A Time of Predators

Had he been convincing? He had just followed his instincts in fashioning the story for Debbie, instincts which had saved him from spankings by his ma ever since he’d been a little kid. A chick like Debbie, romantic-like, she wanted you to be wiping away that old furtive tear of tragedy. I love you, Ricky. Only a guy needed more than words.

Rick moved restlessly behind the wheel, fished out a cigarette, pushed in the lighter as he stuck it in his mouth. He wished it was a joint. He was all strung out; pot really helped with that feeling. Christ, he wished they’d been on pot instead of beer that night they’d shoved around that goddamn queer. Or if somebody was going to kill himself, why didn’t that bastard do it? The lighter popped.

And just when everything seems safe, up comes Debbie. How well did you really know Paula Halstead? He didn’t want to be answering that question for a judge, and he still thought he’d done the smart thing to make up the affair with Paula. This way, she wouldn’t blurt out some dumb thing in front of somebody. Like Julio, for instance. That Julio, he was sort of paranoid about Debbie, or something, anyway. Julio didn’t understand chicks, didn’t know how to handle them like Rick did. Like he had handled Debbie, getting her to promise.

Rick grunted. Old Deb. Maybe she’d made another promise, to herself or something, about not letting Rick get into her pants. Damn her. She was such choice stuff, was the trouble; and now he couldn’t afford to just drop her. He hurled the half-smoked cigarette away.

Damnit, he needed... He looked at his watch. Mary Davies, the waitress, got off in an hour, at two-thirty. She’d put out for him that first time he’d picked her up. Taken him up to her apartment and let him start fooling around with her on the couch, with her roommate asleep in the bedroom just beyond, with the door wide open. After about twenty minutes she’d just stood up and said, “I must be nuts, with a kid your age,” and had stripped down right there and had climbed right on top of him like a goddamn jockey getting on a horse or something.

Rick twisted the keys, jerked the starter decisively. Old Mary, some of the things she’d wanted to do had embarrassed him at first, had made him scared he’d hurt her, even. But then he’d found out she didn’t care if he hurt her some, and he dug it all, now.

And she usually had pot at her place, too.

A few miles north, Julio Escobar was lying on the tattered sofa at his folks’ place and watching the late show. Some of these old movies were really dogs, but he even did his homework in front of the TV. The noise, the sense of movement, made it easier to concentrate or something. Made him feel more there, you know? More real, solider. And tonight he had to concentrate.

That damned bitch, Debbie! He’d sat only two yards from her and Rick during the fireworks. He knew Rick had been getting tittie there, under the blanket; he probably was making it with her right now in that flashy Triumph. Hell, if Julio had a new car like that she’d put out for him, too, the same way. Probably the first time he got her alone.

And the hell of it was, she knew. About the Halstead woman, maybe even about Rockwell, too. Sure, they were safe as long as she was hot for Rick, but what happened to the rest of them if she and Rick had a fight? What then? He had to get enough on Debbie, enough proof that she couldn’t be trusted, to make Rick listen to him. Had to, even if it meant following her around.

Then Rick would have to go along with the plan Julio had. Oh, that would shut her up, all right. It had really worked the once, it would work again — especially with a young cluck like Debbie.

Just thinking about it made the TV movie fade, made him feel funny, made his palms get moist. He rubbed his hands along the fabric of the couch. Yes, when the time came, he would know what to do to her all right.

Cheap, teasing little bitch!

Chapter 16

Looking at his desk calendar, Curt realized disconsolately that July was half gone and he was no nearer to finding the predators than he had been a month before. Archie Matthews, the private investigator he had hired, had turned up nothing. Nothing at all.

Curt opened the center drawer, got out the folder containing a slim sheaf of reports that had taken five days of Matthews’ investigation time. The detective had gotten no cooperation from the sheriff’s office whatsoever, but despite that he had been thorough, damned thorough, Curt had to give him that. Checking the Los Feliz police department files for traffic citations issued on the night of the Rockwell assault to old Chevrolet station wagons. Negative. Negative also with the Highway Patrol. Negative on tows by the all-night garages.