They Thirst (12 page)

And finally Merida asked the question Rico had dreaded. "What are we going to do?" Eyes shining, she watched him carefully for any sign of betrayal.

He shrugged, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. "What do you wanna do?"

"It's your baby."

"It's yours too!" he said loudly, anger first filling his face with blood—
why hadn't she been on the pill
or
something!
—
and then the flush of shame spreading hotly across his cheeks. "Oh, Jesus," he said hoarsely. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"You love me, don't you? You said you did. If you hadn't said that, I wouldn't have let you do it to me. You been the first and the only."

He nodded grimly, remembering the first time he'd taken her. It had been in the backseat of his car in a drive-in out near Southgate. He'd felt proud after it was over because she was his first virgin, and he knew you weren't really a man until you'd broken in a virgin. He remembered what Felix Ortega had told him once in the abandoned warehouse the Cripplers used as headquarters—"Fuck a virgin, man, and she'll love you forever."

Oh, Christ!
he thought.
Forever? With just one chick? I got a business to think of. I could be buying myself silk shirts pretty soon, and alligator shoes, or a fine, black Porsche. I could get one of those penthouse apartments like the movie stars have.
I could really be somebody
in
this town, I could be bigger than Gypsy John even!
But now he saw his path, and it wound straight back to the black, bitter heart of the barrio. In ten years he would be working in some garage and coming home at five to a two-room apartment where Merida and two or three kids waited, snotty noses and all; his hands would be black with engine grime, and his gut would be spreading from all the beer with the boys on Saturday nights. Merida would be haggard, the kids underfoot all the time and the close confines of the tenement making her nervous and jumpy, different from the beautiful girl she was now. They would argue about his future—why he couldn't find a better-paying job and why he had no more ambition—and life would start to close in around his throat, choking him to death.
NO!
he told himself.
I CAN'T DO THAT!
He reached down and turned the radio up loud so he couldn't hear himself think.

"Merida," he said, "I want you to be sure. I mean . . . I want you to be for certain that . . . you know . . . the kid's mine . . ." He was groping, looking for something to put between himself and the decision that had to be made. Instantly he felt like a traitor, a coward to the very pit of his soul. But he knew the truth—he didn't love her enough to change his life for her.

She turned her face away from him and very slowly straightened her spine so that she was sitting totally upright and not slumped as she had been a moment before. She moved away from him, her hands clenched in her lap.

So,
Rico told himself.
Now she understands. Oh, Christ, this is shitty, man! You're treating her like common pussy, some Crippler groupie, or the neon-daubed hustlers who call out their rates from each side of the boulevard.

And then Merida, a sob bursting from her throat, leaped from the Chevy before Rico knew what was happening. She ran down the street in the opposite direction, lowriders swerving around her, drivers cursing or calling out rude invitations. "Merida!" Rico shouted. He twisted the wheel, ran up onto the curb, then jerked the keys out of the ignition. Then he was out and running along Whittier, trying to find her among the hundreds of glaring, white headlights that stared impassively back at him. "MERIDA!" he called, braving a green Ford whose driver invited him to stick his head up his ass. He ran on through the traffic, being cursed in a variety of languages and inflections, but he didn't care. Merida was too young, too innocent, to be alone on a Saturday night on this neon hell of a boulevard. She didn't know the potential dangers, she was too trusting.
After all,
he thought bitterly,
she trusted me, and I'm the worst kind of rapist—I took her soul.
Half-blinded by charging headlights, he continued on, leaping aside as a burly, red-bearded biker swept past him on a blue chopper. Something shimmered on the pavement, and Rico bent to pick it up. It was Merida's silver crucifix, his birthday present to her. The clasp was broken where she'd ripped it off her neck; the necklace was still warm from her body heat.

"Merida!" he shouted, staring into a blaze of lights. "I'm sorry!"

