Harlan Coben - Home

“Wait, I know that name.”

“He’s a state senator in Trenton now.”

“No. Something else…”

“He used to be a high school basketball coach.”

Myron snapped. “That’s it. We played Alpine when I was in high school.”

“So maybe you should be the one who talks to him,” Esperanza said. “Do your male sports bro-connect thing.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Myron said.

“Or wiggle your once-terrific ass.”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Myron said. Then: “Wait, ‘once-terrific’?”

Myron waited outside the nightclub.

New York City’s Meatpacking District traditionally runs from West Fourteenth Street down to Gansevoort Street on the far west side of the island. In the 1900s it was known for, what else, slaughterhouses, but with the rise of supermarkets and refrigerated trucks, the area began to fall into disrepair. In the 1980s and 1990s, drugs and street prostitution were the main industry down there. It was a place where transsexuals and BDSM practitioners could thrive side by side with the Mafia and NYPD corruption. Nightclubs catering to what was then considered “subculture” began to open.

But like most of Manhattan, the Meatpacking District underwent another transformation. It started in part because people are drawn to the illicit-to the sleaze, if you will-but then, of course, the rich who crave danger want to go out on that edge with the most comfortable safety harness possible. So gentrification took hold. High-end boutiques offered commerce with trendy exposed brick. The grungy nightclubs became overrun with hipsters. The restaurants started to cater to whatever they started calling yuppies. The old rusted elevated railroad tracks became a tree-lined promenade called the High Line.

The Meatpacking District was now clean and safe and you could bring your kids, and yet when something like that happens, where does the sleaze go?

Myron checked his watch. It was midnight when the man finally lurched out of the trendy Subrosa nightclub. He was drunk. He’d grown a beard and wore flannel and, oh man, was that really a man bun? He had his arm draped like a strap around a young-too young-woman. The words “midlife crisis” weren’t tattooed on his forehead, but they should have been.

They started stumbling down the road. The man took out his car keys and pressed the remote button. His BMW beeped its location. Myron crossed the street and made his approach.

“Hello, Tom.”

The man, Esperanza’s ex, spun toward him. “Myron? Is that you?”

Myron stood and waited. Tom seemed to sober up a bit. He stood up a little straighter. “Get in the car, Jenny,” he said.

“It’s Geri.”

“Right, sorry. Get in the car. I’ll be with you in a second.”

The girl teetered on her heels. It took three tries but she managed to open the passenger door and fall inside.

“What do you want?” Tom asked.

Myron pointed at his head. “Is that really a man bun?”

“So you’re here to make jokes?”

“Nope.”

“Did Esperanza send you?”

“Nope,” Myron said. “She has no idea I’m here. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her.”

The passenger door opened. Geri said, “I don’t feel so good.”

“Don’t you dare throw up in my car.” Tom turned to Myron. “So what do you want?”

“I want to encourage you to make peace with Esperanza. For her sake. And for your son’s.”

“You know she left me, right?”

“I know your marriage didn’t work.”

“And you think it was my fault?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” More young people spilled out of the nightclub, laughing and cursing in the obnoxious way of the greatly intoxicated. Myron shook his head. “Don’t you think you’re too old for this, Tom?”

“Yeah, well, I was married and settled, you know.”

“Let it go,” Myron said. “Stop lying about her.”

“Or what?”

Myron said nothing.

“What, you think I’m afraid of you?”

Geri said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Not in the car, honey, okay?” Tom turned back to Myron. “I’m working on something here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“She’s hot, right?”

“Hot,” Myron agreed. “And about to vomit. Yeah, I’m all turned on.”

“Listen, Myron, no offense. You’re a good guy. You’re not much of an intimidator. Just piss off, okay?”

“Esperanza is a good mother, Tom. We both know that.”

“It isn’t about that, Myron.”

“Yeah, well, it should be.”

“I don’t want to sound immodest,” Tom said, “but do you know why I’m a big success?”

“Because your daddy is rich and gave you lots of money?”

“No. It’s because I go for the jugular. It’s because I win.”

Never fails. Scratch a guy who always talks about what a winner he is or how he’s “self-made” or how he’s pulled himself up by the bootstraps, and underneath you’ll always find a little boy who had everything handed to him. It was like they needed a blind spot to justify their tremendous luck. Something like: I can’t have all of this because of fate or chance-I must be special.

“I’m asking you to be reasonable, Tom.”

“That’s your message to me?”

“It is.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. I’m on the verge of victory. You”-he pointed at Myron-“are proof of that. She’s getting desperate. Tell her I said to kiss my ass.”

“I told you already: Esperanza doesn’t know I’m here. I just think you should do the right thing.”

“For her sake?”

“For her sake. For Hector’s sake. And for your sake.”

“For mine?”

“I think it would be best.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit what you think. Go home, Myron.”

Myron nodded. “Will do.”

Tom waited. Myron started to cross the street, but he stopped and did his best Columbo turn. “Oh, one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Myron tried not to smile. “I saw Win.”

The street went silent. Even the music spilling out of the nightclub seemed to hush.

“You’re lying.”

“No, Tom, I’m not. He’s coming home. And when he does, I’m sure he’ll want to pay you a visit.”

Tom stood there, frozen. Geri, still inside the car, finally lost it and threw up in the loudest way possible. Windows rattled. Tom still didn’t move.

Myron let the smile come to his face as he waved good-bye. “Have a great night.”

It was a bright, clear New Jersey morning.

Huge neon lettering on the southern side of the Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge spelled out the following slogan: TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES. The letters were installed in 1935, and maybe back then, with linoleum, ceramics, and other manufacturing plants in full swing, there was a modicum of truth in the wording. Not now. Trenton was the capital of New Jersey, home to the state government and thus filled with politicians and their ensuing scandals, which made the entire city, when you thought about it, as honest as the message on the bridge you crossed to enter it.

Still, Myron loved this state, and anyone with even an inkling of knowledge knew that New Jersey hardly held a patent on governmental corruption. The political scandals might be more colorful here, but then again, everything was. New Jersey was hard to define because it was a hodgepodge. Up north, it was the suburbs of New York City. To the southwest, it was the suburbs of Philadelphia. Those two major cities drained resources and attention from New Jersey’s own urban centers, leaving Newark and Camden and the like sucking for life like a retiree with an oxygen tank at an Atlantic City casino. The suburbs were lush and green. The cities were destitute and concrete. And so it goes.