Without that belief, he might fantasize and rehearse and plan but never act.
Would he be deterred by fear? Often fear functioned as a conscience of last resort.
Hickle struck her as a timid man. Possibly it was fear that had stayed his hand so far. Possibly the same fear would serve as a permanent brake on his most violent ambitions.
Hickle shut off the Volkswagen's motor and headlights, then fumbled the key free of the ignition slot.
'We're here,' he announced.
'Well, not at the restaurant-we'll have to walk there-it's not far.'
He was stammering like a high school kid. She would have felt sorry for him had she not seen the rifle and shotgun, the secret photos of Kris.
'It's a nice night for a walk,' she said cheerily.
'The ocean air feels good.'
They got out of the car, and Hickle locked it.
'Yeah, it's one thing I've always appreciated about LA.
Where I grew up, we were fifty miles inland. Not much chance for an ocean breeze.'
'Desert country?'
'No, hills and farmland. My folks ran a grocery store. It was-what's the word? Bucolic.'
'But boring.'
'Yeah. Not exactly bright lights and big city.' They started walking.
'I guess you didn't see much of the ocean out in Riverside,' Hickle said'
'Only in the form of a mirage, usually induced by imminent heatstroke.
It gets to be a hundred-ten in the shade, and there is no shade.
Sometimes I'd drive to the coast to get away from the desert heat. Never came to this part of town, though.'
'It's… colorful.'
'Why do they call it Venice?' She knew the reason but let him tell her as they approached the noise of a crowd.
'There are canals here,' he said.
'Only a few are left, but there used to be a whole network of them, like in Venice, Italy. The place was designed as a tourist attraction back around 1900 by a guy named Kinney. He was a visionary, they say.'
She looked at the barred windows, the trash in the street, the gang markings everywhere.
'Looks like his vision came up against a brick wall called reality.'
'I'm afraid so. Santa Monica is nicer, but this is a good place to come when you want to hang out, see the people. It's like a street fair or a carnival.'
'All the time?'
'Pretty much.' He tried for levity.
'LA, you know, is the city that never sleeps.'
That's New York, Abby wanted to say but didn't.
Hickle escorted her to the beachfront promenade, crowded with every variety of human exotica-jugglers, peddlers, tramps, street musicians, tattooed body builders Loitering under a streetlight were a trio of bony, strung-out young women, probably hookers. On the nearby bike path kids on skateboards and Rollerblades yelled at the night. Down the walkway a band of Hare Krishnas banged tambourines. Hallucinatory murals covered the high brick walls of century-old buildings, serving as a backdrop to it all.
'See what I mean?' Hickle asked, checking nervously for her reaction.
'A carnival.'
Abby smiled.
'As they used to say in the sixties, it's a scene.'
They strolled along the concrete concourse that locals called a boardwalk. Stores passed by, made out of converted garage stalls, displaying racks of T-shirts and sunglasses and absurd curios. Above the general din a woman's voice became audible. She was yelling angrily in Spanish.
'You speak the language?' Hickle asked.
'A little. She's talking to her boyfriend, calling him a bastard, liar, cheat. Never wants to see him again.
Wants him to get lost. She says: Go to hell.' Abby shrugged.
'Guess that's the end of one romance.'
She was fairly certain Hickle would disagree. He didn't surprise her.
'No,' he said, 'she's leading him on.'
'Funny way to do it.'
'It's a game women play. They say no when they mean yes. They tell you to go away when they want you to get closer. They yell and scream, and it's all part of the courtship dance.'
'That ain't my style.'
'Well, no, I didn't mean you. I was talking in generalities.
For most women it's their nature to make the guy sweat. Deny him everything, let him beg. They get a kick out of it. Women are-' He cut himself off in mid-sentence.
'Are what?' Abby prompted.
'I don't know. Never mind. Nothing.'
But she knew what he'd been ready to say: Women are bitches are cock teasers… are whores.
The Sand Which Is There was a large, crowded, obviously trendy establishment, not at all what Abby had expected. There was a great deal of bamboo and wicker. Illuminated glass globes hung from the rafters, casting pools of lemon-colored light on lacquered table tops Ceiling fans spun torpidly, wooden blades beating the air in slow-motion whirls. A long teakwood bar lay on one side of the room, offering as much bottled water as alcohol. Facing the bar were the glass doors to a patio on the boardwalk.
The restaurant, evidently, was a hangout for aspiring stars-actors, actresses, musicians, models. Few had succeeded but all possessed the bare requisites of stardom: the telegenic face, the photogenic body.
The room was a sea of lithe limbs and wild, untrammeled hair. Abby wondered how Hickle had ever come here.
A waitress escorted them to a corner table. Abby knew it would take Hickle a while to settle down.
Their early interludes of conversation, while they ordered drinks and meals, were unproductive and shortlived.
When the food came, Hickle consumed it ravenously, eating fast, saying little.
He didn't start to relax until he was working on his second beer. Abby could tell he was unaccustomed to alcohol. His speech acquired a slight slur, his breathing became more labored, and his eyes grew heavy-lidded and vague. He was a large, clumsy man, uncomfortable in his own body, and the double dose of Heineken only made him clumsier.
Twice he overturned the saltshaker, and once he dropped his knife on the floor.
'How's your salad?' he asked finally, with his first authentic effort at initiating a dialogue.
'It rocks. Kale and portabella mushrooms-what's not to like? So do you come here often?'
'Hardly ever. Actually'-an embarrassed smile-'I've been here only once. It's not my kind of atmosphere.'
'No?'
'Well, I mean, look at them.' He propped his elbow on the table and pointed an accusing finger at the room.
'The way they move. Their faces. They're so confident. They own the world.'
Abby followed his gaze, studying the other patrons.
It was true. They were beautiful, women and men alike. The very distinction between male and female was all but lost in their unisex hairstyling and wardrobe. The men conveyed a sense of delicacy, of frail and sensitive soulfulness; the women looked hard. Hard-bodied after hours in the gym, and hard- featured, their faces untouched by makeup, eyes narrowed and stern.
'They own the world,' Hickle said again, then wrinkled his brow.
'Not that you need to envy them,' he added in what was intended as a compliment but sounded like a reproach.
