“Bitch!” the old man managed through the good side of his face.
“Up yours too, Lou,” Hester called out after him.
The old man stopped, looked like he wanted to say something more, limped off.
Myron and Win exchanged a glance and approached.
“Old adversary,” she said in way of explanation. “You ever hear the old adage that only the good die young?”
“Uh, sure.”
Hester Crimstein gestured with both hands at the old couple like Carol Merrill showing off a brand-new car. “There’s your proof. Couple years back I helped his children sue the son of a bitch. You never saw anything like it.” She tilted her head. “Ever notice how some people are like jackals?”
“Pardon?”
“They eat their young. That’s Lou. And don’t even get me started on that shriveled-up witch he lives with. Five-dollar whore who hit the jackpot. Hard to believe looking at her now.”
“I see,” Myron said, though he didn’t. He tried to push ahead. “Ms. Crimstein, my name is—”
“Myron Bolitar,” she interrupted. “By the way, that’s a horrid name. Myron. What were your parents thinking?”
A very good question. “If you know who I am, then you know why I’m here.”
“Yes and no,” Hester said.
“Yes and no?”
“Well, I know who you are because I’m a sports nut. I used to watch you play. That NCAA championship game against Indiana was a frigging classic. I know the Celtics drafted you in the first round, what, eleven, twelve years ago?”
“Something like that.”
“But frankly—and I mean no offense here—I’m not sure you had the speed to be a great pro, Myron. The shot, sure. You could always shoot. You could be physical. But what are you, six-five?”
“About that.”
“You would have had a tough time in the NBA. One woman’s opinion. But of course the fates took care of that by blowing out your knee. Only an alternate universe knows the truth.” She smiled. “Nice chatting with you.” She looked over at Win. “You too, gabby boy. Good night.”
“Wait a second,” Myron said. “I’m here about Esperanza Diaz.”
She faked a gasp of surprise. “Really? And here I thought you just wanted to reminisce about your athletic career.”
He looked at Win. “The charm,” Win whispered.
Myron turned back toward Hester. “Esperanza is my friend,” he said.
“So?”
“So I want to help.”
“Great. I’ll start sending you the bills. This case is going to cost a bundle. I’m very expensive, you know. You can’t believe the upkeep of this building. And now the doormen want new uniforms. Something in mauve, I think.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh?”
“I’d like to know what’s going on with the case.”
She scrunched up her face. “Where have you been the last few weeks?”
“Away.”
“Where away?”
“The Caribbean.”
She nodded. “Nice tan.”
“Thanks.”
“But you could have gotten it at a tanning booth. You look like the kind of guy who hangs out at tanning booths.”
Myron looked at Win again. “The charm, Luke,” Win whispered, doing his best Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan Kenobi. “Remember the charm.”
“Ms. Crimstein—”
“Anyone who can verify your whereabouts in the Caribbean, Myron?”
“Pardon me?”
“Hearing problems? I asked if anyone can verify your whereabouts at the time of the alleged murder.”
Alleged murder. The guy is shot three times in his home, but the murder is only “alleged.” Lawyers. “Why do you want to know that?”
Hester Crimstein shrugged. “The alleged murder weapon was allegedly found at the offices of one MB SportsReps. That’s your company, is it not?”
“It is.”
“And you use the company car where the alleged blood and alleged fibers were allegedly found.”
Win said, “The key word here is alleged.”
Hester Crimstein looked at Win. “It speaks.”
Win smiled.
Myron said, “You think I’m a suspect?”
“Sure, why not? It’s called reasonable doubt, sweet buns. I’m a defense attorney. We’re big on reasonable doubt.”
“Much as I’d like to help, there was a witness to my whereabouts.”
“Who?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Another shrug. “You’re the one who said you wanted to help. Good night.” She looked at Win. “By the way, you’re the perfect man—good-looking and nearly mute.”
“Careful,” Win said to her.
“Why?”
Win pointed at Myron with his thumb. “Any minute now he’s going to turn on the charm and reduce your willpower to rubble.”
She looked at Myron and burst out laughing.
Myron tried again. “So what happened?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m her friend.”
“Yeah, I think you already said that.”
“I’m her best friend. I care about her.”
“Fine. Tomorrow I’ll pass her a note during study hall, find out if she likes you too. Then you can meet at Pop’s and share a soda.”
“That’s not what I—” Myron stopped, gave her the slow, slightly put-out-but-here-to-help smile. Smile 18: the Michael Landon model, except he couldn’t crinkle the eyebrow. “I’d just like to know what happened. You can appreciate that.”
Her face softened, and she nodded. “You went to law school, right?”
“Yes.”
“At Harvard no less.”
“Yes.”
“So maybe you were absent the day they went over a little something we call attorney-client privilege. I can recommend some wonderful books on the subject, if you’d like. Or maybe you can watch any episode of Law & Order. They usually talk about it right before the old DA grouses to Sam Waterston that he’s got no case and should cut a deal.”
So much for charm. “You’re just covering your ass,” Myron said.
She looked behind her and down. Then she frowned. “No easy task, I assure you.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a hotshot attorney.”