She frowned. “His father.”
“What about him?”
“His name is Jake. Big Jake, everyone calls him. He’s bigger than you. And the wife is a flirt. Last year Big Jake got into a fight at one of Randy’s football games. Beat this poor guy senseless in front of his kids. He’s a total putz.”
“Total?”
“Total.”
“Whew.” Myron pantomimed wiping the sweat off his brow. “A partial putz, I mind. A total putz — that’s my bag.”
CHAPTER 20
Randy Wolf lived in the new Laurel Road section. The brand-new estates of brushed brick had more square footage than Kennedy Airport. There was a faux wrought-iron gate. The gate was open enough for Myron to walk through. The grounds were over-landscaped, the lawn so green it looked like someone had gone overboard with spray paint. There were three SUVs parked in the driveway. Next to them, gleaming from a fresh waxing and seemingly perfect sun placement, sat a little red Corvette. Myron started humming the matching Prince tune. He couldn’t help it.
The familiar whack of a tennis ball drifted in from the backyard. Myron headed toward the sound. There were four lithe ladies playing tennis. They all wore ponytails and tight tennis whites. Myron was a big fan of women in tennis whites. One of the lithe ladies was about to serve when she noticed him. She had great legs, Myron observed. He checked again. Yep, great.
Ogling tan legs probably wasn’t a clue, but why chance it?
Myron waved and gave the woman serving his best smile. She returned it and signaled to the ladies to excuse her for a moment. She jogged toward him. Her dark ponytail bounced. She stopped very close to him. Her breathing was deep. Sweat made the tennis whites cling. It also made them a little see-through — again Myron was just being observant — but she didn’t seem to care.
“Something I can do for you?”
She had one hand on her hip.
“Hi, my name is Myron Bolitar.”
Commandment Four from the Bolitar Book on Smoothness: Wow the ladies with a dazzling first line.
“Your name,” she said. “It rings a bell.”
Her tongue moved around a lot when she talked.
“Are you Mrs. Wolf?”
“Call me Lorraine.”
Lorraine Wolf had that way of speaking where everything sounded like a double entendre.
“I’m looking for your son, Randy.”
“Wrong reply,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“You were supposed to say that I looked too young to be Randy’s mother.”
“Too obvious,” Myron said. “An intelligent woman like you would have seen right through that.”
“Nice recovery.”
“Thanks.”
The other ladies gathered by the net. They had towels draped around their necks and were drinking something green.
“Why are you looking for Randy?” she asked.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Well, yes, I figured that out. But maybe you could tell me what this is about?”
The back door opened with an audible bang. A large man — Myron was six-four, two-fifteen and this guy had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him — stepped out the door.
Big Jake Wolf, Myron deducted, was in da house.
His black hair was slicked back. He had a mean squint going.
“Wait, isn’t that Steven Seagal?” Myron asked, sotto voce.
Lorraine Wolf smothered a giggle.
Big Jake stomped over. He kept glaring at Myron. Myron waited a few seconds, then he winked and gave Big Jake the Stan Laurel, five-finger wave. Big Jake did not look pleased. He marched to Lorraine’s side, put his arm around her, tugged her tight against his hip.
“Hi, honey,” he said, his eyes still on Myron.
“Well, hi, back!” Myron said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Then why were you looking at me?”
Big Jake frowned and pulled his wife closer. Lorraine cringed a little, but she let him. Myron had seen this act before. Raging insecurity, he suspected. Jake released his glare long enough to kiss his wife’s cheek before retightening his grip. Then he started glaring again, holding his wife firmly against his side.
Myron wondered if Big Jake was going to pee on her to mark his territory.
“Go back to your game, honey. I’ll handle this.”
“We were just finishing anyway.”
“Then why don’t you ladies go inside and have a drink, hmm?”
He let her go. She looked relieved. The ladies walked down the path. Myron again checked their legs. Just in case. The women smiled at him.
“Hey, what are you looking for?” Big Jake snapped.
“Potential clues,” Myron said.
“What?”
Myron turned back to him. “Never mind.”
“So what do you want here?”
“My name is Myron Bolitar.”
“So?”
“Good comeback.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“You some kind of comedian?”
“I prefer the term ‘comic actor.’ Comedians are always typecast.”
“What the…?” Big Jake stopped, got his bearings. “You always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Stop by uninvited?”
“It’s the only way people will have me,” Myron said.
Big Jake squinted a little more. He wore tight jeans and a silk shirt that had one too many buttons open. There was a gold chain enmeshed in chest hair. “Stayin’ Alive” wasn’t playing in the background, but it should have been.
“Wild stab in the dark here,” Myron said. “The red Corvette. It’s yours, right?”
He glared some more. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak to your son, Randy.”
“Why?”
“I’m here on behalf of the Biel family.”
That made him blink. “So?”
“Are you aware that their daughter is missing?”
“So?”
“That ‘so’ line. It never gets old, Jake, really. Aimee Biel is missing and I’d like to ask your son about it.”
“He has nothing to do with that. He was home Saturday night.”
“Alone?”
“No. I was with him.”
“How about Lorraine? Was she there too? Or was she out for the evening?”
Big Jake didn’t like Myron using his wife’s first name. “None of your business.”
“Be that as it may, I’d still like to talk to Randy.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want Randy mixed up in this.”
“In what?”
“Hey,” he pointed at Myron, “I don’t like your attitude.”
“You don’t?” Myron gave him the wide game-show-host smile and waited. Big Jake looked confused. “Is this better? Rosier, am I right?”
“Get out.”
“I would say, ‘Who’s going to make me,’ but really, that would be sooo expected.”
Big Jake smiled and stepped right up to Myron. “You wanna know who’s going to make you?”
“Wait, hold on, let me check the script.” Myron mimed flipping pages. “Okay here it is. I say, ‘No, who?’ Then you say, ‘I am.’ ”
“Got that straight.”
“Jake?”
“What?”
“Are any of your children home?” Myron asked.
“Why? What’s that gotta do with anything?”
“Lorraine, well, she already knows you’re a little man,” Myron said, not moving an inch, “but I’d hate to beat your ass in front of your kids.”
Jake’s breathing turned into a snort. He didn’t back up, but he was having trouble holding the eye contact. “Ah, you ain’t worth it.”
Myron rolled his eyes, but he bit back the that’s-the-next-line-in-the-script rejoinder. Maturity.
“Anyway, my son broke up with that slut.”
“By slut, you mean…?”
“Aimee. He dumped her.”