Chapter Thirteen

When Win's plane reached ten thousand feet, the Wi-Fi came on. Myron called a former client and retired basketball star named Chaz Landreaux. Chaz didn't pick up. Myron sent a text to give him a call when he had a moment, then he checked the notifications on his phone.

Terese had texted their standard emojis: a telephone and a heart. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out their complicated marital code. The telephone said, "Do you want to talk?" The heart said, "I love you." They often sent these emojis before calling because one (on the lighter side), the other may be busy or in a meeting or in some other way not alone and ready to talk, and two (the darker side), they both led lives where things went wrong and a phone call out of nowhere might cause a few seconds of unnecessary worry.

Myron opened his phone to Favorites and tapped the fourth one down. Myron's father held the top fave spot, Mom the second, his parents' home phone—yes, they still used one—was the third. Win had been fourth, Esperanza fifth, but both got knocked down a peg when Myron and Terese tied the knot.

Terese answered on the second ring and said, "How was your day?"

"Good." Then Myron added: "I almost lost my baby toe."

"Left or right foot's?"

"Left."

"Yikes. That's my favorite toe. What happened?"

"A bad man tried to cut it off with pruning shears."

"And what happened to the bad man?"

"Win happened to him."

"Is it okay if I'm okay with that?"

"It is."

"Myron?"

"Yes."

"I'm keeping it light to stave off my panic."

"I know," Myron said. "Me too. But it's okay."

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

"Maybe later. Right now, I just want to hear your voice."

"Is that code for phone sex?" she asked.

"I'm on Win's plane."

"That sounds like a yes."

Myron smiled and felt the warmth spread through him. "I love you, you know."

"I love you too. Are you free Tuesday?"

"I can be."

"I'll be in town to interview the Manhattan district attorney."

"Oh wow, great."

The phone clicked. Myron checked and saw it was Chaz calling him back. Through the line, Terese said, "Incoming call?"

"Yeah. Can I get back to you in a few?"

"I'm half asleep. Let's talk in the morning, okay?"

Terese was the least needy person he knew, far less needy than Myron, but he said okay and they both said love you again and then Myron clicked over to the other call. Mee brought him over a Yoo-hoo, already shaken and poured into a glass. Myron hoped she hadn't thrown in any absinthe.

"Myron!" Chaz said with the genuine enthusiasm that had made him such a popular player, sportscaster, and now coach. "As I live and breathe."

"Thanks for calling me back so fast."

"For you? Always."

There had been a time many years ago when Chaz Landreaux, so-called "street kid" (when that euphemism was too often used) from the South Ward, had gotten himself in trouble with mob-connected agents. Myron and Win helped him out of that mess, and Chaz had ended up as one of Myron's first clients. When Myron chose to close MB Reps and leave the business, Chaz had moved on to a new agency with young Black talent. When Myron returned, Chaz did not. Chaz was a loyal guy. He would never have left Myron of his own accord. But Myron had chosen to quit the business and so Chaz had found alternative representation, and his new agency had done good by him. It wouldn't be fair, Chaz explained, to move back. Myron understood.

"Congrats on the new job," Myron said.

Chaz had just landed the job as the University of Kentucky's new men's head basketball coach.

"Thanks," Chaz said. "But you already congratulated me about that."

"Yeah, I know."

"Even sent a gift basket of food."

"Was it any good?"

"Gift baskets of food are never any good."

"True," Myron said. Then: "I need a favor, Chaz."

"Okay."

"I'm hoping it'll end up being a favor for you too."

"Oh boy, what a pitch," Chaz said. "You're a great salesman."

Everyone's a wiseass.

"I hear you're looking for a head assistant coach."

"Ah. You want to pitch a client?"

"Not a client," Myron said. "But can you give Spark Konners an interview?"

"Funny."

"What?"

"I got his résumé on my desk here. Of course, I got about a thousand résumés. How do you know him? Oh wait. Greg Downing, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Greg liked him a lot. That much I can say. The truth is, I really don't know much about his qualifications other than that."

"Uh-huh," Chaz said.

Myron sipped the Yoo-hoo. He thought he'd outgrown the taste years ago. Now, maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was fear of aging, maybe it was almost losing Terese's favorite toe, but he found comfort in the old nectar.

"So you don't know if he's any good," Chaz continued.

"I don't, no."

"So why are you making this call?"

"I owe him," Myron said.

"Like you owe him a favor?"

"Worse," Myron said. "I wronged him."

