Fade Away (1996) (9 page)

'Do you know what time?'

Joe shook his head.

'Bones, you know?' Myron tried.

The bill of the Astros hat jerked toward Myron like a string had been pulled. 'Not Bones, dammit!' he shrieked. 'Bone! No S at the end. Bone! BONE!

No S! And what the fuck do I look like, Big Ben?'

Joe snapped the dishrag again. 'Don't insult a celebrity, moron.'

'Celebrity? Shit, Joe, he's just a scrub. Not like he's Soupy or something.

He's a nobody, a zero.' Bone turned to Myron. The hostility was completely gone now. 'No offense, Myron.'

'Why would I take offense?'

'Say,' Joe said, 'you got a photograph? We can put your picture on the wall. You could autograph it to your pals at the Swiss Chalet. We should start like a celebrity wall, you know?'

'Sorry,' Myron said, 'I don't have one on me.'

'Can you send us one? Autographed, I mean. Or bring it next time you come.'

'Er, next time.'

Myron continued to question them but learned nothing more except Soupy Sales's birthday. He left and headed up the block. He passed a Chinese restaurant with dead ducks hung in the window. Duck carcasses, the ideal appetite whetter. Maybe Burger King should hang slaughtered cows in the window. Really draw the kids in.

He tried putting the pieces together a bit. Carla calls Greg on the phone and tells him to meet her at the Swiss Chalet. Why? Why there of all places?

Did they not want to be seen? Why not? And who the hell is Carla anyway?

How does all this fit into Greg's vanishing act? And what about the blood in the basement? Did they go back to Greg's house or did Greg go home alone?

Was Carla the girl he lived with? And if so, why meet here?

Myron was so preoccupied he didn't spot the man until he almost bumped into him. Of course calling him a man might be a bit of an understatement. More like a brick wall doubling as a human being. He stood in Myron's way. He wore one of those pectoral-displaying ribbed T shirts under an unbuttoned flower-patterned semi-blouse. A gold horn dangled between his near-cleavage. Muscle-head. Myron tried to pass him on the left. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron tried to pass him on the right. The brick wall blocked his path. Myron went back and forth one more time. Brick Wall followed suit.

'Say,' Myron said, 'you know the chacha?'

The brick wall showed about as much reaction as one might expect from a brick wall. Then again it wasn't one of Myron's better quips. The man was truly enormous, the size of your average lunar eclipse. Myron heard footsteps. Another man, this one on the large size but at least of the human variety, came up behind Myron. The second man wore fatigue camouflage pants, a popular new urban fashion trend.

'Where's Greg?' Camouflage Pants asked.

Myron feigned startled. 'What? Oh, I didn't see you.'

'Huh?'

'In those pants,' Myron said. 'You just blended into the background.'

Camouflage didn't like that. 'Where's Greg?'

'Greg?' Snappy retort.

'Yeah. Where is he?'

'Who?'

'Greg.'

'Greg who?'

'You trying to be funny?'

'What, you think this is funny?'

Camouflage looked over at Brick Wall. Brick Wall remained completely silent. Myron knew that there was a very real possibility of a physical altercation. He also knew he was good at such things. He also knew - or at least figured - that these two goons were probably good too. Despite Bruce Lee movies, one man defeating two or more quality opponents was nearly impossible. Experienced fighters were not stupid. They worked as a team.

They never rushed one at a time.

'So,' Myron said. 'You guys want to catch a beer? Chat this through.'

Camouflage made a scoffing noise. 'We look like guys who like to chat?'

Myron motioned to Brick Wall. 'He does.'

There were three ways to get out of a situation like this unharmed. One was to run, which was always a good option. Problem was, his two adversaries were close enough yet spaced far enough to tackle and/or slow him down. Too risky. Second option: your opponents underestimate you.

