Little fuck with his fuckin’ books, thinks he’s smartern everyone.
After he moved in I had to sit in the kitchen while he and Mom took up my sleeper couch watching TV. One day he came in the trailer totally blasted while I was trying to do homework. I could tell because of his eyes and the way he just kept walking around in circles, making fists and opening them, making that growling noise. The homework was pre-algebra, easy stuff. Mrs. Annison didn’t believe me the one time I told her I already knew it, and she kept assigning me the same work as the rest of the class. I was speeding through the problems, almost finished, when Moron got a container of bean dip out of the fridge, started eating it with his hands. I looked at him, but just for a second. He reached over and pulled my hair and slammed the math book on my fingers. Then he grabbed up a bunch of notebooks and other textbooks and ripped them in half, including the math book, Thinking with Numbers.
He said, “Fuck this shit!” and tossed it in the trash. “Get off your fuckin’ ass, you little faggot, do something useful around here . . .”
My hair smelled of beans, and the next day my hand was so swollen I couldn’t move the fingers and I kept it in my pocket when I told Mrs. Annison I’d lost the book. She was eating Corn Nuts at her desk and grading papers and didn’t bother to look up, just said, “Well, Billy, I guess you’ll have to buy another one.”
I couldn’t ask Mom for money, so I never got another book, couldn’t do homework anymore, and my math grades started going down. I kept thinking Mrs. Annison or someone would get curious, but no one did.
Another time Moron ripped up this magazine collection I’d put together from other people’s trash and most of my personal books, including the presidents book. One of the first things I looked for when I finally located the library on Hillhurst Avenue was another presidents book. I found one, but it was different. Not as heavy paper, only black-and-white photographs. Still interesting, though. I learned that William Henry Harrison caught a cold right after his election and died.
Bad luck for the first William president.
This is working; my head’s clear. But my heart and stomach feel like they’re burning up. More: Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce . . . James Buchanan, the only president who never got married—must have been lonely for him in the White House, though I guess he was busy enough. Maybe he liked being alone. I can understand that.
Lincoln, Johnson, Grant, McKinley.
Another William president. Did anyone ever call him Billy? From his picture, bald and squinty and angry-looking, I don’t think so.
No one ever called me William except teachers on the first day of school, and soon then they switched to Billy, too, because all the kids laughed at William.
Billy Goat, Billy the Goat.
William Bradley Straight.
It’s a plain name, nothing special about it, but better than some of the other things I’ve been called.
Chuck chuck . . .
Oops—I stumble but don’t fall. Place Five is still far. It’s a warm night. I wish I could take off my piss-stink clothes and run through the trees naked, a wild, strong animal who knows where he’s going . . . I’ll breathe ten times to cool down my heart.
. . . better. More lists: tropical fish: platys, swordtails, neon tetras, guppies, angelfish, oscars, catfish, tinfoil barbs, arowanas. Never had an aquarium, but in my magazine collection were old copies of Tropical Fish Hobbyist and the pictures filled my head with color.
One point the fish articles kept making was you have to be careful setting up an aquarium, know who you’re dealing with. Oscars and arowanas will eat all the others if they’re big enough, and if the arowanas get really big, they’ll try to eat the oscars. Goldfish are the most peaceful, but they’re also the slowest and get eaten all the time.
My stomach still burns, like someone’s in there, chewing at me . . . breathe . . . animals you see in the park: birds, lizards, squirrels, snakes once in a while. I ignore them.
Same for people.
At night you sometimes see homeless crazy guys with carts full of garbage, but they never stay long. Also, Mexicans in low cars, playing loud music. When they stop, it’s over by the trains. Junkies, of course, because it’s Hollywood. I’ve seen them drive up, sit at one of the picnic tables like they’re ready to have a meal, tie up their arms, jab in needles, and stare out at nothing.
After the dope really gets into their blood, they sigh and nod and fall asleep and they just look like anyone napping.
