Billy Straight

Like a damn baby, I just can't stop it!

With everything that's happened, why cry now?

55

Wil Fournier returned from Schoelkopf's office, thinking, Could have been worse.

The captain had been irritable but distracted, a meeting this afternoon with Deputy Chief Lazara. “Including your case, which I assume is stagnating.” Schoelkopf's face started to redden.

Wil headed him off by volunteering the Russian's tip.

“When did this come in?”

“Late last night. The guy's a lowlife, I figured I'd do some checking on him first-”

“Check later, it's a solid tip and I want you back in Venice, searching for the kid. Where's Barbie?”

Wil wondered about that himself. “Don't know.”

Schoelkopf glared at him. “Tight team you guys are ru

“I imagine she's being operated on right now, sir.”

“She'll probably be okay, young woman like that- okay, back to the beach, Fournier. If the kid's there, I want him found.” Schoelkopf picked up his phone.

Straight to the media. No one could see him, but he'd put on a media smile.

Before leaving for Venice, Fournier followed up on the two tips from Watson. Nothing new from one old woman, but the second, a Mrs. Kraft, said she was pretty sure the boy lived in a trailer park on the south end of town.

“Low-class place,” she said. “They started it years ago for retired people, but trash moved in.”

“The boy's family is trash?” said Wil.

“If he lives there, they probably are.”

“But you don't know a name?”

“No, sir, I'm just saying I think he lived there because I think I seen him around there. When I was out with my dog. My dog's a sweetie pie, but the boy didn't come near Jet, like he was afraid of animals. This happened twice. I'm not sure it's him, but I think so.”

“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Kraft,” said Fournier. “What's the name of the trailer park?”

“Sleepy Hollow,” she said. “Like that book, the ghost story.”

He called the Watson sheriff and got a busy signal. Could you believe that? Just as he tried again, Brian Olson, the D at the next desk, waved at him. “Someone for you on my line.”

Fournier went over to Olson's desk and Olson used the break to get coffee.

“Fournier.”

“Detective? This is Sheriff Albert McCauley from Watson, California. Woulda got back to you sooner, but I was attending a firearms conference up in Sacramento. Ever been to one of those? Very educational.” Low, drawling voice. Plenty of free time.

“Not yet,” said Wil.

“Educational,” McCauley repeated. “So. What can I do for you?”

Fournier had left detailed messages. What was this, Mayberry RFD? He told McCauley about the boy and the trailer park.

“Runaway, huh?” said the sheriff. “Yeah, the Hollow's a scruffy place. Not much crime, though. Anywhere in Watson, for that matter. Quiet here. Only real problems we get is when the migrants blow in and hit the tequila.”

The kid had run from something, thought Fournier. “If you could check, Sheriff-”

“Sure, no problem. Got some things to catch up on first, then I'll go over and talk to the Hollow manager, see if he can ID this boy. You say it was in the L.A. paper?”

“Two days ago.”

“Don't usually read the L.A. papers. Not too friendly to law enforcement, are they?”

“Depends,” said Wil, noncommittal. “I can fax you the drawing.”

“Sure. Do that.”

Wil thanked him again and hung up, resolving to call the Sleepy Hollow manager himself if he didn't hear back from McCauley by late afternoon.

He spent another two hours following up with shelters and social workers, and headed west, having lunch at an Italian place on the Third Street Mall in Santa Monica, then drove to Venice.

A beautiful afternoon at the beach was wasted talking to shopkeepers, restaurant managers, old folks, bodybuilders, Rollerbladers. Tourists who looked at him like he was crazy. Some people were scared of him, despite the suit and a flip of the badge. Black skin. Maybe one day he'd get used to the reaction, but probably not.

Sleazeball Zhukanov was back behind his souvenir counter, and the first time Wil passed the stand he ignored the Russian's hostile stare. On the way back, he stopped, asked Zhukanov if he'd seen anything.

The Russian shook his head and pushed stringy hair out of his face. Greasy face full of pits. Pus pimple in the fold of his left nostril. Zhukanov's beard was a poor excuse for facial hair, unevenly trimmed, a blemish, not an adornment. The guy didn't believe in deodorant, either. Who'd buy toys from him?

Zhukanov's eyelids drooped. “Not yet, but I keep eyes open.”

“Do that.” Wil started to walk away.

Zhukanov said, “How can I call you without number?”

Wil fished out a business card and placed it on the counter, ignoring Zhukanov's outstretched palm. Hatred filled the Russian's eyes. He picked a troll doll off the rack and put the tiny figure's neck between two fingers. Wil left, wondering if he'd decapitate the thing.

It was already 6:30 and he was due at the Cave by 8 for Val Vronek's signal about the fat biker's arrival. The value of that seemed less than iffy, probably just another fool out for the twenty-five thou, but digging dry wells was part of the job.

He called into the station. Nothing from Sheriff McCauley, so either the Watson lawman had checked out Sleepy Hollow and located the kid in question or hadn't bothered yet. Either way, Wil was a

The only message was from Petra, 818 area code. He returned it. The mobile customer you are trying to reach is either away from the vehicle or…

Obtaining a number for the Sleepy Hollow RV Park and Recreational Facility, he phoned, got another taped message, another drawling voice.

Quiet place, McCauley had said. More like Zombie Town.

He called Lea

Then he found himself turning around. Sca

At 7:45 he was on Hollywood Boulevard, drinking an Orange Whip at a snack stand a few storefronts down from the Cave. The nightcrawlers were already out. Punks, dopers, he-shes, she-hes, all kinds of its, more dumb tourists, small groups of marines on leave- those kids always got into trouble. With their shaved heads, they looked just like ski

Fournier sipped a little more Whip, tossed the cup, and ambled by the Cave. Harleys were lined up in front of the bar. Even from here you could hear the music, some kind of country rock, way too much bass.

A half-open door offered a glimpse of dark room. Wil kept walking, made it to the corner, pretended to examine the cheesy clothes in a store window, turned around. When he reached the bar the second time, Val Vronek was coming out, all leathered and chained, looking almost as greasy as the Russian.