They Just Fade Away, Part III



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Scene Title They Just Fade Away, Part III
Synopsis Richard Myron canvases Queens in an effort to track down info on Tyler Case. The sense of deja-vu about this is overwhelming.
Date May 6, 2009


"Ty Case, man, that name brings back some memories…"

Standing on a streetcorner beneath the flickering glow of a streetlight, Detective Richard Myron stares down at the address written on the back of a matchbook. Dark brows crease together as he turns the matchbook over, showing a blue and purple logo that reads Rapture. Puckering his lips, Myron folds the matchbook closed and stuffs it in his pocket.

"I ain't seen that kid in years—must've been longer than I thought—'cause when he showed up at my bar the other night he looked like a whole different man."

Waiting has always been something Richard Myron was good at, patience is a virtue his family instilled in him from a young age, and the patience he shows at the dark streets of Queens at night is just one in a long string of moments where patience is demanded. But it's times like this, where the noise of the city feels distant, where the rush of everyday life finally slows down, that Richard Myron has time to reflect on his long life in the NYPD.

"He was in good shape, but the kid looked like he hardly sleeps. Funniest thing is, when he talked to me, it was like the guy didn't even recognize me. Like all'a them times I bailed his ass out just didn't happen, you know? Man, fuck Ty Case and the horse he rode in on, yeah?"

In the distance, the glow of approaching headlights stirs Myron from the ramshackle collection of old memories jittering around inside of his head. A dry, humorless smile creeps up on his lips, and he steps down off of the curb as the car slows in its approach, the beat up old Pontiac rattling and clunking before it comes to a stop, the window beginning to roll down as it divides the reflection of Myron's weathered countenance into smaller increments.

"He came in here, askin' round about his family and if anybody here knew him, right? He was all spooked soundin', and you know—I told him the truth—his family's all dead, right? So then he gets all upset at me, freaks out and smashes a fuckin' bottle, and outta' nowhere this wiry guy with glasses shows up calling him John, and he calms right th'fuck down."

Peering out the driver's side window, Oliver Wilson waves one hand; beckoning Myron into the car, "Get in old timer." There's a puckered look that returns to Myron's face, this time more looking like he tasted something sour and offending to his palette. Myron always drives, he wouldn't even let Harrison drive his baby, but right now it doesn't seem so bad. Right now, maybe it's time to let someone else take the driver's seat.

"The guy with glasses? Yeah, I dunno—Ty was calling him Ed. Ain't never seen the guy before; not really the biker-bar type, right? He was short, 'bout this tall—big, thick glasses and a receding hairline. Kinda' dressed like a librarian or something. Oh—and he was carryin' a newspaper, too. They left together."

Settling in to the passenger's seat, Richard slams the door shut and turns to look over at Oliver, who's staring down at Myron's waist with one brow raised expectantly. There's a protracted silence, before Oliver clears his throat and waves one hand at Myron, "You…" his eyes upturn, "gonna' buckle up, or what?" A begrudging grumble comes as Myron reaches behind himself, thick fingers fumbling with a seatbelt he never uses. The kid's got promise.

"You know, you ain't the first guy comin' around here askin' after Ty lately. There was this girl—real pretty—she came up in here about a month ago, wondering if any of us had seem 'im. You know, if I didn't know any better—I'd swear to Christ that it was Libby too. Libby—Tyler's sister, man. She died in the bomb, with the rest of his family."

"So… what'd you find out?" Oliver rests his forearms over the steering wheel, head tilted to the side and eyes focused on the elder detective. Myron hangs his head for a moment, brushing back a few thinning strips of hair over a bald scalp after taking off his fedora, letting it settle in his lap, fingers drumming over the brim. "You—okay old man?"

"She left this for him—said to give it to Ty if I saw him. But he buggered the fuck outta' here before I could give it to him. This ain't the fuckin' post office, so take it, otherwise I'm just gonna' lose it or chuck it myself. Beats me where the fuck it's an address to."

Removing his hand from his pocket, Myron holds out the matchbook towards Oliver, flipping the cover open to show him the address written down on the inside of the cover. The young Officer's brows rise, and his head tilts to the side, lips pursing together as he breathes in a slow and steady breath. "This—what, Upper West Side?" Eyes rise up to peer uncertainly at Myron, "Is this where Tyler is?"

"If you see him again—Ty—tell the fucker to get out of New York City, cause there's still a whole lotta' people still looking for a piece of his skin for the money he took. He'd be wise to listen to you."

"No… No it's not," Myron murmurs, scratching at the back of his neck before folding the matchbook closed, tucking it away in his pocket. "Start driving," he murmurs, eyes turning to focus out the window, "I think it's about time we go say hello to Ezra Grimes."

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