Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

“I wish I knew.”

She waved a hand at the air. “Anyway you don’t want to hear no old woman rambling on.”

“I got time.”

“You’re a sweet man, but you’re here for a reason. A good reason, I think.”

She looked at Myron. He nodded but said nothing.

“Now,” she continued, slapping her thighs with her palms, “what were we talking about?”

“Deanna Yeller.”

“That’s right. Deanna. You know, I think about her a lot too. She was such a caring mother. She came to every open house. She loved parent-teacher conferences. She basked in all that praise we heaped on her boy.”

“Did you talk to her after his death?”

“Nope.” She shook her head hard and let out a sigh. “Never heard from Deanna again, poor woman. No funeral. No nothing. I called her a couple of times, but nobody ever answered. Like she fell off the face of the earth. But I understood. She’d always had it rough. From the start. She used to be a street girl, you know.”

“I didn’t know. When?”

“Oh, a long time ago. She doesn’t even know who Curtis’s father really was. But she quit. Got herself cleaned up. Worked like a dog, any job she could get. All for her boy. And then, just like that …” She shook her head. “Gone.”

“Did you know Errol Swade?” Myron asked.

“Just enough to know he was trouble. In and out of prison his whole life. He was Deanna’s sister’s boy. The sister was a junkie. Ended up dying of an overdose. Deanna had to take Errol in. He was family. She was a responsible woman.”

“How did Errol get along with Curtis?”

“Actually, they got along pretty good—considering how different they were.”

“Well, maybe they weren’t so different,” Myron said.

“What do you mean?”

“Errol got him to break into that tennis club.”

Lucinda Elright watched him a moment before she picked up a cookie and began to nibble. A small smile toyed with her lips. “Come on, Myron, you know better than that,” she said. “You’re a smart boy. So was Curtis. What would he want to steal way out there? It don’t make sense, robbing a place like that at night. Think about it.”

Myron had already. He was glad to see someone else had the same trouble with the official scenario. “So what do you think happened?”

“I’ve thought a lot about it, but I don’t really know. Nothing makes much sense to me about that whole night. But I do think Curtis and Errol were set up. Even if Curtis decided to steal—and even if he was dumb enough to break in to this club—I can’t believe he’d shoot at a police officer. A boy can change, but that’s like the tiger changing his stripes. It’s just too incredible.” She sat up, adjusting herself on the couch. “I think some fool thing happened at the rich white club and they needed a couple of black boys to take the fall. Now, I’m not that way. I’m not one of those who think the white man is always plotting against the black man. It’s just not in my nature. But in this case I don’t know what else could have happened.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Elright.”

“Lucinda. And Myron, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“When you find out what really happened to Curtis, let me know.”

33

Myron and Jessica drove out to New Jersey for dinner at Baumgart’s. They ate there at least twice a week. Baumgart’s was a strange combination. For half a century it had been a popular soda fountain and deli, the kind of place neighbors went for lunch and Archie took Veronica for an after-school smooch. Eight years ago a Chinese immigrant named Peter Li bought the place and turned it into the best Chinese around—but without getting rid of the old soda fountain. You could still twirl on a stool at the counter, surrounded by chrome and blenders and ice-cream scoops in hot water. You could order a milkshake with your dim sum and have french fries with your General Tso’s chicken. When they first lived together, Myron and Jess had come at least once a week. Now that they were back together, the tradition had resumed.

“It’s the Alexander Cross murder,” Myron said. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Before Jess could answer, Peter Li arrived. Myron and Jess never ordered. Peter chose for them. “Coral shrimp for the beautiful lady,” he said, putting down her plate, “and Baumgart’s Szechuan chicken and eggplant for the man not fit to grovel at her feet.”

“Good one,” Myron said. “Very funny.”

Peter bowed. “In my country they consider me a man of great humor.”

“Must be a lot of laughs in your country.” Myron looked down at his plate. “I hate eggplant, Peter.”

“You’ll eat it and beg for more,” he said. He smiled at Jess. “Enjoy.” He left.

“Okay,” Jess said, “so what about Alexander Cross?”

“It’s not Alexander, per se. It’s actually Curtis Yeller. Everyone says he was a great kid. His mom was very involved, loved him like mad, the whole nine yards. Now she acts like nothing happened.”

“ ‘There’s a grief that can’t be spoken,’ ” Jessica replied. “ ‘There’s a pain goes on and on.’ ”

Myron thought a second. “Les Mis?” The ongoing game of Guess the Quote.

“Correct, but what character said it?”

“Valjean?”

“No, sorry. Marius.”

Myron nodded. “Either way,” he said, “it’s a lousy quote.”

“I know. I was listening to the tape in the car,” she said. “But it might not be that far off the mark.”

“A grief that can’t be spoken?”

“Yes.”

He took a sip of water. “So it makes sense to you, the mother acting like nothing happened.”

Jessica shrugged. “It’s been six years. What do you want her to do—break down and cry every time you come around?”

“No,” Myron said, “but I’d think she’d want to know who killed her son.”

Before touching her shrimp, Jessica reached across the table and forked a piece of Myron’s chicken. Not the eggplant. The chicken. “Maybe she already knows,” Jess said.

“What, you think she’s being bought off too?”

Jess shrugged. “Maybe. But that’s not what’s really bugging you.”