Win did not bother responding. “Good night, Myron.”
Myron’s mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. “One question, if I may.”
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
“Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you?” Win asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“Then who?”
“Your uncle Bucky.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “And who suggested us to Bucky?”
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
“Win?”
“Go to sleep, Myron.”
11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn’t even bother trying.
He sat in Win’s chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win’s potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A.M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open. Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion.
“Good night,” Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach. He had just begun to slide into true REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open.
“You’re still asleep?” a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking; he wasn’t used to her doing it where he slept.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“Six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations. With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“Amtrak red-eye,” she said.
Myron was still groggy. “Then what did you do? Catch a cab?”
“What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab.”
“Just asking.”
“The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he’s not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood.”
Myron shrugged. “Probably thought you were a domestic,” he said.
“In these shoes?” She lifted her foot so he could see.
“Very nice.” Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. “Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?”
“I got some information on the old caddie.”
“Lloyd Rennart?”
Esperanza nodded. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.” Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a beginning. “You could have just called.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh?”
“The circumstances surrounding his death are”—she stopped, bit her lower lip—“fuzzy.”
Myron sat up a bit. “Fuzzy?”
“Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago.”
“How?”
“That’s the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain range in Peru. He woke up one morning, wrote a brief note, then he jumped off a cliff of some kind.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I haven’t been able to get too many details yet. The Philadelphia Daily News just had a brief story on it.” There was a hint of a smile. “But according to the article, the body had not yet been located.”
Myron was starting to wake up in a big hurry. “What?”
“Apparently Lloyd Rennart took the plunge in a remote crevasse with no access. They may have located the body by now, but I couldn’t find a follow-up article. None of the local papers carried an obituary.”
Myron shook his head. No body. The questions that sprang to mind were obvious: Could Lloyd Rennart still be alive? Did he fake his own death in order to plot out his revenge? Seemed a tad out there, but you never know. If he had, why would he have waited twenty-three years? True, the U.S. Open was back at Merion. True, that could make old wounds resurface. But still. “Weird,” he said. He looked up at her. “You could have told me all this on the phone. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“What the hell is the big deal?” Esperanza snapped. “I wanted to get out of the city for the weekend. I thought seeing the Open would be fun. You mind?”
“I was just asking.”
“You’re so nosy sometimes.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Forget I asked.”
“Forgotten,” she said. “You want to fill me in on what’s going on?”
He told her about the Crusty Nazi at the mall and about losing the black-clad perpetrator.
When he finished, Esperanza shook her head. “Jesus,” she said. “Without Win, you’re hopeless.”
Ms. Morale Booster.
“Speaking of Win,” Myron said, “don’t talk to him about the case.”
“Why?”
“He’s reacting badly.”
She watched him closely. “How badly?”
“He went night visiting.”
Silence.
“I thought he stopped doing that,” she said.
“I thought so too.”
“Are you sure?”
“There was a Chevy parked in the driveway,” Myron said. “He took it out of here last night and didn’t get back till three-thirty.”
Silence. Win stored a bunch of old, unregistered Chevys. Disposable cars, he called them. Completely untraceable.
Esperanza’s voice was soft. “You can’t have it both ways, Myron.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can’t ask Win to do it when it suits you, then get pissed off when he does it on his own.”
“I never ask him to play vigilante.”
“Yeah, you do. You involve him in violence. When it suits your needs, you unleash him. Like he’s a weapon of some kind.”
Myron’s mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. “One question, if I may.”
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
“Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you?” Win asked.
“No,” Myron said.
“Then who?”
“Your uncle Bucky.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “And who suggested us to Bucky?”
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
“Win?”
“Go to sleep, Myron.”
11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn’t even bother trying.
He sat in Win’s chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win’s potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A.M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open. Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion.
“Good night,” Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach. He had just begun to slide into true REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open.
“You’re still asleep?” a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking; he wasn’t used to her doing it where he slept.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“Six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations. With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“Amtrak red-eye,” she said.
Myron was still groggy. “Then what did you do? Catch a cab?”
“What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab.”
“Just asking.”
“The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he’s not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood.”
Myron shrugged. “Probably thought you were a domestic,” he said.
“In these shoes?” She lifted her foot so he could see.
“Very nice.” Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. “Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?”
“I got some information on the old caddie.”
“Lloyd Rennart?”
Esperanza nodded. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.” Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a beginning. “You could have just called.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh?”
“The circumstances surrounding his death are”—she stopped, bit her lower lip—“fuzzy.”
Myron sat up a bit. “Fuzzy?”
“Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago.”
“How?”
“That’s the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain range in Peru. He woke up one morning, wrote a brief note, then he jumped off a cliff of some kind.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I haven’t been able to get too many details yet. The Philadelphia Daily News just had a brief story on it.” There was a hint of a smile. “But according to the article, the body had not yet been located.”
Myron was starting to wake up in a big hurry. “What?”
“Apparently Lloyd Rennart took the plunge in a remote crevasse with no access. They may have located the body by now, but I couldn’t find a follow-up article. None of the local papers carried an obituary.”
Myron shook his head. No body. The questions that sprang to mind were obvious: Could Lloyd Rennart still be alive? Did he fake his own death in order to plot out his revenge? Seemed a tad out there, but you never know. If he had, why would he have waited twenty-three years? True, the U.S. Open was back at Merion. True, that could make old wounds resurface. But still. “Weird,” he said. He looked up at her. “You could have told me all this on the phone. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”
“What the hell is the big deal?” Esperanza snapped. “I wanted to get out of the city for the weekend. I thought seeing the Open would be fun. You mind?”
“I was just asking.”
“You’re so nosy sometimes.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Forget I asked.”
“Forgotten,” she said. “You want to fill me in on what’s going on?”
He told her about the Crusty Nazi at the mall and about losing the black-clad perpetrator.
When he finished, Esperanza shook her head. “Jesus,” she said. “Without Win, you’re hopeless.”
Ms. Morale Booster.
“Speaking of Win,” Myron said, “don’t talk to him about the case.”
“Why?”
“He’s reacting badly.”
She watched him closely. “How badly?”
“He went night visiting.”
Silence.
“I thought he stopped doing that,” she said.
“I thought so too.”
“Are you sure?”
“There was a Chevy parked in the driveway,” Myron said. “He took it out of here last night and didn’t get back till three-thirty.”
Silence. Win stored a bunch of old, unregistered Chevys. Disposable cars, he called them. Completely untraceable.
Esperanza’s voice was soft. “You can’t have it both ways, Myron.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You can’t ask Win to do it when it suits you, then get pissed off when he does it on his own.”
“I never ask him to play vigilante.”
“Yeah, you do. You involve him in violence. When it suits your needs, you unleash him. Like he’s a weapon of some kind.”
