Harlan Coben - Live Wire

He still had his eyes covered.

Myron made his voice firm. “Look, Joel.”

Fishman slowly put his hands down. His face was slick from tears and probably phlegm. Crush, the tough Manhattan drug dealer, wiped his face with his sleeve. Myron tried to wait him out, but he just stared.

“A few nights ago, you were at Three Downing with that woman,” Myron said. “If you start telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about, I will take off my shoe and beat you with it. Do you understand me?”

Fishman nodded.

“You remember her, right?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t care about any of that. Do you know her name?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“My shoe, Joel. I could just beat it out of you.”

Fishman wiped his face, shook his head. “That doesn’t seem your style.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. I just don’t think you’ll hit me anymore.”

In the past, Myron thought, I would have in a Big Apple second. But right now, yeah, Fishman was right. He wouldn’t.

Seeing Myron hesitate, Fishman said, “Do you know anything about addiction?”

Oh boy. Where was this headed? “Yes, Joel, I do.”

“From personal experience?”

“No. Are you going to tell me you’re a drug addict, Joel?”

“No. I mean, well, sure, I use. But that’s not really what this is about.” He tilted his head, suddenly the inquisitive teacher. “Do you know when addicts finally go for help?”

“When they have to.”

He grinned as though pleased. Myron Bolitar, prize pupil. “Precisely. When they hit rock bottom. That’s what just happened here. I get it now. I get that I have a problem, and I’m going to get help.”

Myron was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself. When a guy you wanted info from was talking, it was best to keep him that way. “That sounds like a productive move,” Myron said, trying not to gag.

“I have two kids. I have a wonderful wife. Here, take a look.”

As Fishman started reaching into his pocket, Myron jumped closer. Fishman nodded, moved slower, took out a set of keys. He handed Myron one of those photo key chains. It was a family shot taken, according to the background, at Six Flags Great Adventure. A costumed Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird stood left and right of the Fishman family. Mrs. Fishman was heartbreakingly lovely. Joel was kneeling. On his right was a girl, maybe five or six with blond hair and the kind of wide smile that’s so damn contagious Myron realized that the corner of his own lips were curling upward. On the other side of Joel was a boy, maybe two years younger than the girl. The boy was shy, half hiding his face in his father’s shoulder.

He handed the key chain back. “Beautiful kids.”

“Thank you.”

Myron remembered something his father once told him: People have an amazing capacity to mess up their own lives.

Out loud, Myron said, “You’re a dumb-ass, Joel.”

“I’m sick,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. I want to get better though.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Start showing that you’re ready to change by telling me about the woman you were with three nights ago.”

“How do I know you don’t mean her harm?”

“The same way you know I won’t take off my shoe and beat you.”

Joel Fishman looked at the key chain and started to cry again.

“Joel?”

“I honestly want to move past this.”

“I know you do.”

“And I will. I swear to God. I’ll get help. I will be the best father and husband in the world. I just need a chance. You get that, right?”

Myron wanted to vomit. “I do.”

“It’s just… Don’t get me wrong. I love my life. I love my family and my kids. But for eighteen years I’ve woken up and come to this school and taught middle schoolers French. They hate it. They never pay attention. When I started, I had this vision of what it was going to be like-me teaching them this beautiful language that I love so much. But it’s nothing like that. They just want to get A s and move on. That’s it. Every class, year after year. We go through this dance. Amy and I are always struggling to make ends meet. It’s just the same, you know. Every day. Year after year. The same drudgery. And what will tomorrow be like? The same. Every day the same, until, well, until I die.”

He stopped, looked off.

“Joel?”

“Promise me,” Fishman said. “Promise me that if I help you, you won’t tell on me.” Tell on me. Like he was one of his students who cheated on a test. “Give me that chance, please. For the sake of my kids.”

“If you tell me all you know about this woman,” Myron said, “I won’t tell.”

“Give me your word.”

“You have my word.”

“I met her at the club three nights ago. She wanted to score. I set it up.”

“By set it up, you mean you gave her drugs.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“No, not really.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No.”

“How about a phone number? In case she wanted to score again?”

“She didn’t give me one. That’s all I know. I’m sorry.”

Myron was not buying it. “How much did she pay you?”

“Excuse me?”

“For the drugs, Joel. How much money did she give you?”

Something crossed his face. Myron saw it. Here came the lie. “Eight hundred dollars,” Fishman said.

“In cash?”

“Yes.”

“She was carrying eight hundred dollars?”

“I don’t take Visa or MasterCard,” he said with the chuckle of a liar. “Yes, of course.”

“And where did she give you the money?”

“At the club.”

“When you gave her the drugs?”

His eyes narrowed a little. “Of course.”

“Joel?”

“What?”

“Remember I showed you those still photographs?”

“What about them?”

“They came off surveillance videos,” Myron said. “Do you get my drift?”

Fishman’s face blanched.

“To put it grossly,” Myron said, “I saw fluids exchanged, not cash.”

Joel Fishman began to sob again. He put his hands in prayer position, the key chain between his fingers like rosary beads.

“If you’re going to lie to me,” Myron said, “I see no reason to keep my word.”

“You don’t understand.”

Again with the understand.

“What I did was terrible. I’m ashamed. I didn’t see the point in telling you that part. It doesn’t change anything. I don’t know her. I don’t know how to reach her.”

Fishman started wailing again, holding up the photo key chain now like wolfsbane to ward off a vampire. Myron waited, considered his options. He stood, crossed the room, and pocketed the gun. “I’m going to turn you in, Joel.”

The crying stopped. “What?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But I’m telling you the truth.”

Myron shrugged and reached for the doorknob. “You also aren’t helping me. That was part of the deal.”

“But what can I do? I don’t know anything. Why would you punish me for that?”

Myron shrugged. “I’m bitter.” He turned the knob.

“Wait.”

Myron didn’t.

“Listen to me, okay? Just for a second.”

“No time.”

“Do you promise not to say anything?”

“What have you got, Joel?”

“Her cell number,” he said. “Just keep your word, okay?”

It’s a prepaid mobile phone,” Esperanza said. “No way to trace it.”

Damn. Myron pulled his Ford Taurus out of the cemetery lot. Big Cyndi was jammed into the seat so that it looked as though her air bag had gone off. Yep, a Ford Taurus. Exterior color: Atlantis Green Metallic. When Myron cruised by, supermodels swooned.