Myron nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”

But as he showed himself out, he was pretty sure that he understood nothing.

23

Tito the Crusty Nazi never showed at the Parker Inn.

Myron sat in a car across the street. As usual, he hated surveillance. Boredom didn’t set in this time, but the devastated face of Francine Rennart kept haunting him. He wondered about the long-term effects of his visit. The woman had been privately dealing with her grief, locking her private demons in a back closet, and then Myron had gone and blown the hinges off the door. He had tried to comfort her. But in the end what could he say?

Closing time. Still no sign of Tito. His two buddies—Beneath and Escape—were another matter. They’d arrived at ten-thirty. At one A.M. they both exited. Escape was on crutches—the aftertaste, Myron was sure, of the nasty side kick to the knee. Myron smiled. It was a small victory, but you take them where you can.

Beneath had his arm slung around a woman’s neck. She had a dye job from the planet Bad Bottle and basically looked like the type of woman who might go for a tattoo-infested skinhead—or to say the same thing in a slightly different way, she looked like a regular on the Jerry Springer show.

Both men stopped to urinate on the outside wall. Beneath actually kept his arm around the girl while emptying his bladder. Jesus. So many men peed on that wall that Myron wondered if there was a bathroom inside. The two men broke off. Beneath got into the passenger side of a Ford Mustang. Bad Bleach drove. Escape hobbled onto his own chariot, a motorcycle of some kind. He strapped the crutches onto the side. The two vehicles drove off in separate directions.

Myron decided to follow Escape. When in doubt, tail the one that’s lame.

He kept far back and remained extra careful. Better to lose him than risk in the slightest way the possibility of being spotted. But the tail didn’t last long. Three blocks down the road, Escape parked and headed into a shabby excuse for a house. The paint was peeling off in flakes the size of manhole covers. One of the support columns on the front porch had completely given way, so the front lip of the roof looked like it’d been ripped in half by some giant. The two upstairs windows were shattered like a drunk’s eyes. The only possible reason that this dump hadn’t been condemned was that the building inspector had not been able to stop laughing long enough to write up a summons.

Okay, so now what?

He waited an hour for something to happen. Nothing did. He had seen a bedroom light go on and off. That was it. The whole night was fast turning into a complete waste of time.

So what should he do?

He had no answer. So he changed the question around a bit.

What would Win do?

Win would weigh the risks. Win would realize that the situation was desperate, that a sixteen-year-old boy’s finger had been chopped off like a bothersome thread. Rescuing him imminently was paramount.

Myron nodded to himself. Time to play Win.

He got out of the car. Making sure he kept out of sight, Myron circled around to the back of the dump. The yard was bathed in darkness. He trampled through grass long enough to hide Viet Cong, occasionally stumbling across a cement block or rake or a garbage can top. His shin got whacked twice; Myron had to bite down expletives.

The back door was boarded up with plywood. The window to its left, however, was open. Myron looked inside. Dark. He carefully climbed into the kitchen.

The smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils. Flies buzzed about. For a moment, Myron feared that he might find a dead body, but this stink was different, more like the odor of a Dumpster at a 7-Eleven than anything in the rotting flesh family. He checked the other rooms, walking on tiptoes, avoiding the several spots on the floor where there was no floor. No sign of a kidnap victim. No sixteen-year-old boy tied up. No one at all. Myron followed the snoring to the room he had seen the light in earlier. Escape was on his back. Asleep. Without a care.

That was about to change.

Myron leapt into the air and landed hard on Escape’s bad knee. Escape’s eyes widened. His mouth opened in a scream that Myron cut off with a snap punch in the mouth. He moved quickly, straddling Escape’s chest with his knees. He put his gun against the punk’s cheek.

“Scream and die,” Myron said.

Escape’s eyes stayed wide. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He did not scream. Still, Myron was disappointed in himself. Scream and die? He couldn’t come up with anything better than scream and die?

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

“Who?”

Myron jammed the gun barrel into the bleeding mouth. It hit teeth and nearly gagged the man. “Wrong answer.”

Escape stayed silent. The punk was brave. Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn’t talk because Myron had stuck a gun in his mouth. Smooth move, Bolitar. Keeping his face firm, Myron slowly slid the barrel out.

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

Escape gasped, caught his breath. “I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Give me your hand.”

Escape lifted his hand into view. Myron grabbed the wrist, turned it, and plucked out the middle finger. He curled it inward and flattened the folded digit against the palm. The kid bucked in pain. “I don’t need a knife,” Myron said. “I can just grind it into splinters.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the kid managed. “I swear!”

Myron squeezed a little harder. He did not want the bone to snap. Escape bucked some more. Smile a little, Myron thought. That’s how Win does it. He has just a hint of a smile. Not much. You want your victim to think you are capable of anything, that you are completely cold, that you might even enjoy it. But you don’t want him thinking you are a complete lunatic, out of control, a nut who would hurt you no matter what. Mine that middle ground.

“Please …”

“Where is Chad Coldren?”

“Look, I was there, okay? When he jumped you. Tit said he’d give me a hundred bucks. But I don’t know no Chad Coldren.”

“Where is Tit?” That name again.

“At his crib, I guess. I don’t know.”

Crib? The neo-Nazi was using dated urban street lingo. Life’s ironies. “Doesn’t Tito usually hang out with you guys at the Parker Inn?”

“Yeah, but he never showed.”

“Was he supposed to?”

“I guess. It’s not like we talk about it.”