DARKEST FEAR (21 page)

“There a reason you raised this particular hypothetical?” Dad asked.

“No.”

Dad nodded. He knew it was a lie, but he wouldn’t push it. They settled back and watched the familiar surroundings.

“Tai chi isn’t so bad,” Myron said. “It’s a martial art. Like tae kwon do. I’ve been thinking of taking it up myself.”

Dad took another sip. Myron sneaked a glance. Something on his father’s face began to quiver. Was Dad indeed getting smaller, more fragile—or was it like the backyard and safety, again the shifting perception of a child turned adult?

“Dad …?”

“Let’s go inside,” his father said, standing. “We stay out much longer, one of us is going to get misty and say, ‘Wanna play catch?’ ”

Myron bit off a laugh and followed him inside. Mom came home not long after that, lugging two bags of food as though they were stone tablets. “Everybody hungry?” she called out.

“Starving,” Dad said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a vegetarian.”

“Very funny, Al.”

“Or even your cooking …”

“Ha-ha,” Mom said.

“ … though I’d prefer the vegetarian.”

“Stop it, Al, I’m going to phlegm up, you keep making me laugh like this.” Mom dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter. “See, Myron? It’s a good thing your mother is shallow.”

“Shallow?” Myron asked.

“If I judged a man on brains or sense of humor,” Mom continued, “you’d have never been born.”

“Right-o,” Dad said with a hearty smile. “But one look at your old man in a bathing suit and whammo—all mine.”

“Oh please,” Mom said.

“Yes,” Myron said. “Please.”

They both looked at him. Mom cleared her throat. “So did you two, uh, have a nice talk?”

“We talked,” Dad said. “It was very life-affirming. I see the errors of my ways.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. I see everything differently now.”

She put her arms around his waist and nuzzled him. “So you’ll call Heshy?”

“I’ll call Heshy,” he said.

“Promise.”

“Yes, Ellen, I promise.”

“You’ll go to the Y and do jai alai with him?”

“Tai chi,” Dad corrected.

“What?”

“It’s called tai chi, not jai alai.”

“I thought it was jai alai.”

“Tai chi. Jai alai is the game with the curved rackets down in Florida.”

“That’s shuffleboard, Al.”

“Not shuffleboard. The other thing with the sticks. And the gambling.”

“Tai chi?” Mom said, testing it for sound. “Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“But you’re not positive?”

“No, I’m not positive,” Dad said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is called jai alai.”

The name debate continued for a while. Myron didn’t bother correcting them. Never cut in on that strange dance known as marital discourse. They ate the health food. It was indeed nasty. They laughed a lot. His parents must have said “You don’t know what you’re talking about” to each other fifty times; maybe it was a euphemism for “I love you.”

Eventually Myron said good night. Mom kissed his cheek and made herself scarce. Dad walked him to the
car. The night was silent save a lone dribbling basketball somewhere on Darby Road or maybe Coddington Terrace. A nice sound. When he hugged his father good-bye, Myron again noticed that his father felt smaller, less substantial. Myron held on a little longer than usual. For the first time he felt like the bigger man, the stronger man, and he suddenly remembered what Dad had said about reversing roles. So he held on in the dark. Time passed. Dad patted his back. Myron kept his eyes closed and held on tighter. Dad stroked his hair and shushed him. Just for a little while. Just until the roles reversed themselves again, returning both of them to where they belonged.

G
ranite Man was waiting outside the Dakota. Myron spotted him from his car. He picked up the cell phone and called Win. “I have company.”

“A rather large gentleman, yes,” Win said. “Two cohorts are parked across the street in a corporate vehicle owned by the Lex family.”

“I’ll leave the cell phone on.”

“They confiscated it last time,” Win said.

“Yes.”

“Likely they’ll do the same.”

“We’ll improvise.”

“Your funeral,” Win said, and hung up.

Myron parked in the lot and approached Granite Man.

“Mrs. Lex would like to see you,” Granite Man said.

“Do you know what she wants?” Myron asked.

Granite Man ignored the question.

“Maybe she saw me flexing on the security tape,” Myron said. “Wanted to get to know me better.”

Granite Man did not laugh. “You ever think about doing this comedy thing professionally?”

“There have been offers.”

