and soon he’d feel like being Rambo.
Mom was in town getting groceries and I was trying to read.
He said, “Get the fuck over here,” and when I did, he laughed and pulled out a pair of wire cutters, then yanked down my jeans and my shorts and put my dick between the blades. The sac, too.
Billy No-Balls.
I almost peed, but forced myself to hold it in because if I wet him I was sure he’d cut it off.
“Rich guy’s kid got a little one, don’t he?”
I stood there trying not to feel, wishing I could be somewhere else. Lists, lists; nothing was working.
He said, “Snip, snip, go sing in the fuckin’ pope’s choir.”
He licked his lips. Then he let me go.
Two days later, when they were both at the Sunnyside, I went through the trailer looking for money. All I found at first was eighty cents in change under the couch cushions, and I was getting discouraged and wondering if I could leave without money. Then I came across the Bathroom Miracle-some money Mom had been hiding in a Tampax box under the sink. I guess she never really trusted Moron, figured he wouldn’t look there. Maybe she felt trapped, too, wanted to get out one day. If I messed up her plans, I’m sorry, but she still has the AFDC and it was my balls between the blades of that cutter and if I stayed longer he would’ve killed me. Which would make her feel terrible and probably get her in trouble for child neglect or something.
So by leaving I was doing her a favor.
The money in the Tampax box came out to $126.
I wrapped it in two Ziploc bags, put them in a paper bag tied with four rubber bands, and stuffed it all in my shorts. I couldn’t take books or too many clothes, so I just put my most comfortable stuff in another paper bag, buckled my Casio on my arm, and walked out into the night.
There are no street lamps in the trailer park, just lights from inside the trailers, and at that hour most people were in bed, so it was nice and dark. It’s not really a park, just a dirt field next to a grove of old twisted orange trees cut low by the wind that don’t fruit anymore and one long, curvy, open road that leads to the highway.
I walked the highway all night, staying on the grass, far as I could from the road so cars and trucks couldn’t see me. It was mostly trucks, big ones, and they just zoomed by, creating their own storms. I must have walked twelve miles, because the sign at Bolsa Chica said it’s that far to Watson. But my feet weren’t hurting that bad and I felt free.
The station was closed because the first bus to L.A. was at 6 A.M. I waited around till some old Mexican went behind the counter, and he took forty of my Tampax dollars without even looking up. I bought a sweet roll and milk at the station and a Mad magazine from the news rack, was first on the bus, sitting in the last row.
Everyone else was Mexican, mostly workers and a few women, one of them pregnant and moving around in her seat a lot. The bus was old and hot but pretty clean.
The driver was an old white guy with a crushed face and a hat too big for him. He chewed gum and spit out the window; started off slowly, but once he got going, we were rolling along and some of the Mexicans took out food.
We drove by some used-car lots on the outskirts of Bolsa Chica, all these windshields reflecting white light like mirrors, then some strawberry fields covered with strips of plastic. When I’d passed them with Mom, she’d always say, “Strawberry fields, just like the song.” I thought about her, then made myself stop. After the fields came nothing but road and mountains.
A little while later we passed the place where Mom’s parents drove off the road. I stared at it, watched it disappear through the back window. Then I fell asleep.
CHAPTER
6
Stu drew Petra aside. “Cart Ramsey. If it’s true.’’
“She seemed sure.”
He glanced at Susan Rose, loading her tripod back in her car. “She looks like a stoner, but she does have a certain conviction.”
“My first thought seeing all that overkill was someone the vic knew.”
Stu frowned. “I’m calling Schoelkopf right now, get some guidelines. Any idea where Ramsey lives?”
“Nope. Thought you might.”
“Me? Why-oh.” His smile was thin. “No, never did his show. Have you ever seen it?”
“Never. He plays a P.I., right?”
“More like a one-man vigilante squad. Fixing stuff the cops can’t.”
“Charming.”
“Bad even for TV. It started out on network, got dropped, went indie, managed to pull some syndication. I think Ramsey owns the show.” He shook his head. “Thank God I never got called for it. Can’t you just see the fun some F. Lee Bombast would have with that?” His lips twisted, and he looked ready to spit as he turned his back on Petra.
“What’s especially bad about the show?” she said.
He faced her. “Wooden dialogue, weak story lines, no character development, Ramsey can’t act. Need more? It fills space in a late-Sunday time slot, so the station probably picks it up at budget price.”
“Meaning Ramsey’s only a minor gazillionaire.”
Stu thumbed a suspender and looked over at the body, now covered. “Ramsey’s ex means media carrion. While I call Schoelkopf, would you please go over to Ms. Rose and ask her to keep her mouth zipped till the bosses have weighed in?”
Before she could reply, he started for their car. A uniform began waving frantically from the far end of the parking lot and they both hurried over.
“Found this right over there.” The cop pointed to some brush near the entry gate. “Didn’t touch it.”
A black ostrich purse.
A tall young tech named Alan Lau gloved up and went through it. Compact, lipstick-also MAC; that made Petra’s stomach flutter. Loose change, a black ostrich wallet. Inside the wallet were credit cards, some made out to Lisa Ramsey, others to Lisa Boehlinger. California driver’s license with a picture of a gorgeous blonde. Lisa Lee Ramsey. The birthdate made her twenty-seven years old. Five-five, 115; matched the corpse. Address on Doheny Drive-an apartment, Beverly Hills. No paper money.
“Emptied and tossed,” said Petra. “A robbery, or wanting to make it look like one.”
Stu didn’t comment, just headed for the car again as Lau began bagging the contents. Petra returned to the body. Susan Rose was near the feet, capping her camera lens.
“Finished,” she said. “Want me to shoot something else?”
“Maybe the hills up there,” said Petra. “We’re waiting for the K-9’s; depends on what they find.”
Susan shrugged. “I get paid either way.” She reached under her grubby sweatshirt, drew out a necklace, and began playing with it.
Guitar picks on a steel chain. Bingo for Detective Connor’s intuition!
“Play music?” said Petra.
Susan looked puzzled. “Oh, this. No. My boyfriend’s in a band.”
“What kind of music?”
“Alternative. You into it?”
Petra kept her smile within bounds and shook her head. “Tone-deaf.”
Susan nodded. “I can carry a tune, but that’s about it.”
“Listen,” said Petra. “Thanks again for the ID. You were right.”
“’Course I was. But no big deal-you would’ve found out soon enough.” The photographer turned to leave.
“One other thing, Susan. Who she is complicates things. So we’d appreciate it if you don’t talk to anyone
