Damn.

Myron quickly trotted over, the smile on full blast. “Mindy?” He had suddenly remembered her name.

She turned to him but said nothing.

He put on the soft voice and the understanding eyes. A male Oprah. A kinder, gentler Regis. “Whatever you say to me is confidential,” he said. “If you’re involved in this—”

“Just stay away from me, okay? I’m not, like, involved in anything.”

She pushed past him and hurried past Foot Locker and the Athlete’s Foot—two stores Myron had always assumed were the same, alter egos if you will, like you never saw Batman and Bruce Wayne in the same room.

Myron watched her go. She hadn’t cracked, which was a bit of a surprise. He nodded and his backup plan went into action. Mindy kept hurrying away, glancing behind her every few steps to make sure Myron wasn’t following her. He wasn’t.

Mindy, however, did not notice the attractive, jean-clad Hispanic woman just a few feet to her left.

Mindy found a pay phone by the record store that looked exactly like every other mall record store. She glanced about, put a quarter into the slot, and dialed a number. Her finger had just pressed the seventh digit when a small hand reached over her shoulder and hung up the phone.

She spun toward Esperanza. “Hey!”

Esperanza said, “Put down the phone.”

“Hey!”

“Right, hey. Now put down the phone.”

“Like, who the fuck are you?”

“Put down the phone,” Esperanza repeated, “or I’ll shove it up a nostril.”

Wide-eyed with confusion, Mindy obeyed. Several seconds later, Myron appeared. He looked at Esperanza. “Up a nostril?”

She shrugged.

Mindy shouted, “You can’t, like, do that.”

“Do what?” Myron said.

“Like”—Mindy stopped, struggled with the thought—“like, make me hang up a phone?”

“No law against that,” Myron said. He turned to Esperanza. “You know any law against that?”

“Against hanging up a phone?” Esperanza emphatically shook her head. “No, señor.”

“See, no law against it. On the other hand, there is a law against aiding and abetting a criminal. It’s called a felony. It means jail time.”

“I didn’t aid nothing. And I don’t bet.”

Myron turned to Esperanza. “You get the number?”

She nodded and gave it to him.

“Let’s trace it.”

Again, the cyber-age made this task frighteningly easy. Anybody can buy a computer program at their local software store or hop on certain Web sites like Biz, type in the number, and voilà, you have a name and address.

Esperanza used a cellular phone to dial the home number of MB SportsReps’ new receptionist. Her name was, fittingly, Big Cyndi. Six-five and over three hundred pounds, Big Cyndi had wrestled professionally under the moniker Big Chief Mama, tag-team partner of Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz. In the ring, Big Cyndi wore makeup like Tammy Faye on steroids; spiked hair that would have been the envy of Sid and Nancy; ripped muscle-displaying T-shirts; and an awful, sneering glare complete with a ready growl. In real life, well, she was exactly the same.

Speaking Spanish, Esperanza gave Cyndi the number.

Mindy said, “Hey, I’m, like, outta here.”

Myron grabbed her arm. “ ’Fraid not.”

“Hey! You can’t, like, hold me here.”

Myron maintained his grip.

“I’ll scream rape.”

Myron rolled his eyes. “At a mall pay phone. In broad fluorescent light. When I’m standing here with my girlfriend.”

Mindy looked at Esperanza. “She’s your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

Esperanza began whistling “Dream Weaver.”

“But you can’t, like, make me stay with you.”

“I don’t get it, Mindy. You look like a nice girl.” Actually. she was wearing black leggings, too-high pumps, a red halter top, and what looked like a dog choker around her neck. “Are you trying to tell me that this guy is worth going to jail over? He deals drugs, Mindy. He tried to kill me.”

Esperanza hung up. “It’s a bar called the Parker Inn.”

“You know where it is?” he asked Mindy.

“Yeah.”

“Come on.”

Mindy pulled away. “Let go,” she said, stretching out the last word.

“Mindy, this isn’t fun and games here. You helped someone try to kill me.”

“So you say.”

“What?”

Mindy put her hands on her hips, chewed gum. “So, like, how do I know that you’re not the bad one, huh?”

“Excuse me?”

“You, like, come up to us yesterday, right, all mysterious and stuff, right? You don’t, like, have a badge or nothing. How do I know that you aren’t, like, after Tito? How do I know that you aren’t another drug dealer trying to take over his turf?”

“ ‘Tito?’ ” Myron repeated, looking at Esperanza. “A neo-Nazi named Tito?”

Esperanza shrugged.

“None of his friends, like, call him Tito,” Mindy went on. “It’s way too long, you know? So they call him Tit.”

Myron and Esperanza exchanged a glance, shook their heads. Too easy.

“Mindy,” Myron said slowly, “I wasn’t kidding back there. Tito is not a nice fellow. He may, in fact, be involved in kidnapping and maiming a boy about your age. Somebody cut off the boy’s finger and sent it to his mother.”

Her face pinched up. “Oh, that’s, like, so gross.”

“Help me, Mindy.”

“You a cop?”

“No,” Myron said. “I’m just trying to save a boy.”

She waved her hands dismissively. “Then, like, go. You don’t need me.”

“I’d like you to come with us.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t try to warn Tito.”

“I won’t.”

Myron shook his head. “You also know how to get to Parker Inn. It’ll save us time.”

“Uh-uh, no way. I’m not going with you.”

“If you don’t,” Myron said, “I’ll tell Amber and Trish and the gang all about your new boyfriend.”

That snared her attention. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she insisted. “We just, like, hung out a couple of times.”