“I bet. Get in the car.”

“Okay, but I have a curfew, you know. And I never French-kiss on the first date. Just so we understand each other.”

Granite Man shook his head. “Man, I’d like to waste you.”

They got in the car. Two blue-blazers sat in front. The car ride was silent except for Granite Man and His Magic Cracking Knuckles. The Lex building emerged grudgingly through the dark. Myron traveled through the security travail again. As Win predicted, they confiscated his phone. Granite Man and the two blazers turned left this time instead of right. They escorted him into an elevator. It opened into what appeared to be living quarters.

Susan Lex’s office had been done sort of Renaissance palatial, but the apartment up here—it looked like an apartment anyway—did a one-eighty. Modern and minimalism were the major themes. The walls were painted stark white and had nothing on them. The floors were a pigeon-gray wood. There were black and white bookshelves made of fiberglass, most empty, some with indistinct figurines. The couch was red and shaped like two lips. There was a well-stocked see-through bar constructed out of Lucite. Two metallic swivel stools were painted red on the base, looking about as inviting as rectal thermometers. A fire danced lazily in the fireplace, fake logs casting an unnatural glow over the black mantel. The whole place had a feel and aura about as warm as a cold sore.

Myron strolled, feigning interest. He stopped at a crystal statue with a marble base. Something modern or cubist or what-have-you. Symmetrical Bowel Movement maybe. Myron put his hand on it. Substantial. He
looked out the one-way glass. Too low for much of a view beyond the hedges lining the front gate. Hmm.

The two blue-blazers did the Buckingham Palace Guard thing on either side of the door. Granite Man followed Myron, his hands clasped behind his lower back. A door on the other side of the room opened. Myron was not surprised to see Susan Lex enter, again keeping her distance. There was a man with her this time. Myron did not bother approaching.

“And you are?” he called out.

Susan Lex answered this one. “This is my brother Bronwyn.”

“Not the brother I’m interested in,” Myron said.

“Yes, I know. Please sit down.”

Granite Man gestured toward the lips-couch. Myron sat on the lower lip, waiting to be swallowed. Granite Man sat right next to him. Cozy.

“Bronwyn and I would like you to answer some questions, Mr. Bolitar,” Susan Lex said.

“Could you move a little closer?”

She smiled. “I think not.”

“I showered.”

She ignored the remark. “I understand that you occasionally do some investigative work,” Susan Lex said.

Myron did not reply.

“Is that correct?”

“Depends on what you mean by investigative work.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Susan Lex said.

Myron gave her a suit-yourself shrug.

“Is that why you’re searching for our brother?” she asked.

“I already told you why I was searching for him.”

“That bit about him being a bone marrow donor?”

“It’s not a bit.”

“Please, Mr. Bolitar,” Susan Lex said with that rich-people air. “We both know that’s a lie.”

Myron started to rise. Granite Man put a hand on
Myron’s knee. It felt like a cinder block. Granite Man shook his head. Myron stayed where he was. “It’s not a lie,” he said.

“We’re wasting time,” Susan Lex said. She flicked her eyes at Granite Man. “Show him the pictures, Grover.”

Myron turned to him. “Grover is the name of my very favorite
Sesame Street
character. I want you to know that.”

“We’ve been following you,
Myron
.” Granite Man handed him a pile of photographs. Myron looked at them. They were eight-by-tens of him at the condo with Stan Gibbs. The first one showed him knocking on the door. The second one showed Stan sticking his head out. The third one showed them both heading inside the condo.

“Well?”

Myron frowned. “I have no knack for accessorizing.”

“We know that you’re working for Stan Gibbs,” Susan Lex said.

“Doing what exactly?” Myron asked.

“Investigating. As I stated earlier. So now that we understand your true motive, tell me how much it will cost for you to go away.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Simply put, how much will it cost to have you cease and desist?” Susan Lex asked. “Or are you going to force us to destroy you too?”

Too?

Brain click.

Myron turned his attention to the silent brother. “Let me ask you something, Bronwyn,” he said. “You and Dennis were both going to nursery school. You both disappeared. Two weeks later, only you came back. How come? What happened to your brother?”

Bronwyn’s mouth opened and closed, marionette style. He looked to his sister for help.

