One False Move (Myron Bolitar 5)

Dad looked out his glass wall at the endless rows of boxes. Myron wondered how many times his father had looked out at this same view. He wondered what his father had thought about when looking out, what he dreamed about over the years in this dusty warehouse. Myron shook the can and popped the top. The sound startled Dad a bit. He looked back at his son and managed a smile.

“Old Man Bradford was hooked in to the mobsters who wanted to set up the union. That’s who was involved in this: mobsters, hoodlums, punks who ran everything from prostitutes to numbers; all of a sudden they’re labor experts. But I still fought them. And I was winning. So one day Old Man Bradford sends his son Arthur to this very building. To have a chat with me. Sam Richards is with him—the son of a bitch just leans against the wall and says nothing. Arthur sits down and puts his feet on my desk. I’m going to agree to this union, he says. I’m going to support it, in fact. Financially. With generous contributions. I tell the little snotnose there’s a word for this. It’s called extortion. I tell him to get the hell out of my office.”

Beads of sweat popped up on Dad’s forehead. He took a hankie and blotted them a few times. There was a fan in the corner of the office. It oscillated back and forth, teasing you with moments of comfort followed by stifling heat. Myron glanced at the family photos, focusing in on one of his parents on a Caribbean cruise. Maybe ten years ago. Mom and Dad were both wearing loud shirts and looked healthy and tan and much younger. It scared him.

“So what happened then?” Myron asked.

Dad swallowed away something and started speaking again. “Sam finally spoke. He came over to my desk and looked over the family photos. He smiled, like he was an old friend of the family. Then he tossed these pruning shears on my desk.”

Myron started to feel cold.

His father kept talking, his eyes wide and unfocused. “ ‘Imagine what they could do to a human being,’ Sam says to me. ‘Imagine snipping away a piece at a time. Imagine not how long it would take to die but how long you could keep someone alive.’ That’s it. That’s all he said. Then Arthur Bradford started laughing, and they both left my office.”

Dad tried the cup of coffee again, but it was still empty. Myron held up the Yoo-Hoo, but Dad shook his head.

“So I go home and try to pretend that everything is hunky-dory. I try to eat. I try to smile. I play with you in the yard. But I can’t stop thinking about what Sam said. Your mother knew something was wrong, but for once even she didn’t push it. Later I go to bed. I can’t sleep at first. It was like Sam said: I kept imagining. About cutting off little pieces of a human being. Slowly. Each cut causing a new scream. And then the phone rang. I jumped up and looked at my watch. It was three in the morning. I picked up the phone, and no one spoke. They were there I could hear them breathing. But nobody spoke. So I hung up the phone and got out of bed.”

Dad’s breathing was shallow now. His eyes were welling up. Myron rose toward him, but Dad held up a hand to stop him.

“Let me just get through this, okay?”

Myron nodded, sat back down.

“I went into your room.” His voice was more monotone now, lifeless and flat. “You probably know that I used to do that a lot. Sometimes I would just sit in awe and watch you sleep.”

Tears started racing down his face. “So I stepped in the room. I could hear your deep breathing. The sound comforted me immediately. I smiled. And then I walked over to tuck you in a little better. And that’s when I saw it.”

Dad put a fist to his mouth as though stifling a cough. His chest started hitching. His words came in a sputter.

“On your bed. On top of the cover. Pruning shears. Someone had broken into your room and left pruning shears on your bed.”

A steel hand started squeezing Myron’s insides.

Dad looked at him with reddening eyes. “You don’t fight men like that, Myron. Because you can’t win. It’s not a question of bravery. It’s a question of caring. You have people you care about, that are connected to you. These men don’t even understand that. They don’t feel. How do you hurt a person who can’t feel?”

Myron had no answer.

“Just walk away,” Dad said. “There’s no shame in that.”

Myron stood up then. So did Dad. They hugged, gripping each other fiercely. Myron closed his eyes. His father cupped the back of his head and then smoothed his hair. Myron snuggled in and stayed there. He inhaled the Old Spice. He traveled back, remembering how this same hand had cradled his head after Joey Davito had hit him with a pitch.

Still comforting, he thought. After all these years, this was still the safest place to be.

Pruning shears.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. He grabbed his cellular and called the Dragons’ practice site. After a few minutes Brenda came on the line.

“Hey,” Brenda said.

“Hey.”

They both fell silent.

“I love a smooth-talking man,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” Myron said.

Brenda laughed. The sound was melodious, plucking at his heart.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Good,” she said. “Playing helps. I’ve also been thinking about you a lot. That helps too.”

“Mutual,” Myron said. Killer lines, one after another.

“Are you coming to the opener tonight?” Brenda asked.

“Sure. You want me to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll take the team bus.”

“Got a question for you,” Myron said.

“Shoot.”

“What are the names of the two boys who had their Achilles tendons sliced in half?”

“Clay Jackson and Arthur Harris.”

“They were cut with pruning shears, right?”

“Right.”

“And they live in East Orange?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t think Horace was the one who hurt them.”

“Then who?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“After the game,” Brenda suggested. “I’ll have some media stuff to do, but maybe we can grab a bite and go back to Win’s.”

“I’d like that,” Myron said.

Silence.

Brenda said, “I sound too eager, don’t I?”

“Not at all.”

“I should be playing harder to get.”

“No.”

“It’s just that”—she stopped, started again—“it feels right, you know?”