“She didn’t come to that locker room for consensual sex with six people. You raped her.”

“Can’t be, man,” he said with a shake of his head. “She a ho through and through. And once a ho, always a ho. That just the way it is. Fucking cunt acting all high and prissy and shit. Quarterback’s girl. Miss fucking all-American cheerleader. Who the fuck did she think she was? So yeah, I showed her. I reminded her where she come from, what she really is. Not some fucking prom queen. A slut. A dick-loving ho.”

Win now stepped in front of Myron. Preventive measure.

“’Sides,” Horty continued, “I owed her boyfriend. Big-time.”

“Christian Steele?”

“Yeah. He did me wrong. I did him wrong. Passed around his little ho. Just a little payback, my man. To the prick who got me thrown off the team.”

“No,” Myron said. “It wasn’t Christian.”

“What you talking about?”

“I spoke with Coach Clarke. Two guys showed up for a game high. That’s why you were thrown off. Christian had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh,” Horty said with a shrug. “Ain’t that something.”

“Your remorse,” Myron said, “is very touching.”

“I gotta get to a doctor, man. My leg is killing me.”

“Weren’t you worried about getting caught?”

“What?”

“Weren’t you afraid she’d report the rape?”

Horty made a face as if Myron had suddenly started speaking Japanese. “You crazy, man? Who she gonna tell? She just gave me major cash to keep it all quiet. She say anything, it all gets out. The whole ugly truth. Everyone would know—Christian, her mammy, her pappy, her teachers. Everyone would know what she just paid all that money to hide. And what if she was dumb enough to tell? There were pictures and witnesses of her doing Willie and me at the party. Who gonna believe she was raped after seeing that?”

Dean Gordon had made the same argument, Myron remembered. Great minds thinking alike.

“Hey, look, man, my leg’s killing me.”

“Did you ever see Kathy again?” Myron managed.

“Nope.”

“Were you the one who threw away the panties?”

“Nope. One of the other guys had them. Thought he’d keep them as a souvenir. When he heard she was missing, he got scared, threw them away.”

“Who?”

“I ain’t giving names.”

“Yes,” Win said. “You are.” He rested his foot against the broken tibia. That was enough.

“Okay, okay. Like I said, they was six of us. Three brothers, two white dudes, one chink.”

Equal opportunity rapists.

“One was the place kicker. Guy named Tommy Wu. Then there was Ed Woods, Bobby Taylor, Willie and me.”

“That’s five.”

Horty hesitated. “Give me a break, man. The other dude was the one who threw away the panties. But he’s a friend, man. Still gives me money when I’m down, you know. I can’t just give him up. He’s big-time.”

“What do you mean, big-time?”

“Plays pro ball and shit. I can’t give you his name.”

Win put the slightest pressure on the leg. Horty bucked.

“Ricky Lane.”

Myron froze. “The running back for the Jets?” Dumb question. How many Ricky Lanes who now play pro football went to Reston University?

“Yeah. Now look, man, that’s all I know.”

Win said to Myron, “Do you have any other questions for him?”

Myron shook his head.

“Then leave,” Win said.

Myron did not move.

“I said,” Win continued, “leave.”

“No.”

“You heard what he said. You’ll never convict him. He pushes drugs to kids, rapes innocent women, blackmails, steals, whatever, and laughs about it.”

Horty sat up. “What the fuck is this?”

“Leave,” Win repeated.

Myron hesitated.

“Yo, man, I told you everything I know.” There was a tremble in Horty’s voice.

Myron did not move.

Horty shouted, “Don’t leave me alone with this crazy motherfucker!”

“Leave,” Win said.

Myron shook his head. “No. I’ll stay.”

Win studied Myron. Then he nodded and approached Horty, who was trying to claw away but not getting far.

“Don’t kill him,” Myron said.

Win nodded. He went to work with the careful precision of a surgeon. His face never changed expression. If he heard Horty’s cries, he never showed it.

After a short time Myron told him to stop. Reluctantly Win stepped away.

They left.

Chapter 39

Ricky Lane lived in a New Jersey condo development similar to Christian’s. Win waited in the car. As Myron approached the door, he felt rather than heard the bass from Ricky’s stereo. It took three rings of the bell and several knocks before Ricky appeared.

“Hey, Myron.”

He was wearing a silk shirt that was either very fashionable or a pajama top. Hard to tell. The shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a well-defined physique. His pants were held up by a drawstring. He was also wearing slippers. Maybe they were pajamas. Or lounging clothes. Or he was trying out for a walk-on role on I Dream of Jeannie.

“We need to talk,” Myron said.

“Come on in.”

The music was deafening and awful. Made Pap Smear sound like Brahms. The motif was sleek modern. Lots of fiberglass. Lots of black and white. Lots of rounded edges. The stereo took up a whole wall. The lights on the equalizer looked like something on Star Trek.

Ricky flipped the stereo off. The silence was abrupt. Myron felt his chest stop vibrating.

“So what’s up?” Ricky asked.

Myron tossed him a glass jar. Ricky caught it, looked a question.

“Pee in it,” Myron said.

“What?”

“I want you to urinate into this jar.”

Ricky looked at the jar. Then at Myron. “I don’t get it.”

“Your new size,” Myron said. “You’re taking steroids.”

“No way, man. Not me.”

“Then give me a urine sample. Right now. I’ll have it tested at a lab.”

Ricky stared at the jar. He said nothing.

“Go ahead, Ricky. I don’t have all day.”

“You’re my agent, Myron. You ain’t my mother.”

“True enough. Are you taking steroids?”