“You too, Mee.”

In case you didn’t get the memo: Win was rich.

Win’s real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, as in Lock-Horne Investments and Securities and the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue. His family was old money, the kind of money that got off the Mayflower with a pink polo shirt and desirable tee time.

Myron ducked his six-four frame through the plane’s door. There were leather seats, wood trim, a couch, plush green carpeting, zebra-striped wallpaper—the plane had been owned by a rapper, and Win decided not to refurbish it because it made him feel “phat”—a wide-screen television, a sofa bed, and a queen-sized bed in the back bedroom.

Myron was alone on the plane, which made him feel self-conscious, but he’d get over it. He took a seat and buckled up. The plane began moving toward the runway. Mee did her safety demonstration. She kept the pillbox hat on. Win, Myron knew, liked that hat.

Two minutes later, they were up in the air.

Mee came over and said, “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Have you seen him?” Myron asked. “Where has he been?”

“I’m not allowed to answer that,” Mee replied.

“Why not?”

“Win told me to make you comfortable. We have your customary beverage on board.”

She was carrying a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

“Yeah, I’m off those,” Myron said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sad. How about a cognac?”

“I’m good right now. What can you tell me, Mee?”

Me, Mee. Myron wondered whether that was her real name. Win had liked the name. He would take her to the back of the plane and make intentionally cringe-worthy double-entendre puns like “I need a little Mee time” or “I enjoy having carnal knowledge alone with Mee” or “I like the pillbox hat. It suits Mee.”

Win.

“What can you tell me?” Myron asked again.

Mee said, “The weather forecast in London calls for intermittent rain.”

“Gee, that’s a shock. I mean, what can you tell me about Win?”

“Good question,” she said. “What can you tell Mee”—she pointed to herself—“about Win?”

“Don’t start with that.”

She gave him a smile. “There’s a live feed of the Knicks game, if you’d like to watch.”

“I don’t watch basketball anymore.”

Mee gave him a look of sympathy that almost made him want to turn away. “I saw your sports documentary on ESPN,” she said.

“That’s not why,” Myron said.

She nodded, not believing him.

“If the game holds no interest for you,” Mee said, “there’s a video for you to watch.”

“What kind of video?”

“Win instructed me to tell you to watch it.”

“This isn’t, uh . . .”

Win liked to film his, uh, carnal trysts and play them back while meditating.

Mee shook her head. “He keeps those for his own private viewing, Mr. Bolitar. You know that. It’s part of the waiver we sign.”

“Waiver?” Myron held up a hand before she could reply. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Here’s the remote control.” Mee handed it to him. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can get you at this time?”