Billy Straight

66

Let them think he'd rabbited to Vegas.

Let them think they were dealing with someone stupid.

It would help him tie everything up. He liked being neat.

Not as bad as Lisa. She was compulsive, wanting everything just so. Irregularities set her off. That vicious mouth…

She hated surprises. So he gave her one.

The German girl too. Little stupid Sally.

One more surprise left, and the stupid cops were making it a little easier, leaking “anonymous tips.” Venice Beach. Ocean Front Walk. Could the kid still be there? Maybe. Sometimes those runaways bunked down.

How far could a street kid go? If he'd tunneled deep, could he be found?

Should he forget about the kid? Was he overreacting? Obsessing? Sometimes he did that, like the way he'd worry a hidden pimple till it got infected and festered and he'd have to lance it himself, coat it with Neosporin, live with the pain. No one knew that about him.

Maybe the kid hadn't even been in the park. If he'd seen something, wouldn't he have turned himself in, tried to collect the reward?

But that assumed he read the papers, watched TV, knew what was going on in the world. Some of those kids were so stoned-out or brain-damaged, they didn't have a clue.

Not much of a witness. Should he just let it ride? Live with the uncertainty?

He considered it for a long time. The idea bothered him. Big loose end.

He could at least check it out. He thought a long time about how to do it without putting himself in danger, finally came up with the plan.

Perfect. And ironic. The hardest thing to pull off, irony, according to the bullshit-artist acting coaches.

What's my motivation?

Self-preservation.