“Actually, Ellen, go ahead and cook something. I need to drop a few pounds.”
“Wow, what a knee slapper, Al. You’re killing me here.”
“Better than a fat farm.”
“Ho-ho.”
“Just the thought is better than an appetite suppressor.”
“It’s like being married to Shecky Greene.” But she was smiling.
They were in the house now. Dad took Mom’s hand. “Let me show you something, Ellen,” Dad said. “See that big metal box over there? That’s called an oven. O-v-e-n. Oven. See that knob, the one with all the numbers on it? That’s how you turn it on.”
“You’re funnier than a sober Foster Brooks, Al.”
But they were all smiling now. Dad was speaking the truth. Mom didn’t cook. Almost never did. Her culinary skills could cause a prison riot. When he was a kid, Myron’s favorite home-cooked dinner was Dad’s scrambled eggs. Mom was an early career woman. The kitchen was a place to read magazines.
“What do you want to eat, Myron?” Mom asked. “Chinese maybe. From Fong’s?”
“Sure.”
“Al, call Fong’s. Order something.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure you get shrimp with lobster sauce.”
“I know.”
“Myron loves Fong’s shrimp with lobster sauce.”
“I know, Ellen. I raised him too, remember?”
“You might forget.”
“We’ve been ordering from Fong’s for twenty-three years. We always order shrimp with lobster sauce.”
“You might forget, Al. You’re getting old. Didn’t you forget to pick up my blouse at the laundry two days ago?”
“It was closed.”
“So you never picked up my blouse, am I right?”
“Of course not.”
“I rest my case.” She looked at her son. “Myron, sit. We need to talk. Al, call Fong’s.”
The men obeyed her orders. As always. Myron and Mom sat at the kitchen table.
“Listen to me closely,” Mom said. “I know Esperanza is your friend. But Hester Crimstein is a fine lawyer. If she told Esperanza not to talk to you, it’s the right thing.”
“How do you know—”
“I’ve known Hester for years.” Mom was a defense attorney, one of the best in the state. “We’ve worked cases together before. She called me. She said you’re interfering.”
“I’m not interfering.”
“Actually she said you’re bothering her and to butt out.”
“She talked to you about this?”
“Of course. She wants you to leave her client alone.”
“I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
Myron squirmed a bit. “I have some information that might be important.”
“Such as?”
“According to Clu’s wife, he was having an affair.”
“And you think Hester doesn’t know that? The DA thinks he was having an affair with Esperanza.”
“Wait a second.” It was Dad. “I thought Esperanza was a lesbian.”
“She’s a bisexual, Al.”
“A what?”
“Bisexual. It means she likes both boys and girls.”
Dad thought about that. “I guess that’s a good thing to be.”
“What?”
“I mean, it gives you double the options of everyone else.”
“Great, Al, thanks for the insight.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to Myron. “So Hester already knows that. What else?”
“Clu was desperate to find me before he was killed,” Myron said.
“Most logically, bubbe, to say something incriminating about Esperanza.”
“Not necessarily. Clu came to the loft. He told Jessica that I was in danger.”
“And you think he meant it?”
“No, he was probably exaggerating. But shouldn’t Hester Crimstein judge the significance?”
“She already has.”
“What?”
“Clu came here too, darling.” Her voice was suddenly soft. “He told your father and me the same thing he told Jessica.”
Myron didn’t push it. If Clu had told his parents the same thing he told Jessica, if he had used all that death talk when Mom and Dad didn’t know where Myron was …
As though reading his mind, Dad said, “I called Win. He said you were safe.”
“Did he tell you where I was?”
Mom took that one. “We didn’t ask.”
Silence.
She reached over and put a hand on his arm. “You’ve been through a lot, Myron. Your father and I know that.”
They both looked at him with the deep-caring eyes. They knew part of what happened. About his breakup with Jessica. About Brenda. But they would never know it all.
“Hester Crimstein knows what’s she doing,” Mom went on. “You have to let her do her job.”
More silence.
“Al?”
“What?”
“Hang up the phone,” she said. “Maybe we should go out to eat.”
Myron checked his watch. “It’ll have to be quick. I have to get back to the city.”
“Oh?” Mom raised an eyebrow. “You have a date already?”
He thought about Big Cyndi’s description of Take A Guess.
“Not likely,” he said. “But you never know.”
Chapter 15
From the outside Take A Guess looked pretty much like your standard Manhattan cantina-as-pickup-joint. The building was brick, the windows darkened to highlight the neon beer signs. Above the door, faded lettering spelled out Take A Guess. That was it. No “Bring Your Perversions.” No “The Kinkier the Better.” No “You Better Like Surprises.” Nothing. A suit trudging home might happen by here, stop in, lay down his briefcase, spot something attractive, buy it a drink, make a few quasi-smooth moves warmed over from college mixers, take it home. Surprise, surprise.
Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire—not so much any one member as the entire group. “Ready?”
Myron hesitated, nodded.
When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he’d visualized. He had expected something … blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in Star Wars maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles’ joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you’d be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn’t have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn’t wear a facade at a singles’ bar?