The Final Detail: A Myron Bolitar Novel (14 page)

From the outside Take A Guess looked pretty much like your standard Manhattan cantina-as-pickup-joint. The building was brick, the windows darkened to highlight the neon beer signs. Above the door, faded lettering spelled out
Take A Guess.
That was it. No “Bring Your Perversions.” No “The Kinkier the Better.” No “You Better Like Surprises.” Nothing. A suit trudging home might happen by here, stop in, lay down his briefcase, spot something attractive, buy it a drink, make a few quasi-smooth moves warmed over from college mixers, take it home. Surprise, surprise.

Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire—not so much any one member as the entire group. “Ready?”

Myron hesitated, nodded.

When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he’d visualized. He had expected something … blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in
Star Wars
maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles’
joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you’d be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn’t have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn’t wear a facade at a singles’ bar?

Whoa, that was deep.

Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.

Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. “I know the head bartender,” she said. “His name is Pat.”

“Male or female?”

She smiled, punched him on the arm. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

A jukebox played the Police’s “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words
every little.
He lost count at a million.

They found two stools at the bar. Big Cyndi looked for Pat. Myron cased the joint, very detectivelike. He turned his back to the bar, eased his elbows against it, bobbed his head slightly to the music. Señor Slick. The babe-a-rama in the black catsuit caught his eye. She slithered to the seat next to him and curled into it. Myron flashed back to Julie Newmar as Cat Woman circa 1967, something he did far
too often. This woman was dirty blond but otherwise frighteningly comparable.

Catsuit gave him a look that made him believe in telekinesis. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi back.” The Lady Slayer awakens.

She slowly reached for her neck and started toying with the catsuit’s zipper. Myron managed to keep his tongue in the general vicinity of his mouth. He took a quick peek at Big Cyndi.

“Don’t be too sure,” Big Cyndi warned.

Myron frowned. There was cleavage here, for crying out loud. He stole another look—for the sake of science. Yep, cleavage. And plenty of it. He looked back at Big Cyndi and whispered, “Bosoms. Two of them.”

Big Cyndi shrugged.

“My name is Thrill,” Catsuit said.

“I’m Myron.”

“Myron,” she repeated, her tongue circling as though testing the word for taste. “I like that name. It’s very manly.”

“Er, thanks, I guess.”

“You don’t like your name?”

“Actually, I’ve always sort of hated it,” he said. Then he gave her the big-guy look, cocking the eyebrow like Fabio going for deep thought. “But if you like it, maybe I’ll reconsider.”

Big Cyndi made a noise like a moose coughing up a turtle shell.

Thrill gave him another smoldering glance and picked up her drink. She did something that could roughly be called “taking a sip,” but Myron doubted the Motion Picture Association would give it less than an R rating. “Tell me about yourself, Myron.”

They started chatting. Pat, the bartender, was on break,
so Myron and Thrill kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was sort of having fun. Thrill turned toward him, full body. She slid a little closer. Myron again looked for telltale gender signs. He checked for the two Five O’clocks: Shadow and Charlie. Nothing. He checked the cleavage again. Still there. Damn if he wasn’t a trained detective.

Thrill put her hand on his thigh. It felt hot through his jeans. Myron stared at the hand for a moment. Was the size odd? He tried to figure out if it was big for a woman or maybe small for a man. His head started spinning.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Myron finally said, “but you’re a woman, right?”

Thrill threw her head back and laughed. Myron looked for an Adam’s apple. She had a black ribbon tied around the neck. Made it hard to tell. The laugh was a touch hoarse, but oh, come on now. This couldn’t be a guy. Not with that cleavage. Not when the catsuit was so tight about the, er, nether region, if you catch the drift.

“What’s the difference?” Thrill asked.

“Pardon?”

“You find me attractive, don’t you?”

“What I see.”

“So?”

Myron raised his hands. “So—and let me just state this plainly—if, during a moment of passion, there is a second penis in the room … well, it definitely kills the mood for me.”

