Deal Breaker

Myron reached for the phone and dialed Win's number. After the eighth ring he began to hang up when a weak, distant voice coughed. "Hello?" Win?" Yeah." You okay?" Hello?" Win?" Yeah." What took you so long to answer the phone?" Hello?" Win?" Who is this?" Myron." Myron Bolitar?" How many other Myrons do you know?" Myron Bolitar?" No, Myron Rockefeller." Something's wrong," Win said. What?" Terribly wrong." What are you talking about?" Some asshole is calling me at seven in the morning pretending to be my best friend." Sorry, I forgot the time.

A dancer on break approached him. She smiled. Each tooth was angled in a different direction, as if her mouth were the masterwork of a mad orthodontist. "Hi," she said. "Hi." "You're really cute." "I don't have any money." She spun and walked away. Ah, romance.

He tried to read, but the words swam in front of his eyes in meaningless waves. He put on the television. Nick at Nite, the cultural equivalent of aerosol cheese.

Acceptance of the inevitable, a sign of a wise man.

Nick at Nite, the cultural equivalent of aerosol cheese.

that looked like something out of an

Billy Joel was on the radio, singing, “I love you just the way you are.” Big talk, Myron mused, when you’ve been married to Christie Brinkley.

An awkward impasse. No one knew exactly how to say good-bye. A wave? A handshake? A kiss?

Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.