Win called. “Newspaper Tail’s name is Wayne Tunis. He lives in Staten Island and works in construction. He placed one call to a John McClain, telling him that he had been spotted. That’s it. They’re pretty careful.”
“So we don’t yet know who hired him?”
“That would be correct.”
“When in doubt,” Myron said, “we should go with the obvious choice.”
“Young FJ?”
“Who else? He’s been following me for months.”
“Course of action?”
“I’d like to get him off my back.”
“May I recommend a well-placed bullet through the back of the skull?”
“We’ve got enough problems without adding one more.”
“Fine. Course of action?”
“We confront him.”
“He usually hangs out at a Starbucks on Forty-ninth Street,” Win said.
“Starbucks?”
“The old mob espresso bars have gone the way of leisure suits and disco music.”
“Both of them are coming back.”
“No,” Win said, “bizarre mutations of them are coming back.”
“Like coffee bars in place of espresso bars?”
“Then you understand.”
“So let’s pay FJ a visit.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Win said before hanging up.
As soon as Myron hit the disconnect, Big Cyndi buzzed his line.
“Mr. Bolitar?”
“Yes?”
“A Miss or Mr. Thrill is on the phone,” Big Cyndi said.
Myron closed his eyes. “You mean from last night?”
“Unless you know someone else named Thrill, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Take a message.”
“Both her words and tone suggest urgency, Mr. Bolitar.”
Suggest urgency? “Fine. Patch her—or him—through.”
“Yes, Mr. Bolitar.”
There was a click.
“Myron?”
“Uh, yeah, hi, Thrill.”
“That was some exit you made last night, big fella,” Thrill said. “You really know how to impress a girl.”
“Yeah, I usually don’t jump through a plate glass window until the second date.”
“So how come you haven’t called me?”
“I’ve been really busy.”
“I’m downstairs,” Thrill said. “Tell the guard to let me up.”
“It’s not a good time. Like I said before—”
“Men rarely say no to Thrill. I must be losing my touch.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that the timing is all wrong.”
“Myron, my name isn’t really Thrill.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I kinda suspected it read something else on your birth certificate.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Look, let me up. We need to talk about last night. About something that happened after you left.”
So he shrugged and called down to the guard at the front desk and told him to let up anyone identifying themselves as Thrill. The guard was puzzled but said okay. The headset was still strapped on so Myron speed-dialed a sports apparel company. Before dashing to the Caribbean, Myron had been on the verge of landing a sneaker deal for a track and field client with said company. But now he was being put on hold. An assistant to an assistant finally came on the line. Myron asked him about the deal. It had fallen through, he was told. Why? he asked.
“Ask your client,” the assistant said. “Oh, and ask his new agent too.”
Click.
Myron closed his eyes and pulled off his headset. Damn.
There was a knock on his office door. The alien sound caused a ripple of pain. Esperanza had never knocked. Never. She prided herself on interrupting him. She would sooner give up a limb than knock.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Someone stepped inside and said, “Surprise.”
Myron tried not to stare. He took off the headset.
“You’re …?”
“Thrill, yup.”
Nothing was the same. Gone was the Cat Woman costume, the blond wig, the high heels, the, uh, prodigious bosom. Thrill was still female, thank heavens. Still quite attractive in her conservative navy suit with matching blouse, her hair done in a pixie style, her eyes less luminous behind round tortoiseshell glasses, her makeup now applied with a far lighter hand. Her figure was thinner, more toned, less, uh, shapely. Nothing to complain about, mind you. Just different.
“To answer your first question,” she said, “when I dress like Thrill, I wear the aptly named Raquel Wonder Breast Enhancements.”
Myron nodded. “That the stuff that looks like flattened Silly Putty?”
“The very. You jam them in your bra. Guess you’ve seen the infomercial on TV.”
“Seen it? I bought the video.”
Thrill laughed. Last night her laugh—not to mention her walk, her movements, her tone of voice, her choice of words—had been a double entendre. In the light of day the sound was melodic and almost childlike.
“I also strap on the aptly named Miracle Bra,” she continued. “To lift it all up high.”
“Any higher,” Myron said, “and they could have doubled as earrings.”
“Too true,” she said. “The legs and ass, however, are mine. And for the record, I do not have a penis.”
“So noted.”
“Can I sit down?”
Myron looked at his watch. “I hate to be a pest—”
“You’ll want to hear, this, believe me.” She sat in the chair in front of his desk. Myron folded his arms and leaned his butt on the desk’s lip. “My real name is Nancy Sinclair. I don’t dress like Thrill for kicks. I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a story on Take A Guess. An insider’s look at what goes on, what kind of people go there, what makes them tick. In order to get people to open up, I go undercover as Thrill.”
“So you do all this for a story?”
“I do all what?”
“Dress up and, uh …” His gestures were unintelligible.
“Not that I see where it’s even vaguely any of your concern, but the answer is no. I dress a part. I strike up conversations. I flirt. Period. I like to watch people’s reaction to me.”
“Oh.” Then Myron cleared his throat and said, “Just, uh, out of curiosity, I’m not going to be in your story, am I? I mean, I’ve really never been there before and I was—”