“That’s right, Mr. Bolitar. Ma Gellan made up topographical and topological nude body maps of rock stars.”
“Ma Gellan,” Myron said, seeing it now. He nearly groaned. “Like Magellan?”
“You’re very quick, Mr. Bolitar.”
Everyone’s a wiseass.
“Her maps are wonderful—very detailed and precise. They show scars, piercings, abnormalities, body hair, even areas where they were colossally or inadequately equipped.”
“For real?”
“Of course. You know about Cynthia Plaster Caster? She used to make plaster casts of penises. By the way, it’s true about front men. They are always gifted. Oh, except for one from a very famous British band, I won’t say who, but he’s hung like a small kitten.”
“Is there a point here?”
“An important one, Mr. Bolitar. Ma Gellan made a topographical map of Gabriel Wire. The man was gorgeous—face and body. But he had no tattoos. Not a mark on him.”
Myron thought about that. “Evelyn Stackman’s picture was taken within weeks of his becoming a total recluse. Maybe he got it after she did her, uh, study of him.”
They arrived at the bus stop.
“That could be,” Big Cyndi said. As she rolled out, the car creaked and rolled like the opening credits of The Flintstones when Fred gets those ribs. “Would you like me to check with Ma?”
“I would. Are you sure I can’t just get you a taxi back?”
“I prefer taking the bus, Mr. Bolitar.”
And there she stalked away like a middle linebacker, still in the Batgirl costume. No one gave her a second glance. Welcome to the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut tristate area. Visitors often think that the locals are uncaring or cold or rude. The truth is, they are frighteningly polite. When you live in a congested area, you learn to give people their space, allow them their privacy. Here you can be surrounded by people and still enjoy being alone.
The Garden State Plaza Mall was two million-plus square feet of retail space located in the epicenter of retail malls, Paramus, New Jersey. The word “Paramus” comes from the Lenape Native Americans and means either “place of fertile soil” or “make room for another megastore.” Paramus boasts more retail shopping than any other zip code in the USA, and Myron’s guess was, it wasn’t even close.
He pulled into the lot and checked the time. Another hour until Kitty was supposed to arrive. His stomach grumbled. He checked out the eating options and felt his arteries harden: Chili’s, Johnny Rockets, Joe’s American Bar & Grill, Nathan’s Famous hot dogs, KFC, McDonald’s, Sbarro, and both Blimpie and Subway, which Myron actually thought were the same restaurant. He settled on California Pizza Kitchen. He ignored the cheery waiter’s attempt at selling him an appetizer and after looking over all the international pizza topping choices—Jamaican Jerk, Thai Chicken, Japanese eggplant—he went with plain ol’ pepperoni. The waiter looked disappointed.
Malls are malls. This was one was gi-normous, but really, what makes most malls stand out is the depressing sameness within. Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, JCPenney, Nordstrom, Macy’s, Brookstone, AMC Theatres, you get the idea. There were strange super-specific specialty stores, like the one that only sold candles or, winner of most moronically highbrow name of all, The Art of Shaving—how did that place stay in business? What Myron noticed now were the crappy kiosk-type stores in the middle of the corridor. There were the Perfume Palace and Piercing Pagoda. There were at least four that sold flying remote-controlled toys with some bozo intentionally flying the helicopter in your way. Yes, four. And yet have you ever seen a child using one of those in real life?
As Myron made his way to the merry-go-round, he spotted the most odious, dishonest, snake oil-like mall booth of all—the bogus “talent/model scouts,” who basically stopped everyone they could with wide-eyed come-ons like, “Wow, you have the look we’re searching for! Have you ever thought of modeling?” Myron stood and watched the commission-seeking con artists—mostly attractive women in their early twenties—work the crowd, trying not so much to find a certain look as, Myron assumed, a lobotomy scar so as to locate a person naïve enough to be “accepted” into their “scouting program” and buy a four-hundred-dollar “photography portfolio” so they could start posing for major catalogues and making TV commercials immediately.
Right. Does that TV commercial come with a Nigerian bank account?
