Myth Man (20 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

A
PARTMENT DOOR 9B OPENED. The sleeping giant seated against the hallway side of the door lost his back support, and his head slammed down against the panel wood floor within.
Bang
.

“Ouch,” Presto moaned.

“What are you doing out here?” Cleo Presto asked her son as she stood over him. “I recognized your snoring.”

At first Presto was too groggy, but then he remembered. Between an unsteady hand and a bad case of the
dropsies
, he was unable to get the key in the lock. He decided the doorstep was not such a bad place to take a nap. He needed sleep.

“Uh. I, um.” For some reason, Presto felt like a drunken teenager, being questioned by his mother. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. “I felt dehydrated and faint. I needed to sit down and must have fallen asleep.”

She laughed then suddenly left him. He heard her steps bound away. As he tried to get up, he heard her return.

She pushed him back down. “This is hilarious,” she chortled. She began snapping pictures of her son.

Presto realized what was going on and threw his arms in the path of the lens. This only made her laugh louder. “I’m sorry, Dominick, but this is priceless.”

She snapped images of his ascent: hands that tried, and failed, to push off the floor, a reach for an imaginary support to gain leverage, a rollover and aborted push up. All the while, Presto groaned like a weightlifter exerting himself. Finally, he got to his feet.

He bounced back and forth against the brick hallway like a bowling ball without the gutters to correct his awkward aim before he crashed through an open frame and onto his bed.

When Presto opened his eyes at the sound of his alarm clock, he moaned and immediately massaged his temples. His mouth felt like he’d sucked on a bathroom hand dryer.

Parched, he tried to get up. His head howled in pain, as if his ascent brought altitude pressure. His bowels roared, and his face grimaced. His iron belly, forged to withstand the hottest of spices and an expansive culinary range, was severely wounded. Unconscionable.

For the first time in his career, he considered calling in sick but dismissed the thought as soon as it came into his head. For a myriad of reasons, he couldn’t do that. When he got out of bed, he realized he’d slept in the prior night’s clothes, including his new sport jacket.

When he emerged from the bathroom in a deep-blue cotton robe, he immediately smelled food. Like a bloodhound, he followed the trail to the source.

“Morning, sunshine,” his mother said and peered at him. “How do you feel?”

Presto grunted something inaudible but was easily translated as,
like a giant pile of dung
. He fell into the kitchen chair and rested his head on his folded arms. He groaned again.

His mom brought over a plate of scrambled eggs, breakfast sausages, home fries, and toast. Presto eyed the plate. It looked as good as it smelled. He brought his head up, slowly. Almost a minute passed, and he still had not picked up the fork. This was unusual. In fact, it was a personal record.

His mother noticed. “That bad, huh? How much did you drink?”

“We drank two bottles of sake.” The mere mention of sake had his stomach cartwheeling.

She sat at the table. “You’ll be okay, a big guy like you.”

Presto smiled weakly. “I suppose you can say I’m a heavyweight who’s a lightweight.”

“You were never a drinker, thank God.” She paused to cross herself. “I can even out drink you.”

He smiled, stronger. “We could market that as a televised event: battle of the sexes, ages, and weight classes. Might take off. I could see it being a cultural phenomenon.” He grabbed the fork and twiddled it like it was a device he was not sure how to use.

She ignored the commentary and instead said, “I told you this woman was bad news. How much did she run the bill up to?”

“I paid, but that’s not the point. She has her own money. We’re alike; she works because she wants to make a difference.” He recapped the story of Ridgewood finding her husband’s kinky escapades, and their subsequent divorce settlement.

“Gold digger.”

Presto sighed. “You’re as terrible as I feel right now.”

She looked at his plate. “Why don’t you eat, and I’ll tell you about Camille. I met her last night.”

“My appetite is shaky enough.” Presto groaned. He played with the eggs and then took a bite. No violent eruptions, yet. His mother, however, looked radiant, with an eager grin and excited eyes.

“She’s exactly what you need. A challenge. She’s pretty, smart, and witty. And you two are match. She’s water; you’re earth.”

Pretso snorted, almost coughing out some eggs. “You don’t believe in astrology, Mom.”

“No, but she does to a certain degree.”

