Myron shook his head.

"David Ben-Gurion."

"And everyone knows what a looker he was," Myron said.

"Smart-mouth."

Mom was a major paradox. On the one hand she'd been a practicing attorney for the past twenty years. She was the first generation born in the United States, her parents coming over from Minsk or somewhere like that, living lives that as near as Myron could tell paralleled Fiddler on the Roof. She became a sixties radical, an original bra burner, and experimented with various mind-altering drugs (hence naming a child Myron). She did not cook. Ever. She had no idea where the vacuum cleaner was stored. She did not know what an iron looked like, never mind whether or not she owned one. In the courtroom her crosses were legendary. She breakfasted on star witnesses. She was bright, frighteningly shrewd, and very modern.

On the other hand, all of this went out the window when it came to her son. She completely decompensated. She became her mother. And her mother before her. Only worse. Murphy Brown became Grandma Tzietl.

"Your father is picking up some Chinese food. I ordered enough for you."

"I'm not hungry, thanks."

"Spareribs, Myron. Sesame chicken." Meaningful pause. "Shrimp with lobster sauce."

"I'm really not hungry."

"Shrimp with lobster sauce," she repeated.

"Mom…"

"From Fong's Dragon House."

"No thanks."

"What? You love Fong's shrimp in lobster sauce. You're crazy about it."

"Maybe a little then." Easier.

She was still standing on her head. She began to whistle. Very casuallike. "So," she said in that strain-to-sound-aloof voice, "how's Jessica?"

"Butt out, Mom."

"Who's butting? I just asked a simple question."

"And I gave you a simple answer. Butt out."

"Fine. But don't go crying to me if something goes wrong."

Like that happens.

"Why has she been away so long anyway? What's she doing over there?"

"Thanks for butting out"

"I'm concerned," Mom said. "I just hope she's not up to something."

"Butt out."

"Is that all you can say? Butt out? What are you, a parrot? Where is she anyway?"

Myron opened his mouth, wrestled it closed, and stormed into the basement. His dwelling. He was almost thirty-two years old and still lived at home. He hadn't been here much the past few months. Most nights he'd spent at Jessica's place in the city. They had even talked about moving in together but decided to take it slow. Very slow. Easier said than done. The heart don't know from slow. At least Myron's didn't. As usual Mom had drilled into exposed nerve endings. Jessica was in Europe right now, but Myron had no idea where. He hadn't heard from her in two weeks. He missed her. And he was wondering too.

The doorbell rang.

"Your father," Mom called down. "Probably forgot his key again. I swear that man is getting senile."

A few seconds later he heard the basement door open. His mother's feet appeared. Then the rest of her. She beckoned him forward.

"What?"

"There's a young lady here to see you," she said. Then in a whisper, "She's black."

"Gasp!" Myron put his hand to his heart. "Hope the neighbors don't call the police."

"That's not what I meant, smart-mouth, and you know it. We have black families in the neighborhood now. The Wilsons. Lovely people. They live on Coventry Drive. In the old Dechtman home."

"I know, Mom."

"I was just describing her for you. Like I might say she has blond hair. Or a nice smile. Or a harelip."

"Uh-huh."

"Or limp. Or she's tall. Or short. Or fat. Or-"

"I think I get the drift, Mom. Did you ask her name?"

She shook her head. "I didn't want to pry."

Right.

Myron headed up the stairs. It was Wanda, Duane's girlfriend. For some reason Myron was not surprised. She smiled nervously, waved quickly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at home," she said.

"No problem. Please come in."

They headed down the basement. Myron had subdivided it into two rooms. One, a small sitting room he basically never used. Hence it was presentable and clean. The inside room, his living quarters, resembled a frat house after a major kegger.

Wanda's eyes darted around again, like they had when Dimonte had been at the apartment. "You live down here?"

"Only since I was sixteen."

"I think that's sweet. Living with your parents."

From upstairs: "If only you knew."

"Close the door, Mom."

Slam.

"Please," Myron said. "Sit down."

Wanda looked unsure but finally settled into a chair. She was wringing her hands nonstop. "I feel a little foolish," she said.

Myron gave her an understanding, encouraging smile – the Phil Donahue smile. Caller, are you there?

"Duane likes you," she said. "A lot."

"The feeling is mutual."

"The other agents, they call Duane all the time. All the big ones. They keep saying how you're too small-time to represent Duane. They keep saying they can help him make a lot more money."

"They might be right," Myron said.

She shook her head. "Duane doesn't think so. I don't think so either."

"That's nice of you to say."

"You know why Duane won't meet with those other agents?"

"Because he doesn't want to see me weep?"

She smiled at that one. The Master of Levity strikes again. Señor Self-Deprecation. "No," she said. "Duane trusts you."

"I'm glad."

"You're not just in it for the money."

"That nice of you to say, Wanda, but Duane is making me a lot of money. There's no denying that."

"I know," she said. "I don't want to sound naive here, but you put him first. Before the money. You look out for Duane Richwood the human being. You care about him."

Myron said nothing.

"Duane doesn't have many people," she continued. "He doesn't have any family. He lived on the streets since he was fifteen, scraping by. He wasn't an angel that whole time. He did some things he'd rather forget. But he never hurt anybody, never did anything serious. His whole life he never had anyone he could rely on. He had to take care of himself."

Silence.

"Does Duane know you're here?" Myron asked.

"No."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He just took off. He does that sometimes."

More silence.

"So anyway, like I said, Duane doesn't have anybody else. He trusts you. He trusts Win, too, but only because he's your best friend."

"Wanda, what you're saying is very nice, but I'm hardly driven by altruism. I'm well paid for what I do."

"But you care."

"Henry Hobson cares."

"Maybe. But his wagon is hitched to Duane's star. Duane is his ticket back to the bigs."

"Many would say the same for me," Myron countered. "Except that part about 'back,' since I've never been to the bigs. Duane's my only big tennis player. In fact Duane is the only player I've got in the U.S. Open."

She considered this for a moment, nodding. "Maybe that's all true," she said. "But when push came to shove – when trouble hit today – Duane came to you. And when push came to shove for me tonight, I came to you too. That's the bottom line."

The basement door opened.

"Would you kids like something to drink?"

"Got any Kool-Aid, Mom?"

Wanda laughed.

"Listen, smart-mouth, maybe your company is hungry.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Bolitar," Wanda shouted up.

"You sure, hon? Coffee maybe? A Coke?"

"Nothing, really, thank you."

"How about some Danish? I just bought some fresh at the Swiss House. Myron's favorite."

"Mom…"

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint."

Right The Mistress of the Subtle Signal. The basement door closed.

"She's sweet," Wanda said.

"Yeah, adorable." Myron leaned forward. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

She started wringing her hands again. "I'm worried about Duane."