“Everywhere and nowhere. I’m a professional wrestler, so I move around a lot.”
“You’re a wrestler?” Her eyes got wide, and her cheeks flushed red with excitement. “Do you know The Rock?” she asked.
“Sure,” he lied. “We’re tight.”
“Really! He’s my favorite wrestler.”
He was every woman’s favorite wrestler. The Rock was famous, and for a short time, Myron had touched a bit of fame himself. While he’d been Micky the Magical Leprechaun, people had wanted to talk to him. He’d even swung a few matches in higher-ranking venues and wrangled a few dates with normal-sized chicks. Then that bitch of a reporter, Hope Spencer, had turned him into RuPaul, and poof, it was all over.
At twenty-six, he was a has-been. He wanted the fame back. One article. All Hope had to do was write one article and restore his reputation. Give him everything he wanted, and then he’d leave her alone.
“Do you wrestle in the WWF?”
“Nah, but it’s my dream,” he confessed and polished off his BLT. The current wave of political correctness riding the country had killed the sport of midget wrestling. The WWF was too afraid of the backlash to sponsor matches, like somehow what he did was less dignified than regular-sized men. Lately, he’d been thinking of going to Mexico, where mini wrestling was big. “Have you ever thought of wrestling?”
“Me?” Paris laughed and placed a hand over her heart. “I could never wrestle.”
Myron focused on her hand and large breasts. “Sure you could, sweet thing. I bet you’d look great in spandex.” He gazed into her flushed face. “I’d love to wrestle you sometime.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” She glanced over the top of his head, and a worried wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Oh, no, here comes Dylan,” she said.
Myron looked over his shoulder at the tall cowboy getting out of a sheriff’s Blazer. “Holy frijole,” he said. “You’ve got to hide me.” He jumped up onto the stool and vaulted over the counter like it was a pommel horse, landing on the other side. “If he asks about me, don’t tell him I’m here.
“I think he’s here because of something I did.”
Myron squatted down and pressed his back against the shelving behind the counter. He hoped Paris was right. He hoped the sheriff wasn’t after him. He’d heard plenty about people rotting in small-town jails, and the network of wrestlers he knew had all heard the story of the time Tiny Ted had been arrested in Oklahoma and forced to dance around like a Munchkin while singing “The Lollipop Guild” for a bunch of drunk deputies. He figured something like that had to be twice as degrading as being morphed into a drag queen.
Myron heard the door swing open, then shut, and the heavy thud of bootheels on the linoleum.
“Hey there, Paris,” said a man no more than a few feet from where Myron hid. “How are you doin‘?”
“Good. What can I get for you, Dylan?”
“Nothing. There’s a mini Winnebago outside with Las Vegas tags, and I’m looking for the owner. His name is Myron Lambardo and he’s about three-feet-six. Have you seen him?”
“Why, is he dangerous?”
“I just want to talk to him.”
There was a pause and Myron held his breath. “He was here earlier, but he left,” she finally said, and if Myron hadn’t been hiding, he would have kissed her.
“How long ago did he leave?”
“About an hour.”
“Did you see which way he went?”
“No,” she answered. And since Myron couldn’t kiss her, he ran his hand up her calf, under the jean skirt she wore, to her knee and gave it a pat.
“Well, if you see him again, be sure and call the sheriff’s Dispatch.”
She didn’t say anything for another long moment and he wondered if she was going to kick him or turn him in. “Why, what’s he done?”
“He’s in violation of a restraining order.”
“From who?”
“Ms. Spencer.”