From there, it would only take a few keystrokes to learn all. Welcome to the computer age, boys and girls. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Joel Fishman goes by the name Crush at the club.”

Myron shook his head.

“And the ponytail is a clip-on. Like a hair extension.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Mr. Bolitar, I’m not. I guess he wears it as a disguise.”

“So now what?”

“There’s no school today, only teacher conferences. Normally the security here is pretty tight, but I bet you could go in pretending you’re a parent.” She put her hand up, stifling a grin. “As Esperanza might note, in those jeans and blue blazer, you’d fit right in.”

Myron pointed to his feet. “In Ferragamo loafers?”

He headed across the street and waited until he saw a few parents heading for the door. Then he caught up to them and said hello like he knew them. They said hello back, pretending the same. Myron held the door, the wife walked through, the husband insisted Myron follow, Myron did with a hearty parental laugh.

And Big Cyndi thought she knew how to blend.

There was a signup sheet and a security guard behind the desk. Myron walked over, signed in as David Pepe, making the last name somewhat unreadable. He took a sticker name tag, wrote “David” on it, “Madison’s Dad” in smaller print beneath. Myron Bolitar, Man of a Thousand Faces, Master of Disguise.

The old saw is that public schools never change except that they seem smaller. The old saw held serve in here—linoleum floor, metal lockers, wooden classroom doors with metal-mesh glass windows. He arrived at room 207. There was a sign on the window so you couldn’t see in. The sign read, RÉUNION EN COURS. NE PAS DÉRANGER. Myron didn’t speak much French, but he knew that the second part was asking him to please wait.

He looked for a schedule sheet, something listing times and parents and whatever. Nothing. He wondered what to do here. There were two laminated class chairs in front of most of the doors. The chairs looked sturdy and practical and about as comfortable as a tweed thong. Myron debated waiting in one of them, but suppose the parents for the next meeting showed up?

He chose instead to wander the corridor and keep a close eye on the door. It was 10:20 A.M. Myron assumed that most meetings ended on the half hour or maybe quarter hour. This was a guess, but probably a good one. Fifteen minutes per meeting, maybe thirty minutes. At a minimum, it would be every ten minutes. Either way, the next meeting would be at ten thirty. If no one showed by, say, 10:28, Myron would meander back to the door and try to get in at ten thirty A.M.

Myron Bolitar, Master Planner.

But parents did show up by 10:25 A.M. and pretty much in a steady stream until noon. So that no one would notice him hanging around, Myron wandered downstairs when meetings would start, hid in the bathrooms, stayed in the stairwell. Serious boredom set in. Myron noticed that most of the fathers wore blue blazers and jeans. He had to update his wardrobe.