“Oh, but I do,” Myron said.

Then, as the men inched closer, Myron smiled and crossed his arms. The move made the men pause. Then Myron said, “Did I tell you about my new BlackBerry? The GPS feature? The two-way satellite radio? It all works when you press one button.”

“Your BlackBerry,” Kyle said, “is off.”

Myron shook his head and made a buzzing noise as though he had heard the wrong answer on a game show. Win’s voice came from the BlackBerry’s tinny speaker: “No, Kyle, I’m afraid it’s not.”

The three men stopped.

“So let me explain the situation,” Myron said, doing his best Kyle singsong, “so even you’ll understand. The button you have to press to activate all the newfangled features? You guessed it: It’s the off button. In short, everything that’s been said has been recorded. Plus the GPS is on. How far away are you, Win?”

“Heading through the club entrance now. I also activated the three-way caller. Esperanza’s on the line on mute. Esperanza?”

The mute button was clicked off. The club music came through the phone speaker. Esperanza said, “I’m by the side door where they dragged Myron out. Oh, and guess what? I found an old friend here, a police officer named Roland Dimonte. Say hi to my friend Kyle, Rolly.”

The male voice said, “I better see Bolitar’s ugly, untouched mug out here in thirty seconds, asswipe.”

It took more like twenty.

“It might not have been her,” Myron said.

It was two A.M. by the time Myron and Win got back to the Dakota. They sat in a room rich people called “a study,” with Louis the Something wood furniture and marble busts and a large antique globe and bookshelves with leather-bound first editions. Myron sat in a burgundy chair with gold buttons on the arm. By the time things had calmed down at the club, Kitty had vanished, if she’d ever been there in the first place. Lex and Buzz had cleared out too.

Win opened a leather-bound first-edition false front bookcase to reveal a refrigerator. He grabbed a Yoo-hoo chocolate drink and tossed it to Myron. Myron caught it, and reading the directions—“Shake It!”—did just that. Win opened the decanter and poured himself an exclusive cognac called, interestingly enough, The Last Drop.

“I could have been wrong,” Myron said.

Win lifted his snifter and checked it against the light.

“I mean, it’s been sixteen years, right? Her hair was a different color. The room was dark and I saw her for only a second. So really, when I add it up, it might not have been her.”

“It might not have been she,” Win said. “Subject pronoun.”

Win.

“And it was Kitty,” Win said.

“How do you know?”

“I know you. You don’t make those kinds of mistakes. Other mistakes, yes. But not those kind.”

Win took a sip of cognac. Myron splashed down some of the Yoo-hoo. Cold, chocolaty, sweet nectar. Three years ago Myron had all but given up this, his favorite beverage, in favor of boutique coffees that eat away the stomach lining. When he returned home from the stress of being overseas, he started up again with Yoo-hoo, more for the comfort than the actual taste. Now he loved it again.