He leaned forward. “Come back to MB Reps.”
She still said nothing.
“I’ll even add your initials into the title.”
Esperanza arched an eyebrow. “MBED Reps?”
“Sure.”
“That’s a terrible name,” she said. “Then again, so is MB Reps.”
“Fair.”
“I’m doing good work here.”
“I know.”
“Sadie is amazing.”
“I know that too. So do both. Half time here with Sadie, half time back with me.”
“Do good,” she said, “and bad.”
“Whatever floats your boat.”
She shook her head.
“What?”
“I love you,” she said. “You know that.”
“I love you too.”
“You’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.”
“Same.”
“With Win. I get it.”
“What’s your point?”
“You don’t like change, Myron.”
Now it was Myron’s turn to stay quiet.
“Where’s Terese?” Esperanza asked.
That was Myron’s wife.
“She’s in Atlanta.”
“Where she’s working.”
“Yes.”
“While you’re in New York.”
“She’s coming to visit.”
Silence.
“It’ll be fine,” Myron said.
“Will it?”
“I love Terese,” Myron said.
“I know you do,” Esperanza said, but there was a tinge of sadness there. “Let’s find Greg, okay? Then we can talk more about the rest of this.”
An hour later, Myron got a call from Esperanza. “I got something on Bo’s online buddy Jord,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m coming up to show you.”
Two minutes later, Myron heard Big Cyndi squeal, a sound that makes children cringe and your cat hide under the couch. But it was, Myron knew, a squeal of delight. Esperanza, he deduced, had arrived. Myron stepped into the foyer as Big Cyndi wrapped her tremendous arms around Esperanza. It would be grossly inadequate to call what Big Cyndi gave those she loved merely a “hug.” Big Cyndi’s embraces were all-encompassing, all-consuming, like your entire body was being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.
Myron watched and smiled. Years ago, Big Cyndi and Esperanza had been a hugely popular pro wrestling tag-team champion for the famed league known as FLOW, which stood for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling (they had originally been called the Beautiful Ladies of Wrestling, but a TV network had an issue with the acronym). Their monikers were Big Chief Mama (Big Cyndi) and Little Pocahontas, the Indian Princess (Esperanza). Both women were Latina, not Native American, but no one seemed to care. Yeah, it was a different era. The size difference between the partners — Big Cyndi was six foot six and flirting with three hundred pounds while Esperanza was maybe five two and sported a minuscule suede bikini with fringes — made for a comical and dramatic appearance. Pro wrestling is never about the wrestling. It’s about the plot and the characters. It’s a morality play, almost biblical in its storytelling. Little Pocahontas would always be skillfully and honestly winning a match when their bad-guy opponents did something illegal and sleezy — the dreaded foreign object, throwing sand in her eyes, whatever — and the crowd would scream and cry and boo and worry because Little Pocahontas would suddenly be in extreme distress, getting mercilessly beaten, until Big Chief Mama jumped back in the ring, erupted, threw the bad guys off her, and then, again using creativity and skill, the two would come back in the match for the miracle win.
Somehow this was massively entertaining.
Eventually Esperanza wanted out of the wrestling game. She came to work for MB SportsReps as Myron’s assistant and, as mentioned earlier, worked her way up to partner. When they needed a third in the office to take over the reception desk, they hired Big Cyndi.
Still holding Esperanza, Big Cyndi started sobbing. She wore a tremendous amount of garish makeup, and when she cried like this, her makeup ran everywhere, so that her face resembled a box of crayons left in the blazing sun on a concrete surface. That was Big Cyndi. She lived life loud and embraced it all. She drew stares, no way around it, but Myron remembered years ago, when he still didn’t quite get her, Big Cyndi explained: “I’d rather see shock on their faces than pity, Mr. Bolitar. And I’d rather they see brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared.”
“It’s okay,” Esperanza said soothingly, stroking Big Cyndi’s back. “You just saw me this morning, remember?”
“But that was down there,” Big Cyndi replied. She said the word “there” as though it were something cursed. “But now you’re here, with us, back where you belong...”
It was true, Myron realized. This was the first time Esperanza had been up to see their new digs. She had probably stayed away on purpose.
“It’s nice to see you here,” Myron added.
Esperanza made a face. Then she said, “Bo’s friend Jord? His real name is Jordan Kravat.”
“So you found him.”
“So to speak. He’s dead.”
“Whoa.”
“Murdered.”
“Double whoa.” Myron tried to take that in. “When?”
“Guess.”
“Five years ago.”
“You’re good.”
“Before or after Bo vanished?”
“Right around the same time.”
“So Bo’s friend Jordan is murdered—”
“I think Bo and Jordan were more than friends.”
“Oh. Okay. Either way, Jordan gets murdered, and Bo vanishes.”
“And Greg decides to go off the grid,” Esperanza added.
“Obvious question: Was Bo a suspect?”
“They convicted someone else. A local organized crime boss went down for it.”
Myron considered that. “Still. The timing. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“One more wrinkle.”
“I’m listening.”
“You remember that Bo worked out of a gay sports bar?”
“Man United,” Myron said.
“Right. The bar was owned by Donna Kravat. That’s Jordan Kravat’s mother.”
Myron felt that thrum when pieces are starting to land on the table. He had no idea how they fit. None whatsoever yet. But pieces were landing and they mattered and that was a start. Shake the box. Get the pieces out and onto the table. Then you can begin to put them together.
“We got an address on the mom?”
“We do. She’s still in Vegas.”
“I should probably fly out then.”
“I saw Win on my way up.”
“Did you mention Vegas?”
“I did. He’s already got the jet gassed up and ready to go.”
Chapter Five
Two hours later, Myron and Win sat on Win’s private jet as it taxied down the runway at Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey. The flight attendant, a woman named Mee, gave Win a cognac and Myron a can of a chocolate concoction called Yoo-hoo. Myron had spent most of his life drinking Yoo-hoo, but over the past few years, his desire for a soda that tasted like chocolate milk had deserted him. Still, Mee always brought him one and he drank it because he didn’t have the heart to tell her or himself that maybe he’d outgrown his once-favorite beverage.
“I just read an article,” Win said, “that a popular new drink mixes Yoo-hoo with absinthe.”
“Gross,” Myron said.
“I don’t know. You know what they say. Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”
Myron looked at Win. Win looked at Myron.
Win finally said, “I have the file, but fill me in.”
Myron did. Win listened in silence. When he finished, Win said, “Do you remember Huey Lewis and the News?”
The non sequitur shouldn’t have caught Myron unawares, but somehow it did. “Of course. You hate them.”