Rick drummed his fingers on the desk. A phone call was safest, because then if he couldn’t identify them, he wouldn’t have seen them. A really rank anonymous phone call, threatening... say, make the call to his ma. That would be better. Rick knew all about how protective mothers could be when they thought their children were in jeopardy.
He slipped from the room and down the front stairs to the carpeted front hall where the phone was. Lucky both his sisters were out and his folks glued to the television; they’d blow a gasket or something if they caught him not studying. His ma was really hysterical about him maybe flunking out and having to go into the Army.
Heavy Gander’s old man, who was a sheet-metal worker in Local 272, had moved to California from Ohio right after the war and had gotten an acre, cheap then, of weedy field just off Middlefield Road. He had built the garage well back from the bungalow, with the idea of maybe doing auto repair in his spare time. But after his wife had died, he had found that fishing took up most of his leisure hours. The garage, separated from the house by a weed-choked patch of ground, gradually had become Heavy’s domain. There he did auto repair, keeping the station wagon, his beat-up Rambler, and his old man’s Dodge in running order. He had bootlegged in a phone extension, using a set he’d bought from a mail order house, and had blacked out the windows so the gang could drink beer there and make all the noise they wanted.
On Saturday morning the four of them met in the garage.
“I told you we should of left when he went by on his bike,” Heavy said nervously. His cherubic face was distressed above his can of beer.
“How the hell could we know she was going to kill herself?” Rick, as leader, couldn’t let them see how the suicide had affected him. “So now all we gotta do is make sure that the kid keeps his mouth shut.”
“But we gotta find him first, Rick,” said Champ anxiously. He was sitting on a stool with his elbows on the edge of the workbench.
Julio cut in, “He is a paper boy, he will follow the same route every morning — and we already know one house he will go by. I will use the little green Rambler, and will find out his name and where he lives.”
“My car? Aw, now look, you guys...” Heavy belched suddenly, cueing a giggle from Julio.
Rick, however, growled angrily. “Shut up, Heavy. You’re the only guy with two cars.”
Rick made a point of leaving the garage with Julio. “How come you volunteered like that? You’ve still got classes for two weeks...”
“Champ is too dumb to do it, and Heavy is too damn chicken.” He paused for a moment, his liquid eyes gleaming. “But there is something I must say to you, Rick. We worry about this boy, who probably knows nothing of us, yet Debbie knows you were supposed to be there that night.”
Rick felt a surprising surge of anger. Who did this little bastard think he was? Now that Rick remembered, Julio hadn’t really helped much in beating up that goddamn queer that night. He hadn’t been slow to get his turn at Paula, though.
“Leave Debblie out of this, Julio! I told you: she doesn’t know any of us were there that night. She thinks I had a flat tire on the freeway on the way down from your house, and—”
“And if she hears the woman was raped?”
“Cool it, for Christ sake!” Rick shot nervous glances up and down the street. Two women were washing a car in a driveway across the street; half a block up, a black man was getting into an old pickup truck. “How’s she ever going to find out? You think that creep professor’s going to spread it around? Besides, old Debbie’ll believe anything I tell her.”
Julio shrugged. “Okay, Rick. Debbie is your concern — note. But if she becomes a danger, she becomes a danger to all of us.”
Julio Escobar was parked on curving Edgewood Drive, just as far from the boy’s house as he could and still see the front door. It was a pleasant subdivision on a slanting hillside, with winding streets with such names as Hillcrest, Glenwood, Cedar, and Sycamore. Ranch-style homes, saplings planted in front yards, lawns green from daily waterings. Since finding out, on Wednesday, where the boy lived, Julio had tried unsuccessfully to find out the name of the woman who lived there. Divorced from her husband, or something, and raising her kid alone. That was good. A woman without a man to protect her or her son.
Julio checked the rear-view mirror, slid lower in his seat. Finding and following the kid had been easy, had taken three days to get the right house. But he still didn’t have the name. That was why he was here on Sunday morning, waiting for the woman to take her son to church. If she didn’t, he’d have to think of something else.
It had made much trouble for them when Paula Halstead had killed herself; but in a way, he was pleased that she had. They had used her like a whore, but in death she had regained her honor. His father talked a great deal of honor, and it was important, even if it did not put any beans or tortillas in the belly.
Thirty-six years old she had been. Only a year younger than Julio’s mother. What would he, Julio, do if someone did to his mother what they had done to the Halstead woman? With no conscious action of his own, the switchblade suddenly was open in his hand. He tapped the blade against the Rambler’s steering post. Julio would take vengeance then. He was not like this college professor who had been Paula’s husband. Such a man was soft, would flutter away like a little bird, or perhaps hide under his desk when trouble came, like a little rabbit.
Julio was not like him. A knife, if you knew how to use it, made you nearly invincible against ordinary men. And Julio knew how to use his knife.
The front door opened and the boy came out, dressed in Sunday clothes. Julio tensed, slid the knife away. The boy tugged at the overhead door of the garage; it slid up easily. In a moment a white Ford Fairlane was backed out, with the woman behind the wheel.
She turned downhill, away from Julio. He sauntered down toward the house, turned in and went up the walk, his heart beating rapidly. Suddenly he was afraid. What if someone else was there, to remember his high narrow shoulders, his beak of a nose?
He faltered, almost stopped, then made himself ring the bell. He could hear it inside, an empty, heartening sound. He rang it again, to show himself he was not afraid, to make the dumb show convincing for the neighbors. He hoped one of them was watching, because...
“Hey you — kid.”
The man had come out of the garage of the house directly across the narrow subdivision street. He stood on the lawn, with a green plastic garden hose drooping from one hand.
“Ye...” Julio cleared his throat. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? “Yes, sir?”
The face relaxed a little at the “sir”; Julio had learned in school that politeness paid off.
“You looking for Miz Anderson?”
Anderson! As easy as that! “I... well, a Mr. Anderson, sir.”
“Hasn’t been a mister there for near two years.” He had a round pleasant face, weekend-stubbled, and wore a windbreaker, a white T-shirt, jeans worn under a respectable beer belly, a black baseball cap with SF intertwined on it in orange. “Just Barb and the boy live there...”
“l wanted a... Frank Anderson, sir.”
“Naw. His name was Charlie before they split up. Guess his name still is Charlie, come to think of it.”
Julio left him chuckling at his own wit, and returned to the Rambler. He U-turned away from the house of his informant, drove down looping residential streets to El Camino, and went south until he came to a shopping center. It was Sunday-deserted, its white-lined lot so lightly dusted with cars that he could drive diagonally across to the phone booths. He riffled through the county directory. Yes. There was the listing. He carefully copied down the phone number.