Billy Straight

75

Dinky little house. Light on in the front room, but dim. The Lincoln parked in back.

So the old man was home with the kid. Was he married? Zhukanov hadn't mentioned anything about seeing a wife, but that didn't mean anything; the old guy could've gone to temple, left her behind. Maybe she was sick, an invalid.

Easy.

On balance, the walk street was probably an advantage. No cars to hide behind, but no drivers interrupting. No pedestrians either during the half hour he'd watched the house from three different spots.

He tried the back alley again, rubber soles swallowing his footsteps. The newish running shoes; he'd walked around in them, made sure there was no squeak.

Out of the cheap-suit cop getup and into black sweats and a black windbreaker with pockets. The van, rented from a fly-by-night place down near the airport, a perfect dressing room. He'd paid cash, used no ID, leaving the guy who ran the rental lot five hundred in cash as collateral. Five hundred he'd never see again. Worth it. The van was parked four blocks away, east of Main, on a residential street.

Pleasant stroll to Sunrise Court; the beach air was tangy, invigorating. He'd never lived on the beach. Maybe one day…

From the back he could see that the kitchen light was still on. Ten thirty-eight. Someone up, or just a security measure? Probably the latter; he'd seen no trace of any movement.

Why had the old guy taken the kid in? A relative? The drawing didn't show a Jewish-looking kid, but you could never tell. No, if it was a family thing, wouldn't they be pushing the kid to collect the money?

A good samaritan? Religious convictions? Giving the kid sanctuary in the temple? Did Jews believe in that? He had no idea. Returning to the front, he hid behind a clump of shrubbery, continued to watch the house.

How to do it?

The only way was a blitz. Home invasion. Gangbangers were getting into that, especially the Asians. A small place like this, how many rooms could there be?

A knife would be best because of the sound factor, but running from room to room stabbing was risky; even with weak prey, there was the risk of escape.

The alternative was the Glock, but that meant noise. Venice was high-crime, he'd heard about gangs on Ocean Front, had seen gang types during today's surveillance. So the neighbors were probably used to hearing gunshots at night. But a street like this, the houses close together, bursting in, doing it, ditching the gun, taking the escape route he'd plotted back to the van.

Risky.

But fun- admit it. The risk was part of the fun. That and simply being able to do it.

A zapperoo commando blitz then- one hand on the knife, the other on the gun. If it was just the kid and the old man and they were close together, the knife would probably work. So he'd start with the knife, have the gun ready for complications.

One thing he'd decided for sure: Rear entry was best. Ha ha.

Another advantage of the walk street: Everyone parked in back, so walking through the alley wouldn't be viewed as deviant. If he was spotted, he'd affect a relaxed stroll, pretend to belong, jangle his keys, and head for one of the cars. The way he looked- white male, sweats- wouldn't be threatening, he hoped.

His knees hurt. Too much squatting. The Percs were no longer doing the trick. Lisa had claimed coke was a good anesthetic; dentists used to smear it on gums. Always wanting him to try it. Screw that. He bought it for her, spooned it up her cute little nose, tried to get some satisfaction from her body while she was high, but no way would he do it- Percs were as far as he went.

Maintain the upper edge.

He waited. Nothing. Okay, back again, ready to blitz.

He was just about to leave when the front door opened and someone came out.

On the patio, looking around.

The kid!

Perfect! He'd sprint across the sidewalk, grab him, cut his throat, be off- God was good!

But just as he got ready to spring, the kid ran back inside.

Scared?

You've got good reason, sonny.