Harlan Coben - The Final Detail

The two friends barely spoke, except to sigh over Julie Newmar as Cat Woman (whenever she came on the screen in her tight black cat suit, Win said, “Puuuurrrrfect”). They'd both been five or six years old when the show first aired, but something about Julie Newmar as Cat Woman completely blew away any Freudian notions of latency. Why, neither man could say. Her villainy perhaps. Or something more primal. Esperanza would no doubt have an interesting opinion. He tried not to think about her- useless and draining when he couldn't do anything about it -but the last time he had done something like this was in Philadelphia with both Win and Esperanza. He missed her. Watching the videos was not the same without her running commentary.

The boat docked and they headed for the private jet.

“We'll save her,” Win said. “We are, after all, the good guys.”

“Questionable.”

“Have confidence, my friend.”

“No, I mean us being the good guys.”

“You should know better.”

“Not anymore I don't,” Myron said.

Win made his jutting jaw face, the one that had come over on the Mayflower. “This moral crisis of yours,” he said. “It's tres unbecoming.”

A breathy blond bombshell like something out of an old burlesque skit greeted them in the cabin of the Lock-Horne company jet. She fetched them drinks between giggles and wiggles. Win smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Funny thing,” Myron said.

“What's that?”

“You always hire curvaceous stewardesses.”

Win frowned. “Please,” he said. “She prefers to be called a flight attendant.”

“Pardon my oafish insensitivity.”

“Try a little harder to be tolerant,” Win said. Then: “Guess what her name is.”

“Tawny?”

“Close. Candi. With an i And she doesn't dot it. She draws a heart over it.”

Win could be a bigger pig, but it was hard to imag-gine how.

Myron sat back. The pilot came over the loudspeaker. He addressed them by name, and then they took off. Private jet. Yacht. Sometimes it was nice having wealthy friends.

When they reached cruising altitude, Win opened what looked like a cigar box and pulled out a telephone. “Call your parents,” he said.

Myron stayed still for a moment. A fresh wave of guilt rolled over him, coloring his cheeks. He nodded, took the phone, dialed. He gripped the phone a bit too tightly. His mother answered.

Myron said, “Mom-”

Mom started bawling. She managed to yell for Dad. Dad picked up the downstairs extension.

“Dad-”

And then he started bawling too. Stereo bawling. Myron held the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“I was in the Caribbean,” he said, “not Beirut.”

An explosion of laughter from both. Then more crying. Myron looked at Win. Win sat impassively. Myron rolled his eyes, but of course he was also pleased. Complain all you want, but who didn't want to be loved like this?

His parents settled into a meaningless chatter-meaningless on purpose, Myron supposed. While they could undoubtedly be pests, Mom and Dad had a wonderful ability to know when to back off. He managed to explain where he'd been. They listened in silence. Then his mother asked, “So where are you calling us from?”

“Win's airplane.”

Stereo gasps now. “What?”

“Win's company has a private jet. I just told you he picked me-”

“And you're calling on his phone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how much that costs?”

“Mom…”

But the meaningless chatter died down in a hurry then. When Myron hung up seconds later, he sat back. The guilt came again, bathing hifri in something ice cold. His parents were not young anymore. He hadn't thought about that before he ran. He hadn't thought about a lot of things.

“I shouldn't have done that to them,” Myron said. “Or you.”

Win shifted in his seat-major body language for him. Candi wiggled back into view. She lowered a screen and hit a switch. A Woody Allen film came on. Love and Death. Ambrosia of the mind. They watched without speaking. When it was over, Candi asked Myron if he wanted to take a shower before they landed.

“Excuse me?” Myron said.

Candi giggled, called him a “Big Silly,” and wiggled away.

“A shower?”

“There's one in the back,” Win said. “I also took the liberty of bringing you a change of clothes.”

“You are a friend.”

“I am indeed, Big Silly.”

Myron showered and dressed, and then everyone buckled their seat belts for approach. The plane descended without delay, the landing so smooth it could have been choreographed by the Temptations. A stretch limousine was waiting for them on the dark tarmac. When they got off the plane, the air felt strange and unfamiliar, as though he'd been visiting another planet rather than another country. It was also raining hard. They ran down the steps and into the already-open limo doors.

They shook off the wet. “I assume that you'll be staying with me,” Win said.

Myron had been living in a loft down on Spring Street with Jessica. But that was before. “If it's okay.”

“It's okay.”

“I could move back in with my folks-”

“I said, it's okay.”

“I'll find my own place.”

“No rush,” Win said.

The limousine started up. Win steepled his fingers. He always did that. It looked good on him. Still holding the steeple, he bounced his forefingers against his lips. “I'm not the best one to discuss these matters with,” he said, “but if you want to talk about Jessica or Brenda or whatever…”He released the steeple, made a waving motion with his right hand. Win was trying. Matters of the heart were not his forte. His feelings on romantic entanglement could objectively be labeled “appalling.”

“Don't worry about it,” Myron said.

“Fine then.”

“Thanks, though.”

Quick nod.

After more than a decade struggling with Jessica- years of being in love with the same woman, having one major breakup, finding each other again, taking tentative steps, growing, finally moving in together again-it was over.

“I miss Jessica,” Myron said.

“I thought we weren't going to talk about it.”

“Sorry.”

Win shifted in his seat again. “No, go on.” Like he'd rather have an anal probe.

“It's just that… I guess part of me will always be enmeshed in Jessica.”

Win nodded. “Like something in a machinery mishap.”

Myron smiled. “Yeah. Like that.”

“Then slice off the limb and leave it behind.”

Myron looked at his friend.

Win shrugged. “I've been watching Sally Jessy on the side.”

“It shows,” Myron said.

“ 'The episode entitled 'Mommy Took Away My Nipple Ring,'” Win said. “I'm not afraid to say it made me cry.”

“Good to see you getting in touch with your sensitive side.” As if Win had one. “So what next?”

Win checked his watch. “I have a contact at the Bergen County house of detention. He should be in by now.” He hit the speakerphone and pressed in some numbers. They listened to the phone ring. After two rings a voice said, “Schwartz.”

“Brian, this is Win Lockwood.”

The usual reverent hush when you first hear that name. Then: “Hey, Win.”

“I need a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Esperanza Diaz. Is she there?”

Brief pause. “You didn't hear it from me,” Schwartz said.

“Hear what?”

“Good, okay, long as we understand each other,” he said. “Yeah, she's here. They dragged her through here in cuffs a coupla hours ago. Very hush-hush.”

“Why hush-hush?”

“Don't know.”

“When is she being arraigned?”