Harlan Coben - Home

“Uh-huh.”

“They want the full experience. This street, these clothes, the way I act, what I say-see, I’m what they call niche marketing.”

“Good to fill a need.”

“I used to be in porn.”

She waited.

“Oh, you probably don’t recognize me. I was only in three films back when- Well, a girl has to keep some of her secrets. My most famous role was Third Wench in a scene with that famous Italian guy, Rocky or Rocco something. But for years I was a top-notch fluffer. You know what that is, don’t you? A fluffer?”

“I think I do.”

“Most of the guys, truth is, with all the cameras and lights and all the people watching, well, it wasn’t easy on them to stay, you know, hard. So that was what the fluffers provided. Offstage. Oh, it was great work. I did it for years, knew all the tricks, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“But then Viagra came along and, well, a pill was a lot cheaper than a girl. Shame really. We fluffers are extinct now. Like dinosaurs or VHS tapes. So here I am, back out working on the streets. Not that I’m complaining, am I right?”

“As rain.”

“Speaking of which, you’re on the clock.”

“That’s fine.”

“Some girls sell their bodies. Not me. I sell my time. Like a consultant or barrister. What you do with that time-and as I say, the clock is ticking-is up to you. So what are you looking for, handsome?”

“Um, a young man.”

That made the smile flee. “Go on.”

“He’s a teenager.”

“Nah.” She made a swatting motion with her hand. “You’re no short eyes.”

“No what?”

“Short eyes. A pedo. You’re not going to tell me you’re a pedo, are you?”

“Oh no. I’m not. I’m just looking for him. I mean him no harm.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked at him for a long moment. “Why do I believe you?”

Myron forced up his most winning smile. “My smile.”

“No, but you do have a trusting face. That smile is bloody slimy.”

“It’s supposed to be winning.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m just trying to help him,” Myron said. “He’s in real danger.”

“What makes you think I can help?”

“He was here yesterday. Working.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“So are you the one who killed those cockwombles?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” she said. “I would have thrown you a freebie for that.”

“This kid. He’s in real danger.”

“So you said.” She hesitated. Myron took out his wallet. She waved him off. “I don’t want your money. I mean, I do. But not for that.”

She seemed unsure what to do.

Myron pointed to himself. “Trusting face, remember?”

“None of the boys’ll be back here for a bit. Not with the coppers around. They’ll go to their other spot.”

“And where is that?”

“Hampstead Heath. They usually hang near the west end of Merton Lane.”

Hampstead Heath,” Win said when Myron was back in the car. “Historic.”

“How so?”

“Keats walked its lanes. Kingsley Amis, John Constable, Alfred Tennyson, Ian Fleming-they all had residences there. But that’s not why it’s best known.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember when George Michael was arrested for having sex in a public bathroom?”

“Sure. It was here?”

“Hampstead Heath, indeed. This has been a gay cruising spot forever, but from my understanding, there is very little prostitution. It has always been more about cottaging.”

“Cottaging?”

“God, you’re naïve. Cottaging. Anonymous sex between men in bushes, public toilets, like that. Cash rarely changes hands. Still, young hustlers could try to ply their trade here, perhaps locate a potential sugar daddy or network for clients. I would suggest heading into the park and veering left toward the public toilets. Continue down the lane past the ponds. That seems to be the apropos area.”

“You’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject.”

“I’m knowledgeable on all subjects.”

That was true.

“I also use this new thing called Google.” Win held up his smartphone. “You should try it sometime. Do you need to take these?”

Win handed Myron the age-progression photographs of both Patrick and Rhys. He also described with startling detail what the maybe-Patrick he’d seen yesterday looked like, and what he was wearing.

Myron stared at the faces. “How old would Patrick and Rhys be now?”

“Both would be sixteen. Coincidentally-or maybe not-sixteen is the age of consent in Great Britain.”

Myron snapped photos of the photos before handing them back to Win. He reached for the door handle and stopped.

“We’re missing something here, Win.”

“Probably.”

“You feel it too?”

“I do.”

“Are we being set up?”

“Could be,” Win said, steepling his fingers again. “But the only way to find out for certain is to proceed.”

The car was idling at the corner of Merton and Millfield Lane.

“All set?”

“Onward,” Myron said and slipped out of the car.

Hampstead Heath was lush and green and beautiful. Myron took the stroll, but there was no sign of Patrick or Rhys. There were men, lots of them, from eighteen (or younger, he supposed) to eighty, mostly in unremarkable garb, but what had Myron expected? Myron saw nothing sexual going on, but that was because, he assumed, there was a public toilet and bushes deep off the paths.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Myron put the phone to his ear.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Anyone hit on you?”

“No.”

“Ouch.”

“I know,” Myron said. “Do you think these pants make me look fat?”

“We still joke,” Win said.

“What?”

“We believe in complete equality and get angry at anyone who displays the slightest bit of prejudice,” Win said.

“Yet we still joke,” Myron finished for him.

“Indeed.”

That was when Myron spotted something that gave him pause.

“Hold up a second,” Myron said.

“I’m listening.”

“When you described the, uh, scene yesterday, you mentioned two other guys working the street.”

“Correct.”

“You said one had a shaved head and wore a dog collar.”

“Correct again.”

Myron moved the phone so that the camera was pointing at the young leather-clad man near the pond.

“Well?”

“That is he,” Win said.

Myron put the phone back in his pocket and crossed the path. Dog Collar had his hands jammed into his pants pockets as though he was searching for something that had pissed him off. His shoulders were hunched. He had a tattoo on his neck-Myron couldn’t tell what it was-and he was pulling on his cigarette as though he meant to finish it with one inhale.

“Hey,” Myron said, wanting to get his attention, but also afraid that anything too loud might startle the… boy? Man? Guy? Kid?

Dog Collar spun toward Myron, trying his best to look tough. There is a certain cringe behind false bravado. Myron saw that here. It usually derives from a person who, one, has been beaten too many times, hence the cringe, and, two, has discovered the hard way that showing weakness makes the beatings even worse, hence the false bravado. The damage-and there was a lot of it here-came off the boy in waves.

“Gotta light?” he asked.

Myron was going to answer that he didn’t smoke or carry a lighter, but maybe asking for a light was some sort of code, so he stepped closer.

“Can we talk for a second?” Myron asked.

Dog Collar’s eyes darted like a bird moving from branch to branch. “I know a place.”