Ned sat. Myron hoped he wouldn't leave a stain on the seat. "Just a few hours away, Myron. The big day. The Saturday Semis. Big live crowd, huge TV audience. You think Duane's got a shot against Craig? Papers don't seem to think so."
Thomas Craig, the second seed and the game's premier serve-and-volley player, was currently playing his career-best tennis. "Yes," Myron said. "I think Duane's got a shot."
Ned's eyes were bright. "Wow. If he could somehow pull it off…" He stopped and just shook his head and grinned.
"Ned?"
He looked up. Wide-eyed. "Yes?"
"How well did you know Valerie Simpson?"
Ned hesitated. The eyes dulled a bit. "Me?"