“What do you care?”
“I’m in the middle.”
“So let’s get together tomorrow evening.”
“That’s out, too. I won’t be home until ten o‘clock.”
“I really think you should tell him to shove it.”
“We’ll get together Sunday,” Colin said. “Come over about eleven. We’ll swim for an hour before lunch.”
“Okay.”
“Then we can do whatever you want.”
“Sounds good.”
“Well … see ya then.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Huh?”
“Someday soon, if I can arrange it for us, you want to get a piece?”
“A piece of what?”
“A piece of ass.”
“Oh.”
“Do you?”
Colin was embarrassed. “Where? I mean, who?”
“You remember those girls we saw tonight?”
“At the Pinball Pit?”
“Nah. They’re just kids. Teasers. I told you that. I’m talking about real girls, the ones in that movie.”
“What about them?”
“I think I know where I can get something that good for us, a girl just like one of those.”
“You been drinking?”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m Colin.”
“She’s got a beautiful face.”
“Who?”
“The girl I think we can get.”
“Jeez.”
“And really big boobs.”
“Really big?”
“Really.”
“Big as Raquel Welch?”
“Bigger.”
“Big as weather balloons?”
“I’m serious. And she has a pair of gorgeous legs.”
“Good,” Colin said. “One-legged girls never turn me on.”
“Will you stop it? I told you I’m serious. She’s hot stuff.”
“I’ll bet.”
“She really is.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-five or twenty-six.”
“First of all,” Colin said, “you’ll have to put on a false mustache. Then you can stand on my shoulders, and we can dress up in one suit, just one suit to cover us both, so she won’t realize we’re only a couple.of kids. She’ll think we’re a tall, dark, handsome man.”
Roy scowled. “I’m serious.”
“You keep saying that, but you sure don’t sound very serious to me.”
“Her name’s Sarah.”
“A beautiful, twenty-five-year-old girl won’t be interested in you and me.”
“Maybe not at first.”
“Not in a million years.”
“She’ll just need some persuading.”
“Persuading?”
“You and me together should be able to handle her.”
Colin gaped at him.
“You willing to try?” Roy asked.
“Are you talking about-rape?”
“What if I am?”
“You want to wind up in prison?”
“She’s hot stuff. She’s worth taking the chance.”
“Nobody’s worth going to prison for.”
“You haven’t seen her.”
“Besides, it’s wrong.”
“You sound like a preacher.”
“It’s a terrible thing to do.”
“Not if it feels good.”
“It won’t feel good to her.”
“She’ll love me by the time I’m done with her.”
Blushing fiercely, Colin said, “You’re weird.”
“Wait’ll you see Sarah.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“You’ll want her when you see her.”
“This is all jive.”
“Think about it.”
A cream-colored van went by on Palisades Lane. A desert scene, framed in grinning skulls, was painted on the side of it.
They heard loud rock music and the high, sweet laughter of a girl.
“Think about it,” Roy said again.
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“Beautiful big boobs.”
“Jeez.”
“Think about it.”
“This is just like that story about the cat,” Colin said. “You wouldn’t ever kill a cat, and you wouldn’t rape anyone, either.”
“If I knew I could get away with it, I’d sure as hell get me a piece or two of that Sarah, and you’d better believe it, good buddy.”
“I don’t.”
“Two of us working together could get away with it. Easy. Real easy. Will you at least think about it for a couple of days?”
“Give up, Roy. I know you’re putting me on.”
“I’m serious.”
Colin sighed, shook his head, glanced at his watch. “I can’t waste time listening to this baloney. It’s late.”
“Think about it.”
“Jeez!”
Roy smiled. The odd, metallic light played a trick on him, transformed his teeth into fangs; the cold glow of the mercury-vapor street lamp tinted his teeth blue-white, darkened and emphasized the narrow spaces between them, made them look ragged and pointy. At least to Colin’s eyes, Roy appeared to be wearing a set of costume-party teeth, the ugly wax dentures you could buy in a novelty shop.
“I’ve got to get home,” Colin said. “See you Sunday at eleven?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t forget to bring your swimsuit.”
“Have fun on your fishing trip.”
“Fat chance.”
Colin rose on his bike, jammed his feet on the pedals, and pumped south on Palisades Lane. As the wind shushed over him, as the relentless crash of the surf echoed off to his right, and as his fear of being alone at night returned, he heard Roy shouting behind him:
“Think about it!”
12
When Colin arrived home at twelve-thirty, his mother had not yet returned from her date with Mark Thornberg. Her car was not in the garage. The house was dark and forbidding.
He did not want to go inside by himself. He stared at the blank windows, at the pulsing darkness beyond the glass, and he suspected that something was waiting for him in there, some nightmare creature that intended to chew him up alive.
Stop it, stop it, stop it! he told himself angrily. There’s nothing waiting for you in there. Nothing. Don’t be so damned silly. Grow up! You want to be like Roy, so do exactly what Roy would do if he were here. Waltz right into the house, just like Roy would. Do it. Now. Go!
He fished the key out of a redwood planter that stood beside the walk. His hands shook. He thrust the key into the lock, hesitated, then found sufficient strength to open the door. He reached inside and switched on the light but didn’t step across the threshold.
The front room was deserted.
No monsters.
He went to the comer of the house, stepped behind a screen of bushes, and urinated. He didn’t want to have to use the bathroom when he got in the house. Something might be waiting there for him, waiting behind the door, behind the shower curtain, perhaps even in the clothes hamper, something dark and fast with wild eyes and lots of teeth and razor-sharp claws.
Got to stop thinking like this! he told himself. It’s crazy. Got to stop it. Grown-ups aren’t afraid of the dark. If I don’t get over this fear soon, I’m going to wind up in an asylum. Jeez.
He replaced the key in the planter and entered the house. He tried to swagger as Roy would have done; however, as if he were a giant marionette, he needed ropes of courage to hold him in a hero’s stance, but all that he could find within himself was one thin thread of bravery. He closed the door and put his back against it. He stood quite still, holding his breath, listening.
Ticking. An antique mantel clock.
Moaning. Wind pressing the windows.
Nothing else.
He locked the door behind him.
Paused.
Listened.
Silence.
Suddenly he dashed across the living room, dodging furniture, burst into the downstairs hallway, slapped the light switch there, saw nothing out of the ordinary, thundered up the stairs, turned on the second-floor hall lights, ran into his bedroom, hit the lights there, too, felt a tiny bit better when he saw he was still alone, jerked open the closet door, found no werewolves or vampires lurking among the clothes, shut the bedroom door, locked it, braced it with a straightbacked chair, drew the drapes over both windows so that nothing could look in at him, and collapsed onto the mattress, gasping. He didn’t have to look under the bed: It was a platform job, built right on the floor.