Presto rolled his eyes. “She sounds well grounded.”

“No, that’s you,” she retorted. “You’re a Capricorn, which is earth, meaning you’re well grounded. You’re practical and disciplined.”

“Does that mean she’s not?” Presto began to forklift the food down his gullet. Food proved the panacea once again. His headache dissipated, and each mouthful salved the breech in his belly. Then he sipped some orange juice.
Much better
.

This time, Cleo Presto rolled her eyes. “No, goofball. Those are just your sign’s characteristics. She’s intuitive, artistic, and imaginative.”

“Does that mean she’s a know-it-all, moody, conceited space cadet?”

She ignored him. “Find out this Lorraine’s birthday. I bet she’s a fire sign. That means you would find her attractive, but it wouldn’t work. Earth tries to smother fire and gets burned trying to ground their ardent nature.”

Presto stopped eating. He couldn’t believe he was listening to this. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Presto gave a grave look. “I’m checking for a fever. Clearly, you must be ill.”

She smacked his hand away. “You silly goose.”

“You’re the silly goose,” he said with a chuckle.

“Then you’re a silly swan.”

Despite her age, there was a lot girl left in her. “You’re too much.”

“By the way, my sign is Cancer. How apropos is that?” She spoke without a trace of sorrow.

Presto’s stomach suddenly seized. He tried to keep the moment lighthearted. That’s what she wanted. “Fitting. I’m Capricorn. Does that mean as I ram I like to lock horns with hard heads like you?”

“Now stop being naughty,” she reprimanded in jest. “All I’m saying is listen to Camille. She’s very convincing.”

“Really,” Presto deadpanned. “So were Hitler, Manson, and that refrigerator mechanic con artist who tried to rape us.”

She sniffed away his comments. “You can’t help it; you’re Capricorn. That’s the skeptic in you, but you need a water person to lubricate your crusty, parched earth persona.”

Presto almost coughed out a mouthful, as he garbled something. He took a drink to unclog the pipes. “Don’t see Camille again. Next time she’ll serve cyanide-spiked Kool-Aid.”

“In your condition, it seems the poison girl was the black widow from last night, who spun you with her charms.”

Presto gave up. “You win. I’ll take out Camille tomorrow night. I’m exhausted. The only thing I’m doing after work is stopping at the pet store to get a mouse for Aphrodite.”

His mother now looked like the one who just ate a king-sized breakfast, fat with satisfaction. “Trust me. You’ll like her.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And find out this Lorraine’s birthday. If she’s a fire sign, I get to pick the next five movies we rent.”

Presto tilted his head and waved. “With your taste in flicks, if you were right, I’d be forced to lie.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

D
ANKO PRESSED A BUTTON and terminated the unscheduled conference call with city hall. “Ha,” he shouted with a diabolical grin.

Agent Donavan gnashed his teeth, barked twice, and howled. “
Rrrrr
. We ate em’ alive.” He jumped up and high-fived Danko.

Presto and Ridgewood looked at this newfound camaraderie in shock.

Presto recalled the cartoon
Tom & Jerry
, where after years of battling, the cat and mouse became friends. Pretso never liked the show thereafter; it became pointless.

“That might have hurt my career, but I don’t care.” Danko spoke as much to himself as he did to the room.

Presto had been the last to arrive at Danko’s office. Ridgewood cast him a knowing look. They were to brief Commissioner Tipton and Spencer Hoole, representing the mayor’s office. Immediately, he noticed that Danko was neither nervous nor tense. In fact, he seemed to relish the encounter. Presto soon learned why.

When the phone rang, and before Danko picked up, Donavan said, “Remember. If they give you a hard time, I’ll take care of it.”

Frank Danko played the straight man, Carter Donavan the clown. On the other end of the line, Tipton was assertive but diplomatic. Hoole was the hard ass.

Danko and Ridgewood briefed them. Ridgewood credited Presto when she outlined their strategies. Presto was surprised both because he was rarely credited and more so that she had found the time, after their binge, to have thoroughly read his notes.

As soon as Hoole went on the attack, Donavan shrieked so loud and long that everyone but the screamer muffed their ears. He then stomped his foot and yelled, “Got you, sucker.” He then apologized and claimed credit for the disposal of a cockroach.

