Little Boy Blue (45 page)

Half an hour later the Buick was still on
Sunset Boulevard, but instead of being near downtown Los Angeles, it was in
West Hollywood’s Sunset Strip. Most of the posh women’s shops and
antique stores were closed, but the four-star restaurants and big floorshow
nightclubs of the era were doing good business. According to newspapers and
some ragged movie magazines Alex had seen in “G” Company, this was
the playland of movie notables, the stars and those who got rich behind the cameras
or in offices. Alex wasn’t looking for something to rob—and it
didn’t seem he would find it on the Sunset Strip. A big liquor store
might have been worthwhile, except that it was across the street from
Ciro’s, a big elegant nightclub with
doormen
and parking attendants taking and bringing automobiles. Too many eyes could see
through the plate-glass windows.

“Let’s go down to Santa Monica
Boulevard,” Wedo suggested when they neared the end of the Strip, beyond
which sat the perfection of Beverly Hills, a world that awed Alex.

“Good idea,” Alex said without
turning his eyes from the sidewalk, wanting to retain his keyed-up
determination, a sort of half- anger necessary to pointing a pistol at someone
and taking their money. He could not relax and let the tiny ball of inescapable
fear grow and spread until it paralyzed him. He’d learned that he
couldn’t think too much about what might happen; if he did the images
could become terrors and cripple him.

As they sat in the left-turn lane, a
sheriff’s car went by, and Alex was glad they weren’t still driving
Wedo’s clunker. It would always get a police stare, and therefore always
added to the chance of them being pulled over.

Santa Monica Boulevard was long and wide and
lined with a myriad of businesses, everything from an athletic club to a U-Haul
truck rental. Alex could see the neon for miles ahead and was certain they
would locate a score. Several times Wedo slowed so they could look at
something. Once they circled the block to scrutinize a small grocery. It looked
perfect until Alex saw the proprietors—they were Orientals. He knew the
underworld maxim that Orientals would prefer death to surrendering their money.
Alex wanted money, not murder.

LIQUOR
pulsed
the
big red neon sign. On a corner with a dark side street, it was the ideal
getaway situation. Businesses on the boulevard were dark and empty. The closest
possible witnesses were in a beer joint on the next block. He began adrenaline
pumping as he sensed that here was what they sought.

“Turn right,” he said.
“Make it slow. I wanna look in.”

As Wedo made the turn, Alex scanned the
interior through the open door. A big man with a shiny pate was behind the
counter.

The side street had apartment buildings on
both sides. Cars lined the curbs, leaving nowhere to park except in front of a
fireplug in the glow of a streetlamp.

“Put in there,” he said.

“It’s a bad spot,” Wedo
said.

“Fuck it. We ain’t gonna be
long… and nobody’s gonna be followin’ us.”

Wedo shrugged and parked. He turned the
wheels out and left the key in the ignition. The slight risk was worth the gain
of a fast getaway. Both youths began working themselves into the state of
nervous anger necessary to pull pistols and take things. It was easy to reach
this condition by remembering the mistake of an hour ago. Frustration made good
kindling.

“Man, let me take him and you cover
this time,” Alex said—and even while he spoke Wedo shook his head.

“No, carnal.
We’ll do like we been doin’. You
lay
back in the door an’ cover me. I’ll throw
down on the guy and get the bread.”

Alex clicked his teeth together, cutting off
the impulse to argue before the words came out. Wedo had to make up for the
earlier blunder. It was weird, Alex thought, but whenever he was committing
a crime his faculties were acutely perceptive. He saw things that were usually
filtered out. He understood Wedo as if actually looking into his mind. He also
perceived such things as the sound of their footsteps on the pavement, the
growl of a truck a block away, a barking dog. His eyes caught the flaming eyes
of a cat in a driveway. The red and green circles of a traffic light pierced
his senses. He said nothing, for to speak would lessen the intense
concentration he needed to point a pistol at people and take their money. They
weren’t real people; he couldn’t let them become so in his mind or
he would sprout doubts and misgivings. They had to be the enemy, those who
condoned caging him, condoned the “holes” he’d been in,
condoned the tear gas and beatings. The
policemen
,
attendants, and guards were their surrogates. He owed them nothing and could
maintain the rage toward society that allowed him to rob, steal, and hurt
people without guilt.

Now they were in the light of the
liquor-store window, ten feet from the entrance. Alex patted Wedo on the back
and held back a moment so Wedo could enter first.

As with most California liquor stores, this
also served as a convenience market. When Alex entered, Wedo was coming
from the rear cooler with a quart of milk. The big, balding man was at the cash
register halfway down the counter. Nobody else was visible.

A single glanced showed all this. Alex turned
his back and faced a magazine rack along the wall beside the door. It was
intended to hide his face and make him look busy. He watched the door; it was
his responsibility.

Wedo spoke, his voice dripping fervency
though the words were indecipherable to Alex.

“Huh?” the manager said,
disbelieving.