You act scared and cower and then whammo, you surprise them. Unlikely for Myron. Goons rarely underestimate a guy six-four, two-twenty. Third option: you strike first and hard. By doing this you increase the likelihood of putting one out of commission before the other one can react. This action however required a delicate balance. Until someone strikes, you really cannot say for sure that a physical altercation could not be avoided altogether. But if you wait for someone to strike, this option becomes null and void. Win liked option three. Then again Win liked option three even if there was only one opponent.

Myron never got the chance to make a selection. Brick Wall slammed a fist into the small of Myron's back. Myron sensed the blow coming. He shifted enough to avoid both the kidney and serious damage. At the same time he spun and delivered an elbow strike to Brick Wall's nose. There was a satisfying, crunching noise like a fist closing over a bird's nest.

The victory was short-lived. As Myron had feared, these guys knew what they were doing. Camouflage Pants struck at the same time, connecting where his comrade had failed. Pain erupted in Myron's kidney. His knees buckled but he fought it off. He doubled over toward Brick Wall and threw a back kick, his foot snapping out like a piston. His lack of balance threw off his aim. The blow landed on Camouflage's thigh. It didn't do much damage but it was powerful enough to push him away. Brick Wall was starting to recover. He groped blindly and found Myron's hair. He grabbed and pulled up. Myron pinned the hand with one of his own, digging his fingernails into the sensitive pressure points between the joints. Brick Wall screamed.

Camouflage Pants was back. He punched Myron straight in the stomach. It hurt. A lot. Myron knew he was in trouble. He went down to one knee and bounced up, a palm strike at the ready. It connected with Brick Wall's groin. Brick Wall's eyes bulged. He dropped like somebody had pulled a stool out from under him. Camouflage Pants connected with a solid shot to the side of Myron's head. Numbness flowed into Myron's skull. Another blow landed. Myron's eyes began to lose focus. He tried to stand up but his legs wouldn't let him. He felt a kick land on a rib. The world began to spin.

'Hey! Hey, what you doing? Hey, you!'

'Stop it! What the fuck!'

In his haze Myron recognized the voices. Joe and Bone from the bar.

Myron took the opportunity to scramble away on all fours. There was no need. Camouflage Pants had already helped Brick Wall to his feet. Both men ran.

Joe and Bone quickly came over and looked down at Myron.

'You okay?' Joe asked.

Myron nodded.

'You won't forget about sending us that autographed picture, will you?

Cousin Brucie never sent one.'

'I'll send you two,' Myron said.

He convinced Joe and Bone not to call the cops. They didn't take much convincing. Most people do not like activities that involve law enforcement.

They helped Myron into a taxi. The driver wore a turban and listened to country music. Multiculturalism. Myron spit out Jessica's SoHo address and collapsed into the ripped cushions. The driver wasn't interested in conversation. Good.

Myron mentally checked over his body. Nothing broken. The ribs would be bruised at worst. Nothing he couldn't play through. The head was another matter. Tylenol with codeine would help tonight, then he could move down to Advil or something in the morning. There was nothing much you could do for head trauma but give it time and control the pain.

Jessica met him at the door in her bathrobe. He felt, as he often did around her, a little short of breath. She skipped admonishments, drew a bath, helped him undress, crawled in behind him. The water felt good against his skin. He leaned back on her as she wrapped washcloths around his head. He let loose a deep, totally content breath.

'When did you go to medical school?' he asked.

From behind him Jessica kissed his cheek. 'Feeling better?'

'Yes, Doctor. Much better.'

'You want to tell me about it?'

He did. She listened in silence, her fingertips gently massaging his temples. Her touch was soothing. Myron imagined there were better things in life than being in this tub leaning back against the woman he loved, but for the life of him he couldn't think of any. The pain began to dull and slacken.

'So who do you think they were?' she asked.

'No idea,' Myron said. 'I imagine they're hired goons.'

'And they wanted to know where Greg was?'

'Seems so.'

'If two goons like that were looking for me,' she said, I might disappear too.'

The thought had crossed Myron's mind too. 'Yes.'

'So what's your next step?'

