One False Move
Page 10
“No, Frank, we weren’t.”
Frank looked puzzled. “Where were we?”
“On a road in Pennsylvania. You shot out my tires, threatened to kill members of my family, and then you told me to get out of your car before you used my nuts for squirrel food.”
Frank laughed and clapped Myron on the back. “Good times, eh?”
Myron kept very still. “What can I do for you, Frank?”
“You in a rush?”
“Just wanted to get to the heart of it.”
“Hey, Myron.” Frank opened his arms wide. “I’m trying to be friendly here. I’m a changed man. It’s a whole new me.”
“Find religion, did you, Frank?”
“Something like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
Frank’s smile slowly faded. “You like my old ways better?”
“They’re more honest.”
The smile was gone completely now. “You’re doing it again, Myron.”
“What?”
“Crawling up the crack of my ass,” he said. “It cozy up there?”
“Cozy,” Myron said with a nod. “Yeah, Frank, that’s the word I’d use.”
The door behind them opened. Two men came in. One was Roy O’Connor, the figurative president of TruPro. He crept in silently, as though waiting for permission to exist. Probably was. When Frank was around, Roy probably raised his hand before going to the bathroom. The second guy was in his mid-twenties. He was immaculately dressed and looked like an investment banker fresh off his M.B.A.
Myron gave a big wave. “Hi, Roy. Looking good.”
Roy nodded stiffly, sat down.
Frank said, “This here’s my kid, Frankie Junior. Call him FJ.”
“Hi,” Myron said. FJ?
The kid gave him a hard glare and sat down.
“Roy here just hired FJ,” Frank said.
Myron smiled at Roy O’Connor. “The selection process must have been hell, Roy. Combing through all those resumes and everything.”
Roy said nothing.
Frank waddled around the desk. “You and FJ got something in common, Myron.”
“Oh?”
“You went to Harvard, right?”
“For law school,” Myron said.
“FJ got his M.B.A. there.”
Myron nodded. “Like Win.”
His name quieted the room. Roy O’Connor crossed his legs. His face lost color. He had experienced Win up close, but they all knew him. Win would be pleased by the reaction.
The room started up again slowly. Everyone took seats. Frank put two hands the size of canned hams on the desk. “We hear you’re representing Brenda Slaughter,” he said.
“Where did you hear that?”
Frank shrugged as if to say, silly question.
“Is it true, Myron?”
“No.”
“You’re not repping her?”
“That’s right, Frank.”
Frank looked at Roy. Roy sat like hardening plaster. Then he looked at FJ, who was shaking his head.
“Is her old man still her manager?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know, Frank. Why don’t you ask her?”
“You were with her yesterday,” Frank said.
“So?”
“So what were you two doing?”
Myron stretched out his legs, crossing the ankles. “Tell me something, Frank. What’s your interest in all this?”
Frank’s eyes widened. He looked at Roy, then at FJ; then he pointed a meaty finger at Myron. “Pardon my fucking French,” he said, “but do I look like I’m here to answer your fucking questions?”
“The whole new you,” Myron said. “Friendly, changed.”
FJ leaned forward and looked in Myron’s eyes. Myron looked back. There was nothing there. If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, these read NO VACANCY. “Mr. Bolitar?” FJ’s voice was soft and willowy.
“Yes?”
“Fuck you.”
He whispered the words with the strangest smile on his face. He did not lean back after he said it. Myron felt something cold scramble up his back, but he did not look away.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Frank hit a button. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Bolitar’s associate on the line,” a female voice said. “He wanted to speak with you.”
“With me?” Frank said.
“Yes, Mr. Ache.”
Frank looked confused. He shrugged his shoulders and hit a button.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Hello, Francis.”
The room became still as a photograph.
Frank cleared his throat. “Hello, Win.”
“I trust that I am not interrupting,” Win said.
Silence.
“How is your brother, Francis?”
“He’s good, Win.”
“I must give Herman a call. We haven’t hit the links together in ages.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “I’ll tell him you asked for him.”
“Fine, Francis, fine. Well, I must be going. Please give my best to Roy and your charming son. How rude of me not to have said hello earlier.”
Silence.
“Hey, Win?”
“Yes, Francis.”
“I don’t like this cryptic shit, you hear?”
“I hear everything, Francis.”
Click.
Frank Ache gave Myron a hard glare. “Get out.”
“Why are you so interested in Brenda Slaughter?”
Frank lifted himself out of the chair. “Win’s scary,” he said. “But he ain’t bulletproof. Say one more word, and I’ll tie you to a chair and set your dick on fire.”
Myron did not bother with good-byes.
Myron took the elevator down. Win—real name Windsor Horne Lockwood III—stood in the lobby. He was dressed this morning in Late American Prep. Blue blazer, light khakis, white button-down Oxford shirt, loud Lilly Pulitzer tie, the kind with more colors than a gallery at a golf course. His blond hair was parted by the gods, his jaw jutting in that way of his, his cheekbones high and pretty and porcelain, his eyes the blue of ice. To look at Win’s face, Myron knew, was to hate him, was to think elitism, class-consciousness, snobbery, anti-Semitism, racism, old-world money earned from the sweat of other men’s brows, all that. People who judged Windsor Horne Lockwood III solely by appearance were always mistaken. Often dangerously so.
Win did not glance in Myron’s direction. He looked out as though posing for a park statue. “I was just thinking,” Win said.
