He called Win. “We need to find this guy.”
“We’re spread a little thin right now.”
“Who can we get to watch Van Dyne’s house?”
Win said, “How about Zorra?”
Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels—literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.
“I’m not sure she’ll blend into the suburbs, are you?”
“Zorra knows how to blend.”
“Fine, whatever you think.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Chang’s Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger.”
“I’ll call Zorra.”
Business was brisk at Chang’s. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.
Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, “Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?”
Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.
“I’m sorry I made those phone calls,” he said.
It was like he was a kid who’d broken a neighbor’s window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. “I want to talk to him alone.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Then I go to the police.”
First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang—Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he’d start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.
But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. “I will be right inside.”
“Thank you.”
The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn’t.
“You didn’t just call me,” Myron said. “You called Aimee Biel, right?”
He nodded, still not looking up.
“Why?”
“I was calling her back.”
Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid’s head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. “Look at me, Roger.”
He slowly raised his eyes.
“Are you telling me that Aimee Biel called you first?”
“I saw her in school. She said we needed to talk.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “She just said we needed to talk.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t we what?”
“Talk. Right then and there.”
“We were in the hall. There were people all around. She wanted to talk privately.”
“I see. So you called her?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“It was weird. She wanted to know about my grades and extracurricular activities. It was more like she wanted to confirm them. I mean, we know each other a little. And everyone talks. So she already knew most of that stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“We only talked for, like, two minutes. She said she had to go. But she also said she was sorry.”
“About?”
“About my not making Duke.” He put his head down again.
“You got a lot of anger stored up, Roger.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Tell me then.”
“Forget it.”
“I wish I could, but see, you called me.”
Roger Chang studied the alley as though he’d never really seen it before. His nose twitched, and his face twisted in disgust. Finally he found Myron’s face. “I’m always the Asian geek, you know? I was born in this country. I’m not an immigrant. When I talk, half the time people expect me to sound like an old Charlie Chan movie. And in this town, if you don’t have money or you’re not good at sports . . . I see my mother sacrifice. I see how hard she works. And I think to myself: If I can just stick it out. If I can just work hard in high school, not worry about all that stuff I’m missing, just work hard, make the sacrifice, it will all be okay. I’ll be able to move out of here. I don’t know why I focused on Duke. But I did. It was, like, my one goal. Once I made it, I could relax a little. I’d be away from this store. . . .”
His voice drifted off.
“I wish you’d have said something to me,” Myron said.
“I’m not good at asking for help.”
Myron wanted to tell him he should do more than that, maybe get some therapy to deal with the anger, but he hadn’t walked a mile in the kid’s shoes. He didn’t have the time either.
“Are you going to report me?” Roger asked.
“No.” Then: “You could still get in on wait-list.”
“They’ve already cleared it.”
“Oh,” Myron said. “Look, I know it seems like life and death now, but what school you make isn’t that important. I bet you’ll love Rutgers.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He didn’t sound convinced. Part of Myron was angry, but another part—a growing part—remembered Maxine’s accusation. There was a chance, a decent chance, that by helping Aimee, Myron had destroyed this young man’s dream. He couldn’t just walk away from that, could he?
“If you want to transfer after a year,” Myron said, “I’ll write a letter.”
He waited for Roger to react. He didn’t. So Myron left him alone in the stench of the alley behind his mother’s dry cleaning store.
CHAPTER 39
Myron was on his way to meet up with Joan Rochester—she was afraid to be home when her daughter called in case her husband was around—when his mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the name ALI WILDER pop up.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry about before,” Ali said.
“Don’t apologize.”
“No, I sounded hysterical. I know what you were trying to do with the girls.”
“I didn’t want to get Erin involved.”
“It’s all right. Maybe I should be concerned or whatever, but I just really want to see you.”
“Me too.”
“Come over?”
“I can’t right now.”
“We’re spread a little thin right now.”
“Who can we get to watch Van Dyne’s house?”
Win said, “How about Zorra?”
Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels—literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.
“I’m not sure she’ll blend into the suburbs, are you?”
“Zorra knows how to blend.”
“Fine, whatever you think.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Chang’s Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger.”
“I’ll call Zorra.”
Business was brisk at Chang’s. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.
Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, “Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?”
Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.
“I’m sorry I made those phone calls,” he said.
It was like he was a kid who’d broken a neighbor’s window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. “I want to talk to him alone.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Then I go to the police.”
First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang—Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he’d start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.
But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. “I will be right inside.”
“Thank you.”
The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn’t.
“You didn’t just call me,” Myron said. “You called Aimee Biel, right?”
He nodded, still not looking up.
“Why?”
“I was calling her back.”
Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid’s head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. “Look at me, Roger.”
He slowly raised his eyes.
“Are you telling me that Aimee Biel called you first?”
“I saw her in school. She said we needed to talk.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “She just said we needed to talk.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t we what?”
“Talk. Right then and there.”
“We were in the hall. There were people all around. She wanted to talk privately.”
“I see. So you called her?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“It was weird. She wanted to know about my grades and extracurricular activities. It was more like she wanted to confirm them. I mean, we know each other a little. And everyone talks. So she already knew most of that stuff.”
“That’s it?”
“We only talked for, like, two minutes. She said she had to go. But she also said she was sorry.”
“About?”
“About my not making Duke.” He put his head down again.
“You got a lot of anger stored up, Roger.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Tell me then.”
“Forget it.”
“I wish I could, but see, you called me.”
Roger Chang studied the alley as though he’d never really seen it before. His nose twitched, and his face twisted in disgust. Finally he found Myron’s face. “I’m always the Asian geek, you know? I was born in this country. I’m not an immigrant. When I talk, half the time people expect me to sound like an old Charlie Chan movie. And in this town, if you don’t have money or you’re not good at sports . . . I see my mother sacrifice. I see how hard she works. And I think to myself: If I can just stick it out. If I can just work hard in high school, not worry about all that stuff I’m missing, just work hard, make the sacrifice, it will all be okay. I’ll be able to move out of here. I don’t know why I focused on Duke. But I did. It was, like, my one goal. Once I made it, I could relax a little. I’d be away from this store. . . .”
His voice drifted off.
“I wish you’d have said something to me,” Myron said.
“I’m not good at asking for help.”
Myron wanted to tell him he should do more than that, maybe get some therapy to deal with the anger, but he hadn’t walked a mile in the kid’s shoes. He didn’t have the time either.
“Are you going to report me?” Roger asked.
“No.” Then: “You could still get in on wait-list.”
“They’ve already cleared it.”
“Oh,” Myron said. “Look, I know it seems like life and death now, but what school you make isn’t that important. I bet you’ll love Rutgers.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He didn’t sound convinced. Part of Myron was angry, but another part—a growing part—remembered Maxine’s accusation. There was a chance, a decent chance, that by helping Aimee, Myron had destroyed this young man’s dream. He couldn’t just walk away from that, could he?
“If you want to transfer after a year,” Myron said, “I’ll write a letter.”
He waited for Roger to react. He didn’t. So Myron left him alone in the stench of the alley behind his mother’s dry cleaning store.
CHAPTER 39
Myron was on his way to meet up with Joan Rochester—she was afraid to be home when her daughter called in case her husband was around—when his mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the name ALI WILDER pop up.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry about before,” Ali said.
“Don’t apologize.”
“No, I sounded hysterical. I know what you were trying to do with the girls.”
“I didn’t want to get Erin involved.”
“It’s all right. Maybe I should be concerned or whatever, but I just really want to see you.”
“Me too.”
“Come over?”
“I can’t right now.”
