Myth Man (19 page)

She flexed her right arm. Her bicep bulged slightly under sweater. “I’ve been working out.”

“Unless your father’s name is Ichabod, you don’t look like a crane to me. And, that’s what you’d need to lift this mass.”

“Ha, ha. There you go again. But I’d like to pay tonight.”

Presto would not be budged. “The answer is still no. I have money. I don’t do this job for the stupendous pay, although the pension’s not bad.”

“Wow,” gasped Ridgewood. “Me neither, meaning I don’t work for the compensation. I do it for me.” She stopped and looked at him with firm conviction. “By the way, is that a new sport jacket?”

“Uh, it’s fairly new.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” Presto replied sheepishly.

The waiter conveniently returned with the bottle. With both glasses filled, Ridgewood prompted another toast. “To us. Looks like we have something in common then.”

Presto could swear they were drinking from a different bottle. It certainly tasted better this time around. In fact, he felt better. He was no longer apprehensive. Here he was, joking with a living goddess. Now that he thought about it, she never looked as alluring as she did now.

She broke his reveries. “I’ll tell you my story in a moment. I promise you it’s asphyxiating, but tell me, where did your money come from? Inheritance, you invented some gadget they sell on TV, a jackpot at Vegas?”

Normally he found it difficult to discuss his father’s negligent death. Tonight the grief was gone, and the words came easily. “Many years ago, I stuffed the most hot dogs down my throat in an international weenie eating contest held at Coney Island. The prize was big for the day, and Nathan’s even signed me for an ad campaign for a few years. You might have seen me in a few magazine advertisements.” He looked at her with a boyish grin.

Doubt crept into Ridgewood’s face. “Are you back to your old bad jokes?”

Presto took an opportunity to take a swig of the wonderful sake before beaming. “Yeah. I waded into stupidity because my answer is not a joyous tale.”

Presto recounted the events of his father’s death. The sake and Ridgewood’s attentive, compassionate eyes made it easier. When he finished, he stabbed at one of the few remaining portions.

“I’m almost sorry I asked,” she said commiserating. “I say almost, because it means a lot that you shared that with me. It tells me a lot about who you are as a person. This is why you’re a detective; it seems you were preordained for the job.”

Presto nodded. “I treat every victim as if it was my father. Detectives are not supposed to take a case personally and remain detached. I try to feel like every victim, witness, and suspect in the case.”

“That’s why you’re the best,” Ridgewood saluted.

Presto’s hands went up to ward off her praise. “I’m not.” He relaxed. “It’s your turn now. What’s your story? A black widow that lures men into her web and poisons them while sucking away their assets?”

“Cold,” she said with a fake shiver. Defrosted, she added, “I like how you deftly changed subjects. Self-Deprecating and hates praise. Interesting combo,” she mused.

Presto squirmed, and she provided wiggle room. “Okay, before I tell you my story, let’s finish the rest of this,” she said and gestured toward the sushi. “Then we’ll see about dessert.”

My kind of girl.
“Never a bad plan,” Presto said. “They have excellent fried ice cream.”

She smiled. “Then let’s eat.”

After they finished, they dropped the chopsticks, refilled their glasses, and drank in unison.

Ridgewood leaned back, but like a real-life optical illusion, her chest thrust forward. Presto quickly examined his hands before looking up at her face.

Ridgewood gritted her teeth, shrugged, and said, “I got married when I was twenty-three. Lance was his name,” she said and wrinkled her nose like she scented a bad odor. “We met on a vacation in Cancun. Club Med, no less,” she said with a reminiscent chuckle.

“I’d gone down with a few girlfriends. Up until that point, I’d never been anywhere outside a two hundred–mile radius of my hometown,” she said with humble wonder. “And I’d just been accepted to the FBI and wanted my one and only hurrah before I joined the real world.

“I didn’t have many boyfriends up until that point,” she said to Presto’s immense surprise. “I grew up on a farm, and there were not many boys my age, and definitely not many that I was interested in. Even if I was, my father made sure the opportunity did not exist. Honestly, I was focused on my studies. My parents did everything to make sure I could go to college, and I wanted to make them proud of their investment and sacrifice.

