Massively entertaining.

The crowd, including Myron and Mickey, stood and roared.

“So why were you in London?” Mickey asked.

“I was helping an old friend.”

“Do what?”

“We were trying to locate two missing kids.”

Mickey turned to him, his face suddenly serious. “Wasn’t one found?”

“You saw that?”

“It was on some news alert. Patrick something.”

“Patrick Moore.”

“He’s my age, right? Disappeared when he was six?”

“That’s right.”

“What about the other kid?”

“Rhys Baldwin.” Myron shook his head. “We’re still looking for him.”

Mickey swallowed, turned back to the match. In the ring, Little Pocahontas had just swept the leg of Iron Curtain Irene, knocking her to the mat. Commie Connie was already on the ground and—gasp—Big Chief Mama was standing on the top rope.

“The big finale,” Myron said with a grin.

Seemingly defying gravity, Big Chief Mama bent at the knees and leapt off the top rope and high into the air. The crowd held its collective breath as, almost in slow motion, she began to hurtle back toward earth, landing on both of her opponents with a clearly audible splat.

Neither opponent moved.

When Big Chief Mama rose, you half expected her two adversaries to be pancake flat on the canvas, like Silly Putty or something out of a cartoon. Big Chief Mama rolled over Connie. Pocahontas rolled over Irene. Together they pinned their opponents and the bell rang and the ring announcer shouted, “The winner and still Cougar Tag Team Champions, from the reservation straight to your heart, let’s hear it for Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama!”

With the entire arena up on its feet, Big Cyndi lifted Esperanza onto her shoulders. They waved and blew kisses as the applause rained down on them.

And then the next match began.

Chapter 13

An hour later, Myron and Mickey flashed their passes and headed backstage. Big Cyndi, still in the leather merry widow and headdress, ran over to Myron and shouted, “Oh, Mr. Bolitar!”

Big Cyndi’s makeup had started to run, so that her face resembled a box of crayons left too close to the fireplace.

“Hey, Big Cyndi.”

She wrapped her tree-trunk arms around Myron and pulled him close, lifting him ever so slightly off his feet. Big Cyndi was still covered with sweat, and when she hugged you, it was all consuming, like being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.

Myron smiled and enjoyed the ride. When she finally put him back down, he said, “You remember my nephew.”

“Oh, Mr. Mickey!”

Big Cyndi bear-hugged him the same way. Mickey looked a little confused—it was a wild ride for the inexperienced—but he hung in there. “Hey, Cyndi, you were great out there.”

She gave Mickey a funny look. “Cyndi?”

“Sorry. Big Cyndi.”

That pleased her. Big Cyndi had been Myron’s receptionist when he and Esperanza had their sports agency. She preferred formalities, so Myron was always Mr. Bolitar and she had always insisted others call her Big Cyndi, not just Cyndi. She had even legally changed her name so that official documents now read, last name: Cyndi, first name: Big.