"How?"

"Long story and one I can't tell you. I just did him wrong."

"And you're trying to make amends?"

"This won't make amends. But maybe something is better than nothing."

Chaz didn't say anything for a few beats. Then: "I know you, Myron. You don't ‘wrong' people without a reason."

"There was a reason. But it's not a reflection on Spark. He's an innocent."

"Fair enough," Chaz said. "His résumé looks pretty solid anyway. I'll interview him."

"Thank you."

"And I'll announce it publicly. Even if he doesn't get the job, that should get him some cred."

Myron told Chaz he appreciated it. They hung up. He sat back.

The plane began its descent. Myron looked out the window. Montana. A whole lot of beautiful nothingness. That wasn't a judgment. When you live on the East Coast, it's just different. Montana is twenty times bigger than Myron's home state of New Jersey. Twenty times bigger. Montana has about a million people while New Jersey has over nine million. Not to be all mathy, but that means that New Jersey has 1,260 people per square mile. Montana? About 7.5 people per square mile.

Different.

Myron checked the app. The phone he was tracking—he was still assuming it belonged to Spark's brother Bo/Brian—was still at the Budget Inn. A rental car waited for Myron at the airport. He put the Budget Inn into Google Maps. The app told him it would be a nine-minute ride.

You don't expect a lot from a place called the Budget Inn, and you don't get a lot either. The two-level motel didn't have the word "FLEABAG" spray-painted on the side of it, but maybe it should have. Myron parked and headed toward a sign saying MOTEL OFFICE. One thing struck Myron as odd right away. There were probably twenty vehicles in the lot, but he counted only eight rooms: four on top, four on the bottom. No lights on in any of them. Not one. The motel office was locked. A handwritten sign on the cracked glass door read: "PERMANENTLY CLOSED."

Myron checked his phone. As with most tracking apps, the location was approximate. Now as he looked at it again, the dot seemed to be somewhere in the corner of the parking lot. As Myron headed back toward the front, he spotted a red shack with a yellow sign aptly reading: THE SHANTY LOUNGE.

In another era, the Shanty had probably been the Budget Inn's watering hole, but whereas the lodging had ceased to exist, the lounge was still hopping. Two men stumbled out the front door, both clearly intoxicated. One jumped into a monster SUV, vroomed the engine, and took off over the curb. The other guy vomited on a Ford Taurus before walking it off. Myron checked the location app again. The answer was obvious now.

Whoever Spark had called was currently inside the Shanty Lounge.

Myron headed to the saloon door. He wasn't sure how to play it or what he expected to find here. Could Spark have called Greg Downing? Could Greg be in this bar? And then what? If it was Bo and not Greg, what was Myron's play here? Question him? Watch him and follow him back to wherever he lived?

He reached the door. The bar sounded happening from the outside. The old yacht-rock classic "Sailing" by Christopher Cross was playing, maybe on a jukebox, maybe karaoke. Several patrons were singing that sailing took them away to where they always heard it could be. Okay. Myron hesitated. If Greg was inside, suppose he recognized Myron. Would Greg—what?—run? Still none of it made any sense. Let's say Greg was here. Let's say Greg and his lover Bo had run away from Joey the Toe and decided to hide in Montana.

Why travel to New York and kill a former model he had barely known?

It made no sense.

Myron was missing something. That wasn't uncommon. Situations like this were always about missing stuff. His normal way was to keep shaking the box and hope more pieces fell out. But something here, something about the pieces he had already, made him feel as though he was shaking the wrong box.

So Myron just pushed open the door and entered. Spark had called someone. Maybe Greg, maybe Bo. Whoever—they might be on the lookout. Maybe Spark had warned them that people were looking for them. Maybe they were prepared.

Best to be on guard.

When Myron entered, he half expected the whole bar to go silent and turn toward him, like you used to see in old Westerns. Nothing like that happened. The aptly named Shanty was a classic small-town watering hole. That was a compliment. Oodles of neon beer signs shined bright against dark wood paneling. Coors Light dominated, but Budweiser had a pretty good showing too. There were deer antlers on the walls and a long mirror behind the bar. The specials were written on a whiteboard. The Shanty was small but happening. Four dudes with cowboy hats played darts. Two guys with trucker hats scrutinized a pile of giant Jenga blocks. A tall woman leaned on the corner jukebox and sang that fantasy, it gets the best of her, and three guys backed up when she noted that she felt this way when sailing. Shanty Lounge and the Pips. There might be a variety of tops—tees, flannels, polos—but everyone wore blue jeans. Myron counted three dogs—two golden retrievers lying on the floor like throw rugs, and a third dog, a French bulldog, slouching on a stool at the bar.

