Myron made a face. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“Put it on. Then lie down in the backseat. Don’t look up.”
Myron rolled his eyes, but he did as he was asked. His six-four frame wasn’t all that comfortable, but he made do. Big of him. Pat got in the front seat and started the car.
“Quick suggestion,” Myron said.
“What did you say?”
“Next time you do this, try vacuuming out the car first. It’s disgusting back here.”
Pat drove. Myron tried to concentrate, listening for sounds that would give him a clue where they were going. That always worked on TV. The guy would hear, say, a boat horn and know he’d gone to Pier 12 or something, and they’d all rush in and find him. But all Myron heard were, not surprisingly, traffic noises: the occasional horn, cars passing or being passed, loud radios, that kind of thing. He tried to keep track of turns and distances but quickly realized the futility. What did he think he was, a human compass?
The drive lasted maybe ten minutes. Not enough time to leave the city. Clue: He was still in Manhattan. Gee, that was helpful. Pat turned off the engine.
“You can sit up,” he said. “But keep the hood on.”
“You sure the hood goes with this ensemble? I want to look my best for Mr. Big.”
“Someone once tell you were funny, Bolitar?”
“You’re right. Black goes with everything.”
Pat sighed. When nervous, some people run. Some hide. Some grow silent. Some get chatty. And some make dumb jokes.
Pat helped Myron out of the car and led him by the elbow. Myron again tried to pick up sounds. The cooing of a seagull maybe. That too always seemed to happen on TV. But in New York seagulls didn’t coo as much as phlegm cough. And if you heard a seagull in New York, it was more likely you were near a trash canister than a pier. Myron tried to think of the last time he had seen a seagull in New York. There was a picture of one on a sign for his favorite bagel store. Caption: “If a bird flying over the sea is a seagull, what do you call a bird flying over the bay?” Clever when you think about it.
The two men walked—where to, Myron had no idea. He stumbled on uneven pavement, but Pat kept him upright. Another clue. Find the spot in Manhattan with uneven pavement. Christ, he practically had the guy cornered.
They walked up what felt like a stoop and entered a room with heat and humidity slightly more stifling than a Burmese forest fire. Myron was still blindfolded, but light from what might be a bare bulb filtered through the cloth. The room reeked of mildew and steam and dried sweat—like the most popular sauna at Jack La Lanne’s gone to seed. It was hard to breathe through the hood. Pat put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.
“Sit,” Pat said before pushing down slightly.
Myron sat. He heard Pat’s footsteps, then low voices. Whispers actually. Mostly from Pat. An argument of some sort. Footsteps again. Coming closer to Myron. A body suddenly cut off the bare lightbulb, bathing Myron in total darkness. One more step. Someone stopped directly over him.
“Hello, Myron,” the voice said.
There was a tremor there, an almost manic twang in the tone. But there was no doubt. Myron was not great with names and faces, but voices were imprints. Memories flooded in. After all these years his recall was instantaneous.
“Hello, Billy Lee.”
The missing Billy Lee Palms, to be exact. Former frat brother and Duke baseball star. Former best bud of Clu Haid. Son of Mrs. My-Life-Is-but-a-Wallpaper-Tapestry.
“Mind if I take the hood off now?” Myron asked.
“Not at all.”
Myron reached up and grabbed the top of the hood. He pulled it off. Billy Lee was standing over him. Or at least he assumed it was Billy Lee. It was as if the former pretty boy had been kidnapped and replaced with this fleshier counterpart. Billy Lee’s formerly prominent cheekbones looked malleable, tallow skin in mid-shed clung to sagging features, his eyes sunken deeper than any pirate treasure, his complexion the gray of a city street after a rainfall. His hair was greasy and jutting all over the place, as unwashed as any MTV video jockey’s.
Billy Lee was also holding what looked liked a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from Myron’s face.
“He’s holding what looks like a sawed-off shotgun about six inches from my face,” Myron said for the benefit of the cell phone.
Billy Lee giggled. That sound too was familiar.
“Bonnie Franklin,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Last night. You were the one who hit me with the cattle prod.”
Billy Lee spread his hands impossibly wide. “Bingo, baby!”
Myron shook his head. “You definitely look better with the makeup, Billy Lee.”
Billy Lee giggled again and retrained the shotgun on Myron. Then he held out his free hand. “Give me the phone.”
Myron hesitated but not for long. The sunken eyes, once Myron could see them, were wet and unfocused and tinged with a dull red. Billy Lee’s body was one tremor. Myron checked out the short sleeves and saw the needle tracks. Billy Lee looked like the wildest and most unpredictable of animals: a cornered junkie. Myron handed him the phone. Billy Lee put it to his ear.
“Win?”
Win’s voice was clear. “Yes, Billy Lee.”
“Go to hell.”
Billy Lee giggled again. Then he clicked off the phone, untethering them from the outside world, and Myron felt the dread rise in his chest.
Billy Lee stuck the phone in Myron’s pocket and looked over at Pat. “Tie him to the chair.”
Pat said, “What?”
“Tie him to the chair. There’s rope right behind it.”
“Tie him how? I look like a goddamn Boy Scout?”
“Just wrap it around him and tie a knot. I want to slow him down in case he gets dumb before I kill him.”
Pat moved toward Myron. Billy Lee kept an eye on Myron.
Myron said, “It’s not really a good idea to upset Win.”
“Win doesn’t scare me.”
Myron shook his head.
“What?”
“I knew you were strung out,” Myron said. “But I didn’t realize how badly.”
Pat started winding the rope around Myron’s chest. “Maybe you should call him back,” Pat said. If the San Andreas quaked like his voice, they’d be calling for an evacuation. “We don’t need him searching for us too, you know what I’m saying?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Billy Lee said.
“And Zorra’s still there—”