The Final Detail: A Myron Bolitar Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

Remo, an equally swanky building. Occupants included Diane Keaton and Dustin Hoffman, but the San Remo was perhaps best known as the building that had rejected Madonna’s application for residence.
    There were two entranceways, both with doormen dressed like Brezhnev strolling Red Square. Brezhnev One announced in a clipped tone that Ms. Crimstein was “not present.” He actually used the word
present
too; people don’t often do that in real life. He smiled for Win and looked down his nose at Myron. This was no easy task—Myron was at least six inches taller—and required Brezhnev to tilt his head way back so that his nostrils looked like the westbound entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Why, Myron wondered, do servants of the rich and famous act snootier than their masters? Was it simple resentment? Was it because they were looked down upon all day and thus needed on occasion to be the one doing the looking down? Or—more simply—were people attracted to such jobs insecure asswipes?
    Life’s little mysteries.
    “Are you expecting Ms. Crimstein back tonight?” Win asked.
    Brezhnev opened his mouth, stopped, cast a wary eye as if he feared Myron might defecate on the Persian rug. Win read his face and led him to the side, away from the lowly member of the unwashed.
    “She should be back soon, Mr. Lockwood.” Ah, so Brezhnev had recognized Win. No wonder. “Ms. Crimstein’s aerobics class concludes at eleven.”
    Exercising at eleven o’clock at night. Welcome to the nineties, where leisure time is sucked away like something undergoing liposuction.
    There were no waiting or sitting areas at the San Remo—most of your finer buildings did not encourage even approved guests to loiter—so they moved outside to the street. Central Park was across the roadway. Myron could see, well, trees and a stone wall, and that was about it. Lots of taxis sped north. Win’s stretch limousine had been dismissed—they both figured they could walk the two blocks to Win’s place—but there were four other stretch limousines sitting in a no parking zone. A fifth pulled up. A silver stretch Mercedes. Brezhnev rushed to the car door like he really had to pee and there was a bathroom inside.
    An old man, bald except for a white crown of hair, stumbled out, his mouth twisted poststroke. A woman resembling a prune followed. Both were expensively dressed and maybe a hundred years old. Something about them troubled Myron. They looked wizened, yes. Old, certainly. But there was more to it, Myron sensed. People talk about sweet little old people, but these two were so blatantly the opposite, their eyes beady, their movements shifty and angry and fearful. Life had sapped them, sucked out all the goodness and hope of youth, leaving them witha vitality based on something ugly and hateful. Bitterness was the only thing left. Whether the bitterness was directed at God or at their fellowman, Myron could not say.
    Win nudged him. He looked to his right and saw a figure he recognized from TV as Hester Crimstein coming toward them. She was on the husky side, at least by today’s warped Kate Mossian standards, and her face was fleshy and cherubic. She wore Reebok white sneakers, white socks, green stretch pants that would probably make Kate snicker, a sweatshirt, a knit hat with frosted blond hair sticking out the back. The old man stopped when he saw the attorney, grabbed the prune lady’s hand, hurried inside.
    “Bitch!” the old man managed through the good side of his face.
    “Up yours too, Lou,” Hester called out after him.
    The old man stopped, looked like he wanted to say something more, limped off.
    Myron and Win exchanged a glance and approached.
    “Old adversary,” she said in way of explanation. “You ever hear the old adage that only the good die young?”
    “Uh, sure.”
    Hester Crimstein gestured with both hands at the old couple like Carol Merrill showing off a brand-new car. “There’s your proof. Couple years back I helped