Quotes About Myron

I'm a big fan of Myron Mixon. I've read a couple of his books, and I've learned the little bit that I know about barbecue from those books.

The first game I played against the University of Miami, I was very nervous - eyes wide open.

Myron sipped his coffee. Gourmet coffee. A year ago he never drank coffee. Then he started stopping into one of the new coffee bars that kept cropping up like bad movies on cable.

He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn't so sure the dead weren't the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked the handcuffs. "Go," he said. Myron

Another pause. Cameras pirouetted. Myron looked around. All the lenses were aiming down from up high, glaring at him like hostile space aliens or lunchroom monitors.

Fat Gandhi was resplendent in what looked to be a yellow zoot suit. "The cash is in that bag?" "It isn't in my underwear," Myron said.

By the time he got back to the table, Tad Crispin was sipping an iced tea too. Win made the introductions. Crispin was dressed in yellows, lots of yellows, kind of like the man with the yellow hat from the Curious George books. Everything was yellow. Even his golf shoes. Myron tried not to make a face. As

Esperanza and Myron shared a yellow cab to the Chelsea Hotel on Twenty-third Street between Seventh and Eighth. The cab smelled like a Turkish whorehouse, which was an improvement over most.

Myron looked a question at Esperanza.

Win looked at Myron. Myron raised his eyebrows. Brenda sighed. "Before you two continue your patronizing glances—the ones that say, 'Golly gee, the woman is actually capable of cogitation'—let me add that I'm just giving you a way around the impasse. I don't buy it for a second. It leaves too much unexplained.

The receptionist said, "Mr. Englehardt will see you now." She led them down a corridor with thin plaster walls and a bad paint job. Englehardt sat behind a plastic-wood desk. He was probably late twenties with a slight build and a chin weaker than machine-dispensed coffee. Myron

Win hung up. Five minutes later Myron entered the restaurant. Cingle didn't disappoint. She was curvy to the max, built like a Marvel comic drawing come to life. Myron walked up to Peter Chin, the owner, to say hello. Peter frowned at him.

The modern city. Myron passed a storefront with a sign: TATTOOS WHILE U WAIT. He reread the sign and frowned. Like how else would you do it?

There are holes," Myron admitted. "There are chasms of leviathan proportions," Win corrected.

There are bagels," Mom said, in case both his eyes and olfactory nerves had shorted out. "Your father picked them up this morning. From Livingston Bagels, Myron. Remember? The one on Northfield Avenue? Near Two Gondoliers Pizzeria?" Myron

The murder of Valerie Simpson." Myron looked over at Duane. "I don't know nothing," Duane said. Dimonte sat down, making a big production out of it. King Lear. "Then you won't mind answering a few questions?" Duane

I'm not the one to ask," the hostess said. "You should speak to Caroline." "Caroline?" Myron Bolitar, Parrot Investigator. "Caroline Gundeck. She was the one who had lunch with him." Every once in a while you just get lucky.

Welcome, Myron Bolitar, to our humble offices." "Nice to be here," Myron said, "Fat Gandhi." This pleased him. "Ah yes, yes. You saw the leaderboard?" "I did." He spread his arms, his triceps flapping in the no-breeze. "Does the name not fit?" "Like a well-tailored sock," Myron said, even though he had no idea what that meant. Fat

Greg had contacted his bank. He was not a risky investor, and so most of his assets were liquid. If ransom money was needed, he'd be ready. The various feds, all male except for Kimberly Green, put traces on all the possible phones, including Myron's. She and her men were doing a lot of sotto voce. Myron hadn't pressed them yet. But that wasn't going to last. Kimberly

And maybe you shouldn't coach." Assistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. "Well, well, well." Coach Bobby said, "What?" "Do you know who this guy is?" "Who?" "Myron Bolitar.

The room was crowded and sweltering. Fans whirred impotently. Men were hooking fingers into collars to let in air. Sweat coated faces. Myron looked at Brenda. She looked small and alone and scared, but she would not look away. He felt her take his hand. He gripped back. She stood ramrod straight now, her head high. The

Win drove, Myron took the front passenger seat, and Big Cyndi squeezed into the back, which was a little like watching a film of childbirth on rewind. Then they were off.

Since it would take a few minutes to set up, Myron took some unnecessary turns. Two minutes later, Myron took the right on Pleasant Valley Way. Up ahead, he saw Zorra standing by the pizzeria. She wore her '30s blond wig and smoked a cigarette in a holder and looked just like Veronica Lake after a real bad bender, if Veronica Lake was six feet tall and had a Homer Simpson five o'clock shadow and was really, really ugly. Zorra

Chase Layton was too smart to snap-bite at that. He looked at Myron. An underling. Maybe there'd be a clue how to play on this plebeian's face. Myron kept up the neutral. He was getting better at it. Must be from hanging around Win so much.