Myron was probably laughing his ass off right now.

“Nice to see you,” Esperanza said. “Thank you very much for remembering.”

“Shit, Bobby, take a lookie here. It’s Little Pocahontas! Remember? That hot little vixen on FLOW?”

FLOW, of course, stood for the “Fabulous Ladies Of Wrestling.” The organization’s original name had been the “Beautiful Ladies Of Wrestling,” but once they became popular enough for television, the networks insisted on a new acronym.

“Where?” Another man approached, eyes wide and drunk and happy “Holy shit, you’re right! It’s her! It’s really her!”

“Hey, thanks for the memories, fellas, but—”

“I remember this one time, you were fighting Tatiana the Siberian Husky? Remember that one? Shit, my hard-on nearly poked a hole clean through my bedroom window.”

Esperanza hoped to file that little tidbit under Too Much Information.

An enormous bartender came over. He looked like the pullout centerfold for Leather Biker Monthly. Extra big and extra scary. He had long hair, a long scar, and tattoos of snakes slithering up both arms. He shot the two men a glare and—poof—they were gone. Like the glare had evaporated them. Then he turned his eyes toward Esperanza. She met the glare and gave him one back. Neither backed down.

“Lady, what the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Is that a new way of asking what I’m drinking?”

“No.” The mutual glaring continued. He leaned two massive snake-arms on the bar. “You’re too good-looking to be a cop,” he said. “And you’re too good-looking to be hanging out in this toilet.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Esperanza said. “And you are?”

“Hal,” he said. “I own this toilet.”

“Hi, Hal.”

“Hi back. Now what the fuck do you want?”

“I’m trying to score some blow,” she said.

“Nah,” Hal said with a shake of his head. “You’d go to Spic City for that. Buy it from one of your own kind, no offense.” He leaned even closer now. Esperanza couldn’t help but wonder if Hal would be a good match for Big Cyndi. She liked big biker guys. “Let’s cut the crap, sweetheart. What do you want?”

Esperanza decided to try the direct approach. “I’m looking for a sliver of scum named Tito. People call him Tit. Skinny, shaved head—”

“Yeah, yeah, I might know him. How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

Hal made a scoffing sound. “You want me to sell out a customer for fifty bucks?”

“A hundred.”

“Hundred and fifty. The deadbeat sack of shit owes me money.”

“Deal,” she said.

“Show me the money.”

Esperanza took the bills out of her wallet. Hal reached it for it, but she pulled back. “You first,” she said.

“I don’t know where he lives,” Hal said. “He and his goose-stepping faggots come in every night except Wednesdays and Saturdays.”

“Why not Wednesdays and Saturdays?” she asked.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Bingo night and Saturday night mass maybe. Or maybe they all do a circle jerk crying ‘Heil, Hitler’ when they shoot off. How the fuck do I know?”

“What’s his real name?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked around the bar. “Any of the boys here know?”

“Nah,” Hal said. “Tit always comes in with the same limpdicked crew and they leave together. They don’t talk to no one else. It’s verboten.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him.”

“He’s a stupid punk. They all are. Assholes who blame the fact that they’re genetic mutations on other people.”

“So why do you let them hang out here?”

“Because unlike them, I know that this is the U.S. of A. You can do what you want. Anyone is welcome here. Black, white, Spic, Jap, whatever. Even stupid punks.”

Esperanza almost smiled. Sometimes you find tolerance in the strangest places. “What else?”

“That’s all I know. It’s Saturday night. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Esperanza said. She ripped the bills in half. “I’ll give you the other half of the bills tomorrow.”

Hal reached out his big hand and closed it over her forearm. His glare grew a little meaner. “Don’t be too smart, hot legs,” he said slowly. “I can yell gang bang and have you on your back on a pool table in five seconds. You give the hundred and fifty now. Then you rip another hundred in half to keep my mouth shut. You got it?”

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. “Got it,” she said. She handed him the other half of the bills. Then she took out another hundred, ripped it, and handed it to him.

“Get out, sweet buns. Like now.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice.

20

There was nothing else they could do tonight. To approach the Squires estate would be foolhardy at best. He couldn’t call or contact the Coldrens. It was too late to try to reach Lloyd Rennart’s widow. And lastly—and perhaps most important—Myron was bone-tired.

So he spent the evening at the guest house with his two best friends in the world. Myron, Win, and Esperanza lay sprawled on separate couches like Dalí clocks. They wore T-shirts and shorts and buried themselves deep within puffy pillows. Myron drank too much Yoo-Hoo; Esperanza drank too much diet Coke; Win drank almost enough Brooklyn Lager (Win drank only lager, never beer). There were pretzels and Fritos and Ruffles and freshly delivered pizza. The lights were out. The big-screen television was on. Win had recently taped a whole bunch of Odd Couple episodes. They were on the fourth in a row. The best thing about the Odd Couple, Myron surmised, was the consistency. They never had a weak episode—how many shows could say that?

Myron bit into a slice of pizza. He needed this. He had barely slept in the millennium since he’d first encountered the Coldrens (in reality, it only had been yesterday). His brain was fried; his nerves were fraying like overused floss. Sitting with Win and Esperanza, their faces blue-lit by the picture tube, Myron felt true contentment.

“It’s simply not true,” Win insisted.

“No way,” Esperanza agreed, tossing down a Ring-Ding.

“I’m telling you,” Myron said. “Jack Klugman is wearing a hairpiece.”