“Well hung,” she replied. “But you’ll do.”
“Nice talk.”
There was a lot of noise in the background. “What took you so long to pick up?” she asked.
“I was outside. Playing with Timmy and the kids.”
“Did I interrupt?”
“Nope. Game just ended.”
“Your mom sounded a tad frosty on the phone.”
“She gets that way,” Myron said.
“She used to like me.”
“She still does.”
“And Esperanza?”
“Esperanza never liked you.”
“Oh yeah,” she said.
“You still at the Grand Bretagne Hotel?” Myron asked. “Room 207?”
Pause. “Were you spying on me?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“Long story. I’ll tell you about it when you get home. Where are you?”
“Kennedy Airport. We just landed.”
His heart did a quick twirl. “You’re home?”
“I will be as soon as I find my luggage.” She hesitated. “Will you come right over?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wear something I can easily rip off your bod,” she said. “I’ll be waiting in the tub with all kinds of exotic oils from overseas.”
“Hussy.”
There was another hesitation. Then Jessica said, “I love you, you know. I get funny sometimes, but I do love you.”
“Never mind that. Tell me more about the oils.”
She laughed. “Hurry now.”
He put the receiver back in its cradle. He quickly stripped down and showered. A cold shower for the time being. He was whistling “Tonight” from West Side Story. He dried himself off and checked out his closet. Something in the easy-to-rip-off family. Found it. Snap buttons. He sprinkled on a little cologne. Myron rarely wore cologne, but Jess liked it. He heard the doorbell ring as he was bounding up the stairs.
“I’ll get it,” he called out.
Two uniformed police officers were at the door.
“Are you Myron Bolitar?” the taller one asked.
“Yes.”
“Detective Roland Dimonte sent us. We would appreciate it if you would come with us.”
“Where?”
“Queens Homicide.”
“What for?”
“Roger Quincy has been captured. He’s a suspect in the murder of Valerie Simpson.”
“So?”
The shorter cop spoke for the first time. “Mr. Bolitar, do you know Roger Quincy?”
“No.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Not to my knowledge. Lawyer talk for no.
The officers exchanged a glance.
“You better come with us,” the taller cop said.
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Quincy refuses to make a statement until he talks with you.”
23
Myron called Jessica’s place and left a message that he’d be late.
When they arrived at the precinct, Dimonte greeted Myron at the door. He was chewing a wad of gum or maybe it was spitting tobacco. And he was smiling a whole lot. He wore a different pair of boots this time. Still snakeskin, still hideous. But these were bright yellow with blue fringes.
“Glad you could make it,” Dimonte said.
Myron pointed to the boots. “Mug a cheerleader, Rolly?”
Dimonte laughed. This wasn’t good. “Come on, smart-guy,” he said with something approaching good nature. He led Myron down a corridor, threading between lots of bored-looking cops. Almost every one of them had a cup of coffee in their hands, leaning against a wall or refreshment machine, pleading some pathetic case to a nodding head.
“No press,” Myron noted.
“They haven’t been told of Quincy’s capture yet,” Dimonte said. “But it’ll leak soon enough.”
“You going to leak it?”
He shrugged happily. “The public has a right to know.”
“Sure.”
“What about you, Bolitar? You want to come clean?”
“Come clean on what?”
He shrugged again. Mr. Carefree. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t know him, Rolly.”
“Guess he got your name out of the yellow pages, huh?”
Myron stayed silent. No point in arguing now.
Dimonte opened a door into a small interrogation room. Two cops were already in there. Their neckties were loosened low enough to double as a belt. They’d been working Roger Quincy over pretty good, but Quincy did not seem too agitated. In most movies or TV shows a prisoner in a holding cell wear stripes or grays. But in reality they wear loud, fluorescent orange. Better to see them should they opt to flee.
Roger Quincy’s eyes lit up when he saw Myron. He was younger than Myron had expected—early thirties, though he probably could have passed for mid-twenties. He was thin, his face pretty in a feminine way. His fingers were graceful and elongated. He looked like a ballet dancer.
From his chair Roger Quincy waved and said, “Thanks for coming, Myron.”
Myron looked at Dimonte. Dimonte smiled back. “Don’t know him, huh?” He nodded to the other cops. “Come on, guys. Let’s leave the two buddies alone.”
A few quiet snickers later, the cops were gone. Myron sat in the chair across the table from Roger Quincy.
“Do I know you?” Myron asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” Quincy extended his hand. “I’m Roger Quincy.”
Quincy’s hand felt like a small bird. Myron gave it a quick shake. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, I’m a big sports fan,” he said. “I know I don’t look the type, but I’ve been one for years. I don’t follow basketball that closely anymore. Tennis is my favorite. Do you play at all?”
“Just a little.”
“I’m not very good, but I try.” His eyes lit up again. “Tennis is such a magnificent sport when you think about it. A competitive acrobatic dance really. A small ball hurls at you with un-earthly velocity and you have to move, set your feet, hit the ball back using a racket. Everything has to be calculated in a matter of moments: the speed of the oncoming ball, the spot it will land, the spin on it, the angle of the bounce, the distance between your hand and the center of the racket head, the stroke you will use, the placement of your return. It’s amazing when you think about it.”
Two words: Looney Tunes.
