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Myron took a seat at the bar. Larry’s reminded him of the Shanty Lounge in Havre, Montana. It didn’t look the same, other than the neon beer signs, but local American taverns all have the same feel. There is a comfort for the regulars and a try-to-be-comfort for the strangers, but he still felt like a tourist and that was okay. The menu was, as expected, Chinese, but there was also more classic Irish-pub fare like buffalo wings and burgers.
Chinese food at an Irish pub. Who said Myron wasn’t willing to take risks?
A big burly man behind the bar introduced himself as “your host and barkeep, Rick Legrand.” Full name. Odd. Myron asked Rick for a recommendation. Big Rick suggested a Chinese dish called Charlie’s Angels. Myron asked what was in that. Rick Legrand made a face and said, “Do you want a recommendation or do you want me to read you the whole menu?” That, Myron thought, was a fair point. He ordered the Charlie’s Angels and whatever beer was cold on tap. Rick wearily told him all the beers on tap were cold. “What, you think we keep warm beer here?” Then Rick shook his head and asked whether this was Myron’s first time in a bar.
Everyone’s a wiseass.
Myron spun the barstool around to check out the clientele. Hey, he could get lucky again. Maybe Grace Conte would just be here. His eyes scanned the place. Myron could hear the sizzle from a wok. The place reeked of MSG. Myron could almost feel his arteries harden. He checked all the faces.
Nope, no luck.
But when the bar door swung open again, allowing sunshine and a brief view of the outside, perhaps even greater luck hit him.
He spotted a blue Acura RDX.
“Rick Legrand?” Myron said.
Rick turned toward him. “Sup?”
“Cancel my order,” Myron said.
“It’s almost done.”
Myron dropped two twenties on the table. “Give it to someone worthy.”
Rick shrugged. “I’m almost on break.”
“Then I deem you worthy, my man.”
Myron hustled to the door and pushed it open, blinking into the sunlight. The blue Acura RDX was parked across the street in front of a place called, according to the sign, the Blush Boutique, the kind of shop Myron’s mother would have described as “cutesy.”
Now what?
Myron hustled back to his rental car. The ride up from Manhattan had been a little under two hours. Win had made sure that Myron had come prepared. That meant a locked Kevlar bag that contained a handgun (over the years, guns had come in handier than Myron wanted to admit), zip-tie handcuffs (not handy), and a magnetic GPS tracking device (somewhat handy). Myron figured that if he could stick a GPS tracker on Grace’s blue Acura RDX he could follow at a safe distance.
He slid into the front seat and grabbed the Kevlar bag. He’d started working the spinning combo lock when a woman emerged from the Blush Boutique. Myron stopped. In every photo Myron had seen of her, Grace Konners had long, white-blonde hair. This woman had a short auburn cap. In every photo, Grace Konners had worn cropped and fitted flex-da-bod see-through summer whites. This woman wore high-waisted dad (or were they also mom?) jeans and a loose green sweatshirt with a cartoon camel on it.
Again, like with Bo, you wouldn’t recognize her unless you were really staring, but Myron had little doubt. This was Grace Konners now Grace Conte or whatever.
Bo/Brian and Spark’s mom.
Grace moved with purpose toward her Acura. Myron had little chance of cutting her off before she drove off. And did he even want that?
Better, he figured, to follow her.
She started the car and pulled out onto Main Street before turning left onto Route 302. Myron followed in his car. If the coordinates they’d gotten off Spark Konners’s phone were correct, the ride would be a short one. Three minutes later, the blue Acura RDX, yep, pulled into the driveway with the chain-link fence. The fence slid open. Grace Conte drove in. The fence started to slide back into place. Myron tried to pull in behind her, but the fence was already too closed for his car to fit. Myron threw it into park, turned off the engine, hustled out, and slid through before the fence completely shut again.
Now what?
There was no reason to hide anymore. She would see him. He started trekking up the driveway. He decided not to take the handgun. Win would have scolded him over that. Win always carried a gun. Always. More than one usually. He’d told Myron repeatedly to do the same because of situations like these. But Myron didn’t like carrying a gun. They were bulky. They were heavy. They chafed.
Not much to be done about it now.
He trudged up the dirt driveway. He had no idea how far up the house was. Also dumb. He could have probably checked that on Google Maps. As he continued, he cupped his hand around his mouth and started to call out.
“Hello? Grace? Ms. Conte? I just want to talk to you, okay?”
When he came to a turn about a hundred yards up the drive, he saw the house. He’d expected something rustic and charmingly decrepit, but the renovations on this particular A-frame were impressive. The house was pristine, white, with huge windows. There was something whimsical about it. The dirt road was gone now, replaced with a carefully laid brick drive. The yard was asymmetrically landscaped, as though the overgrown fauna and shrubbery were both completely natural and perfectly planned. It was a welcoming home. You could easily see yourself living here. Relax. Unwind. Enjoy a cup of coffee on the front veranda and watch the morning sun rise. That kind of thing.
