I flashed back to that photograph of the Nazi who looked like Dad’s paramedic. For a second, just a second, I debated telling Myron about it. But what would he do? He would think I was crazy. And even if he didn’t, well, did I want him involved in this? Did I trust him enough to share? Hadn’t even Shaved Head warned me not to?
Good questions.
I slid into the passenger seat. Myron drove a Ford Taurus. We spent the first two minutes sitting in uncomfortable silence. I’m okay with uncomfortable silence. Uncle Myron is not.
“Soooo,” Myron said, stretching the word out, “how was school today?”
Really? I thought, holding back the sigh. “It was okay.”
“I’m so glad you have Mrs. Friedman. She was my favorite teacher back in the day.”
“Yep.”
“She brings history to life, you know?”
“I know.”
I looked out the window.
“Basketball tryouts start Monday, right?”
Let it go, I thought. “Yep.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
As we drove past the Coddington Rehab Center, I could feel Myron tense up. He hit the accelerator a little bit harder, trying to be subtle. I got it. My mom was inside there. After her most recent relapse-and, yes, it was a bad one-I was told that I couldn’t visit her for at least another two weeks. I didn’t like it. I thought that maybe their “cure” was too cruel. But I would listen. Still I looked out the window and imagined what was going on up that little hill. My mother was going through withdrawal now. I pictured her alone in some dark room, doubled over in pain as the poison left her veins.
“She’ll be okay,” Myron said.
Like I was in the mood for platitudes. I changed subjects.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Just wait one more minute. You’ll see.”
He turned down a side road. Up ahead I could see a driveway with a dark ornate gate, like something you’d see in some scary old movie. Two stone lions guarded the entrance. Myron pulled up and stopped the car. He leaned out the window and waved to the guard. With a slow creak, the gates swung open.
“Are we still in Kasselton?” I asked.
“On the border, yes.”
I expected to see a house right away, but the driveway winded up a hill. I don’t know how long the ride was but I’d guess that it was nearly half a mile from the entrance until I saw the… well, “house” really wouldn’t do. Neither would “mansion.” It was more like a dark castle, a nightmare version of the one in Disney World. There were towers and spires, and it had an almost fortresslike feel.
“A famous mobster lived here for nearly fifty years,” Myron said. “When your dad and I were kids, well, there were all kinds of rumors about this place.”
“Like?”
Myron shrugged. “Just stories. Like with Bat Lady’s house. Probably nothing to them.”
He should only know.
“So who lives here now?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
We stopped the car. There was a moat around the castle. I don’t think I’d ever seen that before. A burly bodyguard nodded at us. Myron nodded back. We crossed the bridge. Myron knocked.
A few seconds later, a man in black tails and slicked-back hair greeted us at the door. “Good evening, Mr. Bolitar.”
He spoke with a thick British accent and looked like something you’d see on one of those boring British historical shows.
“Good evening, Niles.”
Was this guy a butler?
“Meet my nephew, Mickey.”
Niles smiled at me, but there wasn’t much warmth there. “Charmed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Charmed.”
“You may wait in the drawing room,” he said.
I don’t know where the term drawing room comes from, though I bet Spoon could tell me. There were no crayons or sketch pads or anything like that. The chairs were covered in red velvet. I stayed standing because the furniture looked old and like it might snap if we sat. I noticed Myron stood too. There was an antique globe and lots of dark woods.
Niles came in holding two cans of Yoo-hoo. Myron smiled happily. Yoo-hoo, for those who don’t know, is like a chocolate soda. Myron loves it. I think it tastes like dirt.
Myron took his and started to shake the can. Niles turned to me and I said, “No, thanks.”
Niles left us alone. I turned to Myron. He was gazing at his can of Yoo-hoo as if it were his new girlfriend. I cleared my throat.
“Well?” I said.
Myron gestured for us to sit. We did. Gingerly.
“So remember yesterday when my friend called?” Myron began.
“Yes.”
“He asked me to do him a favor and watch out for someone.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Watch out?”
“Yes.”
“Like you’re watching out for me?”
He swigged the Yoo-hoo. “Well, not quite.”
And then she walked into the room.
Like calling this place a “house” was inadequate, saying she “walked” also seemed far too tame. Accurate, yes. I mean, she didn’t do anything extraordinary. Not really. She didn’t glide into the drawing room or ride in on a white horse or anything like that. But she might as well have.
She made an entrance and she made it just by entering.
I didn’t say “wow” out loud, but I almost did.
We both quickly stood, not because we were being gentlemen, but because something about her entrance demanded it. There, in the flesh, was the talk of the town, the movie poster come to life, Angelica Wyatt.
“You must be Mickey,” she said.
Angelica Wyatt was, in a word, stunning. She stepped over to me and took my hand in hers. “Such a handsome young man.”
I looked over at Myron, who was smiling like a dope, and I realized that I probably was too. “Uh, thanks.”
Even with movie stars, I remain the essence of smooth.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said.
“Uh, same.”
I had to stop wowing her like this.
“Let’s sit,” Angelica Wyatt said.
We did. Myron and I took the couch. Angelica Wyatt took the chair across from us. She crossed her legs, making an event of it. Her smile was enough to curl a man’s toes.
“Thank you for loaning me your uncle,” she said. “It seems that there are some who think I may need extra protection during this shoot.”
I looked over at Myron. I didn’t quite understand. Myron was an entertainment agent. How was he supposed to protect a famous actress?
Maybe, like my dad, Myron had some hidden talents too?
Angelica Wyatt seemed to be studying my face. “Your resemblance to your uncle is obvious,” she said. “But I also see a lot of Kitty in there. You have her eyes.”
At the mention of my mother, I could feel a lump form in my throat. “You know my mother?”
“I did,” Angelica Wyatt explained. “Years ago. When she was a tennis prodigy and I, well, I guess you’d call me a young starlet.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“How is she?” Angelica Wyatt asked.
I glanced at Myron, but he turned away. So. He hadn’t told her. “She’s having a tough time right now,” I said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “When I heard about your father…” She swallowed hard. “They were so close. I’m just so sorry.”
“Did you know my father too?”
Now she was the one who glanced over at Myron. I could feel something weighing me down, crushing my heart in a hundred different ways.
“I did, yes.”
“Can you tell me how?”
Myron squirmed a little. Angelica Wyatt looked away, and a small smile toyed with her lips. My mother was only thirty-three. I figured that Angelica Wyatt was maybe a year or two older.
“It was a fun time,” Angelica Wyatt began. “Maybe too fun, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“We were young celebrities, I guess you’d say. Your mother was getting a lot of attention for her tennis-not to mention her good looks. I was starring as the college-age daughter in a TV series.” Her smile was wistful. “Your mother… she was so funny. She had this wonderful laugh, and this way about her. People were drawn to her. Everyone wanted to be near Kitty Hammer.”