The corner jukebox transitioned from Christopher Cross to an old Doobie Brothers ditty. Soon Michael McDonald and the tall woman were urging the bar patrons to take it to the streets. No one in here seemed in the mood to take it anywhere. The clientele all seemed pretty content inside with their drinks and darts and billiards.

Myron took in the crowd. No Greg. No Bo/Brian.

Wait. Hold the phone.

One of the bartenders was working a Carter's Brewing tap into a Miller Lite glass.

Myron narrowed his eyes. The long, frosted locks were gone, replaced with a blending-in military-style crew cut. The carefully cultivated facial hair had been replaced with the old-school clean-shave look. He wore wire-framed glasses now, and where his outfits on his Instagram page were Technicolor and flamboyant, this bartender too wore the stock black-tee-blue-jeans uniform of the Shanty.

It was a disguise and a pretty good one. Subtle. If you weren't looking for him and looking for him hard, you'd never happen upon him and say, "Hey, aren't you Bo Storm?"

But it was Bo. No question about it.

Myron again debated how to play it—should he wait, watch, what?—but the direct route seemed best. He didn't want Win delaying Spark any longer than absolutely necessary. They'd done enough to the guy.

There was an empty stool next to the French bulldog. Myron took it. He was the only one not in jeans, sporting his crisper look of trousers and a blue dress shirt. No one seemed to care what he was wearing, though the French bulldog, who wore a nametag that read FIREBALL ROBERTS, looked at him with disdain. Myron nodded at the dog and smiled. The dog turned away and faced the bar.

Can't please everyone.

Bo Bartender came over to Myron and gave him a smile. The smile was a bit of a tell. Not to stereotype, but his teeth were still the bright white of Vegas veneers, which didn't fit the norm of the Shanty Lounge.

"What can I get you?" Bo asked.

"What's good on tap?"

"I like the Carter's."

"Sounds good," Myron said. "But can you do me a favor first?"

"What's that?"

"Don't panic. Don't run. Don't even react. I got guys out front and out the back. You're safe right here. I promise. I'm not here to hurt you. You can make a big stink and try to get away, but that'll just draw attention and then Joey the Toe will hear about it. That will be bad for you. I mean you no harm. He does."

For a moment Bo just stared at him. Myron could see the wheels turning. He kept his eyes on Bo's. Steady. Calm. Confident. Bo could scream for help. He was a local. These people would jump in, Myron had no doubt.

"Yo, Stevie?"

It was someone at the other end of the bar. Bo said, "One second."

Bo looked lost.

"Pour my beer, Stevie," Myron said.

Bo nodded and turned to the tap. Myron looked to his right. Fireball Roberts was giving him the stink eye. Myron almost told him to mind his own business, but Fireball had been sitting here first and also Myron didn't want to get into a beef with a French bulldog.

The beer had the right amount of foam on top. Bo put it in front of Myron and said, "You work with those guys who harassed Spark?"

"I am the guy who harassed Spark."

"No way. You could never—"

"Private plane, Bo. This is big time. You might want to listen to me."

"I got a good life here."

"I don't doubt it."

"I kicked the drugs. I've been clean for four years now. I like my job. I got friends. People."

"And I don't want to ruin any of that."

"So what do you want?"

"I just need to talk to Greg."

Bo stayed quiet.

Patron One: "Yo, Stevie? You hard of hearing?"

Patron Two: "We're thirsty, Stevie. Man is not a camel, you know."

"Hold your horses, Darren," Bo/Stevie yelled out. Then to Myron: "I'll be right back."

There was one other person behind the bar, a mussed-hair barmaid in her fifties displaying both taut forearms and ample cleavage. She was down the other end of the bar, pretending she didn't see Myron to such a degree that Myron knew she was worried. Myron risked another glance at Fireball Roberts. Yep. Stink eye.

"I'm not here to hurt him," Myron told the bulldog.

The bulldog remained unmoved.

Myron kept his eye on the barmaid. She was staring so hard at a guy in a cowboy hat playing billiards that the guy must have felt it. Still holding the cue stick, Cowboy turned around and looked a question at her. The barmaid looked at Cowboy, then she looked at Myron, then Cowboy looked at Myron, then Cowboy looked at another guy with a beard so long he kept it under control with hair ties, and then both Cowboy and Beard Ties started toward him.

