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She gave him a smile so big that he almost took a step back. “Call me Ellen.”
“That’s my mother’s name.”
“My stars, what a coincidence,” she said with a little too much enthusiasm. Then she lowered her voice and said, “I just need a moment. It’s important. It’s about my grandson. He was recently drafted by the Dodgers, but…” She looked past Myron and up at Big Cyndi. “Please,” she implored. “It won’t take long.”
Myron nodded and led her into his office. The old woman moved slowly toward the big picture window overlooking the city. “This view is magnificent,” she said.
“Yes, I’m lucky.”
“Views don’t make you lucky,” she said. “You get used to them. That’s the problem with views. They are nice when you first have them, but we get used to them and take them for granted. That’s true of most things, of course. When I was young, my parents had the most exquisite home. It was a Queen Anne built in the early 1900s. We lived in Florala, Alabama. You ever heard of it?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Anyway, I remember when we first drove up to it. I was eight years old, and you’d never seen any home as grand as this one. Sixteen rooms. Curly-pine wainscoting. The most gorgeous wraparound porch. Second-story balconies, one off my own bedroom. I loved it for, oh I don’t know, a month. Perhaps two. But then I got used to it. So did my family. It just becomes the place you live. It was why Father liked having company. He loved to see the expressions on a newcomer’s face, not because he wanted to impress them. Well, maybe that was it a little. All humans like to show their feathers, don’t they? But mostly, when we saw someone else’s reaction to the house, it brought us back to our own. We all need that now and again, don’t you think?”
“I guess so, Ms.…”
“I told you. Call me Ellen.”
Myron took the seat behind his desk. Ellen sat in front of it. She put her purse on her lap, both hands still on it.
“You said your grandson had been drafted by the Dodgers.”
“I did say that, yes, but it isn’t true. I just said that for the sake of your receptionist.”
Myron wasn’t sure what to make of this. “So what can I do for you, Ellen?”
She gave him a smile, a big smile, the kind of smile that—Myron was trying not to be ageist—gave him the creeps. Then she said, “Where is Bo Storm?”
Myron said nothing.
“My name isn’t really Ellen. I work for some people who have close ties with a man named Joseph Turant. Do you know who that is?”
Joey the Toe. Myron still said nothing.
“I understand you had an encounter with Mr. Turant’s colleagues recently in Las Vegas. In exchange for your safe passage out of that sinful place, you were supposed to provide the current location of Bo Storm, a young man who did Mr. Turant great harm. I’m here to collect that information for him.”
Myron just stared at her.
“Before you reply,” the old woman continued, “may I make a suggestion?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re eventually going to tell me what I need to know.” Her eyes bored into his. “It will be much easier on all of us if you just do it now.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Myron said.
She gave him an exaggerated faux pout. “You don’t?”
“I’m still looking for Bo.”
“Mr. Bolitar?”
Myron almost said, “Mr. Bolitar? What am I, your father?” but it didn’t seem the time.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying to me.”