She laughed. “No other penises, eh?”

“That’s right. Just mine. I’m funny that way.”

“Are you familiar with Woody Allen?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Then let me quote him.” Myron stayed still. Thrill was about to quote the Woodman. If she was a she, Myron
was close to proposing. “ ‘Sex is a beautiful thing between two people. Between five it’s fantastic.’ ”

“Nice quote,” Myron said.

“Do you know what it’s from?”

“His old nightclub act. When Woody did stand-up comedy in the sixties.”

Thrill nodded, pleased that the pupil had passed the test.

“But we’re not talking group sex here,” Myron said.

“Have you ever had group sex?” she asked.

“Well, uh, no.”

“But if you did—if there were, say, five people—would it be a problem if one of them had a penis?”

“We’re talking hypothetically here, right?”

“Unless you want me to call some friends.”

“No, that’s okay, really, thanks.” Myron took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, hypothetically, I guess it wouldn’t be a huge problem, as long as the man kept his distance.”

Thrill nodded. “But if I had a penis—”

“A major mood killer.”

“I see.” Thrill made small circles on Myron’s thigh. “Admit you’re curious.”

“I am.”

“So?”

“So I’m also curious about what goes through a person’s mind when he jumps out of a skyscraper. Before he goes splat on the sidewalk.”

She arched an eyebrow. “It’s probably a hell of a rush.”

“Yeah, but then there’s that splat at the end.”

“And in this case …”

“The splat would be a penis, yes.”

“Interesting,” Thrill said. “Suppose I’m a transsexual.”

“Pardon?”

“Suppose I
had
a penis, but now it’s gone. You’d be safe, right?”

“Wrong.”

“Why?”

“Phantom penis,” Myron said.

“Pardon?”

“Like in a war when a guy loses his limb and still thinks it’s there. Phantom penis.”

“But it’s not your penis that would be missing.”

“Still. Phantom penis.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly.”

Thrill showed him nice, even white teeth. Myron looked at them. Can’t tell much about gender from teeth. Better to check the cleavage again. “You realize that you’re massively insecure about your sexuality,” she said.

“Because I like to know if a potential partner has a penis?”

“A real man wouldn’t worry about being thought of as a fag.”

“It’s not what people think that bothers me.”

“It’s just the penis issue,” she finished for him.

“Bingo.”

“I still say you’re sexually insecure.”

Myron shrugged, palms raised. “Who isn’t?”

“True.” She shifted her rear. Vinyl on vinyl. Grrrr sound. “So why don’t you ask me out on a date?”

“I think we just went over this.”

“You find me attractive, right? What you see, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“And we’re having a nice talk?”

“Yes.”

“You find me interesting? Fun to be with?”

“Yes and yes.”

“And you’re single and unattached?”

He swallowed. “Two more yesses.”

“So?”

“So—and again, don’t take this personally—”

“But it’s that penis thing again.”

“Bingo.”

Thrill leaned back, fiddled with the neckline zipper, pulled it up a bit. “Hey, it’s a first date. We don’t have to end up naked.”

Myron thought about that. “Oh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No … I mean—”

“Maybe I’m not that easy.”

“My mistake for presuming … I mean, you’re hanging out in this bar.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t think most of the patrons in here played hard to get. To quote Woody Allen, ‘How did I misread those signs?’ ”

Thrill didn’t hesitate.
“Play It Again, Sam.”

“If you are a woman,” Myron said, “I may be falling in love.”

“Thank you. And if we’re reading signs from being in this bar, what are you doing here? You with your penis issue.”

“Good point.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So why don’t you ask me out?” Again with the smolder. “We could hold hands. Maybe kiss. You might even sneak a hand under my shirt, go for a little second base. The way you’ve been ogling, it’s almost like you’re there anyway.”

“I’m not ogling,” Myron said.

“No?”

“If I’ve been looking—and note I said
if
—it would be purely for the sake of gender clarification, I assure you.”

