young woman offered up an uncomfortable smile and left.
Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past in the mideighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called "Chinese Night" but to still partake, in this day and age?
Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.
He turned to his friend. They looked at each other.
Neither one of them said anything.
"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."
"I didn't say anything." .
"Indeed." Win stood.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
Myron felt his heart pound."'Mind if I go with you?"
"Yes."
"What car are you taking?"
Win did not bother responding. "Good night, Myron." .
Myron's mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. ' 'One question, if I may."
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
"Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you'?" Win asked.
"No," Myron said.
"Then who?"
"Your uncle Bucky."
Win arched an eyebrow. "And who suggested us to Bucky?"
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn't stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
"Win?"
"Go to sleep, Myron."
Chapter 11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn't even bother trying.
He sat in Win's chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win's potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A. M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open.
Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion. +
"Good night," Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach.
He had just begun to slide into his REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open. '
"You're still asleep'?" a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking;
he wasn't used to her doing it where he slept.
"What time is it?" he croaked.
' ' Six+thirty. ' '
"In the morning?"
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations.
With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
"How did you get here?" he asked.
"Amtrak red-eye," she said.
Myron was still groggy. "Then what did you do?
Catch a cab?"
"What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab."
"Just asking."
"The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he's not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood. ' '
Myron shrugged. "Probably thought you were a domestic,"
he said.
"In these shoes?" She lifted her foot so he could see.
"Very nice." Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. "Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?"
"I got some information on the old caddie."
"Lloyd Rennart'?"
Esperanza nodded: "He's dead."
"Oh." Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a begirming. "You could have just called."
"There's more." .
"Oh?"
"The circumstances surrounding his death are" she stopped, bit her lower lip "fuzzy."
Myron sat up a bit. "Fuzzy?"
"Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago."
"How?" +
"That's the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain
Myron watched, trying to keep his face from registering shock. A prostitute! Christ, she was a prostitute! He knew that Win had used them in the past in the mideighties, he used to order in Chinese food from Hunan Grill and Asian prostitutes from the Noble House bordello for what he called "Chinese Night" but to still partake, in this day and age?
Then Myron remembered the Chevy Nova and his whole body went cold.
He turned to his friend. They looked at each other.
Neither one of them said anything.
"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."
"I didn't say anything." .
"Indeed." Win stood.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
Myron felt his heart pound."'Mind if I go with you?"
"Yes."
"What car are you taking?"
Win did not bother responding. "Good night, Myron." .
Myron's mind raced for solutions, but he knew it was hopeless. Win was going. There was no way to stop him.
Win stopped at the door and turned back to him. ' 'One question, if I may."
Myron nodded, unable to speak.
"Was Linda Coldren the one who first contacted you'?" Win asked.
"No," Myron said.
"Then who?"
"Your uncle Bucky."
Win arched an eyebrow. "And who suggested us to Bucky?"
Myron looked back at Win steadily, but he couldn't stop shaking. Win nodded and turned back to the door.
"Win?"
"Go to sleep, Myron."
Chapter 11
Myron did not go to sleep. He didn't even bother trying.
He sat in Win's chair and tried to read, but the words never registered. He was exhausted. He leaned back against the rich leather and waited. Hours passed. Disjointed images of Win's potential handiwork wrested free in a heavy spray of dark crimson. Myron closed his eyes and tried to ride it out.
At 3:30 A. M., Myron heard a car pull up. The ignition died. A key clicked in the door and then it swung open.
Win stepped inside and looked at Myron with nary a trace of emotion. +
"Good night," Win said.
He walked away. Myron heard the bedroom door close and let loose a held breath. Fine, he thought. He lifted himself into a standing position and made his way to his bedroom. He crawled under the sheets, but sleep still would not come. Black, opaque fear fluttered in his stomach.
He had just begun to slide into his REM sleep when the bedroom door flew open. '
"You're still asleep'?" a familiar voice asked.
Myron managed to tear his eyes open. He was used to Esperanza Diaz barging into his office without knocking;
he wasn't used to her doing it where he slept.
"What time is it?" he croaked.
' ' Six+thirty. ' '
"In the morning?"
Esperanza gave him one of her patented glares, the one road crews tried to hire out to raze large rock formations.
With one finger she tucked a few spare strands of her raven locks behind her ear. Her shimmering dark skin made you think of a Mediterranean cruise by moonlight, of clear waters and puffy-sleeved peasant blouses and olive groves.
"How did you get here?" he asked.
"Amtrak red-eye," she said.
Myron was still groggy. "Then what did you do?
Catch a cab?"
"What are you, a travel agent? Yes, I took a cab."
"Just asking."
"The idiot driver asked me for the address three times. Guess he's not used to taking Hispanics into this neighborhood. ' '
Myron shrugged. "Probably thought you were a domestic,"
he said.
"In these shoes?" She lifted her foot so he could see.
"Very nice." Myron adjusted himself in the bed, his body still craving sleep. "Not to belabor the point, but what exactly are you doing here?"
"I got some information on the old caddie."
"Lloyd Rennart'?"
Esperanza nodded: "He's dead."
"Oh." Dead. As in dead end. Not that it had been much of a begirming. "You could have just called."
"There's more." .
"Oh?"
"The circumstances surrounding his death are" she stopped, bit her lower lip "fuzzy."
Myron sat up a bit. "Fuzzy?"
"Lloyd Rennart apparently committed suicide eight months ago."
"How?" +
"That's the fuzzy part. He and his wife were on vacation in a mountain
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