I took the package and laughed. It was a pack of condoms decorated with a picture of Santa Claus.
I was awakened by the phone. I groped for it, picked up the receiver and mumbled a groggy hello.
It was Freeman Vidor. I listened to him for a few minutes, and then sat up in bed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure. You better come down.”
Josh reached out and stroked my leg. “Henry, who is it?”
“Shh,” I said. “Not today, Freeman. Give me until tomorrow. Have you told Cresly?”
“I don’t know if he’d buy it,” Freeman replied.
“We need the cops,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
He spoke for another couple of minutes and then, wishing me a Merry Christmas, hung up.
Josh was wide awake. “What’s wrong? Is it Larry?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s about Jim. We have to get back to L.A.”
25
Although I could not see his face, I knew that the man coming out of the men’s room at the Texaco station had different color eyes than when he had gone in. In the front seat, Freeman nudged Cresly who was pressing the side of his face against the window, eyes closed. Sitting in the back, I watched Tom Zane get into his Fiat. A moment later, the Fiat’s headlights flashed on and he slipped into the traffic on Highland Boulevard, heading north. Freeman started his car and we got in behind Zane.
Freeman said something to Cresly that I missed.
Cresly replied, “Yeah, let’s bust him for using the toilet without buying gas.” He lit a thin brown cigarette and rolled down the window. “Ain’t this like old times,” he said to no one in particular.
“You and Freeman were partners?” I asked, as we squealed to a stop just below Sunset.
“That’s right,” he said, “and even then Vidor got these hunches and dragged my ass all over town. Right, Freeman?”
“Hey, you’re here, aren’t you,” Freeman replied, as we accelerated forward.
“Maybe,” he said, “depending on what happens. If nothing happens, I was never here. This isn’t police business yet.”
The night sky was a dull red and there wasn’t a flicker of natural light to be found in the heavens. Though New Year’s Eve was four nights away, it was warm and gritty. We turned east on Hollywood Boulevard, a couple of cars behind the Fiat which now turned onto a side street and into the parking lot for the
Chinese Theater. Freeman followed but went past the lot, pulled up to the curb and parked. A couple of minutes later, Zane emerged from the lot and walked back toward the boulevard.
“You’re sure he’ll be coming this way?” I asked.
Freeman said, “He did before.”
He switched on the radio to a classical music station. Cresly tossed his cigarette out the window and whistled beneath his breath. The dark, palm-lined street was deserted. The city looked like a gigantic backlot for Day of the Locusts. All that was needed was for someone to say “Action.”
Headlights appeared in the rear-view mirror as a car crossed Hollywood Boulevard. When it passed, I saw it was an Escort bearing the sticker of a car rental agency on its back window.
“That’s him,” Freeman said, cutting off the last movement of Brahms’s Third Symphony.
Cresly, who had been whistling the melody, sat up. “What are you waiting for?”
“This ain’t a parade, Phil,” Freeman replied.
Cresly spat out the window and muttered, “Feets don’t fail me now.”
When the Escort crossed the first intersection, Freeman started after it. At Santa Monica Boulevard, we turned right. Santa Monica was brightly lit and there was heavy traffic on the sidewalks, young men and boys standing on either side of the street, at bus stops and in doorways, watching the passing traffic. The Escort took a left at La Brea. Freeman let a couple of cars pass before he followed.
Our next turn was left onto Willoughby, a big street about four blocks south of Santa Monica. There were houses on the south side of Willoughby, but on the north side were the gloomy backs of industrial buildings.
“What’s in there?” I asked, pointing at them.
“Office buildings,” Freeman said. “Warehouses. Lots of dark places and no one around. That’s where Zane takes his pick-ups.”
“We’re in West Hollywood now,” Cresly said.
“This is a crazy place,” I replied. “One minute you’re in L.A. and then you cross the street and you’re in West Hollywood, but if you jog north you’re back in L.A.”
“L.A. surrounds West Hollywood,” Cresly said, “and it’s the sheriffs’ turf.”
At Highland, the Escort turned left, back up toward Santa Monica Boulevard, and, at Santa Monica, took another left back toward La Brea.
“He’s going in circles,” Cresly said.
“He’s cruising,” Freeman replied. He pulled off Santa Monica at Orange, the last cross-street before La Brea, and parked.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked.
“No point in getting him suspicious,” Freeman answered. “He’ll go around again, to get a good look at what’s available, then he’ll make his move.”
I looked out the window. Two boys in tank tops sat on the bottom step of the entrance to a bank. Their collective age didn’t add up to mine. One of them looked back at me, then at Freeman and Cresly. He nudged the other kid. They talked, got up and started moving away.
I pointed them out to Cresly. “They must think we’re cops,” I said.
“Probably they just think we’re trouble,” he replied. “Shitty life they got.”
“Yeah,” I said. “If Zane’s been out here beating people up, wouldn’t word spread?”
Freeman glanced at me over his shoulder. “He uses a different car. And he knows how to disguise himself.”
“Anyway,” Cresly added, “these kids come in by the busload every day, it seems. There’s always some poor fucker willing to take a chance.”
“There he is,” Freeman said. I looked out the window to the other side of the street. The Escort was coming to a stop at the corner across from us. A dark-haired boy in tight jeans and a black jacket paced in front of a recording studio. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath the jacket and when the Escort stopped, he flexed his arms, exposing his torso. He was a nice-looking kid. His dark hair made me think of Josh.
The boy stuck his head into the window of the Escort. A minute later, he straightened himself, opened the door and got in. Zane signaled a right turn onto Orange. When he completed it, Freeman turned his key in the ignition. The engine whined, sputtered and died.
“Jumping Jesus,” Cresly said.
I looked across the street. The rear lights of the Escort were just visible as Zane signaled a left turn into the warehouse district. Freeman grunted and turned the key again. There was a low roar and then nothing. The third time he tried the key, all we heard was a click.
“You flooded the goddam thing,” Cresly snapped. He swung his head around to me. “Come on, Rios, let’s go.” He opened the door. “You,” he barked at Freeman, “try to get this coon-mobile working.”
“Fuck you,” Freeman shouted as we got out of the car. When there was a lull in the traffic we ran across the boulevard to the corner where Zane had picked up the hustler. We ran down Orange.
“He turned right at the first street,” I said. A yellow junkyard dog sprang out of the shadows from behind a wire fence and chased us, barking and snarling. We reached the intersection and stopped. The street was empty.
We were surrounded by low, dark buildings, fenced-in yards filled with machines, trucks, and stacks of wooden pallets, deserted parking lots and narrow alleys. Scattered streetlamps drizzled yellow light into the
