'Hi, Myron.'

He spun around. Two men grinned at him. One was the size of a small Third World nation. Myron was big - nearly six-four and two hundred twenty pounds - but he guessed that this guy must have been six-six and closing in on three hundred. A heavy-duty weight lifter, his whole body was puffed up as if he were wearing inflatable life vests under his clothes. The second man was of average build. He wore a fedora.

The big man lumbered toward Myron's car. His arms swung stiffly at his sides. He kept tilting his head, cracking the part of the anatomy that on a normal human being might be called a neck.

'Having some car trouble?' he asked with a chuckle.

'Flat tire,' Myron said. 'There's a spare in the trunk. Change it.'

'I don't think so, Bolitar. This was just a little warning.'

'Oh?'

The human edifice grabbed the lapels of Myron's jacket. 'Stay away from Chaz Landreaux. He's already signed.'

'First change my tire.'

The grin increased. It was a stupid, cruel grin. 'Next time I won't be so nice.' He grabbed a little tighter, bunching up the suit and tie. 'Understand?'

'You are aware, of course, that steroids make your balls shrink.'

The man's face reddened. 'Oh, yeah? Maybe I oughta smash your face in, huh? Maybe I oughta pulverize you into oatmeal.'

'Oatmeal?'

'Yeah.'

'Nice image, really.'

'Fuck you.'

Myron sighed. Then his whole body seemed to snap into motion at the same time. He started with a head-butt that landed square on the big man's

12

nose. There was a squelching noise like beetles being stepped on. Blood gushed from the nose.

'Son of a-'

Myron cradled the back of the big man's head for leverage and smashed his elbow into the swell of the Adam's apple, nearly caving the windpipe all the way in. There was a painful, gurgling choke. Then silence. Myron followed up with a knife-hand strike to the back of the neck below the skull.