because it’s park ranger territory. The park’s huge. In the library I found a book that said it had 4,100 acres. It also said the park got started in a weird way: A crazy guy named Colonel Griffith tried to kill his wife, and he had to give the land to the city in return for not going to jail.
So maybe there’s something about the place that’s unlucky for women…
Six hundred forty acres is a square mile, so with 4,100 we’re talking major humongous. I know, because I’ve walked most of it.
Sometimes the rangers stop and smoke and talk, too. A few weeks ago, a man and a woman ranger pulled over to the picnic area just after midnight, got out, sat down on their car’s hood, and started talking and laughing. Then they were kissing. I could hear their breathing get faster, heard her go, “Mmm,” and figured they’d be getting it on pretty soon. Then the woman pulled her head away and said, “Come on, Burt. All we need is for someone to see us.”
Burt didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Aw, spoilsport.” But he was laughing, and she started laughing, too; they kissed some more and felt each other up a little before they got back in their car and drove away. My guess is they didn’t forget about having some sex, probably waited until work was over and then went somewhere else to do it. Maybe to one of their homes or one of those motels on the Boulevard where you pay for rooms by the hour and the prosties wait out in front.
Now I stay away from those motels, but when I first got here a prostie-a fat black one wearing bright shorts and a black lace top with nothing underneath-tried to sell herself to me.
She kept saying, “C’mere, boy-child.” It sounded like “Me bocha, me bocha, me bocha.” Then she pulled up her blouse and showed me a gigantic black tit. Her nipple was lumpy, big and purple like a fresh plum. I ran away, and her laughter followed me the way a dog follows a chicken.
In a strange way she made me feel good, that she thought I could do it. Even though I knew she was probably kidding. I remember that nipple, the way she stuck it out at me, like, Here, take it, suck on it. Her mouth was wide open and her teeth were huge and white.
She was probably joking on me or just needed money bad and was ready to do it with anybody. Most of the prosties are junkies or crackheads.
The way those two rangers laughed was a little like the way the prostie laughed.
Is there such a thing as a sex laugh?
Being treated like a kid can be good or bad. When you go into a store with money, even if you’re in line ahead of adults, the adults get served first. A bigger problem is the Boulevard, and all the smaller streets full of weirdos and perverts out to rape kids. Once I found a magazine in an alley and it showed pictures of perverts doing it with kids-putting dicks up their butts or in their mouths. Some kids were crying; others looked sleepy. You don’t see the perverts’ faces, just their hairy legs and their dicks. For a long time, it gave me nightmares, those kids, the way their eyes looked. But it also made me careful.
I’ve had guys pull up in cars when I’m walking, even in bright sunlight, waving money or candy bars or even their dicks. I ignore them, and if they don’t butt out, I run. Used to be when I was in a bad mood because of no dinner or a night full of bad dreams, I’d flip them off before I’d run. But a month ago one of them tried to run me down with his car. I got away from him, but now I keep my finger to myself.
There’s no telling what’ll cause problems. A week ago, two guys got into a car accident on Gower, just a small dent in the front car, but the guy got out with a baseball bat and smashed the other guy’s windshield. Then he went for the other guy, who ran away.
You’ve got maniacs yelling and screaming at everyone and no one, gunshots all the time at night. I’ve even seen guys walking around during the day with bulges in their pockets that could be guns.
The only dead person I saw was one of the old shopping cart guys lying in an alley, his mouth open like he was sleeping, but his skin had turned gray and flies went in and out between his lips. Nearby was the Dumpster I was going to dive, but I just got out of there, no more appetite. That night, I woke up really hungry, thinking I was stupid to let it get to me. He was old anyway.
When I get enough food, I’m full of energy. Super-fast. When I run, I feel jet-propelled-no gravity, no limits.
Sometimes I get into a running rhythm and it’s like a music beat in my head, ba-boom, ba-boom, like nothing can stop me. When that happens I force myself to slow down, because it’s dangerous to forget who you are.
I also slow down anytime I’m about to go into the park. Way in advance. I always look around to make sure no one’s watching me, then I head in, relaxed, like I live in one of the huge houses at the foot of the park.
One of the books Moron ripped up was by a French scientist named Jacques Cousteau, on octopus and squid. One chapter talked about how octopi can match their colors to their backgrounds. I’m no octopus, but I know how to blend in.
I take things, but that doesn’t make me a thief.
I found the same octopus book in the library, borrowed it, brought it back.
I took the presidents book and kept it.
But no one had checked it out for nine months; that’s what the card in back said.
Back in Watson the library was pathetic, just a store next to the VFW hall that nobody used, and it was mostly closed. The lady behind the desk always looked at me like I was going to take something, and the funny thing was I never was.
At the Hillhurst library, there’s also an old one, but she mostly stays in her office and the one who actually checks books out is young, pretty, and Mexican, with really long hair. She smiled at me once, but I ignored her and the smile dropped from her face like I’d torn it off.
I can’t get a library card because I have no address. My technique is I go in there looking like a kid from King Middle School with homework to do, sit down by myself at a table, and read and write for a while, usually math problems. Then I go back to the shelves.
I’ll return the presidents book one day.
Even if I kept it forever, no one would miss it. Probably.
An advantage of looking like a harmless little kid is sometimes you can go into a store and take stuff without being noticed. I know it’s a sin, but without food, you die, and suicide’s a sin too.
Also-people aren’t scared of kids, at least not white kids, so if you ask someone for spare change, the worst they usually do is shine you on. I mean, what are they going to say to me? Get a job, junior?
One thing I learned back in Watson: Make people nervous and you’re the one who gets hurt.
So maybe God helped me by making me small for my age. I would like to grow eventually, though.
Mom, before she got sadder, would sometimes hold me under the chin and say, “Look at this. Like an angel. A damn cherub. ”
I hated that; it sounded so gay.
Some of those kids being raped in the magazine looked like angels.
There’s no way to know what’s safe. I avoid all people, and the park’s perfect for that-4,100 acres of mostly peace and quiet.
Thank you, crazy Mr. Griffith.
The way he tried to kill his wife was by shooting her in the eye.
CHAPTER
4
In eight months, Petra had worked twenty-one other homicides, some fairly sloppy. But nothing like this. Not even the Hernandez wedding.
This woman looked shredded. Washed in blood. Dipped in it, like fruit in chocolate. The front of her dress was a mass of gore, glossy gray tubes of entrail popping out from slashes in the fabric. Silky fabric, not great in terms of latents. The blood would be a good cover, too-try lifting anything from skin. Maybe the jewelry, if the killer had touched it.
She and Stu arrived in darkness, encountering grim faces, radio static, a blinking symphony of red lights. They
