Live Wire

“Wow,” Myron said. “That’s new, even for her.”

“Yes,” Win said. “She’s stepped up from cokehead to heroin addict. Impressive.”

Myron shook his head. He should have been shocked, but pitifully he wasn’t. He thought about the Facebook photographs, the big smiles, the family trips. He’d been wrong before. It wasn’t a life. It was a lie. Take “life” and remove the f. One big fat ol’ lie. Classic Kitty.

“Myron?”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t the worst part,” Win said.

Myron just looked at his old friend.

“This won’t be easy to watch.”

Win was not one for hyperbole. Myron turned back to the TV and waited for Win to hit the play button. Without looking away from the screen, Myron put the Yoo-hoo on a coaster and put out his hand. Win had the previously poured snifter of the cognac at the ready. Myron accepted it now, took a sip, closed his eyes, let it sting his throat.

“I’m skipping ahead fourteen minutes,” Win said. “In short, this picks up a few minutes before you spotted her entering the VIP room.”

Win finally pressed the play button. The view was the same—that small chamber room from above. But this time there were only two people in the room: Kitty—and the man with the long ponytail. They were talking. Myron risked a quick glance at Win. Win’s face, as always, showed nothing. On the screen, Ponytail started twisting his fingers in Kitty’s hair. Myron just stared. Kitty began to kiss the man’s neck, moving down to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she went, until her head disappeared from the frame. The man let his head fall back. There was a smile on his face.

“Turn it off,” Myron said.

Win pressed the remote. The screen went dark. Myron closed his eyes. Utter sadness and deep rage coursed through him in equal measure. His temples started pounding. He dropped his head into his hands. Win was there now, standing over him, his hand on his shoulder. Win did not say anything. He just waited. A few moments later, Myron opened his eyes and sat upright.

“We find her,” Myron said. “Whatever it takes, we find her now.”

“Still no sign of Lex,” Esperanza said.

After another night of limited sleep, Myron sat behind his desk. His body ached. His head pounded. Esperanza sat across from him. Big Cyndi leaned against the door frame, smiling in a way someone with vision trouble might call demure. She was packed in a shimmering purple Batgirl costume, a somewhat bigger-sized replica of the one Yvonne Craig made famous on the old TV show. The fabric looked strained at the seams. Big Cyndi had a pen stuck behind one cat ear, a Bluetooth in the other.

“No hits on his credit card,” Esperanza said. “No cell phone use. In fact, I even got our old friend PT to run a GPS on his smartphone. It’s turned off.”

“Okay.”

“We also got a pretty good close-up of the ponytailed guy who was, uh, friendly with Kitty at Three Downing. Big Cyndi is going to head down to the club in a few hours with the still frame and question the staff.”

Myron looked over at Big Cyndi. Big Cyndi batted her eyes at him. Picture two tarantulas on their backs baking in the desert sun.

“We also checked on your brother and Kitty,” Esperanza continued. “Nothing in the United States. No credit cards, no driver’s license, no property, no liens, no tax returns, no parking tickets, no marriage or divorces listed, nothing.”

“I have another idea,” Myron said. “Let’s check out Buzz.”

“Lex’s roadie?”

“He’s more than a roadie. Anyway, Buzz’s real name is Alex I. Khowaylo. Let’s try his credit cards and cell phone—he might have left his on.”

“Pardon me,” Big Cyndi said. “I have a call coming in.” Big Cyndi tapped her Bluetooth and put on her receptionist voice. “Yes, Charlie? Okay, yes, thank you.” Charlie, Myron knew, was the security guard downstairs. Big Cyndi tapped the Bluetooth off and said, “Michael Davis from Shears is coming up the elevator.”

“You got this?” Esperanza asked him.

Myron nodded. “Show him in.”

Shears, along with Gillette and Schick, dominate the razor blade market. Michael Davis was the VP in charge of marketing. Big Cyndi waited at the elevator for the new arrival. New arrivals often gasped when the elevator first opened and Big Cyndi was standing there. Not so with Michael. He barely broke stride, rushing ahead of Big Cyndi and directly into Myron’s office.

“We got a problem,” Michael said.

Myron spread his arms. “I’m all ears.”

“We’re taking Shear Delight Seven off the market in a month.”

Shear Delight Seven was a razor or, if you believe the Shear marketing department, the latest in “shaving innovation technology” featuring a “more ergonomic grip” (who has trouble holding a razor?), a “professional blade stabilizer” (Myron had no idea what that meant), “seven thinner, precision blades” (because other blades are fat and imprecise) and “micro-pulse power operation” (it vibrates).

Myron’s NFL All-Pro defensive back, Ricky “Smooth” Sules, was featured in the ad campaign. The tagline: “Get Twice as Smooth.” Myron didn’t really get it. In the TV commercial, Ricky shaves, smiling as though it is a sex act, says the Shear Delight Seven gives him the “closest, most comfortable shave possible,” and then a hot girl coos, “Oh, Smooth . . . ,” and runs her hands along his cheeks. In short, it is the same shaving commercial all three companies have been running since 1968.

“Ricky and I were under the impression it was doing great.”

“Oh, it is,” Davis said. “Or it was. I mean, the response is through the roof.”

“So?”

“It works too well.”

Myron looked at him, waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Myron said, “And that’s a problem how?”

“We sell razor blades.”

“I know.”

“So that’s how we make money. We don’t make it selling the actual razors. Heck, we practically give away the razors. We make it by selling you the refills—the razor blades.”

“Right.”

“So we need people to change blades at least, say, once a week. But the Shear Delights are working better than expected. We have reports of people going six to eight weeks on a single razor. We can’t have that.”