SIX.

9:2O P.M.

The black '66 Chevy rolled through the night, Clyde at the wheel, Brian by his side, Loony Tunes and Stone in the back, pa.s.sing A bottle wrapped tight in a paper sack between them.

"Are we ready?" Clyde asked.

"Yes," Brian and Loony said in unison. Stone nodded.

"Good," Clyde said.

SEVEN.

9:23 P.M.

"Guess I better be going, Beck."

"It's been fun."

"Look, you want me to call Dean and see about staying over? I don't like the idea of you staying here alone."

"No, that's all right."

"I don't mind."

"I know, but it's okay."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm going to watch the late movie, give me something to do."

"One of those j.a.panese monster flicks, no doubt?"

"No Way to Treat a Lady, something like that."

"All right, but don't be surprised if I come back knocking on your door. You look like a forlorn pup."

"Really, I'm all right. No need to worry. I'm going to listen to Ray Charles a bit, then when the movie comes on I'll watch that. Might even blow my diet and make some popcorn."

"That's incentive enough for me to stay."

"I'm all right, really, Eva. I'm a big girl now."

"Okay, don't share your old popcorn . . . It's just with the things that have been happening, the Rapist Ripper stuff . . ."

"Hush, hush, I don't need that on my mind."

"Sorry."

Becky walked Eva to the door.

"Listen, Beck. You get lonely, call me. Anytime of the night, got me?"

"Got you."

"Promise?"

"For Christsakes, I promise."

"Bye, Beck, and good night . . . and don't be surprised if I get as far as the parking lot and decide to come back and make you let me stay."

Becky smiled, opened the door. A hot wind hit the air-conditioned apartment. The contrast made Becky's stomach turn.

"Christ," Eva said, "you'd think we were having one of those California devil winds, what are they called? Santa Anas?"

"Be careful."

"I will. Later."

Becky watched Eva walk along the outside landing and start down the steps. Just before she disappeared down the stairs she smiled back at Becky and waved.

Becky returned the smile and the wave, closed the door.

EIGHT.

9:26 P.M.

The black '66 killed its lights, coasted onto the apartment lot like a metal shark on a concrete sea.

"This is the place?" Loony said.

"No," Clyde said. "I just thought I'd stop here for the h.e.l.l of it."

"Okay," Loony said, "I wasn't thinking."

"You're never thinking," Brian said.

"I didn't mean nothing by it, I was just talking."

"Shut the f.u.c.k up, Loony," Clyde said.

Clyde cut the engine, and it was as if a million locusts had suddenly stopped beating their wings; it was abnormally silent. They sat in the darkness, the hot wind blowing through the open windows. They pa.s.sed the bottle around. No one spoke.

A woman swirled out of the apartment Clyde was watching, came down the stairs walking fast, entered the shadows, was swallowed by them then regurgitated into one of the alternating lights along the railing. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. Every few seconds her blue and white polka-dot dress shone in the light like the wings of a great moth, then she would be a form in darkness, the dress suddenly dark as bat wings.

"How about her?" Loony asked.

"No. I have someone else in mind."

The woman moved to a small car, opened the door. The interior light glowed, the moth wings shone momentarily as she swung inside, then the door slammed and there was darkness followed by the hum of the engine. Headlights came on, and then she was gone.

"What's it matter who?" Loony said. "She looked good enough for me. All pink on the inside, ain't it?"

"I got my reasons," Clyde said. "I like the way the teacher looks. One time she was nice to me, and I haven't forgot it."

Loony laughed. "She was nice to you so you're going to rape her and cut her throat. Boy, I like that."

Clyde turned around in his seat where he could look at Loony. Loony's face became as expressionless as Stone's. "I'm going to tell you this once, dung ball, just once.

I got the say-so here. What I say, we do, and if I'm not around to say it Brian says it. That simple.

You got it, dung ball?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"Good. You keep the thought and hold it like a baby holding a teddy bear. Don't let it go, Loony, 'cause so help me, I'm going to give this car a red paint job-with your blood.

"I said I got you, I got you."

"Good." Clyde turned around.

A hot wind blew through the car and curled the hairs on their necks and heads.

Out somewhere in the sticky night void, a car honked and a dozen motors gunned away from a red light.

"We're going to do it this way," Clyde said. "Me and Stone are going up this time, and you two are going to watch."

"Hey, it's my turn," Loony said. "Stone went up last time."

"Stone doesn't act like a dung ball," Clyde said. "Now shut up and take the shotgun. I want you by the stairs. Hear me?"

"I hear," Loony said. He bent, picked a pump 12-gauge from the floorboard, laid it in his lap. The barrel struck Stone in the b.a.l.l.s, and without saying a word, Stone pushed it aside with the palm of his hand.

Loony turned to look at Stone, saw that he was frowning. He moved the shotgun so that it was pointing at the roof of the car. Loony felt exasperated and mad. He couldn't do anything right tonight.

"You guys stay in the car a minute," Clyde said. "Got to talk some private s.h.i.t to my main man here."

Clyde opened the door and got out. Brian followed suit. They walked around in front of the car.

"Main man," Loony hissed under his breath. "G.o.dd.a.m.n b.u.t.thole buddies."

Out in front of the car Clyde said, "I'm not slighting you."

"I know. We're taking turns."

"Not just that. I want a good man downstairs. Loony's too full of glue tonight. I need some brains down here. Stone does as he's told, but I need more than that."

"No sweat. f.u.c.k her for me."

"1 will, and I'll cut half her throat for you."

"That part about her being nice to you. That true?"

"Yeah. Long time ago. She kept some big kid off me in a school fight. I could have licked him though. But I've wanted her a.s.s ever since."

"Dreams come true."

Clyde took a switchblade from his pocket, flicked it open. "Guess they do."

NINE.

9:38 P.M.

Raymond Caldwell was constipated and the poodle needed to s.h.i.t.

Typical.

The wife didn't give a d.a.m.n that the c.r.a.p had dried up inside of him like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned concrete pillar, but she was next to hysterically urgent when she thought the pink-toed poodle with the curly, shampooed hair might be a few seconds late with its bowel movement, and of course he was the one that had won the honor of taking MeMe out for a dump.

Swell, he had a boulder hung in his a.s.s, and prissy mutt needed to drop a load.

And right when it was time for the wrestling matches, and he's waited all week for them too.

Tonight was the night the Raider was going to give that kraut b.a.s.t.a.r.d Eric Von Stropper the old what for, twist his ugly head right off of his ugly shoulders. Probably be blood and the sound of cracking bones all over the place-and guess who needed to s.h.i.t?