" I'm back now, Marty. Everything is going to be fine, I promise. Look, you guys are in town in a couple of weeks, right?"
"We play the Jets in two weeks."
"Great. So I'll meet you at the game and we'll go out to dinner afterward."
When Myron hung up, it dawned on him that he'd been so uninvolved in his clients' affairs that he didn't even know if Marty was playing at an All-Pro level or nearly waived. Christ, he had a lot of catching up to do.
The calls went on in a similar vein for the next two hours. Most clients were assuaged. Some sat on the fence. No additional ones left him. He had not fixed anything, but he had managed to lessen the blood flow to a serious trickle.
Big Cyndi knocked and opened the office door. "Trouble, Mr. Bolitar."
An awful, though not unfamiliar, stench started emanating from the doorway.
"What the hell...?" Myron began.
"Out of the way, hot stuff." The gruff voice came from behind Big Cyndi. Myron tried to see who it was, but Big Cyndi blocked his line of vision like a solar eclipse. Eventually she yielded, and the same two plainclothes officers from the courthouse hurried past her. The big one was fiftyish, bleary-eyed, world-weary and had the kind of face that looked unshaven even after a shave. He wore a trench coat with sleeves that barely reached his elbows and shoes that had more scuff marks than a Gaylord Perry baseball. The smaller guy was younger and really, well, ugly. His face reminded Myron of a magnified photo of head lice. He wore a light gray suit with vest-the Sears Casual Law Enforcer-and one of those Looney Tunes ties that screamed 1992.
The awful smell started permeating the walls.
"A warrant," the big guy groused. He wasn't chewing on a cigar, but he should have been. "And before you tell me we're out of our jurisdiction, we're still working with Michael Chapman, Manhattan North. Call him, you got a problem. Now get out of the chair, asshole, so we can search this place."
Myron crinkled his nose. "Jesus, which one of you is wearing the cologne?"
Head Lice gave a quick look toward his partner. The look said, Hey, I'll take a bullet for this guy, but I'm not taking the fall for that smell. Understandable.
"Listen up, dip shit," the big one said. "My name is Detective Winters-"
"Really? Your mother named you Detective?"
Barely a sigh. "-and this is Detective Martinez. Move out here now, dim wad."
The smell was getting to him. "Yo, Winters, you got to stop borrowing cologne from male flight attendants."
"Keep at it, funnyman."
"Seriously, does the label include the words glaze lib-erally?"
"You're a real comedian, Bolitar. So many bad asses are funny it's a pity they don't televise Sing Sing."
"I thought you already searched the place."
"We did. Now we're back for the financials."
Myron pointed to Head Lice. "Can't he do it alone?"
"What?"
"I'll never get the smell out of here."
Winters took out a pair of latex gloves, this so as not to mess up possible fingerprints. He snapped them on in dramatic fashion, including finger wiggling, and grinned.
Myron winked. "You want me to bend down and grab my ankles?"
"No."
"Dang, and me needing a date." Want to needle a cop? Use gay humor. Myron had yet to meet one who wasn't a complete homophobe.
Winters said, "We're going to trash this place, funnyman."
"Doubtful," Myron countered.
"Oh?"
Myron stood, reached into the file cabinet behind him.
"Hey, you can't touch anything in here."
Myron ignored him, pulled out a small videocamera. "Just keeping a record of your doings, officer. In today's climate of false police corruption charges, we wouldn't want any misunderstandings"-Myron snapped on the camera and aimed the lens at the big guy-"would we?"
"No," the big guy said, staring straight into the lens. "We wouldn't want any misunderstandings."
Myron kept his eye in the viewer. "The camera captures the real you, Detective. I bet if we played it back, we'd still smell your cologne."
Head Lice hid a smile.
"Please get out of our way, Mr. Bolitar," Winters said.
"Sure thing. Cooperation is my middle name."
They began the search, which basically consisted of packing every document they could lay their hands on in crates and carrying them out. The gloved hands touched everything, and it felt to Myron like they were touching him. He tried to look innocent-whatever that looked like-but he couldn't help being nervous. Guilt was a funny thing. He knew that there was nothing amiss in any of the