A Time of Predators

“Ye...” Julio cleared his throat. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? “Yes, sir?”

The face relaxed a little at the “sir”; Julio had learned in school that politeness paid off.

“You looking for Miz Anderson?”

Anderson! As easy as that! “I... well, a Mr. Anderson, sir.”

“Hasn’t been a mister there for near two years.” He had a round pleasant face, weekend-stubbled, and wore a windbreaker, a white T-shirt, jeans worn under a respectable beer belly, a black baseball cap with SF intertwined on it in orange. “Just Barb and the boy live there...”

“l wanted a... Frank Anderson, sir.”

“Naw. His name was Charlie before they split up. Guess his name still is Charlie, come to think of it.”

Julio left him chuckling at his own wit, and returned to the Rambler. He U-turned away from the house of his informant, drove down looping residential streets to El Camino, and went south until he came to a shopping center. It was Sunday-deserted, its white-lined lot so lightly dusted with cars that he could drive diagonally across to the phone booths. He riffled through the county directory. Yes. There was the listing. He carefully copied down the phone number.

“Lemme call her, Rick,” begged Champ. He worked his muscular hands, making the cords jump and quiver in his forearms.

“Cutting cards is the only fair way,” Julio objected. Like Rick, he was afraid that Champ would foul up the call if he made it. It was Tuesday night, and they were back in Heavy’s garage again, with its grease-stained floor and mingled odors of metal and oil and gasoline.

Heavy was sweating profusely; the shirt was plastered over his seal-like body. “I don’t see why we gotta cut cards,” he whined, watching Rick shuffle. Then, seeing the look in the others’ eyes, he went on lamely, “Well, I mean, Champ wants to and all, and...”

“And you’re chicken. We cut cards, like I said. Low man.”

“I’ll go first,” said Champ eagerly.

Rick put the deck on the workbench, under the extension light that hung from a nail in the rafter above. Their hands, arms, and chests were in the glaring light as Champ cut; their faces were just pale blobs in the dimness outside the circle of illumination.

“Aw, hell, a seven. That ain’t very low, is it?”

Rick shuffled again without answering. His fingers were smeary when he touched the deck, and he knew he didn’t want to make the call. There was something... well, uncool, in threatening a little kid. Even when it was necessary. So he blew out a breath of silent relief when he got a jack of clubs; but he turned to Heavy with only sarcasm in his voice. “Let’s see what the crybaby gets.”

It was a ten. Heavy, who had been eating a candy bar, left smears of chocolate on the cards. He didn’t bother to hide his relief. Julio, in his turn, cut an eight.

“Wow!” exclaimed Champ, “that means I win, huh, fellows?”

Rick said carefully, “Ah, Champ, maybe we ought to, ah, like make it three out of five, or...”

Champ’s face puckered like that of a baby about to cry. The thick muscles swelled in his throat. He looked from Julio to Rick and back again; they were the ones he had to convince. Heavy, he knew, wanted him to have the fun of calling.

“I know you think I ain’t smart enough to do it right,” he said earnestly, “But I can do it. I know I can. Why, I already...”

He already had made those other two calls, the ones to Nancy Ellington. She was seventeen or something, and went to one of those fancy Catholic girls’ schools run by the nuns or somebody. This long black hair, see, and a round real serious face, and sometimes she would talk to him when he was working in the garden at her folk’s place.

One morning she was off from school for a saint’s birthday or something, and he was going by her bedroom window, real early it was, and there she was bare-ass, so he saw her tits and everything.

“You already what, Champ?” prompted Julio.

“I... ah... nothin’. I just... I got a right to do it...”

That Saturday he’d called up with his handkerchief over the phone like he’d seen on the TV, just to tell her what he wanted to do to her but she’d busted out crying. He’d called the next day, too, but old Mr. Ellington answered and said the police were tracing the call, so he’d hung up, real quick, and hadn’t ever called again.

Rick sighed. “Okay, Champ, you got a right to do it. We’ll call right now, while Heavy’s old man isn’t home.”

“Aw, Christ, Rick, from here?” Heavy’s chins trembled. “What if they trace the call or something, and—”

“They can’t trace through all the electronic equipment they use now,” Rick scoffed. “Not unless they’re all set up ahead of time.”