Quotes About Myron

Beware the Ides of March," Myron said. "What?" "You were the one who pointed it out to me. The ides are the fifteenth of March. Your birthday was the seventeenth. March seventeenth. Three-one-seven. The code Greg set on his answering machine." She

An hour later—or maybe it was only twenty minutes—Myron collapsed and rolled onto his back.

Again: Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction. If you prick him, does he not bleed? He

When Myron got settled again, Esperanza said, "I want to talk to you about something." "Shoot." "It's about my graduating law school." "Okay," Myron said, dragging out the word.

Myron showered and threw on a pair of sweats. His pants had blood on them. His own. He remembered that old Seinfeld routine about laundry detergent commercials that talk about getting out bloodstains, how if you have bloodstains on your clothes, maybe laundry wasn't your biggest worry. The

Norm Zuckerman spoke in a first-grade-teacher singsong. "You can answer orally, Myron, by uttering the syllable 'no.' Or if that's too taxing on your limited vocabulary, you can merely shake your head from side to side like this." Norm demonstrated.

Riverside Drive was relatively quiet. Myron arrived at his Kinney lot on 46th Street and tossed Mario the keys. Mario did not park the Ford Taurus up front with the Rolls, the Mercedes, Win's Jag; in fact, he usually managed to find a cozy spot underneath what must have been a nesting ground for loose-stooled pigeons. Car discrimination. It was an ugly thing, but where were the support groups? The

When Myron got back to the office, Esperanza was at the reception desk. "Where's Big Cyndi?" Myron asked. "Having lunch." The image of Fred Flintstone's car tipping over from the weight of his Bronto-ribs flashed in front of Myron's eyes.

Myron entered his office building on Park Avenue. He exchanged a brief elevator smile with a young woman in a business suit. The elevator reeked of drugstore cologne, the kind where some guy decides that taking a shower is too time-consuming so he opts for sprinkling himself with enough cologne to glaze a wedding cake. The young woman sniffed and looked at Myron.

The Englewood Library sat on Grand Avenue off Palisades Avenue like a clunky spaceship. When it was erected in 1968, the building had probably been praised for its sleek, futuristic design; now it looked like a rejected movie prop for Logan's Run. Myron

Her words didn't resonate the way the truth does, but Myron didn't argue the point. He scanned his Client Wall and tried to bring his focus around to Lamar Richardson's visit. "So the case is closed." She smiled. "Like legs in a nunnery.

Myron started to cross the room with his hand extended, but Susan Lex held up her palm in a stop gesture. Granite Man sat forward, nearly leaning into Myron's path. He gave Myron a small shake of the head, which was no easy task when you have no neck. Myron stayed where he was.

The mixing of metaphors was making Myron dizzy. "Sure. I don't want to cause any problems.

Continue with what?" Myron interrupted. Rule twenty-six of lawyering: Never let the interrogator—cop or fellow attorney—get a rhythm. "You asked her when she last saw her father. She told you.

Myron fell silent, his mind seemingly drifting away on some sea of secret sorrow, buoyed by booze and painkillers.

The end result may be trains that run on time (although I doubt it), but the cost is to our Constitution and the individual liberty it protects.

But that small government of limited and enumerated powers hasn't operated for nearly a century.