Myron was not sure what was more depressing—the fact that these young dream scammers didn’t mind exploiting people’s desire for fame, or that their victims were so needy that they fell for it?
Enough. Myron knew that this was his way of stalling. Kitty would be here in fifteen minutes. He debated spending the time in Spencer’s Gifts, his and Brad’s favorite store growing up in Livingston, New Jersey, what with the beer jokes, explicit shot glasses, safe sexual innuendo, and weird blue-light posters in the back. He thought again about the last time he saw Brad and Kitty. He thought about what he had done. He thought about the confused, wounded look in Brad’s eyes. He thought about the way the blood trickled between Kitty’s fingers.
He shook it off and moved to one side, out of view so that she wouldn’t see him. Myron debated getting a newspaper to hide his face, but nothing would stick out in a mall more than someone actually reading.
Fifteen minutes later, as Myron watched the merry-go-round from behind a mannequin at Foot Locker, Kitty arrived.
15
Win’s private jet landed on the only runway at Fox Hollow Airport. A black limousine waited on the tarmac. Win chastely kissed his stewardess Mee and headed down the plane steps.
The limo dropped him off at the United States Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, home of the “worst of the worst” among federal prisoners. A guard greeted Win and led him through the maximum-security prison to G Block or, as it is more commonly known, “Mafia Row.” John Gotti had served time here. So had Al Capone.
Win moved into the facility’s visiting room.
“Please have a seat,” the guard said.
Win obliged.
“Here are the rules,” the guard said. “No shaking hands. No touching. No physical contact of any kind.”
“How about French-kissing?” Win asked.
The guard frowned, but that was about it. Win had managed to get this appointment fast. That meant, the guard had obviously concluded, that this was a man with serious juice. What Lewisburg calls Phase 1 and 2 prisoners were allowed only video visitations. Phase 3 prisoners were permitted noncontact visitors. Only Phase 4—and it was unclear how you became Phase 4—were permitted what were called “contact visits” with family. Frank Ache, the former mafioso leader from Manhattan, was granted Phase 3 for the purpose of Win’s visit. That was fine with Win. He had no interest in making physical contact with the man.
“Ma Gellan,” Myron said, seeing it now. He nearly groaned. “Like Magellan?”
“You’re very quick, Mr. Bolitar.”
Everyone’s a wiseass.
“Her maps are wonderful—very detailed and precise. They show scars, piercings, abnormalities, body hair, even areas where they were colossally or inadequately equipped.”
“For real?”
“Of course. You know about Cynthia Plaster Caster? She used to make plaster casts of penises. By the way, it’s true about front men. They are always gifted. Oh, except for one from a very famous British band, I won’t say who, but he’s hung like a small kitten.”
“Is there a point here?”
“An important one, Mr. Bolitar. Ma Gellan made a topographical map of Gabriel Wire. The man was gorgeous—face and body. But he had no tattoos. Not a mark on him.”
Myron thought about that. “Evelyn Stackman’s picture was taken within weeks of his becoming a total recluse. Maybe he got it after she did her, uh, study of him.”
They arrived at the bus stop.
“That could be,” Big Cyndi said. As she rolled out, the car creaked and rolled like the opening credits of The Flintstones when Fred gets those ribs. “Would you like me to check with Ma?”
“I would. Are you sure I can’t just get you a taxi back?”
“I prefer taking the bus, Mr. Bolitar.”
And there she stalked away like a middle linebacker, still in the Batgirl costume. No one gave her a second glance. Welcome to the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut tristate area. Visitors often think that the locals are uncaring or cold or rude. The truth is, they are frighteningly polite. When you live in a congested area, you learn to give people their space, allow them their privacy. Here you can be surrounded by people and still enjoy being alone.
The Garden State Plaza Mall was two million-plus square feet of retail space located in the epicenter of retail malls, Paramus, New Jersey. The word “Paramus” comes from the Lenape Native Americans and means either “place of fertile soil” or “make room for another megastore.” Paramus boasts more retail shopping than any other zip code in the USA, and Myron’s guess was, it wasn’t even close.