“You heard me, punk
motherfucker!” Wedo said loudly.

Alex glanced over his
shoulder,
saw them confronting each other, Wedo’s hand under his jacket near his
waist. He had his hand on the exposed butt of the pistol. The big man, bald
head gleaming with sudden sweat, had both hands visible.

CLICK-CLACK.

The sound was loud, whatever it was. Alex
frowned, puzzled.

BOOM! BOOM! The deafening blasts of a shotgun
loaded
with 00 buckshot
.

Alex whirled at the first sound,
then
dropped to a crouch. The second blast tore away
Wedo’s left shoulder and cheek, spinning him like a child’s top
while he screamed. Flesh and blood were blasted away, splattered against a
wall; it mingled with smashed bottles. Wedo was down, legs thrashing, screams
following each other.

Horror and terror filled Alex as he lurched
backward.
His own
pistol was out. He crashed into the
magazine rack and wondered momentarily if he was shot without knowing it.

The manager’s bald head came up over
the counter. “There’s two of ‘em,” he screeched.

Above the box freezer a man rose up, knocking
over a seagram’s 7 sign he’d hidden behind. He was identical to the
man behind the counter. He had the shotgun open and was jamming a red cartridge
in as Alex came up. The man behind the counter now had a long- barreled
revolver. Alex ducked behind a shelf of canned goods. Some fell, rolling along
the floor.

Wedo still screamed.

The big freezer faced the two aisles. The man
with the shotgun was kicking over display signs to get into position. The man
behind the counter was edging along it. “Billy!” he yelled.
“We got the bastard. We got him!”

Fear nearing panic overwhelmed Alex’s
rage. He was still near the front door. For one instant, quick as a flick of
light, he envisioned the other, dark market. But that recollection was
gone instantly as he confronted the reality of this moment. He had to get out
of here, run the gauntlet. He locked his brain on that one truth—and came
up shooting, busting one toward the counter, turning two toward the top of the
freezer. The man behind the counter fired once, the bullet sizzling next to
Alex’s ear like an enraged yellow- jacket. Alex’s bullet did nearly
the same, for that man dropped from view. Alex dashed to the door, meanwhile
blindly firing across his chest toward the top of the freezer. His bullets
pierced the glass doors and shattered bottles inside.

As he reached the door the shotguns went off,
the concussion literally shaking the air. Two pieces of large buckshot hit
Alex, one just behind the right hipbone, the other in his right thigh. The
force of them hurled him through the door and knocked him down for a moment,
jerking his right leg from under him. He came down on his right elbow, scraping
his skin away as he skidded.

Momentum carried him around the doorframe
beyond the direct line of fire. The same momentum brought him back on his feet,
running in a crouch past the lighted window, his mind screaming in fear and
rage. As yet he felt no pain, nor was he aware of the blood until, halfway down
the block, his right leg collapsed and he fell. He reached down and felt the
blood pouring out. When he tried to
rise
the leg
buckled.

The men rushed out on the sidewalk, framed
from the doorway light. Alex raised his pistol and shot once. The bullet
brought a scream. One man sank down; he wasn’t dead because he was
whining loudly. The other man jumped behind a car and began shooting down the
dark sidewalk. Now, however, Alex was also behind a car. He had extra bullets
and was trying to reload, but he was too frantic, hands shaking. He got two
bullets into the cylinder and dropped most of the others. The car was thirty yards
away. He lay on his back and began squirming along under the automobiles,
oblivious to whatever dirt or oil was on the asphalt. At first he was goaded by
fear and defiance, by his rage against surrender in any form. Soon, however, he
realized he was too slow. Already the outcry of police sirens was audible.
Moreover, his strength was oozing away, and he was terrified by the weakness
creeping through his limbs. For the first time in his life he understood the
fear of death. Life was draining away unless the bleeding stopped.

The sirens reached a crescendo,
then
died to a whimper; red and blue lights throbbed against
the buildings. Lights were on; people were coming out.

“Where is he?” a voice yelled.

“Somewhere along here,” another
answered.

“I quit!” he yelled, the words
and accompanying tears torn from him.

“Don’t move!”

So he lay in the gutter half under an
automobile. The lament of other sirens peaked as they arrived. He could see the
dark shapes of onlookers. He was going back to jail. It would be even longer
this time. “Jesus!” he muttered, made sick by the thought of the
cage.

A spotlight illuminated the car he was under.

“Throw your gun out,” someone
yelled. “Then come out on your stomach.”

Suddenly the automobile he was under was
sprayed by a spotlight. The glare blinded him. He was getting dizzy. He
managed to toss the pistol clear of the car into the street. He heard the
commanding voice again, but now he was spinning and the words were
indecipherable. Blackness sucked him down.

When he came back to
awareness—or halfway so—legs and shoes were around him.
Most were dark blue, those of
policemen
,
but those lifting him were white. He was certain he would live.

Before he slipped away again, he had a
thought: If there’s life, there’s hope. I won’t give up. The
story isn’t over…