At seventy thirty A.M., a mussed Mee came out in a robe and started making breakfast. She asked Myron if he wanted something. Myron politely declined.
At eight A.M., his phone rang. He checked the number and saw it was from Big Cyndi.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Good morning, Big Cyndi.”
“Your ponytailed drug dealer was at the club last night. And I tailed him.”
Myron frowned. “In the Batgirl costume?”
“It’s dark. I blend.”
That image came and thankfully fled.
“Did I tell you that Yvonne Craig herself helped me make it?”
“You know Yvonne Craig?”
“Oh, we’re old friends. You see, she told me that the material was one-way stretch. It’s sort of like a girdle fabric, not as thin as Lycra, but not as thick as neoprene. It was very hard to find.”
“I’m sure.”
“Did you know Yvonne starred as the superhot green chick on Star Trek?”
“Marta, the Orion slave girl,” Myron said, because he couldn’t help himself. He tried to get them back on track. “So where is our drug dealer now?”
“Teaching French at Thomas Jefferson Middle School in Ridgewood, New Jersey.”
12
The cemetery overlooked the schoolyard.
Who came up with that—placing a school full of kids, just budding into adolescence, directly across the street from a resting place for the dead? These children walk by this cemetery or look out on it literally every day. Did it bother them? Did it remind them of their own mortality, that in what would amount to infinity’s breath, they’d grow old and end up there too? Or, more likely, was the cemetery an abstract, something that had nothing to do with them, something so commonplace to them that they barely saw it anymore?
School, cemetery. Talk about life’s bookends.
Big Cyndi, still in the Batgirl costume, knelt by a gravestone, head lowered, shoulders hunched, so that from a distance, one might mistake her for a Volkswagen Beetle. When Myron approached, she looked out of the corner of her eye and whispered, “I’m blending,” and then started sobbing again.
“So where exactly is Ponytail?”
“Inside the school, room two-oh-seven.”
Myron looked toward the school. “A drug-dealing middle school French teacher?”
“It seems that way, Mr. Bolitar. Shame, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“His real name is Joel Fishman. He lives in Prospect Park, not far from here. He’s married and has two kids, a boy and a girl. He has taught French for more than twenty years. No real record. One DUI eight years ago. Ran for town council six years ago.”
“A citizen.”
“A citizen, yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
“How did you get all that information?”
“At first, I considered seducing him so that he’d take me back to his place. You know. Pillow talk. But I knew you’d be against my defiling myself like that.”
“I would never let you use your body for evil, Big Cyndi.”
“Only sin?”
Myron smiled. “Exactly.”
“So I followed him from the club. He took public transportation, the last train out at two seventeen A.M. He walked home to Seventy-four Beechmore Drive. I called the address in to Esperanza.”
From there, it would only take a few keystrokes to learn all. Welcome to the computer age, boys and girls. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Joel Fishman goes by the name Crush at the club.”
Myron shook his head.
“And the ponytail is a clip-on. Like a hair extension.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Mr. Bolitar, I’m not. I guess he wears it as a disguise.”
“So now what?”
“There’s no school today, only teacher conferences. Normally the security here is pretty tight, but I bet you could go in pretending you’re a parent.” She put her hand up, stifling a grin. “As Esperanza might note, in those jeans and blue blazer, you’d fit right in.”
Myron pointed to his feet. “In Ferragamo loafers?”
He headed across the street and waited until he saw a few parents heading for the door. Then he caught up to them and said hello like he knew them. They said hello back, pretending the same. Myron held the door, the wife walked through, the husband insisted Myron follow, Myron did with a hearty parental laugh.
And Big Cyndi thought she knew how to blend.
There was a signup sheet and a security guard behind the desk. Myron walked over, signed in as David Pepe, making the last name somewhat unreadable. He took a sticker name tag, wrote “David” on it, “Madison’s Dad” in smaller print beneath. Myron Bolitar, Man of a Thousand Faces, Master of Disguise.
The old saw is that public schools never change except that they seem smaller. The old saw held serve in here—linoleum floor, metal lockers, wooden classroom doors with metal-mesh glass windows. He arrived at room 207. There was a sign on the window so you couldn’t see in. The sign read, RÉUNION EN COURS. NE PAS DÉRANGER. Myron didn’t speak much French, but he knew that the second part was asking him to please wait.
He looked for a schedule sheet, something listing times and parents and whatever. Nothing. He wondered what to do here. There were two laminated class chairs in front of most of the doors. The chairs looked sturdy and practical and about as comfortable as a tweed thong. Myron debated waiting in one of them, but suppose the parents for the next meeting showed up?
He chose instead to wander the corridor and keep a close eye on the door. It was 10:20 A.M. Myron assumed that most meetings ended on the half hour or maybe quarter hour. This was a guess, but probably a good one. Fifteen minutes per meeting, maybe thirty minutes. At a minimum, it would be every ten minutes. Either way, the next meeting would be at ten thirty. If no one showed by, say, 10:28, Myron would meander back to the door and try to get in at ten thirty A.M.
Myron Bolitar, Master Planner.
But parents did show up by 10:25 A.M. and pretty much in a steady stream until noon. So that no one would notice him hanging around, Myron wandered downstairs when meetings would start, hid in the bathrooms, stayed in the stairwell. Serious boredom set in. Myron noticed that most of the fathers wore blue blazers and jeans. He had to update his wardrobe.
Finally at noon, there appeared to be an opening. Myron waited by the door and smiled as the parents exited. So far, Joel Fishman had not made an appearance. He waited in the room while one set of parents replaced another. The parents would knock on the door, and Fishman would call out, “Entrez.”