He pulled into the lot and checked the time. Another hour until Kitty was supposed to arrive. His stomach grumbled. He checked out the eating options and felt his arteries harden: Chili’s, Johnny Rockets, Joe’s American Bar & Grill, Nathan’s Famous hot dogs, KFC, McDonald’s, Sbarro, and both Blimpie and Subway, which Myron actually thought were the same restaurant. He settled on California Pizza Kitchen. He ignored the cheery waiter’s attempt at selling him an appetizer and after looking over all the international pizza topping choices—Jamaican Jerk, Thai Chicken, Japanese eggplant—he went with plain ol’ pepperoni. The waiter looked disappointed.
Malls are malls. This was one was gi-normous, but really, what makes most malls stand out is the depressing sameness within. Gap, Old Navy, Banana Republic, JCPenney, Nordstrom, Macy’s, Brookstone, AMC Theatres, you get the idea. There were strange super-specific specialty stores, like the one that only sold candles or, winner of most moronically highbrow name of all, The Art of Shaving—how did that place stay in business? What Myron noticed now were the crappy kiosk-type stores in the middle of the corridor. There were the Perfume Palace and Piercing Pagoda. There were at least four that sold flying remote-controlled toys with some bozo intentionally flying the helicopter in your way. Yes, four. And yet have you ever seen a child using one of those in real life?
As Myron made his way to the merry-go-round, he spotted the most odious, dishonest, snake oil-like mall booth of all—the bogus “talent/model scouts,” who basically stopped everyone they could with wide-eyed come-ons like, “Wow, you have the look we’re searching for! Have you ever thought of modeling?” Myron stood and watched the commission-seeking con artists—mostly attractive women in their early twenties—work the crowd, trying not so much to find a certain look as, Myron assumed, a lobotomy scar so as to locate a person naïve enough to be “accepted” into their “scouting program” and buy a four-hundred-dollar “photography portfolio” so they could start posing for major catalogues and making TV commercials immediately.
Right. Does that TV commercial come with a Nigerian bank account?
Myron was not sure what was more depressing—the fact that these young dream scammers didn’t mind exploiting people’s desire for fame, or that their victims were so needy that they fell for it?
Enough. Myron knew that this was his way of stalling. Kitty would be here in fifteen minutes. He debated spending the time in Spencer’s Gifts, his and Brad’s favorite store growing up in Livingston, New Jersey, what with the beer jokes, explicit shot glasses, safe sexual innuendo, and weird blue-light posters in the back. He thought again about the last time he saw Brad and Kitty. He thought about what he had done. He thought about the confused, wounded look in Brad’s eyes. He thought about the way the blood trickled between Kitty’s fingers.
He shook it off and moved to one side, out of view so that she wouldn’t see him. Myron debated getting a newspaper to hide his face, but nothing would stick out in a mall more than someone actually reading.
Fifteen minutes later, as Myron watched the merry-go-round from behind a mannequin at Foot Locker, Kitty arrived.
15
Win’s private jet landed on the only runway at Fox Hollow Airport. A black limousine waited on the tarmac. Win chastely kissed his stewardess Mee and headed down the plane steps.
The limo dropped him off at the United States Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, home of the “worst of the worst” among federal prisoners. A guard greeted Win and led him through the maximum-security prison to G Block or, as it is more commonly known, “Mafia Row.” John Gotti had served time here. So had Al Capone.
Win moved into the facility’s visiting room.
“Please have a seat,” the guard said.
Win obliged.
“Here are the rules,” the guard said. “No shaking hands. No touching. No physical contact of any kind.”
“How about French-kissing?” Win asked.
The guard frowned, but that was about it. Win had managed to get this appointment fast. That meant, the guard had obviously concluded, that this was a man with serious juice. What Lewisburg calls Phase 1 and 2 prisoners were allowed only video visitations. Phase 3 prisoners were permitted noncontact visitors. Only Phase 4—and it was unclear how you became Phase 4—were permitted what were called “contact visits” with family. Frank Ache, the former mafioso leader from Manhattan, was granted Phase 3 for the purpose of Win’s visit. That was fine with Win. He had no interest in making physical contact with the man.
