The sun was beginning to lower. The beams were now positioned in that one spot high enough to be in Myron’s eyes but still low enough to avoid the sun visor. Myron squinted and slowed. His mind shifted gears again, this time to the aftermath of the Yeller shooting. Somehow Curtis Yeller ended up in his mother’s arms, and somehow somebody got to her. Through either money or fear of reprisal—probably a combination of both—Deanna Yeller had been convinced to let the death of her son slide.
There were problems with this scenario, of course. For example, the money. Deanna Yeller’s son had been murdered six years ago—yet the first big deposit in her account had occurred five months ago. Why the time lapse? She could have been biding her time, hiding the money under a mattress or something. But that didn’t feel right. On the other hand, if the money was indeed new, the questions became more focused: why, all of a sudden, was Deanna getting this money? Why, all of a sudden, had Valerie been murdered? And how did Pavel fit in?
Good questions. No answers yet, but good questions. Maybe Ned Tunwell would know something useful.
Something caught Myron’s eye. He glanced up. A car grew suddenly large in the rearview mirror. A big car. Black with a tinted windshield so you couldn’t see inside. The license plate was New York.
The black car moved to its right, disappearing from the rearview mirror and appearing in the passenger-side mirror. Myron watched its progress. The imprint in the mirror reminded him that objects may be closer than they appear. Thanks for the clue. The black car picked up a little speed. As it came alongside of him, Myron could see it was a stretch limousine. A Lincoln Continental stretch. Extra-long stretch. The side windows too were tinted so you couldn’t look in. It was like staring into a pair of giant aviator sunglasses. Myron could see himself in the reflection. He smiled and waved. His reflection smiled and waved back. Handsome devil.
The limo was dead-even with Myron’s car now. The back window on the driver’s side began to slide open. Myron half expected an elderly man to stick his head out and ask for Grey Poupon. Imagine his surprise when, instead, a gun appeared.
Without warning the gun fired twice, hitting the front and back tires on the passenger side of Myron’s car. Myron swerved. He fought to regain control. The car veered off the road. Myron twisted the wheel and skidded away from a tree. The Ford Taurus came to a stop with a thud.
Two men jumped out of the limousine and headed toward him. Both wore blue suits. One also wore a Yankees cap. Business suit, baseball cap—an interesting fashion combo. They also carried guns. Their faces were stern and ready. Myron felt his heart in his throat. He was unarmed. He didn’t like carrying guns, not for some moral reason but because they were bulky and uncomfortable and he so rarely ever used one. Win had warned him, but who listens to Win on a subject like this? But Myron had been careless. He was pissing off some powerful people and he should have been better prepared. He should have at least kept one in the glove compartment.
A little late for self-admonishments. Then again he might never have the chance again.
The two men approached. Not knowing what else to do, Myron ducked out of sight. He started dialing the car phone.
“Get your ass out of the car,” one of the men barked.
Myron said, “Take another step and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Mr. Bluff.
Silence.
Myron dialed furiously and hit the send button. At that exact moment, he heard a sound like a twig breaking and then static. The goon with the Yankees cap had snapped off his antenna. This wasn’t good. Myron kept himself low. He opened the glove compartment and reached inside. Nothing but maps and registration. His eyes searched the floor anxiously for some sort of weapon. The only thing he saw was the car cigarette lighter. Somehow he doubted that it would be effective against two armed goons. Maps, registration card, cigarette lighter. Unless Myron suddenly became MacGyver, he was in serious trouble.
He could hear footsteps shuffling about now. Myron’s mind raced for an answer. Nothing came to him. Then he heard the car door of the limo open again. A quiet curse followed. Sounded like “Shit.” Then a deep sigh.
“Bolitar, I ain’t here to play no fucking games.”
The voice sent a chill through Myron. Something hardened in his chest. New York accent. More specifically, a Bensonhurst accent. Frank Ache.
This was not good.
“Get the fuck out of the car now, ass-wipe. I ain’t here to kill you.”
“Your men just shot out my tires,” Myron called back.
“Right, and if I wanted you dead, they would have shot out your fucking head.”
Myron mulled that one over. “Good point,” he said.
“Yeah, how about this one? I got two AK’s sitting in the back here. If I wanted you dead, I could have Billy and Tony spray-paint this piece of shit you call a car with them.”
“Another good point,” Myron said.
“Now get the fuck out here,” Frank barked. “I don’t got all goddamn day. Ass-wipe.”
Myron didn’t really have a choice. He opened the car and stood. Frank Ache ducked back into the backseat. Billy and Tony scowled at him.
“Get in here,” Frank called out.
Myron walked to the car. Billy and Tony blocked his path. “Give me your gun,” the one with the Yankees cap said.
“Are you Billy or Tony?”
“The gun. Now.”
Myron squinted at the baseball cap. “Wait a second, I get it. Plugs, right?”
“What?”
“Wearing a baseball cap with a suit. You’re covering up new hair plugs.”
The two men exchanged a glance. Bingo, Myron thought.
“Now, ass-wipe,” the cap man said. “The gun.”
Ass-wipe. The goon word of the week. “You didn’t say please.”
Frank’s voice came from inside the car. “Jesus Christ, Billy, he don’t have no piece. He was just yanking your hardware.”
Billy’s scowl grew angrier. Myron smiled, turned his palms to the sky, shrugged.
Tony opened the door. Myron slid into the backseat. Tony and Billy moved into the front. Frank pressed a button and a partition slid up, separating the back compartment from the front seats. The limo had a wet bar and television with VCR. The inside was sort of a royal red, blood-red actually, which, knowing Frank’s history, probably helped cut down on the cost of cleanings.
“Nice wheels, Frank,” Myron said.
Frank wore his customary garb—a velour sweat suit a couple of sizes too small. This one was green with yellow trim. The front zipper was down midway, like those guys in the seventies wore at discos. His gut was enormous enough to be mistaken for a multiple gestation. He was bald. He stared at Myron for several seconds before he spoke.