But the night had swallowed her up, she was gone, and he knew that even if she did hear him calling over the tumultuous noise, she wouldn't turn back. No, she had too much pride for that, and in comparison to her, Rico felt slimy, covered with contagious sores.

He saw the blue light of that prowl car approaching, sliding through the lowriders. He was pierced by cold panic as he thought of his merchandise sitting in the Chevy's trunk, an easy score for the cops if they decided to see what he was carrying. Whirling around, he ran for the sidewalk, shoving people aside in his race with the prowl car. Pimps in peacock suits and their hot-pants clad hustlers slipped into doorways as the cops drove past. The blue light was going around and around, filling the air with electric resentment, but the cops weren't riding their siren. Rico slid behind the Chevy's wheel, jammed the key into the ignition, and backed off the curb, then spun the wheel sharply and merged with the slow, westbound traffic. About a block ahead he saw that two lowriders had slammed together in the middle of the boulevard, and a couple of guys were scuffling, urged on by a tight ring of onlookers. As Rico swerved past them, he heard the heart-stopping shrill of the police siren and, looking into his rearview mirror, he saw the prowl car stop to break up the fight. He punched his accelerator and slid smoothly around the slower cars.
No cops giving me hassles tonight,
he told himself.
Shit, I've had hassles enough!

And then he remembered Merida, alone on the boulevard. He couldn't leave her for the mass of predators who were all looking for fresh meat. He found a clear spot, made a fast U-turn, and drove back past the prowl car, past where Merida had leaped out into the street. Figures that had vanished into dark alleys and doorways were now reemerging to hawk their wares. The sidewalks were crowded with hungry humanity, and in that jostling crush one skinny, pregnant, Chicano girl would hardly matter. Rico was frightened for her; he held the silver chain and crucifix clenched in one hand, and though he was not a particularly religious man, he wished she'd kept it on for good luck. He thought,
I'll find her. If it takes me all night, I'll find her.

His Chevy moved on into the night, borne along and finally lost in the sea of metal.

Palatazin was standing at the locked iron gates of Hollywood Memorial Cemetery as Merida Santos was leaping from the red Chevy on Whittier Boulevard. His hands had closed around the bars, and he stood staring in as a chill evening breeze clattered palm leaves overhead. It was almost seven o'clock, and he realized that he'd told Jo on the telephone that he would pick her up at six-thirty for their dinner at The Budapest. He decided to tell her that something had come up at the office, to keep this cemetery thing to himself. Because what if he was wrong? That would make him as crazy as Lieutenant Kirkland had thought he was.
Stake out a cemetery?
Kirkland had asked incredulously over the telephone.
What for?

"Because," he'd said, "I asked you to. That should be enough."

"I'm sorry, captain," Kirkland had replied, "but I'll have to have more than that. Saturday night in Hollywood can be pretty damned rough, as you well know. Now what exactly does this have to do with the vandalism?"

"It's . . . it's very important that you do as I ask." Palatazin knew he was sounding crazy and that his voice was high and nervous and that Lieutenant Kirkland was probably grinning at one of his detectives, making a circular motion at his temple with his forefinger. "Please, lieutenant. No questions, not just yet. I'm only asking for a man or two out there tonight."

"Captain, Hollywood Memorial has their own watchman."

"But what happened to the watchman who was out there last night? Has anyone found him? No, I don
't
think so."

"Sorry." Kirkland had let a hint of irritation creep into his voice. "Why don't you send some of your own men if you want the cemetery watched so badly?"

"All my men are working day and night on finding the Roach. I can't ask any of them to . . ."

"Same here, sir. I can't. It's not justified." Kirkland had laughed softly. "I don't think those stiffs are going to be causing any trouble out there tonight, sir. I have to go, captain, if there's nothing else."

"No. Nothing else."

"Nice talking with you, captain. Sorry I couldn't help you out. Good hunting to you. Hope you nail that guy pretty soon."