Sometimes couples park at the edge of the lot, including gay guys. Talking, making out, smoking—you can see cigarettes in the distance like little orange stars.
Everyone having a good time.
That’s what I thought they were going to do, tonight.
Someone’s always cutting the chain, and the rangers take weeks to fix it. The cops don’t patrol much, because it’s park ranger territory. The park’s huge. In the library I found a book that said it had 4,100 acres. It also said the park got started in a weird way: A crazy guy named Colonel Griffith tried to kill his wife, and he had to give the land to the city in return for not going to jail.
So maybe there’s something about the place that’s unlucky for women . . .
Six hundred forty acres is a square mile, so with 4,100 we’re talking major humongous. I know, because I’ve walked most of it.
Sometimes the rangers stop and smoke and talk, too. A few weeks ago, a man and a woman ranger pulled over to the picnic area just after midnight, got out, sat down on their car’s hood, and started talking and laughing. Then they were kissing. I could hear their breathing get faster, heard her go, “Mmm,” and figured they’d be getting it on pretty soon. Then the woman pulled her head away and said, “Come on, Burt. All we need is for someone to see us.”
Burt didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Aw, spoilsport.” But he was laughing, and she started laughing, too; they kissed some more and felt each other up a little before they got back in their car and drove away. My guess is they didn’t forget about having some sex, probably waited until work was over and then went somewhere else to do it. Maybe to one of their homes or one of those motels on the Boulevard where you pay for rooms by the hour and the prosties wait out in front.
Now I stay away from those motels, but when I first got here a prostie—a fat black one wearing bright shorts and a black lace top with nothing underneath—tried to sell herself to me.
She kept saying, “C’mere, boy-child.” It sounded like “Me bocha, me bocha, me bocha.” Then she pulled up her blouse and showed me a gigantic black tit. Her nipple was lumpy, big and purple like a fresh plum. I ran away, and her laughter followed me the way a dog follows a chicken.
In a strange way she made me feel good, that she thought I could do it. Even though I knew she was probably kidding. I remember that nipple, the way she stuck it out at me, like, Here, take it, suck on it. Her mouth was wide open and her teeth were huge and white.
She was probably joking on me or just needed money bad and was ready to do it with anybody. Most of the prosties are junkies or crackheads.
The way those two rangers laughed was a little like the way the prostie laughed.
Is there such a thing as a sex laugh?
Being treated like a kid can be good or bad. When you go into a store with money, even if you’re in line ahead of adults, the adults get served first. A bigger problem is the Boulevard, and all the smaller streets full of weirdos and perverts out to rape kids. Once I found a magazine in an alley and it showed pictures of perverts doing it with kids—putting dicks up their butts or in their mouths. Some kids were crying; others looked sleepy. You don’t see the perverts’ faces, just their hairy legs and their dicks. For a long time, it gave me nightmares, those kids, the way their eyes looked. But it also made me careful.
I’ve had guys pull up in cars when I’m walking, even in bright sunlight, waving money or candy bars or even their dicks. I ignore them, and if they don’t butt out, I run. Used to be when
I was in a bad mood because of no dinner or a night full of bad dreams, I’d flip them off before I’d run. But a month ago one of them tried to run me down with his car. I got away from him, but now I keep my finger to myself.
There’s no telling what’ll cause problems. A week ago, two guys got into a car accident on Gower, just a small dent in the front car, but the guy got out with a baseball bat and smashed the other guy’s windshield. Then he went for the other guy, who ran away.
You’ve got maniacs yelling and screaming at everyone and no one, gunshots all the time at night. I’ve even seen guys walking around during the day with bulges in their pockets that could be guns.
The only dead person I saw was one of the old shopping cart guys lying in an alley, his mouth open like he was sleeping, but his skin had turned gray and flies went in and out between his lips. Nearby was the Dumpster I was going to dive, but I just got out of there, no more appetite. That night, I woke up really hungry, thinking I was stupid to let it get to me. He was old anyway.
