Think Twice

Two hours later, Myron and Win sat on Win’s private jet as it taxied down the runway at Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey. The flight attendant, a woman named Mee, gave Win a cognac and Myron a can of a chocolate concoction called Yoo-hoo. Myron had spent most of his life drinking Yoo-hoo, but over the past few years, his desire for a soda that tasted like chocolate milk had deserted him. Still, Mee always brought him one and he drank it because he didn’t have the heart to tell her or himself that maybe he’d outgrown his once-favorite beverage.

“I just read an article,” Win said, “that a popular new drink mixes Yoo-hoo with absinthe.”

“Gross,” Myron said.

“I don’t know. You know what they say. Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”

Myron looked at Win. Win looked at Myron.

Win finally said, “I have the file, but fill me in.”

Myron did. Win listened in silence. When he finished, Win said, “Do you remember Huey Lewis and the News?”

The non sequitur shouldn’t have caught Myron unawares, but somehow it did. “Of course. You hate them.”

“Hate is so passé, Myron. People hate bands to sound cool. Like Creed or Nickelback. Let people enjoy what they enjoy.”

“I once saw you pull a gun on a wedding band when they played ‘The Heart of Rock and Roll.’”

“Come on. When they rhyme ‘beating’ with ‘Cleveland’...”

“Okay, yeah, I get it.”

“And let’s be fair,” Win said. “Who hires a Huey Lewis Yiddish tribute band?”

“With a female vocalist,” Myron said.

“What were they called again?”

“Judy Lewis and the Jews.” Then: “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Just that I recently learned the original name for the band was Huey Lewis and the American Express. They changed their name to the News because they worried the credit card company would sue them.”

Myron nodded. “In short, there is no point.”

“None at all. So let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?”

Win had bought the luxury jet from a rapper who was a Duke alum too. There were sleeping quarters and a shower on board. The carpet was golf-course green with a putting surface in the back right-hand corner.

“Go ahead,” Myron said.

Win slipped on his reading glasses. He looked older with them. His beloved blond locks of privilege had streaks of gray now, especially around the temples. The clenched-mouth jowls sagged just a tad more than they did a few years ago. They were aging, Myron realized. Better than most. But no one gets out unscathed. “Greg Downing meets this handsome, too-young-for-him dancer-slash-sex-worker named Bo Storm. Do we think it was online or in person?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Myron said. “We do know that Bo attended an NBA game in Phoenix where Greg coached.”

“And sat behind the bench.”

“Correct.”

“So we have that. And we know that Greg and Bo were direct messaging via Instagram.”

“Right.”

“At some point, a man named Jordan Kravat, Bo’s boyfriend — we are assuming a romantic entanglement, no?”

“Might as well.”

“Either way, Jordan Kravat is murdered. Subsequently, Bo vanishes, Greg claims hermit status and moves overseas — and for a while, there is no sign of either of them. Two years later, Greg purportedly dies, and we inter his ashes. And now, very recently, Greg’s DNA is found at a murder scene. That pretty much sum it up?”

“Pretty much.”

Win frowned. “I’m still not seeing much here.”

“Meaning?”

“What do you figure happened? Greg and Bo fell in love and, what, murdered Jordan Kravat before running off — only to fake Greg’s death, sneak back into the country, and murder a somewhat notorious supermodel.”

“Step at a time,” Myron said. “Someone was arrested for Jordan Kravat’s death.”

“A career mob boss named Joseph Turant.” Win pulled out a sheet of paper. “Everyone calls him Joey the Toe.”

Myron frowned. “Joey the Toe?”

“It’s a poorly conceived moniker,” Win agreed.

“I mean Joey the Toe? If you call a guy ‘The Toe,’ why not go for the rhyme?”

“Exactly. Joe the Toe.”

“Has a much better ring, I think,” Myron said. “Joe the Toe versus Joey the Toe. And what kind of nickname is ‘The Toe’ anyway? How does someone come up with that?”

Win said, “Joey likes to cut off toes.”

“Oh. Then the name kind of makes sense.”

“It does,” Win said.

“Maybe a tad too literal.”

“Agree. And it’s only the baby toe. Joey keeps them as souvenirs. They found sixteen in his freezer when they served the warrant.”

“Sixteen baby toes?”

“Yes.”

“That must be a real icebreaker at a party,” Myron said.

“Three of the toes were female, thirteen male.”

“Was one of them Jordan Kravat’s?”

“Yes.”

“This case.” Myron just shook his head. “What else do we have on our podophilic friend Joey the Toe?”

“Podophilic,” Win repeated. “Good word.”

“You’re not the only one who can give vocabulary seminars.”

Win sighed. “Let’s press on, shall we? Joey the Toe ran the Turant crime family. According to this, he has a fairly extensive record — the usual potpourri of extortion, corruption, murder, assault, loan sharking, racketeering.”

“‘Racketeering’ is a nice all-encompassing term,” Myron said.