Lisa had, though, during the last second of her life. The look on her face: finally seeing him in a new light.

You're capable of this?

He'd made sure to look in her eyes as he jammed the knife in and yanked up.

One of those beautiful moments when everything came together. Best role he'd ever played. Just the two of them, dancing in the dark.

The two of them and a kid?

What could he have done to avoid it? Gone traipsing up in those hills, scattering blood and who knew what other kinds of forensic evidence all over the place? Even the LAPD nitwits might have found something.

They'd found out about the kid. How?

And now the reward. The old man throwing his weight around.

Maybe the kid had been there earlier but left before he and Lisa showed up.

Maybe, maybe, maybe-an old song, one of the doo-wop ones he loved. Some girl group, the Chantelles or the Shirelles.

All that money would probably bring in nutcases. Bottom line was, LAPD didn't have a clue.

“Not a bloody clue,” he said in his David Niven voice.

Not the sheriff's clowns who'd showed up the first day or that pair from the police department. Bishop, strong and silent, yielding center stage to Connor.

Ms. Detective. Those long legs. No chest, but still, that was some piece of poon. What was she, twenty-six, -seven? That dark hair and pale skin. The kind of long, lean body that might look too bony naked but was okay with clothes on. He imagined her, white and smooth, not a scrap of fat on her, stretched out on a poolside lounge as she yielded to his hands, his mouth, his…

Another time, another place…

He laughed, stretched big arms.

Not a clue, any of them.

Except for this alleged kid?

Who wasn't coming forward.

Because he didn't exist?

Out there that late, he had to be a street punk, a runaway- maybe his mind was blown from drugs or AIDS.

Probably nothing to worry about.

He sat there for a long time, trying to convince himself. Finally reaching the ugly conclusion: It needed to be taken seriously.

He'd research it. Unlike the cops, he wasn't bound by rules. Life had taught him to make his own rules.

After all these years, it all boiled down to one: Take what you want.

Like that night in Redondo, the German stewardess, sitting in that restaurant, arguing with that plug-ugly boyfriend.

He studied them from the bar across the room, nursing a Hei-neken, wiping suds from his false beard, wondering what a girl like that saw in someone that repulsive.

Noticing the girl because of her resemblance to Lisa. That boyfriend, a face like pigshit.

He watched them, conjuring up beauty-and-the-beast sexual fantasies that failed to arouse him. Because it was clear that they weren't getting along, glaring at each other, not eating much.

Finally the girl got up and stomped out of the restaurant. Looking so much like Lisa- a bit taller, bigger tits, the lush body in that short blue dress, those tight, muscular legs as she marched offscreen.

Pigshit tossed bills down and followed. Big guy, but soft, a sack of fertilizer.

He watched them leave, paid for the Heineken, made sure no one was watching, and climbed down to the parking lot behind the restaurant, finding a vantage point behind his car. Pigshit was trying to get Blondie into his car, lots of hand gestures on both sides. Every time she moved, those tits bounced- from the way they responded, not an ounce of plastic. Chest like that on a skinny girl, you didn't see it very often.

They kept arguing, then Pigshit grabbed her, she pulled away, he grabbed again, she slapped him, he slapped her, she fell, got up.

This was fun.

Now Pigshit looked like he was apologizing- the big idiot actually got down on his knees.

And what did Blondie do?

Spit on him.

Watching from behind his car, he almost laughed out loud. Uh-oh, here comes payback: Pigshit sprang up, swung at her, a giant roundhouse, but clumsy, too many drinks, he missed. Blondie ran across the lot, those wonderful tits heaving-ho, Pigshit shaking his fist but not following.

Blondie stopped at the edge of the lot, folded her hands across the wonder chest. Pigshit shook his head, got in a compact car, drove away.

Alone, she let her hands drop helplessly. Realizing it was dark, no one's around, the pier has emptied out, try finding a cab in Redondo Beach at this hour.

The smart thing would have been to return to the restaurant. Instead, she just stood there. Crying.

Well, Fräulein, stupidity has its rewards.

His turn.

Wonderful. His second time. First had been little Sally Tosk, back in Syracuse, tenth grade, well developed since eighth. He'd watched her chest grow, almost alarmingly. Not a true blonde, a strawberry blonde, still wearing braces on her top teeth. She'd come on to him all through football season; finally he'd graced her with a date. Secret date- she had a boyfriend but wanted to slut around with him, too.

He'd driven to her house in his father's new Buick, her parents out till late, some kind of Rotary dinner. The Tosks lived on a big piece of land beyond the city limits, used to be a farm. Sally was ready at the door, little nightie, nothing else. Gave him tongue in the living room, tit in the kitchen; they moved up to her bedroom, then she got all hysterical when he refused to say he loved her and tried to push him away, and he had to put a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming.

Covering her mouth and her nose, and all of a sudden she was blue. He panicked. Then he started to see her in a different light and fooled with her body, just exploring. Careful not to leave anything behind, he drove home throbbing with terror and pleasure.

The Tosks came home two hours later. Big scare in town, rumors of a stalking sex maniac.

He lost sleep for weeks, because what if Sally had told someone she was meeting him? Lost weight and told his mother he had the flu.

But she hadn't told anyone; worried about the boyfriend.

The cops talked to the boyfriend.

No leads. He attended Sally's funeral, cried along with everyone else.

Nothing like young lust.

Sally. The German girl. Lisa.

Not that he was a serial killer. He had no compulsion.

But when the opportunity came up…

At Sally's funeral, he really lost it when the dirt hit the coffin. One of Sally's girlfriends, another cheerleader, took his hand and dried his eyes, told him later how sensitive he was.

“Dearly beloved,” he intoned in a melodious voice. Not Niven- John Houseman, someone like that.

And the Oscar goes to…

45

I tell the old guy, “No, I've still got it, but I wouldn't mind some more. Have any work I can do?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “So you can talk. Want to work, eh? How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

He comes closer. “Listen, if you're in trouble, running away from something, maybe I can help you. Because a fellow your age shouldn't be out here all alone.”

I back away. “I don't need help. Just work.”

“Got a work permit?”

I don't answer. He says, “A work permit. It's the law. To protect kids. They used to force kids to work, not anymore. Not in the United States.”

So he's not going to help me. I start to leave.

“Hold on- you want work? Fine.”

I stop. “What do you have? How much do you pay?”

He smiles again. “A businessman. Okay, listen, the shul here- the synagogue”- he points over his shoulder-“is not used much during the week, but it would be good to have someone to clean the place up before Friday services. Keep an eye out on things, know what I mean?”

“A watchman?”