40

Myron’s accelerator foot never eased.

Chestnut Street near Fourth is a no-parking zone, but that did not even make Myron pause. He was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, ignoring the chorus of honking horns. He hurried through the Omni’s lobby and into an open elevator. When he got off on the top floor, he found the right room number and knocked hard.

Norm Zuckerman opened the door. “Bubbe,” he said with a big smile. “What a nice surprise.”

“Can I come in?”

“You? Of course, sweetheart, anytime.”

But Myron had already pushed by him. The suite’s outer room was—to use hotel brochure lingo—spacious and elegantly appointed. Esme Fong sat on a couch. She looked up at him with the cornered-rabbit face. Posters and blueprints and advertisements and similar paraphernalia carpeted the floor and cascaded off the coffee table. Myron spotted blown-up images of Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. Zoom logos were everywhere, inescapable, like vengeful ghosts or telemarketers.

“We were just doing a little strategizing,” Norm said. “But hey, we can always take a break, right, Esme?”

Esme nodded.

Norm made his way behind a wet bar. “You want something, Myron? I don’t think they have any Yoo-Hoo in here, but I’m sure—”

“Nothing,” Myron interrupted.

Norm did the mock surrender thing with his hands. “Sheesh, Myron, relax,” he said. “What’s twisting your nipple?”

“I wanted to warn you, Norm.”

“Warn me about what?”

“I don’t want to do this. As far as I’m concerned, your love life should be personal. But it’s not that easy. Not anymore. It’s going to get out, Norm. I’m sorry.”

Norm Zuckerman did not move. He opened his mouth as though readying to protest. Then he stopped. “How did you find out?”

“You were with Jack. At the Court Manor Inn. A maid saw you.”

Norm looked at Esme, who kept her head high. He turned back to Myron. “Do you know what will happen if word gets out that I’m a faygeleh?”

“I can’t help that, Norm.”

“I am the company, Myron. Zoom is about fashion and image and sports—which just so happens to be the most blatantly homophobic entity on this planet. Perception is everything in this business. If they find out I’m an old queen, you know what happens? Zoom goes plop down the septic tank.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” Myron said, “but either way, it can’t be helped.”

“Do the police know?” Norm asked.

“No, not yet.”

Norm threw up his hands. “So why does it have to come out? It was just a fling, for crying out loud. Okay, so I met Jack. So we were attracted to each other. So we both had a ton to lose if either of us opened our traps. No big whup. It’s got nothing to do with his murder.”

Myron stole a glance at Esme. She looked back at him with eyes that urged him to keep silent. “Unfortunately” Myron said, “I think it does.”

“You think? You’re going to destroy me on an ‘I think’?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t talk you out of it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Norm moved away from the bar and half-collapsed into a chair. He put his face in the palms of his hands, his fingers sliding toward the back, meeting up in the hair, interweaving. “I’ve spent my entire life with lies, Myron,” he began. “I spent my childhood in Poland pretending I wasn’t a Jew. Can you believe that? Me, Norm Zuckerman, pretending I was some slack-jawed goy. But I survived. I came here. And then I spent my adult life pretending I was a real man, a Casanova, a guy who always had a beautiful girl on his arm. You get used to lying, Myron. It gets easier, you know what I mean? The lies become a sort of second reality.”

“I’m sorry, Norm.”

He breathed deeply and forced up a tired smile. “Maybe it’s for the best,” Norm said. “Look at Dennis Rodman. He cross-dresses, for crying out loud. Hasn’t hurt him any, has it?”

“No. It hasn’t.”

Norm Zuckerman lifted his eyes toward Myron. “Hey, once I got to this country, I became the most in-your-face Jew you ever saw. Didn’t I? Tell me the truth. Am I not the most in-your-face Jew you’ve ever met, or what?”

“In my face,” Myron said.

“Bet your skinny melinka of a butt I am. And when I first started out, everyone told me to tone it down. Stop being so Jewish, they said. So ethnic. You’ll never be accepted.” His face had true hope now. “Maybe I can do the same for us closet faygelehs, Myron. Be in the world’s face again, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do,” Myron said softly. Then he asked, “Who else knew about you and Jack?”

“Knew?”

“Did you tell anybody?”

“No, of course not.”

Myron gestured toward Esme. “How about one of those beautiful girlfriends on your arm? How about someone who practically lived with you? Wouldn’t it have been easy for her to find out?”

Norm shrugged. “I suppose so. You get this close to someone, you trust them. You drop your guard. So maybe she knew. So what?”

Myron looked at Esme. “You want to tell him?”

Esme’s voice was cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me what?”

Myron kept his eyes on hers. “I wondered why you’d seduce a sixteen-year-old boy. Don’t get me wrong. You gave a bravo performance—all that talk about being lonely and Chad being sweet and disease-free. You waxed quite eloquent. But it still rang hollow.”

Norm said, “What the hell are you talking about, Myron?”

Myron ignored him. “And then there was the matter of the bizarre coincidence—you and Chad showing up at the same motel at the same time as Jack and Norm. Too weird. I just couldn’t buy it. But of course, we both know that it wasn’t a coincidence. You planned it that way, Esme.”

“What plan?” Norm interjected. “Myron, will you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Norm, you mentioned that Esme used to work on Nike’s basketball campaign. That she quit that job to come to you.”

“So?”

“Did she take a cut in salary?”

“A little.” Norm shrugged. “Not much.”