Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

David Carradine’s T’ai Chi Workout. Wonderful.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You’re late,” she said.

“I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

“You said you’d be home by seven. It’s past nine.”

“Your point being?”

“I was worried. I saw on the news about that girl getting shot at the Open. How did I know you weren’t killed?”

Myron held back a sigh. “Did the news say I was killed? Did the news say anything about unidentified bodies? Or did they say only one girl named Valerie Simpson was shot?”

“They could have been lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“Happens all the time. The police lie to the reporters until they notify the next of kin.”

“Weren’t you home all day?”

“What, the police have my phone number?”

“But they could …” He stopped. What was the point? “Next time a murder takes place within a three-mile radius of my being I’ll be sure to call home.”

“Good.” She snapped off the tape. Then she placed a pillow in a corner and stood on her head.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I’m standing on my head. It’s good exercise. Makes the blood flow. Makes me look my best. You know who used to stand on his head every day?”

Myron shook his head.

“David Ben-Gurion.”

“And everyone knows what a looker he was,” Myron said.

“Smart-mouth.”

Mom was a major paradox. On the one hand she’d been a practicing attorney for the past twenty years. She was the first generation born in the United States, her parents coming over from Minsk or somewhere like that, living lives that as near as Myron could tell paralleled Fiddler on the Roof. She became a sixties radical, an original bra burner, and experimented with various mind-altering drugs (hence naming a child Myron). She did not cook. Ever. She had no idea where the vacuum cleaner was stored. She did not know what an iron looked like, never mind whether or not she owned one. In the courtroom her crosses were legendary. She breakfasted on star witnesses. She was bright, frighteningly shrewd, and very modern.

On the other hand, all of this went out the window when it came to her son. She completely decompensated. She became her mother. And her mother before her. Only worse. Murphy Brown became Grandma Tzietl.

“Your father is picking up some Chinese food. I ordered enough for you.”

“I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“Spareribs, Myron. Sesame chicken.” Meaningful pause. “Shrimp with lobster sauce.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Shrimp with lobster sauce,” she repeated.

“Mom …”

“From Fong’s Dragon House.”

“No thanks.”

“What? You love Fong’s shrimp in lobster sauce. You’re crazy about it.”

“Maybe a little then.” Easier.

She was still standing on her head. She began to whistle. Very casuallike. “So,” she said in that strain-to-sound-aloof voice, “how’s Jessica?”

“Butt out, Mom.”

“Who’s butting? I just asked a simple question.”

“And I gave you a simple answer. Butt out.”

“Fine. But don’t go crying to me if something goes wrong.”

Like that happens.

“Why has she been away so long anyway? What’s she doing over there?”

“Thanks for butting out.”

“I’m concerned,” Mom said. “I just hope she’s not up to something.”

“Butt out.”

“Is that all you can say? Butt out? What are you, a parrot? Where is she anyway?”

Myron opened his mouth, wrestled it closed, and stormed into the basement. His dwelling. He was almost thirty-two years old and still lived at home. He hadn’t been here much the past few months. Most nights he’d spent at Jessica’s place in the city. They had even talked about moving in together but decided to take it slow. Very slow. Easier said than done. The heart don’t know from slow. At least Myron’s didn’t. As usual Mom had drilled into exposed nerve endings. Jessica was in Europe right now, but Myron had no idea where. He hadn’t heard from her in two weeks. He missed her. And he was wondering too.

The doorbell rang.

“Your father,” Mom called down. “Probably forgot his key again. I swear that man is getting senile.”

A few seconds later he heard the basement door open. His mother’s feet appeared. Then the rest of her. She beckoned him forward.

“What?”

“There’s a young lady here to see you,” she said. Then in a whisper, “She’s black.”

“Gasp!” Myron put his hand to his heart. “Hope the neighbors don’t call the police.”

“That’s not what I meant, smart-mouth, and you know it. We have black families in the neighborhood now. The Wilsons. Lovely people. They live on Coventry Drive. In the old Dechtman home.”

“I know, Mom.”

“I was just describing her for you. Like I might say she has blond hair. Or a nice smile. Or a harelip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or limp. Or she’s tall. Or short. Or fat. Or—”

“I think I get the drift, Mom. Did you ask her name?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to pry.”

Right.

Myron headed up the stairs. It was Wanda, Duane’s girlfriend. For some reason Myron was not surprised. She smiled nervously, waved quickly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” she said.

“No problem. Please come in.”

They headed down to the basement. Myron had subdivided it into two rooms. One, a small sitting room he basically never used. Hence it was presentable and clean. The inside room, his living quarters, resembled a frat house after a major kegger.

Wanda’s eyes darted around again, like they had when Dimonte had been at the apartment. “You live down here?”

“Only since I was sixteen.”

“I think that’s sweet. Living with your parents.”

From upstairs: “If only you knew.”

“Close the door, Mom.”

Slam.

“Please,” Myron said. “Sit down.”

Wanda looked unsure but finally settled into a chair. She was wringing her hands nonstop. “I feel a little foolish,” she said.