"Yes. Goodbye, lieutenant." And Palatazin had heard Kirkland hang up his phone.

Now, for the second time today, he stood at the gates of the cemetery. This afternoon he'd watched the officers from the Hollywood Division walking around out there, stepping over skeletons; then the insurance and mortuary people had come in, followed by the dump trucks and work crews. Now the place looked serene again with the grassy knolls whitened by moonlight, the new mounds of dirt the only reminder that something terrible had happened here last night.

"Can I help you?" someone said from the darkness on the other side of the gate. A flashlight was flicked on, the beam directed into Palatazin's face. Palatazin reached for his wallet and showed his badge. "Oh. Sorry." The flashlight beam dropped, and a watchman in a dark gray uniform materialized from the night. He was a tall, white-haired man with friendly blue eyes. He wore a Hollywood Memorial badge on his shirt "I'm Kelsen," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, thank you. I just came to . . . look."

"To look? You should come back on Monday and take the tour—they show you all the celebrity graves." Kelsen smiled, but when Palatazin didn't respond, the smile faded. "Looking for anything in particular?"

"No. I was here earlier this afternoon when the officers were investigating."

"Oh, so that's it. Damndest thing I ever heard tell of. I didn't exactly see any of it, but I heard about it when they called me in. I don't usually work on Saturday nights. My wife pitched a fit."

"I imagine she did," Palatazin said quietly. "The man who worked last night. I understand his name was Zachary?"

"Yeah, old Zack." Kelsen leaned against the gate; behind him light streamed through the window of the watchman's station. "He usually has the weekend shift. Now he turns up missing, so they call me in." He shrugged and smiled again. "I don't care, I need the money. Listen, you people don't think Zack had anything to do with what happened here last night, do you?"

"I don't know. I don't work in the Hollywood Division."

"Oh." Kelsen frowned and swung his light up toward Palatazin again. "So why are you interested? I mean, it's damned strange and all, but I thought the cops wrapped it up today. Vandalism, right? Some cult kids who maybe needed coffins for . . . whatever it is they do. I heard the same thing happened over at Hope Hill Cemetery last week; somebody clipped the lock on the gates, tore up a few graves, and made off with five or six coffins. Hope Hill's a small cemetery, you know, and they can't afford a watchman, so nobody knows what happened. Just crazy kids, I guess. It's a crazy world, right?"

"Yes. Crazy."

"Listen, do you want to come in or something? Take a look around? I've got an extra flashlight."

Palatazin shook his head. "No need for that. I wouldn't find anything." He stared at Kelsen, his eyes going dark and cold. "Mr. Kelsen," he said, "is there a lock on the door of your little house there?"

"Yeah, there's a lock. Why?"

"Because I'm going to suggest that you do something, and I want you to listen to me very carefully." Palatazin's hands curled tighter around the bars. "If I tried to explain to you why I want you to do this, you wouldn't understand. So just listen, please."

"Okay," the watchman said, but he stepped back a pace from the man at the gate whose gaze had gone so hard and chilling.

"If anyone else comes to this gate tonight—man, woman, or child—you should lock your door and draw the blinds. If you hear this gate opening, you should turn up your radio very loud so you can't hear. And you should not come out to look. Let whoever it may be do as he or she pleases. But do not—
do not
—
come out to try to stop them."

"That's . . . that's my job," Kelsen said softly, a crooked grin frozen on his face. "What is this, a joke?
Candid Camera?
What's going on?"

"I'm deadly serious, Mr. Kelsen. Are you a religious man?"

This guy's not a cop!
Kelsen thought.
He's a freakin' nut!
"I'm a Catholic," he said. "Listen, what's your name?"

"If and when someone comes to this gate tonight," Palatazin continued, ignoring the question, "you should pray. Pray very loudly, don't pay any attention to anything they say to you." He squinted when the watchman's light hit his face. "Perhaps if you pray hard enough, they'll leave you in peace."