Except for Steven, who saw his father’s hand coming toward him. Stevie let the old man eat some hot lead from the Thompson and ran yelling down the hall.

12

ANDY SAT IN the Journal newsroom and looked out the darkened windows. Seven o’clock, Thursday, one day after seeing Janelle Vonn in the SunBlesst packinghouse. The lights of Costa Mesa twinkled in the cool breezy night outside.

The presses downstairs were silent for now. The AP and UPI teletype machines were quiet while the night editor dozed in his office. The city desk guys were off in the cafeteria shooting the bull. Associate publisher Jonas Dessinger was long gone, execs on the fifth floor long gone, too.

Andy took another big gulp of cool coffee, wondered why he wasn’t hungry. Hadn’t really slept since late Tuesday night. Heard about the Boom Boom Bungalow stabbing and didn’t put that story to bed until three in the morning. Guy was an elementary schoolteacher from Bakersfield. Eleven stab wounds. Looked horrible, the way the skin swelled up to close the slits. No way the Journal would print stuff like that. Perp still at large. Then Wednesday and Janelle. Twenty-six straight hours. And still counting, because Andy’s source at the County had a hot tip for him but she wouldn’t give it to him over the phone.

He never could sleep with stuff like this going down. Teresa could sleep through an atomic explosion, so long as she got herself relaxed first.

He’d scooped the Los Angeles Times today. Waxed ’em. Just like he’d waxed them on the Boom Boom stabbing. Great to beat the big boys. The Times reporter who did the main Janelle Vonn story had Janelle still living in Texas when she was eight. Said Karl had worked as an electrician when he was a plumber. And they went to press too soon to even know about Terry Neemal.

Clobbered the Santa Ana Register, too. They got Neemal but none of his mental hospital stuff or his criminal jacket. Nick had helped him with that because Neemal’s juvenile record was sealed. Not the first time Nick had come to the rescue.

But the clincher was Andy’s sidebar photograph. He’d snapped it through the window of the Tustin PD cruiser when his brother ran back into the packinghouse for his tape recorder. Neemal even bared his teeth for the shot. Growled, gave Andy the full Wolfman act. The front-page picture showed this hairy, weird-looking guy glaring at his handcuffs, one sleeve pulled back to show a wrist like something out of a horror flick. Hands dirty. Eyes crazed.

“WOLFMAN” QUESTIONED IN BEAUTY QUEEN DECAPITATION

Story and photos by Andy Becker

The New York Times had even picked it up.

A million phone calls to the Journal to say Andy’s article and pictures were great.

A hearty handshake of congratulations from Journal publisher Jonathan Dessinger.

An indifferent handshake of congratulations from Journal associate publisher Jonas Dessinger.

A telegram from newly elected Republican congressman Roger Stoltz, all the way from Washington.

Andy’s guess was that Terry Neemal was a severe nutcase who had the bad luck to be found near a murder scene. Nick had corroborated that idea in his blunt, almost wordless way. But it was hard to completely dismiss a guy who as an eight-year-old set his brother on fire, walked out, locked the door, and had a bowl of Wheaties.

AT EIGHT-THIRTY Andy locked up his desk. Got his briefcase, stopped by the supply cabinet for some more typing paper, and headed out.

Put the top down and took the Corvair down Coast Highway to Laguna, ocean rippling off to his right and a fat moon low over Catalina Island.

A Wolfman moon, he thought. Good title for a paperback crime novel except Neemal probably didn’t do it. But Neemal was still a great newspaper story. And the picture was press club award material, no doubt. Story and photos by Andy Becker. Turned the police band radio loud. Hoping for news on a Boom Boom Bungalow suspect but nothing doing.

The Sandpiper Nightclub was peaceful when he walked in. Band drinking at the bar before the first set. Some good-looking hippie girls with them. Beads and headbands and little oval sunglasses to hide their pupils. Canned Heat on the jukebox, that cool little number with the harmonica.

Verna sat at the other end of the bar, ignored him as he came over and sat down. He had to kind of squeeze onto the stool because Verna was big. She was a clerk in the county payroll office, did the Sheriff’s, Fire, Ag Department, and Sanitation. Strawberry hair and an unhappy face that Andy could see the prettiness trying to get into. He always thought if Verna dropped fifty, threw on some makeup, and tried smiling, she’d be a stone fox. Though he wasn’t sure how “stone” got to be an adjective.

As it was, she had a crush on Andy that he’d never acknowledged. He let her buy his company with occasional payroll gossip. She pretended to be distrustful of phone conversations but Andy knew she was just lonely. She liked coming down to Laguna to see the cool people, rub up against the druggies and artists. A contact high. Andy enjoyed her company. Liked the way she disguised her fear with humor and hostility. Liked her insatiable lust for gossip, innuendo, insinuation. And her honesty.

“Orange juice and vodka,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

“You’re such a huge liar.”

“I know.”

Andy ordered drinks. Glanced down the bar at the hippies. Clove cigarettes and sudden laughter. Glassed eyes. Slurred vowels. Wondered if he and Teresa sounded that way when they got loaded at night.

“Andy, what was it like, seeing her with her head cut off?”

“My heart sped up. It made my legs feel cold and weak.”

“Really?”

“It amazed me that someone would do that to someone else.”

Verna thought about this, said nothing as the drinks arrived and the barman went.

“Nick sees murder every day in homicide,” she said. “And of course, Sharon every night in Orange.”

“The less you talk about that the better, Verna.”

“I’ve never told anyone but you.”

“Keep it that way.”

Andy disliked what Nick was doing and that it was known. Before, when he’d watched Nick and Katy together they made him believe that you could get married and stay in love. You could see them pass love back and forth. Like an invisible box, a big one, the size of a TV maybe, they’d always be handing it off or gathering it in. One of the few married couples he’d seen do that. Now they were just one more reason to skip the service. Maybe these dipshit hippies were right. Free love. Sure, why not? For Nick and Katy it was pretty pricey stuff.

And if a clerk in payroll knew, who didn’t?

“Was it all bloody?”

“Less blood than you would think,” said Andy.

“I heard the Wolfman’s beard had blood in it. Like he’d eaten part of her.”

“That’s asinine, Verna.”

She shrugged.

“So, what’s up?”

Verna rocked her glass. Nothing but ice and a red plastic straw. Andy waved the bartender for two more. Verna stared across at the liquor bottles. Kept staring at them until the drinks arrived and the barkeep was out of earshot.

“This is interesting,” she said. “I do all those department payrolls, right? I get to see what everybody gets paid. Big deal. But I also cut special payment checks, too. You know, for subs or consultants, or emergencies. Stuff like that. The Sheriff’s Department has an informant fund, for their snitches and spies and all. That money comes from us as ‘Discretionary, Informational’-one monthly sum based on the year’s budget. That’s the last we see of it. The department breaks it down division by division. And the divisions break it down for each detail. Homicide. Burg-Theft. Like that. Well, today I’m logging in the numbers on my ledger, making sure the amounts match the checks. Basic bookkeeping. And up comes Captain del Gado with a cardboard box full of Girl Scout cookies he’d sold to some of the people in payroll. He sets it on my desk, finds the order forms, and gets out the Thin Mints and Savannahs. Hands them to me, picks up the box, and goes. But guess what?”