“Thanks for straightening that out. But my point is, we can just go and have dinner. Or go to a movie. We don’t have to have any genital contact.”

Myron shook his head. “I’d still be wondering.”

“Ah, but don’t you like a little mystery?”

“I like mystery in lots of arenas. But when it comes to trouser content, well, I’m a pretty traditional guy.”

Thrill shrugged. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

“I’m looking for someone.” He took out a photograph of Clu Haid and showed it to her. “Do you know him?”

Thrill looked at the photograph and frowned. “I thought you said you’re a sports agent.”

“I am. He was a client.”

“Was?”

“He was murdered.”

“He’s the baseball player?”

Myron nodded. “Have you seen him here?”

Thrill grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something down. “Here’s my phone number, Myron. Call me sometime.”

“What about the guy in the photograph?”

Thrill handed him the scrap of paper, jumped off the stool, and undulated away. Myron watched her movements closely, looking for, umm, a concealed weapon. Big Cyndi elbowed him. He almost fell off the stool.

“This is Pat,” Big Cyndi said.

Pat the bartender looked like someone Archie Bunker might have hired to work his place. He was mid-fifties, short, gray-haired, slouch-shouldered, world-weary. Even
his mustache—one of those gray-turning-to-yellow models—drooped as though it’d seen it all. Pat’s sleeves were rolled up, revealing Popeye-size forearms covered with hair. Myron hoped like hell Pat was a guy. This place was giving him a headache.

Behind Pat was a giant mirror. Next to that, a wall with the words
Customer Hall of Fame
painted in pink. The wall was covered with framed head shots of big-time right-wingers. Pat Buchanan. Jerry Falwell. Pat Robertson. Newt Gingrich. Jesse Helms.

Pat saw him looking at the photographs. “Ever notice that.”

“Notice what?”

“How all the big antifags have sexually ambiguous first names? Pat, Chris, Jesse, Jerry. Could be a guy, could be a girl. See what I’m saying?”

Myron said, “Uh-huh.”

“And what kind of name is Newt?” Pat added. “I mean, how the hell do you grow up with a healthy sexual attitude with a name like Newt?”

“I don’t know.”

“My theory?” Pat shrugged, wiped the bar with a dishrag. “These narrow assholes were all teased a lot as children. Makes them hostile on the whole gender issue.”

“Interesting theory,” Myron said. “But isn’t your name Pat?”

“Yeah, well, I hate fags too,” Pat said. “But they tip well.”

Pat winked at Big Cyndi. Big Cyndi winked back. The jukebox changed songs. Lou Rawls crooned “Love Is in the Air.” Timing.

The right-wing head shots were all “autographed.” Jesse Helms’s read: “I’m sore all over, Love and kisses, Jesse.” Blunt. Several Xs and Os followed. There was
also a big lipstick kiss impression as though Jesse himself had puckered up and laid down a wet one. Eeeuw.

Pat started cleaning out a beer mug with the dishrag. Casually. Myron half expected him to spit in it like in an old western. “So what can I get you?”

“Are you a sports fan?” Myron asked.

“You taking a poll?”

That line. It was always such a riot. Myron tried again.

“Does the name Clu Haid mean anything to you?”

Myron watched for a reaction but didn’t get one. Meant nothing. The guy looked like a lifetime bartender. They show about as much range as a
Baywatch
regular. Hmm.

Now why was that show on his mind?

“I asked you—”

“Name means nothing to me.”

Big Cyndi said, “Please, Pat.”

He shot her a look. “You heard me, Big C. I don’t know him.”

Myron pressed it. “Never heard of Clu Haid?”

“That’s right.”

“How about the New York Yankees?”

“I haven’t followed them since the Mick retired.”

Myron put the photograph of Clu Haid on the bar. “Ever seen him in here?”

Someone called out for a draft. Pat drew it. When he came back, he spoke to Big Cyndi. “This guy a cop?”