When I get enough food, I’m full of energy. Super-fast. When I run, I feel jet-propelled—no gravity, no limits.
Sometimes I get into a running rhythm and it’s like a music beat in my head, ba-boom, ba-boom, like nothing can stop me. When that happens I force myself to slow down, because it’s dangerous to forget who you are.
I also slow down anytime I’m about to go into the park. Way in advance. I always look around to make sure no one’s watching me, then I head in, relaxed, like I live in one of the huge houses at the foot of the park.
One of the books Moron ripped up was by a French scientist named Jacques Cousteau, on octopus and squid. One chapter talked about how octopi can match their colors to their backgrounds. I’m no octopus, but I know how to blend in.
I take things, but that doesn’t make me a thief.
I found the same octopus book in the library, borrowed it, brought it back.
I took the presidents book and kept it.
But no one had checked it out for nine months; that’s what the card in back said.
Back in Watson the library was pathetic, just a store next to the VFW hall that nobody used, and it was mostly closed. The lady behind the desk always looked at me like I was going to take something, and the funny thing was I never was.
At the Hillhurst library, there’s also an old one, but she mostly stays in her office and the one who actually checks books out is young, pretty, and Mexican, with really long hair. She smiled at me once, but I ignored her and the smile dropped from her face like I’d torn it off.
I can’t get a library card because I have no address. My technique is I go in there looking like a kid from King Middle School with homework to do, sit down by myself at a table, and read and write for a while, usually math problems. Then I go back to the shelves.
I’ll return the presidents book one day.
Even if I kept it forever, no one would miss it. Probably.
An advantage of looking like a harmless little kid is sometimes you can go into a store and take stuff without being noticed. I know it’s a sin, but without food, you die, and suicide’s a sin too.
Also—people aren’t scared of kids, at least not white kids, so if you ask someone for spare change, the worst they usually do is shine you on. I mean, what are they going to say to me? Get a job, junior?
One thing I learned back in Watson: Make people nervous and you’re the one who gets hurt.
So maybe God helped me by making me small for my age. I would like to grow eventually, though.
Mom, before she got sadder, would sometimes hold me under the chin and say, “Look at this. Like an angel. A damn cherub.”
I hated that; it sounded so gay.
Some of those kids being raped in the magazine looked like angels.
There’s no way to know what’s safe. I avoid all people, and the park’s perfect for that—4,100 acres of mostly peace and quiet.
Thank you, crazy Mr. Griffith.
The way he tried to kill his wife was by shooting her in the eye.
CHAPTER
4
In eight months, Petra had worked twenty-one other homicides, some fairly sloppy. But nothing like this. Not even the Hernandez wedding.
This woman looked shredded. Washed in blood. Dipped in it, like fruit in chocolate. The front of her dress was a mass of gore, glossy gray tubes of entrail popping out from slashes in the fabric. Silky fabric, not great in terms of latents. The blood would be a good cover, too—try lifting anything from skin. Maybe the jewelry, if the killer had touched it.
She and Stu arrived in darkness, encountering grim faces, radio static, a blinking symphony of red lights. They took reports from the rangers who’d found the body, waited for sunrise to have a careful look at the victim.
The blood had dried red-brown, streaking the skin and the surrounding asphalt, running down the parking lot in rivulets, some of the spatters still tacky.
Petra stood by the corpse, sketching the surrounding terrain and the body, tabulating the wounds she could see. At least seventeen cuts, and that was only the front.
Bending and getting as close as she could without messing anything up, she examined torn flesh; the lower lip almost completely severed, the left eye reduced to ruby pulp. All the damage on the left side.
If you could see your squeamish kid now, Dad.
Twenty-one previous bodies notwithstanding, viewing this one in sunlight jolted her with nausea. Then something worse hit her: the pain of sympathy.
Poor thing. Poor, poor thing, what led you to this?