“So there I was enjoying my one day in the sun. The resort was basically a meat market, and I talked to more men in the first two days than I did in all of college. I met Lance, where else, at the bar. I had done these tequila poppers and was pretty drunk. Lance walked over to chat, but I was tired and told him I was calling it quits. He asked to walk me home, and I declined. Said, ‘I’m a waste of your time, I don’t put out.’”

Ridgewood giggled, as did Presto, who was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“You know what the bastard said?” Ridgewood asked rhetorically. “Honey, I’d rather leave this country with your number than sleep with anyone and everyone here. I think you’re more beautiful than this tropical paradise and mysterious and sacred as the Mayan ruins I visited just this morning.” She laughed again, this time harder.

“It went from walking me home to running my life. Lance was smart in his own way. He was five years older and worked in DC with a lobbyist firm. Since I was headed to that region for FBI training and I knew no one else, I figured it was worth giving him my number.

“Three years later, we married, and I thought my life was perfect. We had the posh house, his Porsche, and my Jaguar, and we wined and dined at the best places with some of the most influential people in the country. We both worked hard, and although my salary was a crumb next to his, we were living the American dream.

“Then, Lance started having affairs. Although he was an attorney and could spray shit like the manure machine my father used on the farm, he was a terrible liar.”

She stopped to roll her eyes. “The scum blamed my career. Said I didn’t need to work, and it was hurting our love life. I didn’t want to quit the bureau but did so to save our marriage. I did everything I could to make him happy, but the signals emerged again: late nights at the office, dinners with clients, a sudden interest in hunting with the boys. One week I went back home to see my parents. There was news of a big storm coming, so I changed my flight home to a day earlier. I called home to let him know but got the machine and left a message.”

Ridgewood grinned mischievously. “So I walk in, and instantly I hear something from the living room. I look. Hung from our vaulted ceiling is Lance. At first I go to scream, but then I realize he’s naked.”

She stopped and put her hand over her face, in what Presto figures must be sheer horror, until she erupts in a tipsy, snicker. “In front of him was a woman on a chair giving him a blow job and in back was a she-male sodomizing him from a table we bought antiquing in the Hamptons. There, watching it all, holding the rope that choked my husband suspended a few feet from the ground, was his best friend.”

Her impish smile was gone. Presto sensed that despite the bravado, she was pained by the event. Sometimes humor is only discovered in hindsight.

“I left the room, then the house. I knew what was going on in there. Lance was always much more kinky than I, and I tried to please his wants, but I had my limits. One was … I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” she suddenly said.

“Uh, eh,” stammered Presto

“Phew,” Ridgewood breathed. “This sake had some punch.”

Presto knew it. Her talk and booze had him tongue tied.

“Am I boring you or being too forward? I’m sorry.”

Presto, who often dined alone, assured her. “Not at all, Lorraine.”

Ridgewood gave an embarrassed look and continued. “Lance wanted me to strap it on, if you know what I mean. I was unnerved by the request and refused. So seeing my husband being fucked was somehow not much of a surprise. The noose around his neck was for erotic asphyxiation, where you deprive yourself of oxygen until climax. This apparently makes the effect more mind blowing; Lance tried to explain to me,” she said and shivered. “The irony is I almost choked him when he told me about it.”

Presto was stunned. This sounded like a tale from one of the television shows his mother watched while bedridden. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

She was nonplussed. “Thanks. I’m behind that now. Lance didn’t contest the divorce, and rather than air dirty laundry, I was offered a substantial settlement. Hush money. It’s nice to have, but there’s more than money.

“Like you, I wanted to work and rejoined the agency. So I did not come back for the money, but I will admit, I lost most of that hush money it in the stock market. Stupid Lance recommended Bernie Madoff to manage my money, and I lost everything,” she said sadly.

She grabbed the sake and topped of their glasses. She put the empty bottle down. “What about you, Dom? You ever married?”

Presto tensed. “No.”

“Smart—nothing wrong with being single. You’re probably like me. Nice people get screwed in relationships. Look at poor Donavan’s wife.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess living in a big city like this makes it easy being single. There are people everywhere. You must have no problem getting dates.”

The only dates Presto enjoyed were palm dates, the fruit and his hand. “You have no idea,” he said.

