Think Twice

Myron again debated how to play it — should he wait, watch, what? — but the direct route seemed best. He didn’t want Win delaying Spark any longer than absolutely necessary. They’d done enough to the guy.

There was an empty stool next to the French bulldog. Myron took it. He was the only one not in jeans, sporting his crisper look of trousers and a blue dress shirt. No one seemed to care what he was wearing, though the French bulldog, who wore a nametag that read FIREBALL ROBERTS, looked at him with disdain. Myron nodded at the dog and smiled. The dog turned away and faced the bar.

Can’t please everyone.

Bo Bartender came over to Myron and gave him a smile. The smile was a bit of a tell. Not to stereotype, but his teeth were still the bright white of Vegas veneers, which didn’t fit the norm of the Shanty Lounge.

“What can I get you?” Bo asked.

“What’s good on tap?”

“I like the Carter’s.”

“Sounds good,” Myron said. “But can you do me a favor first?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t panic. Don’t run. Don’t even react. I got guys out front and out the back. You’re safe right here. I promise. I’m not here to hurt you. You can make a big stink and try to get away, but that’ll just draw attention and then Joey the Toe will hear about it. That will be bad for you. I mean you no harm. He does.”

For a moment Bo just stared at him. Myron could see the wheels turning. He kept his eyes on Bo’s. Steady. Calm. Confident. Bo could scream for help. He was a local. These people would jump in, Myron had no doubt.

“Yo, Stevie?”

It was someone at the other end of the bar. Bo said, “One second.”

Bo looked lost.

“Pour my beer, Stevie,” Myron said.

Bo nodded and turned to the tap. Myron looked to his right. Fireball Roberts was giving him the stink eye. Myron almost told him to mind his own business, but Fireball had been sitting here first and also Myron didn’t want to get into a beef with a French bulldog.

The beer had the right amount of foam on top. Bo put it in front of Myron and said, “You work with those guys who harassed Spark?”

“I am the guy who harassed Spark.”

“No way. You could never—”

“Private plane, Bo. This is big time. You might want to listen to me.”

“I got a good life here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I kicked the drugs. I’ve been clean for four years now. I like my job. I got friends. People.”

“And I don’t want to ruin any of that.”

“So what do you want?”

“I just need to talk to Greg.”

Bo stayed quiet.

Patron One: “Yo, Stevie? You hard of hearing?”

Patron Two: “We’re thirsty, Stevie. Man is not a camel, you know.”

“Hold your horses, Darren,” Bo/Stevie yelled out. Then to Myron: “I’ll be right back.”

There was one other person behind the bar, a mussed-hair barmaid in her fifties displaying both taut forearms and ample cleavage. She was down the other end of the bar, pretending she didn’t see Myron to such a degree that Myron knew she was worried. Myron risked another glance at Fireball Roberts. Yep. Stink eye.

“I’m not here to hurt him,” Myron told the bulldog.

The bulldog remained unmoved.

Myron kept his eye on the barmaid. She was staring so hard at a guy in a cowboy hat playing billiards that the guy must have felt it. Still holding the cue stick, Cowboy turned around and looked a question at her. The barmaid looked at Cowboy, then she looked at Myron, then Cowboy looked at Myron, then Cowboy looked at another guy with a beard so long he kept it under control with hair ties, and then both Cowboy and Beard Ties started toward him.

Oh damn.

Cowboy came up and stood behind Myron on his right. Beard Ties took the left. Fireball Roberts turned away as though he wanted no trouble. Bo came back over to Myron and said, “Okay, so what do you want?”

“You want me to talk in front of your friends here?”

The cowboy’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. “I’m more than a friend.”

Myron looked back at him now. “Oh.”

“We don’t have any secrets,” Bo added.

Myron said “Oh” again.

“So what do you want?”

“I told you. I need to talk to Greg. If he wants to stay hidden after that, okay, fine. But I need to make sure he’s all right. Tell Greg it’s Myron. He knows me. I’m his agent. He can tell you I’m a man of my word.”

“Your name is Myron,” Bo said.

“Yes. Myron Bolitar.”

“Myron, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Myron sighed, looked back at Cowboy and Beard Ties, and said, “I know about you and Greg Downing.”

His eyes widened. “Greg Downing?”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking with me. Greg Downing? That’s the Greg you’re talking about?”

“Look, Bo, I saw the messages.”

“Messages?”

“The romantic DMs on your old Instagram account.”

And then Bo did something Myron didn’t expect. He broke out laughing.

“Wait, you think Greg and I...” Bo laughed some more, shook his head. He smiled at Cowboy. “Whoa, man, this guy must have the worst gaydar in the history of the world.”

Myron said, “Someone saw your DMs—”

“Greg wasn’t talking to me.”

Myron stopped. “Pardon?”

“That was my mom,” Bo said. “Greg was DMing with my mom.”