“You might forget, Al. You're getting old. Didn't you forget to pick up my blouse at the laundry two days ago.”

“It was closed.”

“So you never picked up my blouse, am I right?”

“Of course not.”

“I rest my case.” She looked at her son. “Myron, sit. We need to talk. Al, call Fong's.”

The men obeyed her orders. As always. Myron and Mom sat at the kitchen table.

“Listen to me closely,” Mom said. “I know Esperanza is your friend. But Hester Crimstein is a fine lawyer. If she told Esperanza not to talk to you, it's the right thing.”

“How do you know-”

“I've known Hester for years.” Mom was a defense attorney, one of the best in the state. “We've worked cases together before. She called me. She said you're interfering.”

“I'm not interfering.”

“Actually she said you're bothering her and to butt out.”

“She talked to you about this?”

“Of course. She wants you to leave her client alone.”

“I can't.”

“Why can't you?”

Myron squirmed a bit. “I have some information that might be important.”

“Such as?”

“According to Clu's wife, he was having an affair.”

“And you think Hester doesn't know that? The DA thinks he was having an affair with Esperanza.”

“Wait a second.” It was Dad. “I thought Esperanza was a lesbian.”

“She's a bisexual, Al.”

“A what?”

“Bisexual. It means she likes both boys and girls.”

Dad thought about that. “I guess that's a good thing to be.”

“What?”

“I mean, it gives you the double the options of everyone else.”

“Great, Al, thanks for the insight.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to Myron. “So Hester already knows that. What else?”

“Clu was desperate to find me before he was killed,” Myron said.

“Most logically, bubbe, to say something incriminating about Esperanza.”

“Not necessarily. Clu came to the loft. He told Jessica that I was in danger.”

“And you think he meant it?”

“No, he was probably exaggerating. But shouldn't Hester Crimstein judge the significance?”

“She already has.”

“What?”

“Clu came here too, darling.” Her voice was suddenly soft. “He told your father and me the same thing he told Jessica.”

Myron didn't push it. If Clu had told his parents the same thing he told Jessica, if he had used all that death talk when Mom and Dad didn't know where Myron was…

As though reading his mind, Dad said, “I called Win. He said you were safe.”

“Did he tell you where I was?”

Mom took that one. “We didn't ask.”

Silence.

She reached over and put a hand on his arm. “You've been through a lot, Myron. Your father and I know that.”

They both looked at him with the deep-caring eyes. They knew part of what happened. About his breakup with Jessica. About Brenda. But they would never know it all.

“Hester Crimstein knows what's she doing,” Mom went on. “You have to let her do her job.”

More silence.

“Al?”

“What?”

“Hang up the phone,” she said. “Maybe we should go out to eat.”

Myron checked his watch. “It'll have to be quick. I have to get back to the city.”

“Oh?” Mom raised an eyebrow. “You have a date already?”

He thought about Big Cyndi's description of Take A Guess.

“Not likely,” he said. “But you never know.”

From the outside Take A Guess looked pretty much like your standard Manhattan cantina-as-pickup-joint. The building was brick, the windows darkened to highlight the neon beer signs. Above the door, faded lettering spelled out Take A Guess. That was it. No “Bring Your Perversions.” No “The Kinkier the Better.” No “You Better Like Surprises.” Nothing. A suit trudging home might happen by here, stop in, lay down his briefcase, spot something attractive, buy it a drink, make a few quasi-smooth moves warmed over from college mixers, take it home. Surprise, surprise.

Big Cyndi met him at the front door dressed like Earth, Wind, and Fire-not so much any one member as the entire group. “Ready?”

Myron hesitated, nodded.

When Big Cyndi pushed open the door, Myron held his breath and ducked in behind her. The interior too was not what he'd visualized. He had expected something… blatantly wacko, he guessed. Like the bar scene in Star Wars maybe. Instead Take A Guess just had the same neodesperate feel and stench of a zillion other singles' joints on a Friday night. A few patrons were colorfully dressed, but most wore khakis and business suits. There were also a handful of outrageously clad cross-dressers and leather devotees and one babe-a-rama packed into a vinyl catsuit, but nowadays you'd be hard pressed to find a Manhattan nightspot that didn't have any of that. Sure, some folks were in disguise, but when it came right down to it, who didn't wear a facade at a singles' bar?

Whoa, that was deep.

Heads and eyes swerved in their direction. For a moment Myron wondered why. But only for a moment. He was, after all, standing next to Big Cyndi, a six-six three-hundred-pound multihued mass blanketed with more sparkles than a Siegfried and Roy costume party. She drew the eye.

Big Cyndi seemed flattered by the attention. She lowered her eyes, playing demure, which was like Ed Asner playing coquettish. “I know the head bartender,” she said. “His name is Pat.”

“Male or female?”

She smiled, punched him on the arm. “Now you're getting the hang of it.”

A jukebox played the Police's “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Myron tried to count how many times Sting repeated the words every little. He lost count at a million.

They found two stools at the bar. Big Cyndi looked for Pat. Myron cased the joint, very detectivelike. He turned his back to the bar, eased his elbows against it, bobbed his head slightly to the music. Senor Slick. The babe-a-rama in the black catsuit caught his eye. She slithered to the seat next to him and curled into it. Myron flashed back to Julie Newmar as Cat Woman circa 1967, something he did far too often. This woman was dirty blond but otherwise frighteningly comparable.

Catsuit gave him a look that made him believe in telekinesis. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi back.” The Lady Slayer awakens.

She slowly reached for her neck and started toying with the catsuit's zipper. Myron managed to keep his tongue in the general vicinity of his mouth. He took a quick peek at Big Cyndi.

“Don't be too sure,” Big Cyndi warned.

Myron frowned. There was cleavage here, for crying out loud. He stole another look-for the sake of science. Yep, cleavage. And plenty of it. He looked back at Big Cyndi and whispered, “Bosoms. Two of them.”

Big Cyndi shrugged.

“My name is Thrill,” Catsuit said.

“I'm Myron.”

“Myron,” she repeated, her tongue circling as though testing the word for taste. “I like that name. It's very manly.”

“Er, thanks, I guess.”

“You don't like your name?”

“Actually, I've always sort of hated it,” he said. Then he gave her the big-guy look, cocking the eyebrow like Fabio going for deep thought. “But if you like it, maybe I'll reconsider.”

Big Cyndi made a noise like a moose coughing up a turtle shell.

Thrill gave him another smoldering glance and picked up her drink. She did something that could roughly be called “taking a sip,” but Myron doubted the Motion Picture Association would give it less than an R rating. “Tell me about yourself, Myron.”

They started chatting. Pat, the bartender, was on break, so Myron and Thrill kept at it for a good fifteen minutes. He didn't want to admit it, but he was sort of having fun. Thrill turned toward him, full body. She slid a little closer. Myron again looked for telltale gender signs. He checked for the two Five O'clocks: Shadow and Charlie. Nothing. He checked the cleavage again. Still there. Damn if he wasn't a trained detective.