“To prevent a scandal that would surely hurt your kids.”
She made a face. “Come on, Myron.”
“So how do you explain the gun in the office and the blood in the car?”
“I can’t.”
Myron thought about it. His head hurt—from the physical altercation or this latest revelation, he couldn’t say. He tried to concentrate through the haze. “Who else knows about the affair?”
“Just Esperanza’s lawyer, Hester Crimstein.”
“No one else?”
“No one. We were very discreet.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because,” Myron said, “if I were going to murder Clu and I wanted to frame someone for it, his wife’s lover would be my first choice.”
Bonnie saw where he was heading. “So you think the killer knew about us?”
“It might explain a lot.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. And Esperanza said she didn’t either.”
Pow. Right between the eyes. “You couldn’t have been too careful,” Myron said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Clu found out, didn’t he?”
She thought about it, nodded.
“Did you tell him?” he asked.
“No.”
“What did you say when you threw him out?”
She shrugged. “That there was no one else. That was true in a sense. It wasn’t about Esperanza.”
“So how did he find out?”
“I don’t know. I assumed he became obsessed. That he followed me.”
“And he found out the truth?”
“Yes.”
“And then he went after Esperanza and attacked her?
“Yes.”
“And before he has a chance to tell anyone else about this, before it has a chance of getting out and hurting either of you, he ends up dead. And the murder weapon ends up with Esperanza. And Clu’s blood ends up in the car she’s been driving. And the E-Z Pass records show Esperanza came back to New York an hour after the murder.”
“Again, yes.”
Myron shook his head. “It doesn’t look good, Bonnie.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said. “If even you won’t believe us, how do you think a jury is going to react?”
There was no need to answer. They headed back to the house then. The two young boys were still at play, oblivious of what was going on around them. Myron watched for a moment. Fatherless, he thought, shuddering at the word. With one last look he turned and walked away.
Chapter 24
Thrill, not Nancy Sinclair, met him outside a bar called the Biker Wannabee. Honesty in advertising. Nice to see.
“Howdy,” Myron said. Tex Bolitar.
Her smile was full of pornographic promise. Totally into Thrill mode now. “Howdy yourself, pardner,” she cooed. With some women, every syllable is cooed. “How do I look?”
“Mighty tasty, ma’am. But I think I prefer you as Nancy.”
“Liar.”
Myron shrugged, not sure if he was telling the truth or not. This whole thing reminded him of when Barbara Eden would play her evil sister on I Dream of Jeannie. He was often torn back then too, not sure if Larry Hagman should stay with Jeannie or run off with the enticingly evil sister. But hey, talk about your great dilemmas.
“I thought you were bringing backup,” Thrill said.
“I am.”
“Where is he?”
“If things go well, you won’t see him.”
“How mysterious.”
“Isn’t it?”
They headed inside and grabbed a corner booth in the back. Yep, biker wanna-be. Lots of guys aiming for that hairy, Vietnam vet–cum–hit-the-road look. The jukebox played “God Only Knows (What I’d Be Without You)”—the Beach Boys, but unlike anything else the Beach Boys did. The song was a plaintive wail, and despite its pop misgivings, it always struck Myron to the bone, the trepidation of what the future might hold so naked in Brian’s voice, the words so hauntingly simple. Especially now.
Thrill was studying his face. “You okay?” she asked.
“Fine. So what happens next?”
“We order a drink, I guess.”
Five minutes passed. “Lonely Boy” came on the jukebox. Andrew Gold. Serious seventies AM bubble gum. Chorus: “Oh, oh, oh … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy … oh what a lonely boy.” By the time the chorus was repeated for the eighth time, Myron had it down pat so he sang along. Megamemory. Maybe he should do an infomercial.
Men at nearby tables checked out Thrill, some surreptitiously, most not. Thrill’s smile was practically a leer now, sinking deeper into the role.
“You get into this,” Myron said.
“It’s a part, Myron. We’re all actors on a stage and all that.”
“But you enjoy the attention.”
“So?”
“So I was just saying.”
She shrugged. “I find it fascinating.”
“What’s that?”
“What a large bosom does to a man. They get so obsessed.”
“You just reached the conclusion that men are mammary-obsessed? I hate to break this to you, Nancy, but the research has been done.”
“But it’s weird when you think about it.”
“I try not to.”
“Bosoms do weird things to men, no doubt,” she said, “but I don’t like what they do to women either.”
“How’s that?”
Thrill put her palms on the table. “Okay, everyone knows that we women put too much of our self-worth into our bodies. Old news, right?”
“Right.”
“I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. And unlike my more feminist sisters, I don’t blame men for this.”
“You don’t?”
“Mademoiselle, Vogue, Bazaar, Glamour—those are run by women and have a totally female clientele. They want to change the image, start there. Why ask the men to change a perception that women themselves won’t change?”
“Refreshing viewpoint,” Myron noted.
“But bosoms do funny things to people. Men, okay, that’s obvious. They become brain-dead. It’s as if the nipples shoot out like two grapefruit spoons, dig into their frontal lobe, and scrape away all cognitive thought.”
Myron looked up, the imagery giving him pause.
“But for women, well, it starts when you’re young. A girl develops early. Adolescent boys start lusting after her. How do her girlfriends react? They take it out on her. They’re jealous of the attention or feeling inadequate or whatever. But they take it out on the young girl who can’t help what her body is going through. With me?”