The Final Detail
Page 94
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old friend."
"What old friend?"
"Myron, you're not listening. I don't know. I haven't been up there in almost ten years. But we lived there for eight months. Maybe he made a friend. Maybe he went up there to fish or take a vacation or get away from it all. I don't know."
Myron gripped the phone. "You're lying to me, Bonnie."
Silence.
"Please," he said. "I'm just trying to help Esperanza."
"Let me ask you something, Myron."
"What?"
"You keep digging and digging, right? I asked you not to. Esperanza asked you not to. Hester Crimstein asked you not to. But you keep digging."
"Is there a question in there?"
"It's coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more guilty or less?"
Myron hesitated. But it didn't matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.
"I'll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex," Win said.
"What?"
"Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard."
Myron almost smiled. "What is Time in New England,' Alex?"
"Correct answer." Win shook his head. "Sometimes when our minds are that in tune-"
"Yeah," Myron said. "It's scary."
"Shall we?"
Myron thought about it. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Call Terese first."
Myron nodded, started dialing. "You know how to get there?"
"Yes."
"It'll probably take three hours."
Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. "Try two."
Chapter 33
Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town-the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada-there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.On the other hand, whining about the changes progress imposes upon us and longing for the good?G days make for easy pickings. Harder to answer the question of why, if these changes are so bad, do every place and everybody so quickly and warmly welcome them.
Wilston had the classic New England Christmas card-conservative facade, but it was a college town, the college in question being Wilston College, and was thus liberal- liberal in the way only a college town can be, liberal in the way only the young can be, liberal in the way only the isolated and protected knd rose-tinted can be. But that was okay. In fact, that was how it should be.
But even Wilston was changing. Yes, the old signs of liberalism were there: the tofu sweet shop, the migrant-friendly coffeehouse, the lesbian bookstore, the shop with the black lightbulbs and the pot paraphernalia, the clothing store that sold only ponchos. But the franchises were sneaking in quietly, slowly eating away at the gray stone corners: Dunkin' Donuts, Angelo's Sub Shop, Baskin-Robbins, Seattle Coffee.
Myron started softly singing "Time in New England."
Win looked at him. "You realize, of course, that I'm well armed."
"Hey, you're the one who got the song stuck in my head."
They sped through town-with Win driving, you only sped-and arrived at the Hamlet Motel, a quasi-dump on Route 9 hovering on the town's edge. A sign advertised FREE HBO! and the ice machine was so large you could see it from your average space station. Myron checked his watch. Less than two hours to get here. Win parked the Jag.
"I don't get it," Myron said. "Why would Clu stay here?"
"Free HBO?"
"More likely because he could pay in cash. That's why we didn't see anything about this on his credit cards. But why wouldn't he want anyone to know he was here?"
"Such good questions," Win said. "Perhaps you should go inside and see if you can find some of the answers."
They both stepped out of the car. Win noticed a restaurant next door. "I'll try there," he said. "You take the desk clerk."
Myron nodded. The desk clerk, definitely a college kid on break, sat behind the
"What old friend?"
"Myron, you're not listening. I don't know. I haven't been up there in almost ten years. But we lived there for eight months. Maybe he made a friend. Maybe he went up there to fish or take a vacation or get away from it all. I don't know."
Myron gripped the phone. "You're lying to me, Bonnie."
Silence.
"Please," he said. "I'm just trying to help Esperanza."
"Let me ask you something, Myron."
"What?"
"You keep digging and digging, right? I asked you not to. Esperanza asked you not to. Hester Crimstein asked you not to. But you keep digging."
"Is there a question in there?"
"It's coming now: Has all your digging helped? Has all your digging made Esperanza look more guilty or less?"
Myron hesitated. But it didn't matter. Bonnie hung up before he had the chance to answer. Myron put the phone back in his lap. He looked at Win.
"I'll take Awful Songs for two hundred, Alex," Win said.
"What?"
"Answer: Barry Manilow and Eastern Standard."
Myron almost smiled. "What is Time in New England,' Alex?"
"Correct answer." Win shook his head. "Sometimes when our minds are that in tune-"
"Yeah," Myron said. "It's scary."
"Shall we?"
Myron thought about it. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Call Terese first."
Myron nodded, started dialing. "You know how to get there?"
"Yes."
"It'll probably take three hours."
Win hit the accelerator. No easy trick in midtown Manhattan. "Try two."
Chapter 33
Wilston is in western Massachusetts, about an hour shy of the New Hampshire and Vermont borders. You could still see remnants of the old days, the oft artistically rendered New England town with V-shaped brick walks, colonial clapboard homes, the historical society bronze signs welded onto the front of every other building, the white-steepled chapel in the center of the town-the whole scene screaming for the lush leaves of autumn or a major snowstorm. But like everywhere else in the US of A, the superstore boom was playing havoc with the historical. The roads between these postcard villages had widened over the years, as though guilty of gluttony, feeding off the warehouse-size stores that now lined them. The stores sucked out the character and the quaintness and left in their wake a universal blandness that plagued the byroads and highways of America. Maine to Minnesota, North Carolina to Nevada-there was little texture and individuality left. It was about Home Depot and Office Max and the price clubs.On the other hand, whining about the changes progress imposes upon us and longing for the good?G days make for easy pickings. Harder to answer the question of why, if these changes are so bad, do every place and everybody so quickly and warmly welcome them.
Wilston had the classic New England Christmas card-conservative facade, but it was a college town, the college in question being Wilston College, and was thus liberal- liberal in the way only a college town can be, liberal in the way only the young can be, liberal in the way only the isolated and protected knd rose-tinted can be. But that was okay. In fact, that was how it should be.
But even Wilston was changing. Yes, the old signs of liberalism were there: the tofu sweet shop, the migrant-friendly coffeehouse, the lesbian bookstore, the shop with the black lightbulbs and the pot paraphernalia, the clothing store that sold only ponchos. But the franchises were sneaking in quietly, slowly eating away at the gray stone corners: Dunkin' Donuts, Angelo's Sub Shop, Baskin-Robbins, Seattle Coffee.
Myron started softly singing "Time in New England."
Win looked at him. "You realize, of course, that I'm well armed."
"Hey, you're the one who got the song stuck in my head."
They sped through town-with Win driving, you only sped-and arrived at the Hamlet Motel, a quasi-dump on Route 9 hovering on the town's edge. A sign advertised FREE HBO! and the ice machine was so large you could see it from your average space station. Myron checked his watch. Less than two hours to get here. Win parked the Jag.
"I don't get it," Myron said. "Why would Clu stay here?"
"Free HBO?"
"More likely because he could pay in cash. That's why we didn't see anything about this on his credit cards. But why wouldn't he want anyone to know he was here?"
"Such good questions," Win said. "Perhaps you should go inside and see if you can find some of the answers."
They both stepped out of the car. Win noticed a restaurant next door. "I'll try there," he said. "You take the desk clerk."
Myron nodded. The desk clerk, definitely a college kid on break, sat behind the
