'Night, Vie.'
'See you, Abby.'
She left the bar and emerged into the whirl of Westwood Village. Two come-ons in a half hour, a new record. Of course, the kid with fake ID had been only-well, only a kid. As for Wyatt, she didn't know quite what to make of him. He was lonely, she guessed.
Maybe she was lonely too. Lonely despite Travis. Or because of Travis.
Because of the peculiar nature of their relationship, its built-in distance and wariness.
She put the issue out of her mind. It didn't matter.
Whatever she was feeling, she could handle it. She could handle anything. She was tough.
Jet lag had never been a problem for her. She dropped off to sleep at midnight and woke refreshed at seven. For breakfast she fried vegetable-protein sausages and an egg-white omelet. She avoided coffee; in her profession it didn't pay to be jumpy. Instead she brewed herbal tea.
Before showering, Abby ran through a workout routine drawn from the YMCA Fitness Manual-no-nonsense exercises like sit-ups, bent-knee pushups, hamstring stretches, and chest rotations. The full program, from warm-up to cool-down, took thirty minutes.
On some days she substituted tai chi or shadowboxing. There were many ways to stay fit.
Only after she was dressed in fresh clothes, with her hair toweled dry and brushed straight, did she allow herself to look at the case file.
Paper-clipped to the back page was an eight-by-ten color glossy. The shot had been taken with a telephoto lens, squashing its subject against an unfocused background smear. It had probably been snapped from a moving car-a driveby, in the strange parlance of the security business.
The subject was Hickle, of course. He had been caught on film as he emerged from a doorway, perhaps the entrance to his apartment building or the donut shop where he worked. She couldn't tell' and it didn't matter. What mattered was the man himself. He had a thin, suspicious face and small eyes. He was scrawny and looked tall. His black hair was a sloppy, disarranged pile.
She tried to draw a few preliminary conclusions from the photo. Hickle seemed indifferent to personal grooming, often a sign of depression or social alienation. His skin was pale, almost pasty, suggesting he spent most of his time indoors. He wore a shapeless brown sweatshirt and faded jeans, clothes that would not attract attention; he didn't want to stand out. His body language-head lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pursed-conveyed a cagey wariness that reminded her of a mongrel dog that had learned to fend for itself on the street.
Bringing the photo up close, she looked intently at Hickle's face.
There was something in his eyes, in the set of his mouth… Anger.
Hickle was an angry man. Life had not given him what he thought it owed him, and he was looking for someone to blame.
'Wrong,' she said aloud.
'He's not looking. He's already found her.'
She spent the morning with the file, reading it carefully.
When she was done, she returned to the first page, which listed Hickle's address. He lived in an apartment in Hollywood, on Gainford Avenue, south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Unit 420. Fourth floor.
Must be a good-sized complex. In that neighborhood the turnover rate among tenants would be high.
The LA Times was delivered to her door every morning when she was in town. She studied the classified ads. When she found what she was seeking, she said, 'Bingo,' just like in the movies.
There were vacancies at the Gainford Avenue address.
No apartment numbers were listed, but with any luck, one of the available units would be on the fourth floor. And the units were furnished; she could move in immediately.
By the end of the day, if all went well, she would be Raymond Hickle's new neighbor.
The dough was soft and supple like a woman, and George Zachareas's big, callused, age-spotted hands worked it with a lover's touch, pushing and pulling, folding and turning. Gradually he fell into a rhythm, arms and shoulders and upper body thrusting together in a slow, practiced dance.
Zachareas-Zack to all who knew him, owner and proprietor of Zack's Donut Shack-found himself smiling, relishing the sheer sensual pleasure of the task.
'I appreciate you staying past your shift,' he told the tall young man who stood beside him in a matching red apron and cap, working the same mound of dough.
'No problem,' Raymond Hickle said.
Zack was alone with Hickle in the kitchen, having left Susie Parker, a worthless, barely literate high school dropout, on duty at the counter.
He figured it was safe to let Susie fly solo at this time of day.
Midafternoon was slow; the shop did most of its business in the morning and the late-night hours. Ordinarily Zack didn't come in during the day at all, but Hickle had called him a half hour Ago with word that the two hundred pounds of dough made by the baker on the night shift had been used up, and Zack had opted to stop by personally and make an extra fifty- pound batch. It was possible to knead the stuff mechanically, by inserting a dough hook in one of the electric mixers, but Zack preferred to do the job by hand. Hickle had volunteered to help.
'You're a trouper. Ray,' Zack said in a voice that approached the decibel level of a divine command. He had been going deaf for years and refused to admit it.
'To hang around when you don't have to. After eight hours on the job, you must want out of here pretty bad.'
'Not really'
'Any special plans for the evening?'
'No.'
'How about the weekend? It's coming up. You got something in mind?'
'I'm working on Saturday, filling in for Emilio.'
'Again?'
'I don't mind. It's extra money.'
'There's more to life than work. Ray, especially when you work in a place like this.'
'I had the day off yesterday.'
'Yeah, so you did. Do something fun?'
'Went to the beach.'
'Glad to hear it. Look, don't get me wrong. You do a great job, you're the best, but plying dough at a donut store is no life for you.
Where's your future?'
'I'm doing all right.'
Zack shook his head. At sixty-four he was a tall and vigorous man, but Hickle, three decades younger, was taller still, six foot one, with the potential to develop a boxer's physique if he applied himself. He had a sallow, intense face and thoughtful eyes, and a mop of black hair that was thick and unruly at the top but cropped close at the nape. He could have been handsome, Zack supposed, but he'd missed his chance somehow.
His complexion was too pale, his eyes too small and too deeply sunken under his heavy brows, his features slightly out of proportion in a way that was hard to define.
'You could do better,' Zack told him.
'Hell, you're a smart guy.' He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial shout.
'Plenty smarter than those clowns I got working the other shifts. Maybe in a couple months we can talk about making you a supervisor-'
'No, thanks.'
Zack paused in his labor.
'You don't want a promotion?'
'I'm happy doing what I do.'
After a moment Zack resumed attacking the dough.
He had no way to figure out Raymond Hickle. The guy said he was happy, but how could he be? He had no ambition, no personal life, nothing but eight hours a day spent on menial chores for indifferent customers.
Some of his time was passed behind the counter, making coffee and micro waving muffins and toasting