At eight A.M., his phone rang. He checked the number and saw it was from Big Cyndi.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Good morning, Big Cyndi.”
“Your ponytailed drug dealer was at the club last night. And I tailed him.”
Myron frowned. “In the Batgirl costume?”
“It’s dark. I blend.”
That image came and thankfully fled.
“Did I tell you that Yvonne Craig herself helped me make it?”
“You know Yvonne Craig?”
“Oh, we’re old friends. You see, she told me that the material was one-way stretch. It’s sort of like a girdle fabric, not as thin as Lycra, but not as thick as neoprene. It was very hard to find.”
“I’m sure.”
“Did you know Yvonne starred as the superhot green chick on Star Trek?”
“Marta, the Orion slave girl,” Myron said, because he couldn’t help himself. He tried to get them back on track. “So where is our drug dealer now?”
“Teaching French at Thomas Jefferson Middle School in Ridgewood, New Jersey.”
12
The cemetery overlooked the schoolyard.
Who came up with that—placing a school full of kids, just budding into adolescence, directly across the street from a resting place for the dead? These children walk by this cemetery or look out on it literally every day. Did it bother them? Did it remind them of their own mortality, that in what would amount to infinity’s breath, they’d grow old and end up there too? Or, more likely, was the cemetery an abstract, something that had nothing to do with them, something so commonplace to them that they barely saw it anymore?
School, cemetery. Talk about life’s bookends.
Big Cyndi, still in the Batgirl costume, knelt by a gravestone, head lowered, shoulders hunched, so that from a distance, one might mistake her for a Volkswagen Beetle. When Myron approached, she looked out of the corner of her eye and whispered, “I’m blending,” and then started sobbing again.
“So where exactly is Ponytail?”
“Inside the school, room two-oh-seven.”
Myron looked toward the school. “A drug-dealing middle school French teacher?”
“It seems that way, Mr. Bolitar. Shame, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“His real name is Joel Fishman. He lives in Prospect Park, not far from here. He’s married and has two kids, a boy and a girl. He has taught French for more than twenty years. No real record. One DUI eight years ago. Ran for town council six years ago.”
“A citizen.”
“A citizen, yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
“How did you get all that information?”
“At first, I considered seducing him so that he’d take me back to his place. You know. Pillow talk. But I knew you’d be against my defiling myself like that.”
“I would never let you use your body for evil, Big Cyndi.”
“Only sin?”
Myron smiled. “Exactly.”
“So I followed him from the club. He took public transportation, the last train out at two seventeen A.M. He walked home to Seventy-four Beechmore Drive. I called the address in to Esperanza.”
From there, it would only take a few keystrokes to learn all. Welcome to the computer age, boys and girls. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Joel Fishman goes by the name Crush at the club.”
Myron shook his head.
“And the ponytail is a clip-on. Like a hair extension.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Mr. Bolitar, I’m not. I guess he wears it as a disguise.”
“So now what?”
“There’s no school today, only teacher conferences. Normally the security here is pretty tight, but I bet you could go in pretending you’re a parent.” She put her hand up, stifling a grin. “As Esperanza might note, in those jeans and blue blazer, you’d fit right in.”
Myron pointed to his feet. “In Ferragamo loafers?”
He headed across the street and waited until he saw a few parents heading for the door. Then he caught up to them and said hello like he knew them. They said hello back, pretending the same. Myron held the door, the wife walked through, the husband insisted Myron follow, Myron did with a hearty parental laugh.
And Big Cyndi thought she knew how to blend.
There was a signup sheet and a security guard behind the desk. Myron walked over, signed in as David Pepe, making the last name somewhat unreadable. He took a sticker name tag, wrote “David” on it, “Madison’s Dad” in smaller print beneath. Myron Bolitar, Man of a Thousand Faces, Master of Disguise.
The old saw is that public schools never change except that they seem smaller. The old saw held serve in here—linoleum floor, metal lockers, wooden classroom doors with metal-mesh glass windows. He arrived at room 207. There was a sign on the window so you couldn’t see in. The sign read, RÉUNION EN COURS. NE PAS DÉRANGER. Myron didn’t speak much French, but he knew that the second part was asking him to please wait.
He looked for a schedule sheet, something listing times and parents and whatever. Nothing. He wondered what to do here. There were two laminated class chairs in front of most of the doors. The chairs looked sturdy and practical and about as comfortable as a tweed thong. Myron debated waiting in one of them, but suppose the parents for the next meeting showed up?
He chose instead to wander the corridor and keep a close eye on the door. It was 10:20 A.M. Myron assumed that most meetings ended on the half hour or maybe quarter hour. This was a guess, but probably a good one. Fifteen minutes per meeting, maybe thirty minutes. At a minimum, it would be every ten minutes. Either way, the next meeting would be at ten thirty. If no one showed by, say, 10:28, Myron would meander back to the door and try to get in at ten thirty A.M.
Myron Bolitar, Master Planner.
But parents did show up by 10:25 A.M. and pretty much in a steady stream until noon. So that no one would notice him hanging around, Myron wandered downstairs when meetings would start, hid in the bathrooms, stayed in the stairwell. Serious boredom set in. Myron noticed that most of the fathers wore blue blazers and jeans. He had to update his wardrobe.
Finally at noon, there appeared to be an opening. Myron waited by the door and smiled as the parents exited. So far, Joel Fishman had not made an appearance. He waited in the room while one set of parents replaced another. The parents would knock on the door, and Fishman would call out, “Entrez.”