He smiled and closed his eyes. 'What? No lectures? No telling me it's too dangerous?'

'Too cliche,' she said. 'Besides, there's something else here.'

'What do you mean?'

'Something about all this you're not telling me.'

'I--'

She put a finger over his lips. 'Just tell me what you plan on doing next.'

He settled back down. Scary how easily she read him. 'I have to start talking to people.'

'Like?'

'His agent. His roommate, a guy named Leon White. Emily.'

'Emily. That would be your old college sweetheart?'

'Uh huh,' Myron said. Quick subject change before she started reading him again. 'How was your evening with Audrey?'

'Fine. We mostly talked about you.'

'What about me?'

Jessica began to stroke his chest. The touch slowly drifted away from being merely soothing. Her fingertips caressed his chest with a feather touch. Gently. Too gently. She was strumming him like Perlman on a violin.

'Uh, Jess.'

She shushed him. Her voice was soft. 'Your ass,' she said.

'My ass?'

'Yep, that's what we talked about.' To emphasize the point her hand cupped a cheek. 'Even Audrey had to admit it was edible, running up and down the court like that.'

'I have a mind too,' Myron said. 'A brain. Feelings.'

She lowered her mouth toward his ear. When her lips touched the lobe, he felt a jolt. 'Who cares?'

'Uh, Jess . . .'

'Shhh,' she said as her other hand slid down his chest. 'I'm the doctor here, remember?'

The ringing phone jabbed at the base of nerves in the back of his skull.

Myron's eyes blinked open. Sunlight knifed through the slit in the curtain.

He checked next to him in the bed - first with his hands, then with his eyes. Jessica wasn't there. The phone continued to blare. Myron reached for it.

'Hello.'

'So this is where you are.'

He closed his eyes. The ache in his head multiplied tenfold. 'Hi, Mom.'

'You don't sleep in your home anymore?'

His home was the basement of his parents' house, the same house in which he'd been raised. More and more he was spending his nights at Jessica's. It was probably a good thing. He was thirty-two; he was fairly normal; he had plenty of money. There was no reason to still be living with Mommy and Daddy.

'How's your trip?' he asked. His mother and father were on some tour of Europe. One of those bus tours that hit twelve cities in four days.

'You think I called at the Vienna Hilton's long distant rates to chitchat about our itinerary?'

'Guess not.'

'You know how much it cost to call from a hotel in Vienna? With all their surcharges and taxes and everything?'

'A lot, I'm sure.'

'I have the rates right here. I'll tell you exactly. Hold on. Al, what did I do with those rates?'

'Mom, it's not important.'

'I had it a second ago. Al?'

'Why don't you tell me when you get home?' Myron suggested. 'It'll give me something to look forward to.'

'Save the fresh remarks for you friends, okay? You know very well why I'm calling.'

'I don't, Mom.'

'Fine, then I'll tell you. One of the other people on this tour - the Smeltmans, very nice couple. He's in the jewelry business. Marvin, his name is. I think. They have a shop in Montclair. We used to drive by it all the time when you were a kid. It's on Bloomfield Avenue, near that movie theater.

Remember?'

'Uh huh.' He had no idea what she was talking about but it was easier.

'So the Smeltmans talked to their son on the phone last night. He called them, Myron. He had their itinerary and everything. Just called his parents to make sure they were having a nice time, that kind of thing.'

'Uh huh.' Mom was in decompensation mode. There was no way to stop it. She could go in a heartbeat from the modern, intelligent woman he knew her to be to something out of summer stock Fiddler on the Roof. Right now she was Golda heading toward Yenta.

'Anyway the Smeltmans brag how they're on the same trip with Myron Bolitar's parents. Big deal, right? Who knows you anymore? You haven't played in years. But the Smeltmans are big basketball fans. Go figure. Their son used to watch you play or something, I don't know. So anyway the son - I think his name is Herb or Herbie or Ralph, something like that - he tells them you're playing professional basketball. That the Dragons signed you.