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The ugliest truth, a friend once told Myron, is still better than the prettiest of lies

Myron thought about that now as he looked down at his father in the hospital bed He flashed back sixteen years, to the last time he had lied to his father, the lie that caused so ic ripple that, finally, disastrously, would end here

His father’s eyes re raspy and uneven Tubes seemed to snake out from everywhere Myron stared down at his father’s forear his dad in that Nearehouse, the way his father sat at his oversized desk, his sleeves rolled up The forearh back then to strain the fabric, ainst the e The barrel chest that had rown brittle, as though a hand pressing down could snap the rib cage like dried twigs His father’s unshaven face had gray splotches instead of his custoing down like a cloak one size too big

Myron’s mother—Al Bolitar’s wife for the past forty-three years—sat next to the bed Her hand, shaking with Parkinson’s, held his She too looked shockingly frail In her youth, hisher bra with Gloria Steine T-shirts that read stuff like “A Woman’s Place Is in the Houseand Senate” Now, here they both were, Ellen and Al Bolitar (“We’re El-Al,” Moe, hanging on, luckier by far than the vastlovers—and yet this hat luck looked like in the end

God has some sense of humor

“So,” Moree?”

Myron did not reply The prettiest of lies versus the ugliest truth Myron should have learned his lesson back then, sixteen years ago, with that last lie to this great man he loved like no other But, no, it wasn’t so si It could rock a world

Or even kill

So as his father’s eyes fluttered open, as this man Myron treasured like no other looked up at his oldest son with pleading, almost childlike confusion, Myron looked at his mother and slowly nodded Then he bit back the tears and prepared to tell his father one final lie

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SIX DAYS EARLIER

Please, Myron, I need your help”

This was, for Myron, a bit of a fantasy: a shapely, gorgeous da out of an old Bogey film—except, well, the saunter wasfronant, and really, sorry, that kind of killed the whole fantasy effect

Her name was Suzze T, short for Trevantino, a retired tennis star She had been the sexy bad girl of the tour, better known for her provocative outfits, piercings, and tattoos than for her actual game Still Suzze won a major and made a ton in endorsements, most notably as the spokeswoman (Myron loved that euphemism) for La-La-Latte, a chain of topless coffee bars, where college boys loved to snicker for “extra milk” Good times

Myron spread his arms “I’m here for you, Suzze, twenty-four/ seven—you know that”

They were in his Park Avenue office, ho for Myron, the B for Bolitar, and the Reps because they represented athletes, actors, and writers Literal-Monikers-R-Us

“Just tell me what I can do”

Suzze began to pace “I’in” Myron was about to speak when she held up her hand “And if you dare say, ‘Start at the beginning,’ I will rip off one of your testicles”

“Just one?”

“You’re engaged now I’ of your poor fiancée”

The pace turnedup speed and intensity so that a sht here in his recently refurbished office

“Uh, the carpet,” Myron said “It’s new”

She frowned, paced soernails