“Why?”
“They will not believe your tale of woe,” Win said, “especially the part about a mystery savior.”
“Meaning they’ll think you killed them?”
“Precisely.”
Win had a point.
“But we’d be able to clear it up,” Myron said.
“Yes perhaps, eventually. But it would take serious time.”
“Time we don’t have.”
“Then you understand.”
Myron thought about it. “But witnesses saw me leave the bar with Pat.”
“So?”
“So the police will question people. They’ll learn about that. They’ll be able to place me at the scene.”
“No more.”
“What?”
“On the phone. No more discussion. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“What about Zorra? What did you do to him?”
But Win was already off the line. Myron hung up the phone. A new set of homeless guys eyed him like he was a dropped sandwich. Myron met their gaze and did not look away until they did. He was not in the mood to be afraid anymore tonight.
A car pulled up in the promised three minutes. A Chevy Nova. Win had a collection of them—all old, all very used, all untraceable. Disposable cars, he called them. Win liked to use them for certain night activities. Don’t ask.
The front passenger door opened. Myron glanced inside and saw Win behind the wheel. Myron slid in next to him.
“The die is cast,” Win said.
“What?”
“The police are already at the scene. It was on the scanner.”
Bad news. “I can still come forward.”
“Yes, of course. And why, Mr. Bolitar, did you not call the police? Why, in fact, did you call your friend before the proper authorities? Are you or are you not suspected of aiding Ms. Esperanza Diaz in the murder of Billy Lee Palms’s oldest friend? What exactly were you doing in that bar in the first place? Why would Mr. Palms want to kill you?”
“It can all be explained.”
Win shrugged. “Your call.”
“Just as it was my call to go alone with Pat.”
“Yes.”
“Which I called wrong.”
“Yes. You were too vulnerable going in like that. There were other ways.”
“What other ways?”
“We could have grabbed Pat at another time and made him tell us.”
“Made him?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, rough him up? Or torture him?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Grow up,” Win said. “It is a simple cost-benefit analysis: By causing temporary discomfort to a malfeasant, you greatly lower the risk of being killed. It’s a no-brainer.” Win glanced at him. “By the way, you look like hell.”
“You should see the other guy,” he said. Then: “Did you kill Zorra?”
Win smiled. “You know me better than that.”
“No, Win, I don’t. Did you kill him?”
Win pulled up to the Biker Wannabee bar. He put the car in park. “Take a look inside.”
“Why are we back here?”
“Two reasons. One, you never left.”
“I didn’t?”
“That’s what I’ll swear to. You were here all night. You just walked Pat out for a moment. Thrill will back me on it.” He smiled. “So will Zorra.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“Her. Zorra prefers to be called a her.”
“Her. You didn’t kill her?”
“Of course not.”
They got out of the car.
“I’m surprised,” Myron said.
“Why?”
“Usually when you threaten—”
“I never threatened Zorra. I threatened Pat. I said I may kill Zorra. But what would have been the point? Should Zorra suffer because a drugged-out psychotic like Billy Lee Palms hangs up a phone? Methinks not.”
Myron shook his head. “You’re a constant surprise.”
Win stopped. “And lately you’re a constant screwup. You got lucky. Zorra said she’d be willing to use her life to guarantee your safety. I recognized that she couldn’t do it. It’s why I told you not to go.”
“I didn’t think I had a choice.”
“Now you know better.”
“Maybe.”
Win put a stilling hand on Myron’s arm. “You’re not over her yet. Esperanza has a point when she tells you that.”
Myron nodded. Win dropped his arm.
“Take this,” Win said, handing him a small bottle. “Please.”
Trial-size mouthwash. Count on Win. They made their way inside the Biker Wannabee. Myron stopped in the bathroom, rinsed out his mouth, splashed water on his face, checked the wound. It hurt. He looked in the mirror. His face was still tan from his three weeks with Terese, but Win was right: He looked like hell.
He met up with Win outside the bathroom door. “You said two reasons before, that there were two reasons you wanted me to come back here.”
“Reason two,” Win said. “Nancy—or Thrill, if you prefer. She was worried about you. I thought it best if you saw her.”
When they reached the corner booth, Zorra and Thrill were busy chatting like, well, two single women at a bar.
Zorra smiled at Myron. “Zorra is sorry, dreamboat.”
“Not your fault,” Myron said.
“Zorra means that they’re dead,” Zorra said. “Zorra would have liked a few hours alone with them first.”
“Yeah,” Myron said. “Pity.”
“Zorra already told Win all Zorra knows, which is very little. Zorra is just a beautiful hired gun. She likes to know as little as possible.”
“But you worked for Pat?”
He-she nodded, but the wig did not. “Zorra was a bouncer and bodyguard. Do you believe that? Zorra Avrahaim having to settle for work as a common bouncer?”
“Yeah, times are tough. So what was Pat into?”
“A little of everything. Mostly drugs.”
“And how were Billy Lee and Pat connected?”
“Billy Lee claimed to be his uncle.” Zorra shrugged. “But that could have been a lie.”
“Did you ever meet Clu Haid?”
“No.”
“Do you know why Billy Lee was hiding?”
“He was terrified. He thought someone was trying to kill him.”
“That someone being me?”