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reflecting on the monitor over the boy’s, blending the images together, creating a visual echo of he knew not what.

5
    M yron heard the cries of ecstasy through the door.
    Win—real name: Windsor Horne Lockwood III—was letting Myron temporarily crash at his apartment in the Dakota on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. The Dakota was an old New York landmark whose rich and lush history had been totally eclipsed by the murder of John Lennon twenty-some-odd years ago. Entering meant crossing over the spot where Lennon had bled to death, the feeling not unlike trampling over a grave. Myron was finally getting used to it.
    From the outside, the Dakota was beautiful and dark and resembled a haunted house on steroids. Most apartments, including Win’s, had more square footage than a European principality. Last year, after a lifetime of living in Mom and Dad’s suburban sprawl, Myron had finally moved out of the basement and into a SoHo loft with his ladylove, Jessica. It was a huge step, the first sign that after more than a decade, Jessica wasready to—gasp!—commit. So the two lovers clasped hands and took the live-together plunge. And like so many plunges in life, it ended in an ugly splat.
    More cries of ecstasy.
    Myron pressed his ear against the door. Cries, yes, and a soundtrack. Not live action, he decided. He used his key and pushed open the door. The cries were coming from the TV room. Win never used that room for, uh, filming. Myron sighed and stepped through the portal.
    Win wore his casual WASP uniform: khakis, shirt with a color so loud you couldn’t look at it straight on except through a pinhole, loafers, no socks. His blond locks had been parted with the precision of old ladies dividing up a lunch check; his skin was the color of white china with dabs of golf-ruddy red on both cheeks. He sat yoga-lotus-style, his legs pretzeled to a point man was never supposed to achieve. His index fingers and thumbs formed two circles, the hands resting against the knees. Yuppie Zen. Old World European clashing heads with Ancient Oriental. The sweet smell of Main Line mixed with the heavy Asian incense.
    Win breathed in for a twenty count, held it, breathed out for a twenty count. He was meditating, of course, but with a Win-like twist. He did not, for example, listen to soothing nature sounds or chimes; no, he preferred meditating to the sound tracks of, uh, skin flicks from the seventies, which basically sounded like a bad Jimi Hendrix impersonator making wah-wah-wah noises on an electric kazoo. Just listening to it was enough to make you rush out for a shot of antibiotics.
    Win did not close his eyes either. He did not visualize a deer sipping water by a lapping stream or a gentle waterfall against green foliage or any of that. His gaze remained fixed on the television screen; more specifically, on homemade videotapes of himself and a potpourri of females in the throes of passion.
    Myron stepped fully into the room. Win turned oneof his finger-Os into a flat-palm stop sign, then lifted the index finger up to indicate he wanted another moment. Myron risked a glance at the screen, saw the writhing flesh, turned away.
    A few seconds later, Win said, “Hello.”
    “I’d like my disgust noted for the record,” Myron said.
    “So noted.”
    Win moved fluidly from the lotus position to a full stand. He popped out the tape and put it in a box. The box was labeled
Anon 11. Anon
, Myron knew, stood for
Anonymous.
It meant Win had either forgotten her name or never learned it.
    “I can’t believe you still do this,” Myron said.
    “Are we moralizing again?” Win asked with a smile. “How nice for us.”
    “Let me ask you something.”
    “Oh, please do.”
    “Something I always wanted to know.”
    “My ears are all atwitter.”
    “Putting aside my repugnancy for a moment—”
    “Not on my account,” Win said. “I so enjoy when you’re superior.”
    “You claim this”—Myron motioned vaguely at the