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“No,” Myron said, his heart sinking. “Of course not.”
Myron parked in the garage below Win’s building. When they got on Park Avenue, Jeremy headed left toward MetLife. Myron watched him walk away before heading into the Lock-Horne Building. He hopped on the elevator and took it to the top floor.
Big Cyndi greeted him in a spandex Batgirl suit, custom-made from the design used for the “original” Batgirl costume—the “real” Batgirl—from the old 1960s Batman TV series. Years ago, when Big Cyndi was professionally wrestling as Big Chief Mama, she befriended the iconic actress Yvonne Craig, who played that original Batgirl/Barbara Gordon role as well as Marta the green Orion girl in Star Trek. Yvonne had loaned Big Cyndi the Batgirl costume she still owned so that Big Cyndi could design her own. When Yvonne Craig died in 2015, Big Cyndi had made another one, entirely in black, and wore it every day for three months in mourning.
As the kids would say, Big Cyndi always goes hard.
She twirled when Myron entered. She always twirled to start her day. “You like?”
“I do,” Myron said to her. “You look ready to save Gotham.”
“Do you know what Batgirl’s catchphrase is?”
“I do not.”
Big Cyndi normally spoke in a high falsetto, but now she made her voice lower than a basso profundo at the Philharmonic. “I’m Batgirl.”
She looked at Myron. Myron said nothing.
“I googled it,” Big Cyndi said. “That was her catchphrase.”
Not sure what to say about that, Myron went with: “It’s easy to remember.”
“Right?” Big Cyndi tilted her head and grinned. “Anyway, there’s another quote from Batgirl I wanted to share with you, Mr. Bolitar.”
She always called him Mister Bolitar, never Myron, and she insisted that he called her Big Cyndi, not Cyndi or, uh, Big.
“Something Batgirl once said to Batman.”
“I’m listening,” Myron said.
“‘You don’t have a monopoly on wanting to help.’”
Myron was six four. Big Cyndi had two inches on him, plus the Batgirl boots probably gave her another two inches. Big Cyndi never shied away from her size. She never toned down her personality. Many people will tell you that they don’t care what people think, which is bullshit by definition—if you’re telling me you don’t care what people think, you want me to think you’re the kind of person who doesn’t care what people think and thus you care what I think—but Big Cyndi genuinely did not. She lived life out loud and was the most authentic person Myron had ever met.
“Is it okay if I give you a hug?” Myron asked.
“Not if I give you one first.”
Big Cyndi stepped forward and swept him into her thick arms.
“I always need your help,” Myron said.
“I know,” Big Cyndi said. “It’s true.”
That made Myron laugh. His phone buzzed, telling him he had an incoming FaceTime. He stepped back and checked the screen.
“My parents,” Myron said.
“Please tell them I said hi.”
“Will do.”
Myron hit the answer button. A shaky video appeared. Myron could make out startlingly bright sunlight and then the pool at his parents’ condo. The screen jerked, and now Myron could see his mother’s face. She wore huge sunglasses that looked like someone had glued two manhole covers together.
“Myron?” his mother said. “It’s your mother.”
“Yes, Mom, I have caller ID. Also I can see you.”
