Win never wanted to experience that again.
People, Win knew, made snap judgments based on appearances. No great insight there. And yes, there were the obvious prejudices against African-Americans or Jews or what-have-you. But Win was more concerned with the more garden-variety prejudices. If, for example, you see an overweight woman eating a doughnut, you are repulsed. You make snap judgments—she is undisciplined, lazy, sloppy, probably stupid, definitely lacking in self-esteem.
In a strange way, the same thing happened when people saw Win.
He had a choice. Stay behind the hedges, safe in the cocoon of privilege, live a protected albeit fearful life. Or do something about it.
He chose the latter.
Money makes everything easier. Oddly enough, Win always considered Myron to be a real-life Batman, but the Caped Crusader had started off as Win’s childhood role model. Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth. He used it to train himself to be a crime fighter. Win did something similar with his money. He hired former squad leaders from both Delta Force and the Green Berets to train him as if he were one of their most elite. Win also found the world’s top instructors on firearms, on knives, on hand-to-hand combat. He secured the services of martial artists from a wide variety of countries and either flew them to the family estate in Bryn Mawr or traveled overseas. He spent a full year with a reclusive martial-arts master in Korea, high in the hills in the southern part of the country. He learned about pain, how to inflict it without leaving marks. He learned about intimidation tactics. He learned about electronics, about locks, about the underworld, about security procedures.
It all came together. Win was a sponge when it came to picking up new techniques. He worked hard, ridiculously hard, training at least five hours every day. He had naturally fast hands, the hunger, the desire, the work ethic, the coldness—all the ingredients.
The fear went away.
Once he was sufficiently trained, Win started hanging out in the most drug-infested, crime-ridden corners of the city. He would go there wearing blue blazers with crests or pink polos or loafers without socks. The bad people would see him and lick their lips. There would be hate in their eyes. They would attack. And Win would answer.
There may be better fighters out there, Win assumed, especially now that he was growing older.
But not many.
His cell phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Articulate.”
“We got a wiretap on a guy named Dominick Rochester.”
The call was from an old colleague Win hadn’t heard from in three years. No matter. This was how it worked in their world. The wiretap did not surprise him. Rochester was supposedly connected. “Go on.”
“Someone leaked to him your friend Bolitar’s connection to his daughter.”
Win waited.
“Rochester has a more secure phone. We’re not sure. But we think he called the Twins.”
There was silence.
“Do you know them?”
“Just by reputation,” Win said.
“Take what you heard and put it on steroids. One of them has some kind of weird condition. He doesn’t feel pain, but man, does he like to inflict it. The other one, his name is Jeb—and yeah, I know how this is going to sound—he likes to bite.”
“Do tell,” Win said.
“We once found some guy the Twins worked over with just Jeb’s teeth. The body . . . I mean, it was a red puddle. He bit out the guy’s eyes, Win. I still don’t sleep when I think about it.”
“Maybe you should buy a night-light.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. They scare me,” the voice on the phone said, “like you scare me.”
Win knew that in this man’s world, that was about as big a compliment as he could pay the Twins. “And you believe that Rochester called them right after he heard about Myron Bolitar?”
“Within minutes, yeah.”
“Thank you for the information.
“Win, listen to what I’m saying. They’re absolutely nuts. We know about this one guy, a big old mafia don from Kansas City. He hired them. Anyway, it didn’t work out. The mafia don pisses them off, I don’t know how. So the don, no fool, he tries to buy them off, make peace. Nothing doing. The Twins get a hold of his four-year-old grandson. Four years old, Win. They send him back in chewed-up pieces. Then—get this—after they’re done, then they accept the don’s money. The same amount of money he’d already offered. They didn’t ask for a penny more. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Win hung up. There was no need to reply. He understood perfectly.
CHAPTER 22
Myron had his cell phone in hand, preparing to call Ali for a much-needed hello, when he noticed a car parked in front of his house. Myron pocketed the cell and pulled into his driveway.
A husky man sat on the curb in front of Myron’s yard. He stood when Myron approached. “Myron Bolitar?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Myron nodded. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“You know who I am?”
“I know who you are.”
It was Dominick Rochester. Myron recognized him from the news reports on TV. He had a ferocious face with pores big enough to get your foot caught in. The smell of cheap musk came off him in squiggly line waves. Myron held his breath. He wondered how Rochester had learned about Myron’s connection to the case, but no matter. This would work well, Myron figured. He had wanted to talk to Rochester anyway.
Myron was not sure when the feeling came upon him. It could have been when the other car made the turn. It could have been something in Dominick Rochester’s walk. Myron could see right away that Rochester was the real deal—a bad guy you did not want to mess with, as opposed to that poser, Big Jake Wolf.
But again it was a bit like basketball. There were moments when Myron was so in the game, where he would be rising on his jump shot, his fingers finding the exact grooves on the ball, his hand cocked in front of his forehead, his eyes locked on the rim, only the rim, when time would slow down, as if he could stop in midair and readjust and see the rest of the court.
Something was wrong here.
Myron stopped at the door, keys in hand. He turned and looked back at Rochester. Rochester had those black eyes, the kind that view everything with an equal lack of emotion—a human being, a dog, a file cabinet, a mountain range. They never changed no matter what they saw, no matter what horror or delight played out in front of them.