When a ruffled Hoole tried to readdress himself, Donavan interrupted. “It’s a bad connection. You’re coming through all
mumbly
. Can you speak up?”

Ridgewood looked aghast but not Danko. Now he was amused by Donavan’s antics, but then again, he had no love for Hoole.

When Hoole reassumed, Donavan prodded him, “Louder.” Hoole raised his voice, but Donavan coaxed him again to speak up. Hoole was practically shouting when Donavan interrupted. “Let me play with this thing a second.” He actually walked over to phone and jiggled the cord. “Try again.” Hoole went to speak and Donavan shouted. “Hold on.” Again, he toyed with the cord. “Sorry, but you’ll have to be real loud. We got bad acoustics over here.” Donavan poorly stifled a snicker.

Hoole began to shout. He tied the mayor’s re-election to the case. Donavan interrupted yet again. “With all due respect, Mr. Tool, I …”

“The name’s Hoole,” the phone roared.

“What did he say?” Donavan rhetorically asked the room. Into the phone he said, “Hard to hear you. Did you say, Stool?”

Hoole lost his cool and cursed. “Hoole,” he screamed.

Donavan enjoyed playing the badger against this attack dog. All snarl. No bite. “Fool, Drool, Cesspool, whatever your name is. The point I wanted to make is everyone knows the Feds are in charge of this case. If anyone thinks the mayor’s campaign will falter on this issue, then either your boss is a lame duck or all the quacking I’m hearing is from a guy whose doing a fowl, think homonym, job.”

Danko put his hand over his mouth to suppress laughter. Not Donavan. He laughed hard into the phone.

Hoole tried to speak, but Donavan stopped him. “If you ask me, your mayor seems stiff. He needs a makeover, some trendier clothes. He needs to mingle. Get some PR with him on the subway; jogging in central park, and knocking a beer back somewhere. I’m not talking Tavern on the Green. No, some dive bar with a pool table, and a young, but still voter-eligible crowd. He’s missing the metrosexual look altogether. Instead he looks asexual. Get some photos of him dancing with a hot chick. The young people will love it. The older men will be envious, and the older women will think it’s cute. Being dangerous always excites women. Then trot out his adoring wife. His poll numbers will soar.” He briefly paused. “Hope you were taking notes.”

From the phone’s speakers a muffled commotion was heard, followed by Tipton’s voice. The commissioner tried to clear the obstacle discourse. After a few words, he let a more subdued Hoole back in the dialogue.

Donavan peered closely at the phone and then pulled out his cell. He dialed a number, and the auxiliary line on Danko’s phone rang. “Hold on a moment,” Donavan warned. “Phone’s ringing, and this call might
actually
be important.” He then pressed a button and put Hoole and Tipton on mute.

Donavan put his cell phone on Danko’s desk and preened himself. “The art of war. Fluster thy enemy. They don’t want an update, but a chance for that winy, political hack to fire a few salvos at hard working, decent law enforcement officials. Let them stew a bit.”

Ridgewood finally said something. “Donavan, I think you made your point. Enough.”

He smiled at her. “You got it, partner.” He closed his cell and pressed the mute button again. “We’re back,” he sang. “Would you believe it? That was the killer on the other line. He wanted to tell us he was most thankful that a bunch of nitwits in city hall fell for his gambit in incriminating Dominick Presto. He claimed he wanted to send a thank you card. We provided Spencer Mule’s name and address.”

“Fuck you,” hissed Hoole. “Let me speak to Danko.”

Donavan grinned. Now he had Hoole unhinged. “Holy James Watson, Mr. Graham Bell. He can hear you.”

“I want you to stop talking,” Hoole screeched.

Donavan pushed aside a reproachful glare from Ridgewood, put one finger in the air, and then responded to Hoole. “Is it permissible if I hum, yodel, or whistle?”

The banter continued for another five minutes before a completely exasperated Hoole screamed like he’d been electrocuted, and then there was only a dial tone.

After Danko and Donavan commemorated their newfound chumminess with their high handclasp, the team prepared for a day of fieldwork. Once again, they decided to split up. The synergies worked.

No more meetings. It was time for good old-fashioned detective work—investigate and interrogate.