Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“Bunny burner?”

“You seen Fatal Attraction?”

Myron nodded. “Oh. Bunny burner. Right.”

“So like I said, Valerie Simpson is crazy. Her elevator don’t stop at every floor. But now she’s also pissed off. So she calls up Duane just like it says in her little diary and threatens to go to the press. Duane is scared. Like he was yesterday when I came by. So who does he call? You. That’s when you hatch your little scheme.”

Myron nodded. “That’ll hold up in court.”

“What? Greed isn’t a good motive?”

“I might as well confess right here.”

“Fine, smart-guy. You play it that way.”

Krinsky returned. He shook his head. No Yoo-Hoo.

“You want to tell me why Quincy called you first?” Dimonte continued.

“Nope.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you’ve hurt my feelings.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Bolitar. I’ll throw your ass into a holding cell with twenty psychos and tell them you’re a child molester.” He smiled. “He’ll like that, won’t he, Krinsky?”

“Yeah,” Krinsky said, mirroring Dimonte’s smile.

Myron nodded. “Right. Okay, now I say, what do you mean? Then you say, a tasty morsel like you will be popular in the slammer. Then I say, please don’t. Then you say, don’t bend over to pick up the soap. Then you both give me a cop snicker.”

“What the fuck you talking about?”

“Don’t waste my time, Rolly.”

“You think I won’t throw your ass in jail?”

Myron stood. “I know you won’t. If you thought you could I’d be handcuffed by now.”

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Arrest me or get out of my way. I got places to go, people to see.”

“I know you’re dirty, Bolitar. That whacko didn’t ask for you by accident. He thought you could save him. That’s why you’ve been playing cop with us. Pretending to investigate on your own. You just wanted to stay close, find out what we knew.”

“You got it all figured out, Rolly.”

“We’ll grill him and grill him and grill him until he gives you up.”

“No, you won’t. As his attorney I am forbidding any interrogation of my client.”

“You can’t represent him. Ever heard of conflict of interest?”

“Until I find him someone else I’m still his attorney of record.”

Myron opened the door and stepped into the corridor. He was surprised to see Esperanza. So were the cops. Every one of them up and down the corridor stared at her hungrily. Probably just being careful, Myron mused, afraid maybe Esperanza had a concealed weapon in her tight jeans. Yeah, that was probably it.

“Win called,” she said. “He’s looking for you.”

“What’s up?”

“He followed Duane. There’s something he thinks you should see.”

25

Esperanza and Myron shared a yellow cab to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street between Seventh and Eighth. The cab smelled like a Turkish whorehouse, which was an improvement over most.

“Win will be seated in a red chair near the house phones,” she told him when they stopped. “It’s to the right of the concierge’s desk. He’ll be reading a newspaper. If he’s not reading a newspaper, the coast isn’t clear. Ignore him and walk out. He’ll meet you at the Billiards Club.”

“Win said that?”

“Yes.”

“Even that part about the coast not being clear?”

“Yes.”

Myron shook his head. “You want to come?”

“Can’t. I still have studying to do.”

“Thanks for finding me.”

She nodded.

Win was seated where advertised. He was reading the Wall Street Journal so the coast was clear. Oooo. Win looked exactly like himself, except a black wig covered the blond locks. Dr. Disguise. Myron sat next to him and whispered, “The white rabbit turns yellow when the black dog urinates on him.”

Win continued to read. “You said to contact you if Duane did anything unusual.”

“Yep.”

“He arrived here about two hours ago. He took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on the door to room 322. A woman answered. They embraced. He entered. The door closed.”

“That’s not good,” Myron said.

Win turned the page. Bored.

“Do you know who the woman is?” Myron asked.

He shook his head. “Black. Five-seven, five-eight. Slim. I took the liberty of booking room 323. The peephole has a view of Duane’s door.”

Myron thought of Jessica waiting for him. In a warm tub. With those exotic oils.

Damn.

“I’ll stay if you want,” Win said.

“No. I’ll handle this.”

“Fine.” Win stood. “I’ll see you at the match tomorrow, if our boy isn’t too tired to play.”

Myron took the stairs to the third floor. He peered out into the corridor. No one. With key in hand he hurried down to room 323 and went inside. Win, as usual, was right. From the keyhole he had a good, albeit convex, view of the door to room 322. Now he had to wait.

But wait for what?

What the hell was he doing here? Jessica was waiting for him in a bathtub filled with exotic oils—the thought made his body both sing and ache—and here he was, playing Peeping Tom over …

Over what?

What was he after anyway? Duane had explained his connection to Valerie Simpson. They’d briefly been lovers. What was so weird about that? They were both attractive, both in their early twenties, both tennis players. So what was the big deal? The racial thing? Nothing unusual about that anymore. Hadn’t he just pointed that out to Dimonte?

So what was Myron doing with his eye pressed against a peephole? Duane was a client, for chrissake, an important client. What right did Myron have to invade his privacy like this? And for what reason—because his girlfriend didn’t like the fact that Duane was having affairs? So what? That wasn’t Myron’s concern. Myron wasn’t Duane’s social worker, parole officer, priest, shrink—he was his agent. His job was to get the maximum return for his client, not make morality judgments.

On the other hand, what the hell was Duane doing here? Maybe he liked to play the field, fine and dandy, no problem. But tonight of all nights? It’s crazy. Tomorrow was the biggest day of Duane’s career. Nationally televised match. His first U.S. Open quarterfinal. His first match against a seeded player. The launching of the Nike spots. Kind of a strange night for a romantic tryst in a hotel room.