People, Win knew, made snap judgments based on appearances. No great insight there. And yes, there were the obvious prejudices against African-Americans or Jews or what-have-you. But Win was more concerned with the more garden-variety prejudices. If, for example, you see an overweight woman eating a doughnut, you are repulsed. You make snap judgments—she is undisciplined, lazy, sloppy, probably stupid, definitely lacking in self-esteem.
In a strange way, the same thing happened when people saw Win.
He had a choice. Stay behind the hedges, safe in the cocoon of privilege, live a protected albeit fearful life. Or do something about it.
He chose the latter.
Money makes everything easier. Oddly enough, Win always considered Myron to be a real-life Batman, but the Caped Crusader had started off as Win’s childhood role model. Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth. He used it to train himself to be a crime fighter. Win did something similar with his money. He hired former squad leaders from both Delta Force and the Green Berets to train him as if he were one of their most elite. Win also found the world’s top instructors on firearms, on knives, on hand-to-hand combat. He secured the services of martial artists from a wide variety of countries and either flew them to the family estate in Bryn Mawr or traveled overseas. He spent a full year with a reclusive martial-arts master in Korea, high in the hills in the southern part of the country. He learned about pain, how to inflict it without leaving marks. He learned about intimidation tactics. He learned about electronics, about locks, about the underworld, about security procedures.
It all came together. Win was a sponge when it came to picking up new techniques. He worked hard, ridiculously hard, training at least five hours every day. He had naturally fast hands, the hunger, the desire, the work ethic, the coldness—all the ingredients.
The fear went away.
Once he was sufficiently trained, Win started hanging out in the most drug-infested, crime-ridden corners of the city. He would go there wearing blue blazers with crests or pink polos or loafers without socks. The bad people would see him and lick their lips. There would be hate in their eyes. They would attack. And Win would answer.
There may be better fighters out there, Win assumed, especially now that he was growing older.
But not many.
His cell phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Articulate.”
“We got a wiretap on a guy named Dominick Rochester.”
The call was from an old colleague Win hadn’t heard from in three years. No matter. This was how it worked in their world. The wiretap did not surprise him. Rochester was supposedly connected. “Go on.”
“Someone leaked to him your friend Bolitar’s connection to his daughter.”
Win waited.
“Rochester has a more secure phone. We’re not sure. But we think he called the Twins.”
There was silence.
“Do you know them?”
“Just by reputation,” Win said.
“Take what you heard and put it on steroids. One of them has some kind of weird condition. He doesn’t feel pain, but man, does he like to inflict it. The other one, his name is Jeb—and yeah, I know how this is going to sound—he likes to bite.”
“Do tell,” Win said.
“We once found some guy the Twins worked over with just Jeb’s teeth. The body . . . I mean, it was a red puddle. He bit out the guy’s eyes, Win. I still don’t sleep when I think about it.”
“Maybe you should buy a night-light.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. They scare me,” the voice on the phone said, “like you scare me.”
Win knew that in this man’s world, that was about as big a compliment as he could pay the Twins. “And you believe that Rochester called them right after he heard about Myron Bolitar?”
“Within minutes, yeah.”
“Thank you for the information.
“Win, listen to what I’m saying. They’re absolutely nuts. We know about this one guy, a big old mafia don from Kansas City. He hired them. Anyway, it didn’t work out. The mafia don pisses them off, I don’t know how. So the don, no fool, he tries to buy them off, make peace. Nothing doing. The Twins get a hold of his four-year-old grandson. Four years old, Win. They send him back in chewed-up pieces. Then—get this—after they’re done, then they accept the don’s money. The same amount of money he’d already offered. They didn’t ask for a penny more. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Win hung up. There was no need to reply. He understood perfectly.
CHAPTER 22
Myron had his cell phone in hand, preparing to call Ali for a much-needed hello, when he noticed a car parked in front of his house. Myron pocketed the cell and pulled into his driveway.
A husky man sat on the curb in front of Myron’s yard. He stood when Myron approached. “Myron Bolitar?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Myron nodded. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“You know who I am?”
“I know who you are.”
It was Dominick Rochester. Myron recognized him from the news reports on TV. He had a ferocious face with pores big enough to get your foot caught in. The smell of cheap musk came off him in squiggly line waves. Myron held his breath. He wondered how Rochester had learned about Myron’s connection to the case, but no matter. This would work well, Myron figured. He had wanted to talk to Rochester anyway.
Myron was not sure when the feeling came upon him. It could have been when the other car made the turn. It could have been something in Dominick Rochester’s walk. Myron could see right away that Rochester was the real deal—a bad guy you did not want to mess with, as opposed to that poser, Big Jake Wolf.
But again it was a bit like basketball. There were moments when Myron was so in the game, where he would be rising on his jump shot, his fingers finding the exact grooves on the ball, his hand cocked in front of his forehead, his eyes locked on the rim, only the rim, when time would slow down, as if he could stop in midair and readjust and see the rest of the court.
Something was wrong here.
Myron stopped at the door, keys in hand. He turned and looked back at Rochester. Rochester had those black eyes, the kind that view everything with an equal lack of emotion—a human being, a dog, a file cabinet, a mountain range. They never changed no matter what they saw, no matter what horror or delight played out in front of them.
