“The key word here being perhaps.”
Win smiled. “Love me for all my faults.”
“What else is there?”
Win adjusted his tie. “FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks. Shall we?”
“Let’s. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.”
“Sounds almost like a plan,” Win said.
They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the corner. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, “Yeah, baby, like that,” and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.
“About tonight,” Win said.
“Yes.”
“You trust this Thrill?”
“She checks out.”
“There is of course a chance that they’ll just shoot you when you show up.”
“I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn’t want the trouble in his own place.”
“So you think they’re extending this invitation to buy you a drink?”
“Could be,” Myron said. “With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I’m considered something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.”
Win chose not to argue.
They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. “Young FJ is at a table with someone,” Win reported. “Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.”
Myron nodded. “Shall we?”
“You first,” Win said. “Let me trail.”
Myron had stopped questioning Win’s methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside and headed toward FJ’s table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.
FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers’ direction. Hans and Franz froze.
“Hi, FJ,” Myron said.
FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. “Ah, Myron,” he said with what he must have been sure was savoir faire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. “Please, Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.”
“Oh?”
“You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit.” FJ tossed Myron the snake smile. Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. “I guess it’s kismet, huh, Myron? Your coming here. Pure kismet.”
FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.
“Kismet,” Myron repeated. “Good one.”
FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, I got a million like that. “Please sit, Myron.”
Myron pulled out a chair.
“Care for a drink?”
“An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.”
FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar.
“He’s new,” FJ confided.
“Who?”
“The guy working the espresso machine. The last guy who worked here made a wonderful latte. But he quit for moral reasons.”
“Moral reasons?”
“They started selling Kenny G CDs,” FJ said. “Suddenly he couldn’t sleep at night. It was tearing him apart. Suppose an impressionable kid bought one? How could he live with himself? Pushing caffeine was okay. But Kenny G … the man had scruples.”
Myron said, “Commendable.”
Win chose that moment to enter. FJ spotted him and looked over at Hans and Franz. Win did not hesitate. He beelined straight toward FJ’s table. Hans and Franz went to work. They stepped in Win’s path and expanded their chests to dimensions large enough to apply for a parking permit. Win kept walking. Both men wore turtlenecks so high and loose they looked like something awaiting circumcision.
Hans managed a smirk. “You Win?”
“Yes,” Win said, “me Win.”
“You don’t look so tough.” Hans looked at Franz.
“He look tough to you, Keith?”
Keith said, “Not so tough.”
Win did not break stride. Almost casually and without the slightest warning, he struck Hans with the knife-edge of his hand behind the ear. Hans’s whole body stiffened and then collapsed as though someone had ripped the skeleton out of him. Franz gaped at the sight. But not for long. In the same motion Win pirouetted and struck Franz in the oft vulnerable throat. An awful gurgling noise shot out of Franz’s lips, as though he were choking on a slew of small bones. Win reached for the carotid artery, found it, and squeezed with his pointer and thumb. Franz’s eyes closed, and he too slid into Nighty-Night Land.
The couple at the other table exited quickly. Win smiled down at the unconscious bruisers. Then he glanced at Myron. Myron shook his head. Win shrugged and turned to the guy manning the coffee bar.
“Barista,” Win said. “One caffe mocha.”
“What size?”
“Grande, please.”
“Skim or whole milk?”
“Skim. I’m watching my figure.”
“Right away.”
Win joined Myron and FJ. He sat and crossed his legs.
“Nice sports coat, FJ.”
“Glad you like it, Win.”
“It really brings out the demonic red in your eyes.”
“Thank you.”
“So where were we?”
Myron played along. “I was just about to tell FJ that I’m getting a little tired of the tail.”
“And I was just about to tell Myron that I’m getting tired of him meddling in my affairs,” FJ said.
Myron looked at Win. “Meddling? Does anybody really use that word anymore?”
Win thought about it. “The old man at the end of every Scooby Doo.”
“Right. You meddling kids, stuff like that.”
“You will never guess who does the voice for Shaggy,” Win said.