Oh damn.

Cowboy came up and stood behind Myron on his right. Beard Ties took the left. Fireball Roberts turned away as though he wanted no trouble. Bo came back over to Myron and said, "Okay, so what do you want?"

"You want me to talk in front of your friends here?"

The cowboy's voice was a deep, rich baritone. "I'm more than a friend."

Myron looked back at him now. "Oh."

"We don't have any secrets," Bo added.

Myron said "Oh" again.

"So what do you want?"

"I told you. I need to talk to Greg. If he wants to stay hidden after that, okay, fine. But I need to make sure he's all right. Tell Greg it's Myron. He knows me. I'm his agent. He can tell you I'm a man of my word."

"Your name is Myron," Bo said.

"Yes. Myron Bolitar."

"Myron, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Myron sighed, looked back at Cowboy and Beard Ties, and said, "I know about you and Greg Downing."

His eyes widened. "Greg Downing?"

"Yes."

"You're joking with me. Greg Downing? That's the Greg you're talking about?"

"Look, Bo, I saw the messages."

"Messages?"

"The romantic DMs on your old Instagram account."

And then Bo did something Myron didn't expect. He broke out laughing.

"Wait, you think Greg and I…" Bo laughed some more, shook his head. He smiled at Cowboy. "Whoa, man, this guy must have the worst gaydar in the history of the world."

Myron said, "Someone saw your DMs—"

"Greg wasn't talking to me."

Myron stopped. "Pardon?"

"That was my mom," Bo said. "Greg was DMing with my mom."

Myron sat there and blinked. In his mind's eye he saw the puzzle pieces. Then he saw himself sweep all the pieces off the table and onto the floor. His voice sounded far away in his own ears. "But it was your Instagram page."

"Yeah, duh. My mom ran all my social media stuff—Instagram, OnlyFans, whatever. When the Bucks came to town, Spark invited us to a game. My mom, well, it may sound weird for a son to say so, but she's hot. A total smoke show. Spark introduced Greg to Mom after the game—"

"That game," Myron interrupted, remembering the curvy blonde in the photo sitting next to Bo. "Was it in Phoenix?"

"Yeah, against the Suns. That's where we're from. Spark and I were raised in Scottsdale."

"So you and Greg aren't—"

"Are you serious?" Bo looked up at Cowboy. "We're good, Cal. I'll call you if I need anything." To Myron he added, "Take a sip of the beer. You'll feel better."

Myron did, trying to think it through.

"Can I ask you something?" Bo asked.

Myron nodded.

"Am I really safe staying here? Cal and I, we can move on if not."

"I won't tell anyone."

"And there's no way for Joey to track us down?"

"I don't see how," Myron said. "Did you kill Jordan Kravat?"

"Wow, not beating around the bush. Do you think I'd tell you if I did?"

"It might save us some time," Myron said.

"No, I didn't kill Jordan. I loved him."

"Jordan's mother thinks you had something to do with it."

"Donna? No, she doesn't. She may have said that to you, but that's because she doesn't want to face the truth."

"That being?"

"She let Joey into our lives. Invited him in really. Donna couldn't make enough money just running the nightclub. So she teamed up with Joey. He started pressuring us. Always wanting more money. It got out of control. Jordan tried to step in, and it got him killed."

"Donna said you and her son were on the outs."

He considered that for a moment. "We were, I guess. But I mean, we were young. It was all sort of volatile. Neither of us thought we were meant to be forever."

"Did you kill him?" Myron asked again.

"No."

"What about Greg?"

"What about him?"

"I'm thinking about the timing," Myron said. "Greg started DMing your mother. He travels to Vegas. Then Jordan gets murdered and Greg disappears."

"Greg didn't disappear," Bo said. "He and Mom fell hard for each other. They decided to travel the world. When he died, she was crushed."

"I don't think Greg is dead."

"Of course he is. You said you were Greg's manager or something?"

"His agent. We'd known each other since we were kids."

"Well, you must not have been very close," Bo said.

"Why do you say that?"

Bo started wiping the bar with a rag. "Why do you think Greg quit his job and ran off in the first place?"

"He said he wanted to get out of the rat race."

Bo shook his head. "No, man. Greg was sick."

Myron said nothing.

"He got a bad diagnosis. The Big C. That's why Greg quit coaching. That's why he and Mom ran away. Because he didn't have much time left."