Page 9 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

Chapter 7

Last time they were in London, Win had put them in his favorite suite, the Davies, at Claridge's Hotel on Brook Street. That trip had ended poorly for all of them. This time, maybe to change it up a bit, Win chose the more boutiquey Covent Garden Hotel on Monmouth Street near Seven Dials. When Myron got to his room, he used a throwaway phone Win had given him to call Terese.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"I don't like this."

"I know."

"There's been too much of this in our past."

"I agree."

"We wanted to put this all behind us."

"We did. We do."

"I don't do the wait-and-worry wife well."

"Nice alliteration. The two D's and then all those W's."

"Years of being a top-rated news anchor," Terese said. "Not that I like to brag."

"Alliteration is only one of your many skills."

"You can't help yourself, can you?"

"Love me for all my faults."

"What else is there? Okay, so fill me in. And please don't make the obvious double-entendre joke using my 'fill me in' opening."

"Opening?"

"I love you, you know."

"I love you too," Myron said.

And then he told her everything.

When he was done, Terese said, "He likes being called Fat Gandhi?"

"Loves."

"It's like you and Win live in an old Humphrey Bogart film."

"I'm too young to get that reference."

"You wish. So you'll be doing the ransom drop?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"I've been thinking," Myron said.

"Uh-huh."

"About the families, I mean. The parents, mostly."

"You mean Patrick's and Rhys's."

"Yes."

Silence.

"And," she said, "you want my expert opinion on the matter."

Terese had lost a child many years ago. It had nearly destroyed her.

"I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Wrong response," she said. "If you tiptoe around it, it's much worse."

"I want to start a family with you."

"I want that too."

"So how do we do it?" Myron asked. "When you love something that much. How do you live with the fear that they can be hurt or killed at any time?"

"I could tell you that that's life," Terese said.

"You could."

"Or I could point out, what choice do you have?"

"I hear a 'but' coming," Myron said.

"You do. But I think there's another answer, one that took me a long time to understand."

"And that is?"

"We block," Terese said.

Myron waited. Nothing. "That's it?"

"You expected something deeper?"

"Maybe."

"We block," she said, "or we would never be able to get out of bed."

"I love you," he said again.

"I love you too. And so if I lose you, I will experience crippling pain. You get that, right?"

"I do."

"If you want to experience love, then you have to be ready for pain. One doesn't come without the other. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't have to worry about losing you. If you want laughter, expect tears."

"Makes sense," Myron said. Then: "You know what?"

"Tell me."

"You're worth it."

"That's the point."

Myron heard the key in the door. Win stepped into the room. Myron said his good-byes and hung up the phone.

"How is she?" Win asked.

"Concerned."

"Let's hit a pub, shall we? I'm famished."

They started down toward Seven Dials. Matilda the Musical was playing at the Cambridge Theatre.

"I always wanted to see that," Myron said.

"Pardon?"

"Matilda."

"Now doesn't seem the time."

"I was joking."

"Yes, I know. Your humor is your defense mechanism. It's a very engaging personality quirk." Win started to cross the street. "And the show is eh."

"Wait, you saw it?"

Win kept walking.

"You saw a musical without me?"

"Here we are."

"You hate musicals. I even had to drag you to see Rent."

Win didn't reply. Seven Dials was, per the name, seven roads converging clocklike, producing seven corners around a circle. There was a sundial column maybe three stories high in the middle of the circle. One corner housed the Cambridge Theatre. A small pub called the Crown was wedged on another. That was where Win entered now.

The Crown was old-school, complete with a polished bar and dark wood paneling and, despite having about three feet of throwing space, a dartboard. The place was cozy and cramped and packed with standing patrons. Win caught the barman's eye. The bartender nodded, bodies parted, space cleared, and suddenly there were two stools open. Two pints of Fuller's London Pride awaited them on beer coasters.

Win sat on one stool, Myron on the other. Win raised his stein. "Cheers, mate."

They clinked mugs. Two minutes later, the barman threw down two orders of fish and chips. The smell made Myron's stomach rumble with joy.

"I thought this place didn't serve food," Myron noted.

"It doesn't."

"You're a beautiful man, Win."

"Yes. Yes, I am."

They enjoyed the dinner and drinks. Whatever else Win had to say could wait. Somewhere along the way, they finished the fish and chips and ordered a second round. There was a rugby match on the television. Myron didn't know much about rugby, but he still watched the screen.

/>   "So our friend Fat Gandhi," Win said. "He saw your documentary on ESPN?"

"Yes." Myron turned toward him. "Have you seen it?"

"Of course."

Dumb question.

"I'm curious, though," Win said, "about your reaction."

Myron shrugged into his beer mug. "I thought it was accurate enough."

"You gave them an interview."

"Yep."

"You never did that before. Talked about the injury."

"True."

"You wouldn't even watch replays of what happened."

"True."

It had been too overwhelming to watch. Normal, right? Your dream, your life goal, everything you ever wanted--it's there, in your grasp at the age of twenty-two, and snap, lights out, buh-bye, it's over, nada mas.

"I didn't see the point," Myron said.

"And now?"

Myron took a deep swill of the ale. "They kept saying that this injury 'defined' me."

"At one point, it did."

"Exactly. At one point. But not anymore. Now I could finally watch Burt Wesson slam into me, and I felt little more than a ping. The stupid narrator. He kept saying the injury"--Myron made quote marks with his fingers--"'destroyed my life.' But now I know it was just a fork in the road. All those guys I started out with, all those superstars who made it and had successful NBA careers--they're all retired now. The light went out for them too."

"But in the meantime," Win said, "they scored boatloads of chicks."

"Well, yes, there's that."

"And the light didn't snap off for them. It dimmed."

"Slowly," Myron said.

"Yes."

"Maybe that makes it harder."

"How so?"

"You rip off the bandage all at once versus slowly peeling it away."

Win took a sip of his beer. "Fair point."

"I could also add the cliche about being thrown into the deep end. The suddenness forced me to act. It made me go to law school. It made me become a sports agent."

"It didn't 'make' you," Win said.

"No?"

"You were always a competitive--nay, overly ambitious--son of a bitch."

Myron smiled at that and raised his mug. "Cheers, mate."

Win again clinked his glass, cleared his throat, and said, "Der mentsh trakht un got lakht."

"Wow," Myron said.

"I taught myself the Yiddish," said the blond-haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon. "It does wonders when I hit on Jewish chicks."

Der mentsh trakht un got lakht. Translation: Man plans and God laughs.

Man, it was good to be back with Win.

They both went quiet for a moment. They were both thinking the same thing.

"Maybe the injury isn't such a big deal anymore," Myron said, "because I know there are a lot of worse things in life."

Win nodded. "Patrick and Rhys."

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