“It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth after that,” Myron went on. “For thirty years, he’s totally off the radar. But now, well, it’s like he’s come back for some reason. He changed his name, opened a small checking account, donated blood to a bone marrow center. So what gives, Bron? You got a clue?”

Bronwyn said, “That simply cannot be!”

His sister silenced him with a look. But Myron felt something in the air. He mulled the feeling over and another thought hit him: Maybe the Lex siblings didn’t know the answer themselves. Maybe they were looking for Dennis too.

It was while he was lost in that thought that Granite Man punched him deep in the stomach. The fist followed through to the point where it seemed the knuckles must have reached the fabric of the couch. Myron snapped closed at the waist. He dropped to the floor, struggled to regain a breath, suffocating from within. He lowered his head to his knees, consumed with one thought: air. He needed air.

Susan Lex’s voice boomed in his ears. “Stan Gibbs knows the truth. His father is a disgusting liar. His accusations are totally without merit. But I’ll defend my family, Mr. Bolitar. You tell Mr. Gibbs he has not yet begun to suffer. What has happened to him so far is nothing compared to what I will do to him—and you—if he doesn’t stop. Do you understand?”

Air. Gulps of air. Myron managed not to throw up. He took his time, looked up, met her eye. “Not even a little,” he said.

Susan Lex looked at Grover. “Then make him.”

With that, she left the room. Her brother took one last look and followed.

Myron gathered his breath a hitch at a time. “Nice sucker punch, Grover,” he said.

Grover shrugged. “I went easy on you.”

“Next time, go easy when I’m looking, tough guy.”

“Won’t change the outcome.”

“We’ll see.” Myron sat up. “So what the hell is she talking about?”

“I thought Ms. Lex made herself very clear,” he said. “But because you appear to be a little vacant between the ears, I’ll restate her position. She doesn’t like people interfering with her affairs. Stan Gibbs, for example, interfered. You can see what happened to him. You interfered. You’re about to see what’s going to happen to you.”

Myron struggled to his feet. The blue-blazers stayed by the door. Granite Man started cracking his knuckles again. “Listen closely, please,” he said. “I’m going to break your leg. Then you’re going to limp your sorry ass out of here and tell Gibbs that if he sniffs around again, I will exterminate you both. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Myron said. “Don’t you think leg breaking is a tad cliché?”

Grover smiled. “Not the way I do it.”

Myron looked around the room.

“Nowhere to run, my friend.”

“Who wants to run?” Myron countered.

Without warning, he grabbed the heavy bowel-movement statue. The blue-blazers drew their guns. Granite Man ducked. But Myron wasn’t going for them. He heaved the statue, straightened his arms, spun around like a discus thrower, and hurled it marble-base-forward at the plate-glass window. The window exploded.

And that was when the gunfire began.

“Hit the deck!” Myron shouted.

The blue-blazers obeyed. Myron dove. The bullets continued. Sniper fire. One took out the overhead light. One hit the lamp.

Gotta love that Win.

“You want to live,” Myron shouted, “stay down.”

The bullets stopped. One of the blue-blazers started rising. A bullet sang out, nearly parting the man’s hair.

The blazer dropped back down, flattening himself into a bearskin rug.

“I’m getting up now,” Myron said. “And I’m leaving. I’d advise you guys to stay down. And, Grover?”

“What?”

“Radio downstairs. Tell them not to stop me. I can’t be certain but I’m pretty sure my friend will lob in grenades if I’m unduly delayed.”

Granite Man made the call. No one moved. Myron stood up. He almost whistled as he walked out.

I
t was midnight when Myron knocked on the door of Stan Gibbs’s condo. “Let’s take a walk,” Myron said to him.

Stan threw down his cigarette, smothered it with his toe. “A drive might be better,” he countered. “The feds use long-range amplifiers.”

They got into Myron’s Ford Taurus, aka the Chick Trawler. Stan Gibbs flicked on the radio and started playing with the stations. Commercial for Heineken. Does anyone really care that it’s imported by Van Munchin and Company?

“Are you wearing a wire, Myron?”

“No.”

“But the FBI spoke to you,” Stan said. “After you left.”

“How did you know?”

“They’re watching me,” he said with a shrug. “It would only be logical to assume they questioned you.”