“Dad—”
And then he started bawling too. Stereo bawling. Myron held the phone away from his ear for a moment.
“I was in the Caribbean,” he said, “not Beirut.”
An explosion of laughter from both. Then more crying. Myron looked at Win. Win sat impassively. Myron rolled his eyes, but of course he was also pleased. Complain all you want, but who didn’t want to be loved like this?
His parents settled into a meaningless chatter—meaningless on purpose, Myron supposed. While they could undoubtedly be pests, Mom and Dad had a wonderful ability to know when to back off. He managed to explain where he’d been. They listened in silence. Then his mother asked, “So where are you calling us from?”
“Win’s airplane.”
Stereo gasps now. “What?”
“Win’s company has a private jet. I just told you he picked me—”
“And you’re calling on his phone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea how much that costs?”
“Mom …”
But the meaningless chatter died down in a hurry then. When Myron hung up seconds later, he sat back. The guilt came again, bathing him in something ice cold. His parents were not young anymore. He hadn’t thought about that before he ran. He hadn’t thought about a lot of things.
“I shouldn’t have done that to them,” Myron said. “Or you.”
Win shifted in his seat—major body language for him. Candi wiggled back into view. She lowered a screen and hit a switch. A Woody Allen film came on. Love and Death. Ambrosia of the mind. They watched without speaking. When it was over, Candi asked Myron if he wanted to take a shower before they landed.
“Excuse me?” Myron said.
Candi giggled, called him a “Big Silly,” and wiggled away.
“A shower?”
“There’s one in the back,” Win said. “I also took the liberty of bringing you a change of clothes.”
“You are a friend.”
“I am indeed, Big Silly.”
Myron showered and dressed, and then everyone buckled their seat belts for approach. The plane descended without delay, the landing so smooth it could have been choreographed by the Temptations. A stretch limousine was waiting for them on the dark tarmac. When they got off the plane, the air felt strange and unfamiliar, as though he’d been visiting another planet rather than another country. It was also raining hard. They ran down the steps and into the already-open limo doors.
They shook off the wet. “I assume that you’ll be staying with me,” Win said.
Myron had been living in a loft down on Spring Street with Jessica. But that was before. “If it’s okay.”
“It’s okay.”
“I could move back in with my folks—”
“I said, it’s okay.”
“I’ll find my own place.”
“No rush,” Win said. The limousine started up. Win steepled his fingers. He always did that. It looked good on him. Still holding the steeple, he bounced his forefingers against his lips. “I’m not the best one to discuss these matters with,” he said, “but if you want to talk about Jessica or Brenda or whatever …” He released the steeple, made a waving motion with his right hand. Win was trying. Matters of the heart were not his forte. His feelings on romantic entanglement could objectively be labeled “appalling.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Myron said.
“Fine then.”
“Thanks, though.”
Quick nod.
After more than a decade struggling with Jessica—years of being in love with the same woman, having one major breakup, finding each other again, taking tentative steps, growing, finally moving in together again—it was over.
“I miss Jessica,” Myron said.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”
“Sorry.”
Win shifted in his seat again. “No, go on.” Like he’d rather have an anal probe.
“It’s just that … I guess part of me will always be enmeshed in Jessica.”
Win nodded. “Like something in a machinery mishap.”
Myron smiled. “Yeah. Like that.”
“Then slice off the limb and leave it behind.”
Myron looked at his friend.
Win shrugged. “I’ve been watching Sally Jessy on the side.”
“It shows,” Myron said.
“The episode entitled ‘Mommy Took Away My Nipple Ring,’” Win said. “I’m not afraid to say it made me cry.”
“Good to see you getting in touch with your sensitive side.” As if Win had one. “So what next?”
Win checked his watch. “I have a contact at the Bergen County house of detention. He should be in by now.” He hit the speakerphone and pressed in some numbers. They listened to the phone ring. After two rings a voice said, “Schwartz.”
“Brian, this is Win Lockwood.”
The usual reverent hush when you first hear that name. Then: “Hey, Win.”
“I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Esperanza Diaz. Is she there?”
Brief pause. “You didn’t hear it from me,” Schwartz said.
“Hear what?”
“Good, okay, long as we understand each other,” he said. “Yeah, she’s here. They dragged her through here in cuffs a coupla hours ago. Very hush-hush.”
“Why hush-hush?”
“Don’t know.”
“When is she being arraigned?”
“Tomorrow morning, I guess.”
Win looked at Myron. Myron nodded. Esperanza would be held overnight. This was not a good thing.
“Why did they arrest her so late?”
“Don’t know.”
“And you saw them drag her in cuffs?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t they let her surrender on her own?”
“Nope.”
Again the two friends looked at each other. The late arrest. The handcuffs. The overnight. Someone in the DA’s office was pissed off and trying to make a point. Very not a good thing.
“What else can you tell me?” Win asked.
“Not much. Like I said, they’re being quiet on this one. The DA hasn’t even released it to the media yet. But he will. Probably before the eleven o’clock news. Quick statement, no time for questions, that kind of thing. Hell, I wouldn’t know about it if I wasn’t a big fan.”