Outwardly, she maintained. No one watching would have seen anything but trim efficiency. She’d been told she looked efficient. An accusation thrown at her by Nick, implying competence wasn’t sexy. Along with all the other garbage he’d dumped on her. Why hadn’t she realized what was going on?
She liked being thought of as businesslike. Had found a business she liked.
A month ago she’d gone to a Melrose salon, ordered the reluctant stylist to lop off six inches of black hair, and ended up with a short ebony minimal-care wedge cut.
Stu had noticed right away. “Very becoming.”
She thought it framed her lean, pale face pretty well.
Her clothes were picked for nothing but practicality now. Good pantsuits bought on sale at Loehmann’s and Robinsons-May that she took home and tailored herself so that they fit her long frame perfectly. Mostly black, like today. A couple of navys, one chocolate-brown, one charcoal.
She wore MAC lipstick, deep red with a brown tint, a little eye shadow, and mascara. No foundation; her skin was white and smooth as notepaper. No jewelry. Nothing a suspect could yank.
The victim wore foundation.
Petra could see it clearly where the crimson hadn’t settled. Traces of blush, powder, mascara, applied a little heavier than Petra’s, to the eye that remained intact.
The damaged eye was a sightless black-cherry hole, the eyeball collapsed to folded cellophane, some of the jellylike humor leaking out and specking the nose.
Nice nose, where it hadn’t been slashed.
The right eye was wide, blue, filmed over. That dull dead look. You couldn’t fake it—there was nothing like it.
Flight of the soul? Leaving behind what? A casing, no more alive than a snake’s molt?
She continued studying the corpse with an artist’s precision, noticed a small but deep cut on the left cheek that she’d missed. Eighteen. She couldn’t flip the body till the crime-scene photographer was finished and the coroner gave the okay. The definitive wound count would be the pathologist’s, once he had the corpse stretched out on his steel table.
She added the cheek wound to her drawing. Might as well be careful—the coroner’s office was a zoo; doctors made mistakes.
Stu was over with the coroner—an older man named Leavitt—both of them serious but relaxed. None of that tasteless joke stuff you saw on cop movies. The real detectives she’d met were mostly regular guys,
relatively bright, patient, tenacious, very little in common with cinema sleuths.
She tried to look past the blood, get a sense of the person beneath the carnage.
The woman appeared young, and Petra was pretty sure she’d been good-looking. Even savaged like that, dumped in the parking lot like refuse, you could see the fineness of her features. Not tall, but her legs were long and shapely, exposed to mid-thigh, her waist narrow in the short black silk dress. Big bust—maybe silicone. Nowadays when Petra saw a slender woman with a healthy chest, she assumed surgery.
No sign of any bizarre leakage in the torso, though with all that blood, who knew. What would happen to silicone breasts when slashed? What did silicone look like, anyway? Eight months in Homicide, the issue had never come up.
Panty hose ripped, but it looked like asphalt wear. No obvious sign of sexual assault or posing, no visible semen around the ruined mouth or the legs.
Big hair. Honey-blond, good dye job, a few dark roots starting to show, but nice, expertly done. The dress was a jacquard with hand stitching, and the way it was pulled up and bunched around the shoulders, Petra could read the label. Armani Exchange.
The shiny things Petra hoped would yield prints were a diamond tennis bracelet on the left wrist with nice-size cut stones, a sapphire-and-diamond cocktail ring, a gold Lady Rolex, small diamond studs in the ears.
No wedding band.
No purse, either, so forget instant identification on this one. How’d she end up here? Out on a date? Big hair, minidress—a callgirl lured onto the streets by an extra bonus?
The purse gone, but the jewelry hadn’t been taken. The watch alone had to be three grand. So not a mugging. Unless the mugger was an even-stupider-than-usual street fool who’d taken the purse and panicked.
No, that made no sense. All these wounds didn’t spell panic or robbery. This piece of dirt had taken his time.
Snatching the purse to fake robbery, not thinking about the jewelry?
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 2