“You going to adopt him?”

“Uh, no.”

“How about represent him?”

“They said they’ll be in touch.”

“What do you think?”

“Hard to say. The kid liked me. The parents are worried about me being small-time.” Pause. “How did it go with Burger City?”

She handed him some papers. “Prelim contract for Phil Sorenson.”

“TV commercial?”

“Yeah, but he has to dress up as a burger condiment.”

“Which one?”

“Ketchup, I think. We’re still talking.”

“Fine. Just don’t let it be mayonnaise or pickle.” He studied the contract. “Nice work. Good figures.”

Esperanza looked at him.

“Very good, in fact.” He smiled at her. Widely.

“Is this the part where I get all excited by your praise?” she asked.

“Forget I said anything.”

She pointed to the stack of articles. “I managed to track down Valerie’s shrink from her days at Dilworth. Her name is Julie Abramson. She has a private office on Seventy-third Street. She won’t see you, of course. Refuses to discuss her patient.”

“A woman doctor,” Myron mused. He put his hands behind his head. “Maybe I can entice her with my rapier wit and brawny body.”

“Probably,” Esperanza said, “but on the off chance she’s not comatose, I went with an alternative plan.”

“And that is?”

“I called her office back, changed my voice, and pretended you were a patient. I made an appointment for you to see her tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”

“What’s my psychosis?”

“Chronic priapism,” she said. “But that’s just my opinion.”

“Funny.”

“Actually, you’ve been much better since what’s-her-name left town.”

What’s-her-name was Jessica, which Esperanza knew very well. Esperanza did not care much for the love of Myron’s life. A casual observer might offer up jealousy as the culprit, but that’d be way off base. True, Esperanza was extraordinarily beautiful. Sure, there’d been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always been prudent enough to douse the flames before any real damage was done. There was also the fact that Esperanza liked a bit of diversity when it came to beaus—diversity that went well beyond tall or short, fat or thin, white or black. Right now, for example, Esperanza was dating a photographer. The photographer’s name was Lucy. Lucy. As in a female, for those having trouble catching the drift.

No, the reason for her strong dislike was far simpler: Esperanza had been there when Jessica left the first time. She had seen it all firsthand. And Esperanza held grudges.

Myron returned to his original question. “So what did you tell them was wrong with me?”

“I was vague,” she said. “You hear voices. You suffer from paranoid schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, something like that.”

“How did you get an appointment so fast?”

“You’re a very famous movie star.”

“My name?”

“I didn’t dare give one,” Esperanza said. “You’re that big.”

18

Dr. Julie Abramson’s office was on the corner of Seventy-third Street and Central Park West. Ritzy address. One block north, overlooking the park, was the San Remo building. Dustin Hoffman and Diane Keaton lived there. Madonna had tried to move in, but the board decided she was not San Remo material. Win lived a block south, in the Dakota, where John Lennon had lived and literally died. Whenever you entered the Dakota’s courtyard you crossed over the spot where Lennon had been gunned down. Myron had walked it a hundred times since the shooting, but he still felt the need to be silent when he did.

There was an ornate, wrought-iron gate on Dr. Abramson’s door. Protective or decorative? Myron couldn’t decide, but he saw some irony in a psychiatric office being guarded by a “wrought” iron gate.

Okay, not much irony but a little.

Myron pressed a doorbell. He heard the buzzer and let himself in. He was wearing his best pair of sunglasses for the occasion, even though it was cloudy outside. Mr. Movie Star.

The receptionist, a neatly attired man wearing fashionable spectacles, folded his hands and said, “Good morning,” in a supposedly soothing voice that grated like a tortured cat’s screech.

“I’m here to see Dr. Abramson. I have a nine o’clock appointment.”

“I see.” He perked up now, studying Myron’s face, trying to guess who the big movie star was. Myron adjusted his sunglasses but kept them on. The receptionist wanted to ask for a name, but discretion got the better of him. Afraid of insulting the big-time celebrity.

“Could you fill out this form while you’re waiting?”

Myron tried to look annoyed by the inconvenience.

“It’s just a formality,” the receptionist said. “I’m sure you understand how these things are.”

Myron sighed. “Very well then.”

After it was filled out the receptionist asked for it back.

“I’d rather give it directly to Dr. Abramson,” Myron said.

“Sir, I assure you—”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” Mr. Difficult. Just like a real movie star. “I will give it to Dr. Abramson personally.”

The receptionist sulked in silence. Several minutes later the intercom buzzed. The receptionist picked up the phone, listened for a second, hung up. “Right this way please.”

Dr. Abramson was tiny—four-ten, tops, and seventy pounds soaking wet. Everything about her looked shrunken, scrunched up. Except for her eyes. They peered out of the diminutive face like two big, radiant, warm beacons that missed nothing.

She placed her child-size hand in his. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. “Please have a seat,” she said.

Myron did. Dr. Abramson sat across from him. Her feet barely reached the ground. “May I have your sheet?” she asked.

“Of course.” Myron handed it to her. She glanced down for a brief second.

“You’re Bruce Willis?”

Myron gave her a cocky side smirk. Very Die Hard. “Didn’t recognize me with the sunglasses, huh?”

“You look nothing like Bruce Willis.”

“I would have put Harrison Ford, but he’s too old.”

“Still would have been a better choice.” Then studying him a bit more she added, “Liam Neeson would have been better still.” Dr. Abramson did not seem particularly upset by Myron’s stunt. Then again, she was a trained psychiatrist and thus used to dealing with abnormal minds. “Why don’t you tell me your real name.”