“Nice talk.”
There was a lot of noise in the background. “What took you so long to pick up?” she asked.
“I was outside. Playing with Timmy and the kids.”
“Did I interrupt?”
“Nope. Game just ended.”
“Your mom sounded a tad frosty on the phone.”
“She gets that way,” Myron said.
“She used to like me.”
“She still does.”
“And Esperanza?”
“Esperanza never liked you.”
“Oh yeah,” she said.
“You still at the Grand Bretagne Hotel?” Myron asked. “Room 207?”
Pause. “Were you spying on me?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“Long story. I’ll tell you about it when you get home. Where are you?”
“Kennedy Airport. We just landed.”
His heart did a quick twirl. “You’re home?”
“I will be as soon as I find my luggage.” She hesitated. “Will you come right over?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wear something I can easily rip off your bod,” she said. “I’ll be waiting in the tub with all kinds of exotic oils from overseas.”
“Hussy.”
There was another hesitation. Then Jessica said, “I love you, you know. I get funny sometimes, but I do love you.”
“Never mind that. Tell me more about the oils.”
She laughed. “Hurry now.”
He put the receiver back in its cradle. He quickly stripped down and showered. A cold shower for the time being. He was whistling “Tonight” from West Side Story. He dried himself off and checked out his closet. Something in the easy-to-rip-off family. Found it. Snap buttons. He sprinkled on a little cologne. Myron rarely wore cologne, but Jess liked it. He heard the doorbell ring as he was bounding up the stairs.
“I’ll get it,” he called out.
Two uniformed police officers were at the door.
“Are you Myron Bolitar?” the taller one asked.
“Yes.”
“Detective Roland Dimonte sent us. We would appreciate it if you would come with us.”
“Where?”
“Queens Homicide.”
“What for?”
“Roger Quincy has been captured. He’s a suspect in the murder of Valerie Simpson.”
“So?”
The shorter cop spoke for the first time. “Mr. Bolitar, do you know Roger Quincy?”
“No.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Not to my knowledge. Lawyer talk for no.
The officers exchanged a glance.
“You better come with us,” the taller cop said.
“Why?”
“Because Mr. Quincy refuses to make a statement until he talks with you.”
23
Myron called Jessica’s place and left a message that he’d be late.
When they arrived at the precinct, Dimonte greeted Myron at the door. He was chewing a wad of gum or maybe it was spitting tobacco. And he was smiling a whole lot. He wore a different pair of boots this time. Still snakeskin, still hideous. But these were bright yellow with blue fringes.
“Glad you could make it,” Dimonte said.
Myron pointed to the boots. “Mug a cheerleader, Rolly?”
Dimonte laughed. This wasn’t good. “Come on, smart-guy,” he said with something approaching good nature. He led Myron down a corridor, threading between lots of bored-looking cops. Almost every one of them had a cup of coffee in their hands, leaning against a wall or refreshment machine, pleading some pathetic case to a nodding head.
“No press,” Myron noted.
“They haven’t been told of Quincy’s capture yet,” Dimonte said. “But it’ll leak soon enough.”
“You going to leak it?”
He shrugged happily. “The public has a right to know.”
“Sure.”
“What about you, Bolitar? You want to come clean?”
“Come clean on what?”
He shrugged again. Mr. Carefree. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t know him, Rolly.”
“Guess he got your name out of the yellow pages, huh?”
Myron stayed silent. No point in arguing now.
Dimonte opened a door into a small interrogation room. Two cops were already in there. Their neckties were loosened low enough to double as a belt. They’d been working Roger Quincy over pretty good, but Quincy did not seem too agitated. In most movies or TV shows a prisoner in a holding cell wear stripes or grays. But in reality they wear loud, fluorescent orange. Better to see them should they opt to flee.
Roger Quincy’s eyes lit up when he saw Myron. He was younger than Myron had expected—early thirties, though he probably could have passed for mid-twenties. He was thin, his face pretty in a feminine way. His fingers were graceful and elongated. He looked like a ballet dancer.
From his chair Roger Quincy waved and said, “Thanks for coming, Myron.”
Myron looked at Dimonte. Dimonte smiled back. “Don’t know him, huh?” He nodded to the other cops. “Come on, guys. Let’s leave the two buddies alone.”
A few quiet snickers later, the cops were gone. Myron sat in the chair across the table from Roger Quincy.
“Do I know you?” Myron asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” Quincy extended his hand. “I’m Roger Quincy.”
Quincy’s hand felt like a small bird. Myron gave it a quick shake. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, I’m a big sports fan,” he said. “I know I don’t look the type, but I’ve been one for years. I don’t follow basketball that closely anymore. Tennis is my favorite. Do you play at all?”
“Just a little.”
“I’m not very good, but I try.” His eyes lit up again. “Tennis is such a magnificent sport when you think about it. A competitive acrobatic dance really. A small ball hurls at you with un-earthly velocity and you have to move, set your feet, hit the ball back using a racket. Everything has to be calculated in a matter of moments: the speed of the oncoming ball, the spot it will land, the spin on it, the angle of the bounce, the distance between your hand and the center of the racket head, the stroke you will use, the placement of your return. It’s amazing when you think about it.”
Two words: Looney Tunes.
