Myron was surprised. “Valerie recommended me?”

“She thought you’d be good for Eddie.”

“She said that?”

“Yes.”

Myron turned to Eddie. He wasn’t crying, but he looked on the verge. “What else did she say, Eddie?”

Shrug. “She thought you were honest. That you’d treat me right.”

“How did you know Valerie?”

“They met at Pavel’s camp in Florida,” Crane answered. “She was sixteen when Eddie arrived. He was only nine. I think she looked after him a little.”

“They were quite close,” Mrs. Crane added. “Such a tragedy.”

“Did she say anything else, Eddie?”

Another shrug. Eddie finally looked up. Myron met his gaze, held it steady.

“It’s important,” Myron said.

“She told me not to work with TruPro,” he said.

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

“My theory,” Crane added, “is that she blamed them for her downfall.”

“What do you think, Eddie?” Myron asked.

Yet another shrug. “Could be. I don’t know.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Nothing.

Mrs. Crane said, “I think that’s enough for now. Valerie’s murder has been very hard on Eddie.”

The conversation slowly drifted back to business. But Eddie was silent now. Every once in a while he would open his mouth, then close it again. When they rose to leave, Eddie leaned toward Myron and whispered, “Why do you want to know so much about Valerie?”

Myron opted for the truth. “I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

That widened his eyes. He looked behind him. His parents were busy saying good-bye to François. François kissed Mrs. Crane’s hand.

“I think you might be able to help,” Myron said.

“Me?” Eddie said. “I don’t know anything.”

“She was your friend. You were close to her.”

“Eddie?”

Mr. Crane’s voice.

“I have to go, Mr. Bolitar. Thank you for everything.”

“Yes, thank you,” Crane added. “We have a few more agencies to see, but we’ll be in touch.”

After they left, François came by with the bill. “Your tie is very becoming, Mr. Bolitar.”

The man knew how to kiss ass. “You should have been an agent, François.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Myron gave him a Visa card and waited. He turned his cell phone back on. A message from Win. Myron called him back.

“Where are you?” Myron asked.

“On Twenty-sixth Street, near Eighth,” Win said. “There were two gentlemen—and I use that term in its absolute loosest sense—in the Cadillac. They followed you to La Reserve, sat outside for a while, and left about half an hour ago. They’ve just entered a drinking establishment of rather questionable repute.”

“Questionable repute?”

“It’s called the Beaver Hunt. Enough said?”

“Stay on them. I’m on my way down.”

12

Win was waiting across the street from the Beaver Hunt. The block was quiet, the only sound was the faint beat of music coming from inside the bar. A large neon sign said TOPLESS!

“Two of them,” Win said. “The driver was a white man, approximately six-three. Overweight but powerfully built. I think you’ll like his fashion sense.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ll see. He is with a black man. Six foot. Big scar on his right cheek. I guess you might describe him as thin and wiry.”

Myron looked down the street. “Where did they park?”

“A lot on Eighth Avenue.”

“Why not on the street? Plenty of spots.”

“I believe our man is quite attached to his charming chariot.” Win smiled. “If anything happened to it, I bet he’d be very upset.”

“How difficult will it be to break in?”

Win looked insulted. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that.”

“Fine, you check the car. I’ll go inside.”

Win snapped a salute. “Roger, Wilco.”

They split up. Win headed for the lot, Myron for the bar. Myron would have preferred it the other way around, especially since the two men obviously knew what Myron looked like, but they needed to play their strengths. Win was far better at breaking into cars or handling anything mechanical. Myron was better at, well, this.

He entered the bar with his head lowered, just in case. No need. No one paid him any attention. There was no cover charge here. Myron looked around. Two words came to mind: major dive. The decor’s theme was Early American Beer. The walls were ornamented with neon beer signs. The bar and table were crusted with beer rings. Behind the bar were pyramids of beer bottles from all over the land.

Of course, there were topless dancers. They lazily pranced atop small stages that looked like old stage props from Wonderama. Most of the dancers were not attractive. Far from it. The exercise craze had not yet hit the Beaver Hunt. Flesh jiggled. The place looked more like a cellulite test center than a male-fantasy cantina.

Myron moved to a corner table and sat by himself. There were a few suits, but for the most part the clientele was blue-collar. The well-to-do usually got their topless kicks at Goldfingers or Score, where the women were far more aesthetically pleasing, though their body parts were about as real as their inflatable brethren’s.

Two men were laughing it up by center stage. One black, one white. They fit Win’s description. When the dancers rotated stages, the one in front of them stepped off. Her downtime. The boys began to negotiate with her. In places like Goldfingers and Score, you paid about twenty or twenty-five dollars for a table dance. It was basically just what it sounded like. The girl took off her top and danced at your table for maybe five minutes. No touchy, no feely. At the Beaver Hunt, the order of the day was a recent craze known as the Lap Dance, which took place in discreet corners of the bar. The Lap Dance, known to young adolescents as the Dry Hump, consisted of a dancer gyrating on a man’s crotch until he, well, orgasmed. Moral repugnancy aside, Myron had several questions about the technical aspects of such an act. Like after the act, how does a guy go around the rest of the night? Does he bring a change of underwear with him?

So many questions. So little time.

The two men and the dancer headed toward Myron’s corner. Myron could now see clearly what Win had been talking about. The white guy did indeed have big arms, but he also had a protruding gut and flabby chest. Some of these flaws could be hidden with proper fashion sense, but the white guy was wearing a tight fishnet shirt. Fishnet. As in a lot of holes. As in practically no shirt at all. His chest hairs—and there were lots of them—were jutting through the holes. The hairs seemed unusually long, coiling around—and indeed getting enmeshed in—the many gold chains that were draped about his neck. As he walked by, Myron got a full view of his back, thank you very much, which was even hairier and somewhat oilier than the front.