Kirby brushed past me, his pace fast and jerky. People in the mall and the grocery store gave him a wide berth. By the time I got back to the Wreck, he was already burning rubber. The Wreck picked that minute to go temperamental on me, and I knew I’d lost him.
Well, hell. I decided to run by his house again. No RX-7. I checked the parking lot and streets around McAteer. Nothing. Then the only sensible thing to do was drive over to the McDonald’s on Ocean and treat myself to a Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries, and a Diet Coke. The Diet Coke gave me the illusion I was limiting calories.
I spent most of the afternoon parked on Teresita. I’d brought along one of those little hot apple pies they sell at McDonald’s; by the time I finished it, I’d had enough excess for one day.
I’d had enough of stakeouts, too, but I stayed in place until Kirby’s car finally pulled up at around quarter to five. I waited until he was inside the house, then went up and rang the bell.
While I was sitting there, I’d tried to figure out what was so off-putting about Kirby Dalson. When he answered the door, I hit on it. He was a good-looking kid-well built and tall, with nice dark hair, even when it was wind-blow and full of bits and pieces of eucalyptus leaves like now, but his facial features were a touch too pointy, his eyes a touch too small and close-set. In short, he looked rodenty-just the kind of shifty-eyed kid you’d expect to be into all kinds of scams. His mother wouldn’t notice it, and young girls would adore him, but guys would catch on right away, and you could bet quite a few adults, including most of his teachers, had figured it out.
The shiftiness really shone through when he saw me. Something to hide there, all right, maybe something big. “What do you want?” he asked sullenly.
“Just to check a few things.” I stepped through the door even though he hadn’t invited me in. You can get away with that with kids, even the most self-assured. Kirby just stood there. Then he shut the door, folded his arms across his chest, and waited.
I said, “Let’s sit down,” and went into the living room. It was pretty standard-beige and brown with green accents-and had about as much character as a newborn’s face. I don’t understand how people can live like that, with nothing in their surroundings that says who or what they are. My nest may be cluttered and have no particular décor, but at least it’s me.
I sat on a chair in a little grouping by the front window. Kirby perched across from me. He’d tracked in wet, sandy grit onto his mother’s well-vacuumed carpet-another strike against him, even for a lousy housekeeper like me-and his fingers drummed on his denim-covered thighs.
“Kirby,” I began, “why’d you go to see Ben Waterson today?”
“Who?”
“The security head at Ocean Park Plaza.”
“Who says I did?”
“I saw you.”
His little eyes widened a fraction. “You were following me? Why?”
I ignored the question. “Why’d you go see him?”
For a moment he glanced about the room, as if looking for a way out. “Okay,” he finally said. “Money.”
“Money? For what?”
“Adrian, you know, disappeared on payday. I thought maybe I could collect some of what she owed me from Left Coast.”
“Owed you for what?”
He shook his head.
“For what, Kirby?”
“Just for stuff. She borrowed when she was short.”
I watched him silently for a minute. He squirmed a little. I said, “You know, I’ve been hearing that you’re into some things that aren’t strictly legal.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Scams, Kirby.”
His puzzled look proved he’d never make an actor.
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” I asked. “The term-paper racket. Selling test questions when you can get your hands on them.”
His fingers stopped their staccato drumming. Damned if the kid didn’t seem relived by what I’d just said.
“What else are you into, Kirby?’
“Where’re you getting this stuff, anyway?”
“Answer the question.”
Silence.
“What about Adrian? Did you bring her in on any of your scams?”
A car door slammed outside. Kirby wet his lips and glanced at the mantel clock. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want you talking about this in front of my mother.”
“Then talk fast.”
“All right, I sold some test questions and term papers. So what? I’m not the first ever who did that.”
“What else? That wouldn’t have brought in the kind of cash that brought you your fancy car.”
“I’ve got a job-”
“Nobody believes that but your parents.”
Footsteps on the front walk. Kirby said, “All right, so I sell a little dope here and there.”
“Grass?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Coke? Crack?”
“Adrian use drugs?”
“A little grass now and then.”
“She sell drugs?”
“Never.”
A key turned in the front-door lock. Kirby looked that way, panicky. I asked, “What else are you into?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
The door opened.
“What did you get Adrian involved in?”
“I didn’t-” a woman in a raincoat stepped into the foyer, furling an umbrella. Kirby raised a hand to her in greeting, then said in a low voice, “I can’t talk about it now.”
“When?”
He raised his voice. “I have to work tonight, I’ll be at the garage by seven.”
“I’ll bring my car in then. What’s the address?”
He got a pad from a nearby telephone table and scribbled on it. I took the slip of paper he held out and glanced at it. The address was on Naples Street in the Outer Mission-mostly residential neighborhood, middle-class. Wherever Kirby wanted to meet, it wasn’t a garage.
By seven the rain was really whacking down, looking like it would keep it up all night. It was so dark that I had trouble picking out the right address on Naples Street. Finally I pinpointed it-a shabby brown cottage, wedged between two bigger Victorians. No light in the windows, no cars in the driveway. Had Kirby been putting me on? If he had, by God I’d stomp right into his house and lay the whole thing out for his parents. That’s one advantage to dealing with kids-you’ve got all kinds of leverage.
I got out of the Wreck and went up the cottage’s front walk. Its steps were as bad off as the ones at June Simoom’s place. I tripped on a loose board and grabbed the railing; its spindles shook. Where the bell should have been were a couple of exposed wires. I banged on the door, but nobody came. The newspapers and ad sheets that were piled in a sodden mass against the threshold told me that the door hadn’t been used for quite a while.
After a minute I went back down the steps and followed the driveway alongside the house. There were a couple of aluminum storage sheds back there, both padlocked. Otherwise the yard was dark and choked with pepper trees. Ruts that looked like they’d been made by tires led under them, and way back in the shadows I saw a low-slung shape. A car. Kirby’s, I thought.
I started over there, walking alongside the ruts, mud sucking at my sneakers. It was quiet here, much too quiet. Just the patter of rain in the trees overhead. And then a pinging noise from the car’s engine.
It was Kirby’s RX-7, all right. The driver’s side door was open, but the dome light wasn’t on. Now why would he leave the door open in a storm like this?