Myron made a face. “A Toyota into a Jaguar?”

“You know what I mean. I know the analogy isn’t the best and now that I think about it, it doesn’t really hold because it sounds like a judgment, like the Jaguar is better than the Toyota or something. It is not. It’s just different with different needs. Some kids come out shy, some are outgoing, some are bookish, some are jocks, whatever. The way we raise you doesn’t really have much to do with it. Sure we can instill values and all that, but we usually mess up when we try to change what is already there.”

“When you try,” Myron added, “to turn the Toyota into the Jaguar?”

“Don’t be a wise guy.”

Not long ago, before running off to Angola and under very different circumstances, Terese had made this exact same argument to him. Nature over nurture, she insisted. Her argument was both a comfort and a chill, but in this case, with his father sitting on the deck with him, Myron wasn’t really buying it.

“Brad wasn’t meant to stay at home or settle down,” his father said. “He was always itching to escape. He was meant to wander. A nomad, like his ancestors, I guess. So your mother and I let him go. When you were kids, you were both amazing athletes. You thrived on competition. Brad didn’t. He hated it. That doesn’t make him less or more, just different. God, I’m tired. Enough. I assume you have a very good reason for trying to find your brother after all these years?”

“I do.”

“Good. Because despite what I said, you two falling out has been one of the biggest heartaches of my life. So it would be nice to see you reconcile.”

Silence. It was broken when Myron’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID and was surprised to see that the call was coming from Roland Dimonte, the NYPD cop who’d helped out in Three Downing last night. Dimonte was a friend/adversary from way back. “I need to take this,” Myron said.

His father signaled for him to go ahead.

“Hello?”

“Bolitar?” Dimonte barked. “I thought he stopped pulling this crap.”

“Who?”

“You know who. Where the hell is the psycho Win?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you better find him.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“We got a big freaking problem, that’s what. Find him now.”

9

Myron looked through the metal-meshed window in the emergency room. Roland Dimonte stood to his left. Dimonte reeked of both chewing tobacco and what might have been a rancid bottle of Hai Karate. Despite being born and raised in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen, Dimonte liked to go with the urban cowboy look, sporting right now a tight shiny shirt with snap buttons and boots so garish that he might have stolen them off a San Diego Charger cheerleader. His hair was a reformed mullet by way of a retired hockey player who now did color commentary on a local television station. Myron could feel Dimonte’s eyes on him.

Lying on his back in the bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, tubes coming out of at least three locations, was Kleavage Kyle, head bouncer from Three Downing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Myron asked.

“Lots of stuff,” Dimonte said. “But the main thing is a ruptured kidney. The doctor says it was caused by—and I quote—‘precise and severe abdominal trauma.’ Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Ironic how?”

“Well, our friend here will be pissing blood for quite some time. Maybe you remember earlier last evening. That’s exactly what our victim told you would happen to you.” Dimonte crossed his arms for effect.

“So, what, you think I did this?”

Dimonte frowned. “Let’s pretend for a brief moment that I’m not a mentally dehydrated numb nut, okay?” He had an empty can of Coke in his hands. He spit tobacco juice into it. “No, I don’t think you did this. We both know who did it.”

Myron gestured with his chin toward the bed. “What did Kyle say?”

“He said he was mugged. A bunch of guys broke into the club and jumped him. He never saw their faces, can’t identify them, doesn’t want to press charges anyway.”

“Maybe that’s true.”

“And maybe one of my ex-wives will tell me that she no longer wants her alimony check.”

“What do you want me to say here, Rolly?”

“I thought you had him under control.”

“You don’t know it was Win.”

“We both know it was Win.”

Myron took a step away from the window. “Let me put it another way. You don’t have any evidence it was Win.”

“Sure I do. There was a surveillance video for a bank outside the club. Gets the whole area. It shows Win approaching our pectorally gifted friend here. They talk for a few moments and then they both go back into the club.” Dimonte stopped, looked off. “Odd.”

“What?”

“Win is usually much more careful. Guess he’s slipping as he gets older.”

Not likely, Myron thought. “What about the surveillance tapes inside the club?”

“What about them?”

“You said Win and Kyle here walked back into the club. So what do the interior tapes show?”

Dimonte spit into the can again, trying hard to cover up his obvious body language. “We’re still working on it.”

“Uh, let’s pretend for a brief moment that I’m not a mentally dehydrated numb nut.”

“They’re gone, okay? Kyle says the guys who jumped him must have taken them.”

“Sounds logical.”

“Take a look at him, Bolitar.”

Myron did. Kyle’s eyes were still on the ceiling. His eyes were wet.

“When we found him last night, that Taser he nailed you with was lying on the floor next to him. The battery was empty from overuse. He was shaking, nearly catatonic. He’d crapped his pants. For twelve hours he couldn’t form words. I showed him a picture of Win, and he started sobbing to the point where the doctor had to sedate him.”

Myron looked back at Kyle. He thought about the Taser, thought about the gleam in Kyle’s eyes as he held down the trigger, thought about how close he, Myron, had come to ending up in a bed like that. Then Myron turned and looked at Dimonte. His voice was pure monotone. “Wow. I. Feel. Just. Terrible. For. Him.”

Dimonte just shook his head.

Myron said, “Can I go now?”