Win put his hand against his chest. “My. Oh. My. How. Awful.”

“And unnecessary.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“They are effective.”

“I don’t want them,” Myron said.

“Fine” He handed Myron uncut bullets. “Be a wimp.”

Chapter 21

Jessica listened to the message on the answering machine.

“Hi, Jessica. It’s Nancy Serat. I’m so sorry to hear about your father. He was such a nice man. I can’t believe it. He was here the morning he died. So weird. He was so nostalgic that day. He told me all about that favorite yellow sweater he gave Kathy. Such a sweet story. I wish I could have been more helpful. I just can’t believe—well, I’m rambling, sorry. I do that when I’m nervous Anyway I’ll be out until ten o’clock tonight. You can come by then or give me a call. Bye.”

Jessica rewound the message and played it back. Then a third time. Nancy Serat had seen her father on the morning of his murder.

Another coincidence?

She thought not.

Myron called his mother. “I won’t be home for a few days.”

“What?”

“I’m going to stay with Win.”

“In the city?”

“Yes.”

“New York City?”

“No, Mom. Kuwait City.”

“Don’t be such a wise guy with your mother, save it for your friends,” she said. “So why are you staying in the city?”

Hmm. Should he tell her the truth? Because, Mom, a mobster has a contract out on my head and I don’t want to put you and Dad in danger. Nah. Might make her worry. “I’m going to be working late the next few nights.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“Be careful, Myron. Don’t walk around alone at night.”

Esperanza opened the door. “Urgent call on line three,” she said, loud enough for Myron’s mother to hear.

“Mom, I gotta go. Urgent call.”

“Call us.”

“I will.” He hung up and looked up at Esperanza. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Is there anyone on the phone?”

She nodded. “Timmy Simpson again. I tried to handle it, but he says his problem needs your particular expertise.”

Timmy Simpson was a rookie shortstop for the Red Sox. A major-league pain in the ass.

“Hi, Timmy.”

“Hey, Myron, I’ve been waiting here two goddamn hours for your call.”

“I was out. What’s the problem?”

“I’m here in Toronto, okay, at the Hilton. And this hotel’s got no hot water.”

Myron waited. Then he said, “Did I hear you correctly, Timmy? Did you say—”

“Unfuckinbelievable, ain’t it?” Timmy shouted. “I go in the shower, right, wait five minutes, then ten minutes. The water’s fucking freezing, Myron. Ice cold. So finally I call down to the front desk, right? Some pissant manager tells me they’re having some kind of plumbing problem. Plumbing problem, Myron, like I’m staying in a fuckin’ trailer park or something. So I say, when’s it going to be fixed? He gives me this whole long spiel how he don’t know. Can you believe this shit?”

No, Myron thought. “Timmy, why exactly are you calling me?”

“Jesus Christ, Myron, I’m a pro, right? And I’m stuck in this hellhole with no hot water. I mean, isn’t there something in my contract about that?”

“A hot water clause, perhaps?” Myron tried.

“Or something. I mean, come on. Where do they get off? I need a shower before a game. A hot shower. Is that too much to expect? I mean, what am I going to do?”

Stick your head in the toilet and flush, Myron thought, massaging his temples with his fingertips. “I’ll see what I can do, Timmy.”

“Talk to the hotel manager, Myron. Make him understand the importance.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Myron said, “those orphans in Eastern Europe are a minor annoyance in comparison to this. But if the hot water doesn’t come back on soon, check into another hotel. We’ll send the bill to the Red Sox.”

“Good idea. Thanks, Myron.”

Click.

Myron stared at the phone. Unbelievable. He leaned back and wondered how to handle his three big problems: Chaz Landreaux’s sudden departure, Kathy Culver’s possible re-emergence, and the Toronto Hilton’s plumbing. He decided to forgo the last. Only so much one man can do.

Problem 1: Chaz Landreaux was climbing into bed with Frank Ache. There was only one way out of that. Big brother Herman.

Myron picked up the phone and dialed. He still knew the number by heart. It was picked up on the first ring. “Clancy’s Tavern.”

“It’s Myron Bolitar. I’d like to see Herman.”

“Hold on.” Five minutes passed before the voice came back on. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

Click. No need to wait for an answer. Whatever time Herman Ache agreed to see you, you were free.

Problem 2: Kathy Culver. Nips magazine had been mailed from a campus box. It had been mailed not only to Christian Steele but also to Dean Harrison Gordon. Why? Myron knew that Kathy had worked for the dean. Was there more to her job than just filing? An affair, perhaps? And what about the dean’s lovely wife? Did she wear underwear?

But Myron was digressing.

The catalyst of this whole thing was the ad in Nips. Gary Grady claimed he had nothing to do with it. Maybe. Maybe not. But either way the picture had to go through Fred Nickler. Good ol’ Freddy was at the center of this.

Myron looked up the number and dialed.

“HDP. May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Fred Nickler.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

“Please hold.”

A minute passed. Then Fred Nickler came on. “Hello?”

“Mr. Nickler, this is Myron Bolitar.”

“Yes, Myron. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to come by and ask you a few more questions about the ad.”

“I’m afraid I’m quite busy right now, Myron. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow? Maybe we can set something up.”

Silence.

“Myron? You there?”

“Do you know who took that picture, Mr. Nickler?”

“Of course not.”

“Your friend Jerry denies any knowledge of it.”