Ridgewood asked. “How about that fried ice cream you told me about?”

Presto was always more comfortable talking about food than himself. “You’re going to love it.”

And they did.

CHAPTER FORTY

M
YTH MAN WAS BACK at the safe house. He’d already attended to his housemate, who now looked nothing like the former marine. Withered and gaunt, he reminded Myth Man of a wooden nutcracker soldier, with his blank stare, gaping mouth, and hanging, unkempt, hair.

The man started to develop bedsores. Myth Man had long tired of nursing him, but time was winding down. The game could not go on forever, and seeing Dominick Presto this morning was enough to sprint to the finish line. His goal of making it to Christmas appeared dim. Soon, very soon, he’d execute his grand finale.

After leaving his patsy, Myth Man decided to use the Internet. For fun, he picked a new screen name, The Deacon, and checked up on some of his old friends.

The Deacon:
The end days are approaching, brothers and sisters.

Trumpet of God:
Welcome to God’s village, neighbor. New members are always welcome.

I’ll dismember this member one day
, Myth Man promised.

The Deacon:
Thanks, brother. My mission here is from God. Since a child, I’ve been blessed with visions from our Savior. He told me Armageddon approaches. We’ve seen the storms, famine, wars, and the cultural debauchery. This Easter Sunday, a man of God will be crucified. It’s the final sign. The Horses of the Apocalypse are ready to leave Hell’s gate. Grab your Bibles. The time is near.

Trumpet of God:
I’m ready, Deacon. I built me a bunker. It’s fortified with food, guns, a gas generator, books …

The Deacon:
Signed Off

How could someone he’d never met annoy him so much? Suddenly he felt tired. He got up and fell onto the Naugahyde couch. He knew he should head home, but he preferred to face his wife drunk or, better yet, asleep.

Then he fell asleep.

He dreamed.

The boy, who just celebrated his ninth birthday, watched his father and another man across the campfire. His father bowed his head and offered a prayer thanking God
,
asking for his forgiveness. The boy heard the other man snicker as he looked down at his meal, which included rainbow trout from the day’s catch. Both men drank whiskey. It was the first time he’d seen his father drink.

They ate in relative silence. The boy was confused. He knew the other man, who was built like a farm tractor and whose face was permanently etched with a sly, leering stare, was no friend of his father.

He’d seen the guy show up at their home a few times, always at night, and each time his father was apprehensive. It was the only times he’d ever seen his father intimidated. His father always ushered the man away from the house where they talked in private.

One time, the boy climbed out his window and crawled through bushes to get close enough to listen. He did not hear the reason, but he knew the situation. His father owed some money—a lot. This man was sent to collect, and his father did not have enough to make the man happy. Rather, the man threatened his father. Said that if he wasn’t paid in full the next time he came, other arrangements would be made.

The boy tried to find his father’s eyes, but his old man stared at his food. The other man, however, stared through the cackling fire. At first, the boy was scared, but then the man smiled warmly and blew a kiss. His mother did the same thing when he left for school each morning. Maybe the stranger was a good man.

After dinner, the man said he knew a small cave a few minutes away that was loaded with Indian arrowheads. He suggested they take a few lanterns and investigate before tent time. The boy was eager, but his father declined, despite his son’s urging.

When they arrived at the cave, the man led the way. The boy was disappointed when he realized that the cave was small, no bigger than his living room. He was hoping to find stalagmites and stalactites.

He began to wonder where the arrowheads might be, when the man stopped and steered him to the back corner. The boy figured that must be the spot. A sleeping bag was rolled up in the corner.

The man puts a hand on the boys shoulder and says, “Sometimes it’s up to a boy to help pay a man’s debts.”

The sinister tone put a chill in the boy’s bones. He hears a zipper pull down and feels something hard poke his upper back.

Myth Man woke up and looked at his watch. He’d slept for two hours, but felt hardly refreshed. Something was nagging at him. A memory popped up and winked at him. Despite his concentration, it flees, leaving a painful void.

As he moved to get up, he realized his midsection was saturated.
You sleep in it. You bathe in it.

The rage was back. “God, if you do exist. I fucking despise you.”