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tracker so that one knew exactly where the other was, within four feet, at any given moment—all of which could be activated anytime with the push of a button.
    Ergo the snaking hand heading toward the BlackBerry in his pocket. With his eyes closed, he faked a groan so he could roll just enough to get his hand closer to the pocket. . . .
    “Looking for this?”
    It was Kleavage Kyle. Myron blinked open his eyes. The floor of the room was Formica and maroon. The walls too were maroon. There was one table with what looked liked a box of Kleenex on it. No other furniture. Myron turned his gaze toward Kyle. Kyle was grinning.
    He was also holding up Myron’s BlackBerry.
    “Thanks,” Myron said. “I was looking for that. You can just toss it over here.”
    “Oh, I don’t think so.”
    There were three other bouncers in the room, all with shaved heads, all steroid-and-too-much-gym huge. Myron spotted one who looked a little frightened and figured that had been his carrier, so to speak. The frightened guy said, “I better head back out to the front, make sure everything is okay.”
    Kyle said, “You do that, Brian.”
    “Seriously, his friend, that hot chick wrestler, knows he’s here.”
    “Don’t worry about her,” Kyle said.
    “I would,” Myron said.
    “Excuse me?”
    Myron tried to sit up. “You don’t watch much TV, do you, Kyle? You know that part of the show where they triangulate the cell phone signal and find the guy? Well, that’s what’s happening here. I don’t know how much longer it will take but—”
    Holding the BlackBerry up, his expression two steps past smug, Kyle hit the off button and watched the device power down. “You were saying?”
    Myron did not reply. Frightened Big Guy left.
    “First,” Kyle said, tossing Myron back his wallet, “please escort Mr. Bolitar from the premises. We request that you never return.”
    “Even if I promise not to wear a shirt?”
    “My two men will escort you out the back entrance.”
    This was a curious development—letting him go. Myron decided to play it out, see if it was going to be this easy. He was, to put it kindly, skeptical. The two men helped lift Myron to his feet. “What about my BlackBerry?”
    “You can have it back when you exit the premises,” Kyle said.
    One man held Myron’s right arm, the other the left. They led him into the corridor. Kyle followed, closing the door behind them. When they were all out of the room, Kyle said, “Okay, good, that should do it. Bring him back in.”
    Myron frowned. Kyle opened the same door again. The two men gripped Myron harder and started dragging him back into the room. When Myron resisted, Kyle showed him the stun gun. “You want another two million volts?”
    Myron did not. He moved back to the maroon room. “What was that all about?”
    “That part was for show,” Kyle said. “Please move to the far corner.” When Myron didn’t obey immediately, he flashed the stun gun. Myron inched backward, not turning his back on Kyle. There was a small table by the door. Kyle and the two bouncers moved toward it. They reached into what looked like a box of tissues and pulled out surgical gloves. Myron watched them slip the gloves onto their hands.
    “Let me just state for the record,” Myron said, “that I’m getting a little turned on by the rubber gloves. Will this involve my bending over?”
    “Defense mechanism,” Kyle said, snapping the gloves on with a little too much zeal.
    “What?”
    “You use humor as a defense mechanism. The more frightened you are, the more your mouth flaps.”
    Bouncer-cum-therapist, Myron thought, perhaps proving the man’s point.
    “So let me explain the situation so even you’ll understand,” Kyle said in a singsong tone. “We call this the beating room. Hence the maroon color. The blood blends in, as you will soon see.”
    Kyle stopped and smiled. Myron kept still.
    “We just videotaped you leaving this room under your own volition. As you may