Myron waited for more customers. He wondered what Stu was up to. Something frantic, no doubt. Ten minutes later, a canary yellow Audi pulled up and a large black man slid out. The black man was maybe an inch shorter than Myron, but he was built. His chest could double as a jai alai wall and his legs resembled the trunks of redwoods. He glided when he moved—not the bulky moves one usually associated with the overmuscled.

Myron did not like that.

The black man had sunglasses on and wore a red Hawaiian shirt with blue jean shorts. His most noticeable feature was his hair. The kinks had been slicked straight and parted on the side, like old photographs of Nat King Cole.

Myron pointed at the top of the man’s head. “Is that hard to do?” he asked.

“What?” the black man said. “You mean the hair?”

Myron nodded. “Keeping it straight like that.”

“Nah, not really. Once a week I go to a guy named Ray. In an old-fashioned barbershop, as a matter of fact. The kind with the pole in front and everything.” His smile was almost wistful. “Ray takes care of it for me. Also gives me a great shave. With hot towels and everything.” The man stroked his face for emphasis.

“Looks smooth,” Myron said.

“Hey, thanks. Nice of you to say. I find it relaxing, you know? Doing something just for me. I think it’s important. To relieve the stress.”

Myron nodded. “I hear you.”

“Maybe I’ll give you Ray’s number. You could stop by and check it out.”

“Ray,” Myron repeated. “I’d like that.”

The black man stepped closer. “Seems we have a little situation here, Mr. Bolitar.”

“How did you know my name?”

He shrugged. Behind the sunglasses, Myron sensed that he was being sized up. Myron was doing the same. Both were trying to be subtle. Both knew exactly what the other was doing.

“I’d really appreciate it if you would leave,” he said very politely.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Myron said. “Even though you did ask nicely.”

The black man nodded. He kept his distance. “Let’s see if we can work something out here, okay?”

“Okeydokey.”

“I got a job to do here, Myron. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”

“Sure can,” Myron said.

“And so do you.”

“That’s right.”

The black man took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket. “Look, I know you won’t be easy. And you know I won’t be easy. If push comes to shove, I don’t know which one of us will win.”

“I will,” Myron said. “Good always triumphs over evil.”

The man smiled. “Not in this neighborhood.”

“Good point.”

“I’m also not sure it’s worth it to either one of us to find out. I think we’re both probably past the proving-himself, macho-bullshit stage.”

Myron nodded. “We’re too mature.”

“Right.”

“It seems then,” Myron continued, “that we’ve hit an impasse.”

“Guess so,” the black man agreed. “Of course, I could always take out a gun and shoot you.”

Myron shook his head. “Not over something this small. Too many repercussions involved.”

“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d go for it, but I had to give it a whirl. You never know.”

“You’re a pro,” Myron agreed. “You’d feel remiss if you didn’t at least try. Hell, I’d have felt cheated.”

“Glad you understand.”

“Speaking of which,” Myron said, “aren’t you a tad high-level to be dealing with this situation?”

“Can’t say I disagree.” The black man walked closer to Myron. Myron felt his muscles tighten; a not-unpleasant anticipatory chill steeled him.

“You look like a guy who can keep his mouth shut,” the man said.

Myron said nothing. Proving the point.

“The kid you had in that picture, the one that got Leona Helmsley’s panties in a bunch? He was here.”

“When?”

The black man shook his head. “That’s all you get. I’m being very generous. You wanted to know if the kid was here. The answer is yes.”

“Nice of you,” Myron said.

“I’m just trying to make it simple. Look, we both know that Lipwitz is a dumb kid. Acts like this urinal is the Beverly Wilshire. But the people who come here, they don’t want that. They want to be invisible. They don’t even want to look at themselves, you know what I’m saying?”

Myron nodded.

“So I gave you a freebie. The kid in the picture was here.”

“Is he still here?”

“You’re pushing me, Myron.”

“Just tell me that.”

“No. He only stayed that one night.” He spread his hands. “Now you tell me, Myron. Am I being fair with you?”

“Very.”

He nodded. “Your turn.”

“I guess there’s no way you’ll tell me who you’re working for.”

The black man made a face. “Nice meeting you, Myron.”

“Same here.”

They shook hands. Myron got into his car and drove away.

He had almost reached Merion when the cellular rang. He picked up and said hello.

“Is this, like, Myron?”

Mall girl. “Hi, yes. Actually this is Myron, not just like him.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. What’s up?”

“That skank you were, like, looking for last night?”

“Right.”

“He’s, like, back at the mall.”

“Where at the mall?”

“The food court. He’s on line at the McDonald’s.”

Myron spun the car around and hit the gas pedal.

15

The Crusty Nazi was still there.

He sat at a corner table by himself, downing a burger of some sort like it had personally offended him. The girls were right. Skank was the only word to describe him, even though Myron didn’t know what the word meant or if it even existed. The punk’s face was aiming for tough-guy-unshaven, but a lack of testosterone made it land far closer to unkempt-adolescent-Hasid. He wore a black baseball cap with a skull and crossbones decal. His ripped white T-shirt was rolled all the way up to reveal milky, reedy arms, one with a swastika tattoo. Myron shook his head. Swastika. The kid was too old to be so utterly clueless.