Frank looked puzzled. “Where were we?”
“On a road in Pennsylvania. You shot out my tires, threatened to kill members of my family, and then you told me to get out of your car before you used my nuts for squirrel food.”
Frank laughed and clapped Myron on the back. “Good times, eh?”
Myron kept very still. “What can I do for you, Frank?”
“You in a rush?”
“Just wanted to get to the heart of it.”
“Hey, Myron.” Frank opened his arms wide. “I’m trying to be friendly here. I’m a changed man. It’s a whole new me.”
“Find religion, did you, Frank?”
“Something like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
Frank’s smile slowly faded. “You like my old ways better?”
“They’re more honest.”
The smile was gone completely now. “You’re doing it again, Myron.”
“What?”
“Crawling up the crack of my ass,” he said. “It cozy up there?”
“Cozy,” Myron said with a nod. “Yeah, Frank, that’s the word I’d use.”
The door behind them opened. Two men came in. One was Roy O’Connor, the figurative president of TruPro. He crept in silently, as though waiting for permission to exist. Probably was. When Frank was around, Roy probably raised his hand before going to the bathroom. The second guy was in his mid-twenties. He was immaculately dressed and looked like an investment banker fresh off his M.B.A.
Myron gave a big wave. “Hi, Roy. Looking good.”
Roy nodded stiffly, sat down.
Frank said, “This here’s my kid, Frankie Junior. Call him FJ.”
“Hi,” Myron said. FJ?
The kid gave him a hard glare and sat down.
“Roy here just hired FJ,” Frank said.
Myron smiled at Roy O’Connor. “The selection process must have been hell, Roy. Combing through all those resumes and everything.”
Roy said nothing.
Frank waddled around the desk. “You and FJ got something in common, Myron.”
“Oh?”
“You went to Harvard, right?”
“For law school,” Myron said.
“FJ got his M.B.A. there.”
Myron nodded. “Like Win.”
His name quieted the room. Roy O’Connor crossed his legs. His face lost color. He had experienced Win up close, but they all knew him. Win would be pleased by the reaction.
The room started up again slowly. Everyone took seats. Frank put two hands the size of canned hams on the desk. “We hear you’re representing Brenda Slaughter,” he said.
“Where did you hear that?”
Frank shrugged as if to say, silly question.
“Is it true, Myron?”
“No.”
“You’re not repping her?”
“That’s right, Frank.”
Frank looked at Roy. Roy sat like hardening plaster. Then he looked at FJ, who was shaking his head.
“Is her old man still her manager?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know, Frank. Why don’t you ask her?”
“You were with her yesterday,” Frank said.
“So?”
“So what were you two doing?”
Myron stretched out his legs, crossing the ankles. “Tell me something, Frank. What’s your interest in all this?”
Frank’s eyes widened. He looked at Roy, then at FJ; then he pointed a meaty finger at Myron. “Pardon my fucking French,” he said, “but do I look like I’m here to answer your fucking questions?”
“The whole new you,” Myron said. “Friendly, changed.”
FJ leaned forward and looked in Myron’s eyes. Myron looked back. There was nothing there. If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, these read NO VACANCY. “Mr. Bolitar?” FJ’s voice was soft and willowy.
“Yes?”
“Fuck you.”
He whispered the words with the strangest smile on his face. He did not lean back after he said it. Myron felt something cold scramble up his back, but he did not look away.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Frank hit a button. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Bolitar’s associate on the line,” a female voice said. “He wanted to speak with you.”
“With me?” Frank said.
“Yes, Mr. Ache.”
Frank looked confused. He shrugged his shoulders and hit a button.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Hello, Francis.”
The room became still as a photograph.
Frank cleared his throat. “Hello, Win.”
“I trust that I am not interrupting,” Win said.
Silence.
“How is your brother, Francis?”
“He’s good, Win.”
“I must give Herman a call. We haven’t hit the links together in ages.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “I’ll tell him you asked for him.”
“Fine, Francis, fine. Well, I must be going. Please give my best to Roy and your charming son. How rude of me not to have said hello earlier.”
Silence.
“Hey, Win?”
“Yes, Francis.”
“I don’t like this cryptic shit, you hear?”
“I hear everything, Francis.”
Click.
Frank Ache gave Myron a hard glare. “Get out.”
“Why are you so interested in Brenda Slaughter?”
Frank lifted himself out of the chair. “Win’s scary,” he said. “But he ain’t bulletproof. Say one more word, and I’ll tie you to a chair and set your dick on fire.”
Myron did not bother with good-byes.
Myron took the elevator down. Win—real name Windsor Horne Lockwood III—stood in the lobby. He was dressed this morning in Late American Prep. Blue blazer, light khakis, white button-down Oxford shirt, loud Lilly Pulitzer tie, the kind with more colors than a gallery at a golf course. His blond hair was parted by the gods, his jaw jutting in that way of his, his cheekbones high and pretty and porcelain, his eyes the blue of ice. To look at Win’s face, Myron knew, was to hate him, was to think elitism, class-consciousness, snobbery, anti-Semitism, racism, old-world money earned from the sweat of other men’s brows, all that. People who judged Windsor Horne Lockwood III solely by appearance were always mistaken. Often dangerously so.
Win did not glance in Myron’s direction. He looked out as though posing for a park statue. “I was just thinking,” Win said.
