Back Spin (1997) (15 page)

Brief pause. "Oh shit, you are involved in something again, aren't you?"

"I just asked you if Squires was into kidnapping?

"Oh. Right. Like it's a hypothetical question. Kinda like, 'If a bear shits in the forest and no one is around, does it still reek'?"

"Precisely. Does kidnapping reek like his kind of thing?" .

"Hell if I know. The guy is a major league loon, no question. He blends right into all that snobbish bullshitthe boring parties, the shitty food, the laughing at jokes that aren't remotely funny, the talking with the same boring people about the same boring worthless bullshit "

"It sounds like you really admire them."

"Just my point, my friend. They got it all, right? On the outside. Money, big homes, fancy clubs. But they're all so fucking boring shit, I'd kill myself. Makes me wonder if maybe Squires feels that way too, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Myron said. "And Win is the scary one here, right?

Jake laughed. "TouchT. But to answer your question, I

don't know if Squires would be into kidnapping.

Wouldn't surprise me though."

Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.

What now?

For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. lf he could also somehow land Tad Crispin . . .

Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble.

Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent take your pick is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents' expense.

So the question remained: What now?

He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn't go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.

But why would he do it at Porter Street?

Why not do it at a bank closer to home? And equally important, what was Chad Coldren doing in that area in the first place? There was nothing there. It wasn't a stop between highways or anything like that. The only thing in that neighborhood that would require cash was the Court Manor Inn. Myron again remembered motelier extraordinaire Stuart Lipwitz's attitude and wondered.

He started the car. It might be something. Worth looking into, at any rate.

Of course, Stuart Lipwitz had made it abundantly clear that he would not talk. But Myron thought he had just the tool to make him change his mind.

Chapter
I4

"Smile!"

The man did not smile. He quickly shifted the car in reverse and backed out. Myron shrugged and lowered the camera. It was on a neck strap and bounced lightly against his chest. Another car approached. Myron lifted the camera again.

"Smile!" Myron repeated. .

Another man. Another no smile. This guy managed to duck down before shifting his car into reverse.

"Camera shy," Myron called out to him. ' 'Nice to see in this age of paparazzi overkill."

It didn't take long. Myron had been on the sidewalk in front of the Court Manor Inn for less than iive minutes when he spotted Stuart Lipwitz sprinting toward him. Big Stu was in full custom gray tails, wide tie, a concierge key pin in the suit's lapel. Gray tails at a no-tell motel.

Like a maitre d' at Burger King. Watching Stu move closer, a Pink Floyd song came to mind: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody out there? David Bowie joined in:

Ground control to Major Tom.

Ah, the seventies.

. "You there," he called out.

"Hi, Stu."

+ No smile this time. "This is private property," Smart Lipwitz said, a little out of breath. "I must ask you to remove yourself immediately. ' '

"I hate to disagree with you, Stu, but I am on a public sidewalk. I got every right to be here."

Smart Lipwitz stammered, then flapped his arms in frustration. With the tails, the movement kind of reminded Myron of a bat. "But you can't just stand there and take pictures of my clientele," he semi whined.

" 'Clientele,' " Myron repeated. "Is that a new euphemism for john?" "I'll call the police."

"Ooooo. Stop scaring me like that."

"You are interfering with my business."

"And you are interfering with mine."

Stuart Lipwitz put his hands on his hips and uied to look threatening. ' 'This is the last time I'll ask you nicely.

Leave the premises."

"That wasn't nice."

"Excuse me?"

"You said it was the last time you'd ask me nicely,"

Myron explained. "Then you said, 'Leave the premises.'

You didn't say please. You didn't say, 'Kindly leave the premises.' Where's the nice in that?"

"I see," Lipwitz said. Beads of sweat dotted his face.

It was hot and the man was, after all, in tails. "Please kindly leave the premises."

"Nope. But now, at least, you're a man of your word."

Stuart Lipwitz took several deep breaths. "You want to know about the boy, don't you? The one in the picture."

"You bet."

"And if I tell you if he was here, will you leave'?"

"Much as it would pain me to leave this quaint locale, I would somehow tear myself away."

"That, sir, is blackmail."

Myron looked at him. "I would say 'blackmail is such an ugly word,' but that would be too clichT. So instead I'll just say 'Yup.' "

"But" Lipwitz started stammering "that's against the law!"

"As opposed to, say, prostitution and drug dealing and whatever other sleazy activity goes on in this fleabag?"

Stuart Lipwitz's eyes widened. "Fleabag? This is the Court Manor Inn, sir. We are a respectable "

"Stuff it, Stu. I got pictures to take." Another car pulled up. Gray Volvo station wagon. Nice family car. A

man about fifty years old was neatly attired in a business suit. The young girl in the passenger seat must have shopped as the mall girls had recently taught him at Sluts "R" Us.

Myron smiled and leaned toward the window. "Whoa, sir, vacationing with your daughter?"

The man splashed on a classic deer-caught-in-theheadlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. "Hey, Mel, he thinks I'm your daughter!?' She whooped again.

