your CPAs?”
A tiny smile came to FJ’s lips. The smile was strictly reptilian, meaning it was far warmer than his other ones. “If you are indeed her agent,” FJ said, “then it would behoove you to speak with me.”
Myron nodded. “Call my office, make an appointment,” he said.
“We’ll talk soon then,” FJ said.
“Looking forward to it. And keep using the word
behoove
. It really impresses people.”
Brenda opened her car door and got in. Myron did likewise. FJ came around to Myron’s window and knocked on the glass. Myron lowered the window.
“Sign with us or don’t sign with us,” FJ said quietly. “That’s business. But when I kill you, well, that will be for fun.”
Myron was about to crack wise again, but something—probably a fly-through of good sense—made him pause. FJ moved away then. Rocco and Bubba followed. Myron watched them disappear, his heart flapping in his chest like a caged condor.
They parked on a lot on Seventy-first Street and walked to the Dakota. The Dakota remains one of New York’s premier buildings, though it’s still best known for John Lennon’s assassination. A fresh bouquet of roses marked the spot where his body had fallen. Myron always felt a little weird crossing over it, as if he were trampling on a grave or something. The Dakota doorman must have seen Myron a hundred times by now, but he always pretended otherwise and buzzed up to Win’s apartment.
Introductions were brief. Win found Brenda a place to study. She broke out a medical textbook the size of a stone tablet and made herself comfortable. Win and Myron moved back into a living room semidecorated in the manner of Louis the Somethingteenth. There was a fireplace with big iron tools and a bust on the mantel. The substantial furniture looked, as always, freshly polishedyet plenty old. Oil paintings of stern yet effeminate men stared down from the walls. And just to keep things in the proper decade, there was a big-screen TV and VCR front and center.
The two friends sat and put their feet up.
“So what do you think?” Myron asked.
“She’s too big for my tastes,” Win said. “But nicely toned legs.”
“I mean, about protecting her.”
“We’ll find a place,” Win said. He laced his hands behind his neck. “Talk to me.”
“Do you know Arthur Bradford?”
“The gubernatorial candidate?”
“Yes.”
Win nodded. “We’ve met several times. I played golf with him and his brother once at Merion.”
“Can you set up a meet?”
“No problem. They’ve been hitting us up for a sizable donation.” He crossed his ankles. “So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?”
Myron recapped the day’s developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter’s phone calls to Bradford’s office, FJ’s surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford’s murder, and Anita’s role in finding the body.
Win looked unimpressed. “Do you really see a link between the Bradfords’ past and the Slaughters’ present?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. “Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering—”
“It’s not just that they’re rich,” Myron interrupted. “I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on.”
“Yes, fine, fair enough.” Win did the hand-steeple again. “Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume—as you no doubt have—that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you,
A tiny smile came to FJ’s lips. The smile was strictly reptilian, meaning it was far warmer than his other ones. “If you are indeed her agent,” FJ said, “then it would behoove you to speak with me.”
Myron nodded. “Call my office, make an appointment,” he said.
“We’ll talk soon then,” FJ said.
“Looking forward to it. And keep using the word
behoove
. It really impresses people.”
Brenda opened her car door and got in. Myron did likewise. FJ came around to Myron’s window and knocked on the glass. Myron lowered the window.
“Sign with us or don’t sign with us,” FJ said quietly. “That’s business. But when I kill you, well, that will be for fun.”
Myron was about to crack wise again, but something—probably a fly-through of good sense—made him pause. FJ moved away then. Rocco and Bubba followed. Myron watched them disappear, his heart flapping in his chest like a caged condor.
They parked on a lot on Seventy-first Street and walked to the Dakota. The Dakota remains one of New York’s premier buildings, though it’s still best known for John Lennon’s assassination. A fresh bouquet of roses marked the spot where his body had fallen. Myron always felt a little weird crossing over it, as if he were trampling on a grave or something. The Dakota doorman must have seen Myron a hundred times by now, but he always pretended otherwise and buzzed up to Win’s apartment.
Introductions were brief. Win found Brenda a place to study. She broke out a medical textbook the size of a stone tablet and made herself comfortable. Win and Myron moved back into a living room semidecorated in the manner of Louis the Somethingteenth. There was a fireplace with big iron tools and a bust on the mantel. The substantial furniture looked, as always, freshly polishedyet plenty old. Oil paintings of stern yet effeminate men stared down from the walls. And just to keep things in the proper decade, there was a big-screen TV and VCR front and center.
The two friends sat and put their feet up.
“So what do you think?” Myron asked.
“She’s too big for my tastes,” Win said. “But nicely toned legs.”
“I mean, about protecting her.”
“We’ll find a place,” Win said. He laced his hands behind his neck. “Talk to me.”
“Do you know Arthur Bradford?”
“The gubernatorial candidate?”
“Yes.”
Win nodded. “We’ve met several times. I played golf with him and his brother once at Merion.”
“Can you set up a meet?”
“No problem. They’ve been hitting us up for a sizable donation.” He crossed his ankles. “So how does Arthur Bradford fit into all this?”
Myron recapped the day’s developments: the Honda Accord following them, the phone taps, the bloody clothes, Horace Slaughter’s phone calls to Bradford’s office, FJ’s surprise visit, Elizabeth Bradford’s murder, and Anita’s role in finding the body.
Win looked unimpressed. “Do you really see a link between the Bradfords’ past and the Slaughters’ present?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Then let me see if I can follow your rationale. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Win dropped his feet to the floor and steepled his fingers, resting his indexes against his chin. “Twenty years ago Elizabeth Bradford died under somewhat murky circumstances. Her death was ruled an accident, albeit a bizarre one. You do not buy that one. The Bradfords are rich, and thus you are extra-suspicious of the official rendering—”
“It’s not just that they’re rich,” Myron interrupted. “I mean, falling off her own balcony? Come on.”
“Yes, fine, fair enough.” Win did the hand-steeple again. “Let us pretend that you are correct in your suspicions. Let us assume that something unsavory did indeed occur when Elizabeth Bradford plunged to her death. And I am further going to assume—as you no doubt have—that Anita Slaughter, in her capacity as maid or servant or what have you,
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