Myron raised the camera. Smart Lipwitz tried to step in his way, but Myron swept him away with his free hand.

"It's Souvenir Day at the Court Manor," Myron said. "I

can put the picture on a coffee mug if you'd like. Or maybe a decorative plate?"

The man in the business suit reversed the car. They were gone several seconds later.

Stuart Lipwitz's face reddened. He made two fists.

Myron looked at him. "Now Stuart . . ."

"I have powerful friends`," he said.

"Ooooo. I'm getting scared again."

"Fine. Be that way." Stuart turned away and stormed up the drive. Myron smiled. The kid was a tougher nut to crack than he'd anticipated, and he really didn't want to do this all day. But let's face it: There were no other leads and besides, playing with Big Stu was fun.

Myron waited for more customers. He wondered what Stu was up to. Something frantic, no doubt. Ten minutes later, a canary yellow Audi pulled up and a large black man slid out. The black man was maybe an inch shorter than Myron, but he was built. His chest could double as a jai alai wall and his legs resembled the trunks of redwoods. He glided when he moved not the bulky moves one usually associated with the overmuscled.

Myron did not like that.

The black man had sunglasses on and wore a red Hawaiian shirt with blue jean shorts. His most noticeable feature was his hair. The kinks had been slicked straight and parted on the side, like old photographs of Nat King Cole.

Myron pointed at the top of the man's head. "Is that hard to do?" he asked.

"What?" the black man said. "You mean the hair?"

Myron nodded. "Keeping it straight like that."

"Nah, not really. Once a week I go to a guy named Ray. In an old-fashioned barbershop, as a matter of fact.

The kind with the pole in front and everything." His smile was almost wistful. "Ray takes care of it for me.

Also gives me a great shave. With hot towels and everything." The man stroked his face for emphasis.

"Looks smooth," Myron said.

"Hey, thanks. Nice of you to say. I find it relaxing, you know? Doing something just for me. I think it's important.

To relieve the stress."

Myron nodded. "I hear you."

"Maybe I'll give you Ray's number. You could stop by and check it out."

"Ray," Myron repeated. "I'd like that."

The black man stepped closer. "Seems we have a little situation here, Mr. Bolitar."

"How did you know my name?"

He shrugged. Behind the sunglasses, Myron sensed that he was being sized up. Myron was doing the same.

Both were trying to be subtle. Both knew exactly what the other was doing.

"I'd really appreciate it if you would leave," he said very politely.

"l'm afraid I can't do that," Myron said. "Even though you did ask nicely."The black man nodded. He kept his distance. "Let's see if we can work something out here, okay?"

"Okeydokey."

"I got a job to do here, Myron. You can appreciate that, can't you?"

"Sure can," Myron said.

"And so do you."

"That's right."

The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. "Look, I know you won't be easy. And you know I won't be easy. lf push comes to shove, I don't know which one of us will win."

"I will," Myron said. "Good always triumphs over evil."

The man smiled. "Not in this neighborhood."

"Good point."

"I'm also not sure it's worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we're both probably past the provinghimself, macho-bullshit stage."

Myron nodded. "We're too mature."

"Right." " +

"lt seems then," Myron continued, "that we've hit an impasse."

"Guess so," the black man agreed. "Of course, I

could always take out a gum and shoot you."

Myron shook his head. "Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved."

"Yeah. I didn't think you'd go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know."

"You're a pro," Myron agreed. "You'd feel remiss if you didn't at least try. Hell, I'd have felt cheated."

"Glad you understand."

"Speaking of which," Myron said, "aren't you a tad high-level to be dealing with this situation?"

"Can't say I disagree." The black man walked closer to Myron. Myron felt his muscles tighten; a notunpleasant anticipatory chill steeled him.

"You look like a guy who can keep his mouth shut,"

the man said.

Myron said nothing. Proving the point.

"The kid you had in that picture, the one that got Leona Helmsley's panties in a bunch? He was here."

"When?"

The black man shook his head. "That's all you get.

I'm being very generous. You wanted to know if the kid was here. The answer is yes."

"Nice of you," Myron said.

"I'm just trying to make it simple. Look, we both know that Lipwitz is a dumb kid. Acts like this urinal is the Beverly Wilshire. But the people who come here, they don't want that. They want to be invisible. They don't even want to look at themselves, you know what I'm saying'?"

Myron nodded.

"So I gave you a freebie. The kid in the picture was here."

"Is he still here?"

"You're pushing me, Myron."

"Just tell me that."

"No. He only stayed that one night." He spread his hands. "Now you tell me, Myron. Am I being fair with you?"

"Very."

He nodded. "Your turn."

"I guess there's no way you'll tell me who you're working for."

The black man made a face. "Nice meeting you, Myron."

"Same here."

They shook hands. Myron got into his car and drove away.

He had almost reached Merion when the cellular rang.

He picked up and said hello.

"Is this, like, Myron?"

Mall girl. "Hi, yes. Actually this is Myron, not just like him."

"Huh?"