Six or seven college-age boys sat on the grass in folding chairs, drinking beer. Bags of potato chips and Fritos lay at their feet. They had long hair and, though the night was cool, all were shirtless. When I got closer, a couple of them mumbled, “Evening,” and one of them gave me the thumbs-up sign. The rest didn’t move at all.
I walked up to the thumber. His hair was dark and down to his nipples. His cheeks were hollow above curly chin whiskers.
“Hey, man,” he said, in a slurred voice. “Police?”
I shook my head.
“ ’Cause we been quiet after that time, man.” He flicked hair out of his face and stared at me. “You with the management?”
“No,” I said. “Just someone looking for—”
“We paid the rent, man. Cash to Mrs. Patrillo. If she din’t give it to you, tha’s not our fault.”
“Doris Reingold,” I said. “Do you know which unit is hers?”
He digested that. “Five. But she ain’t here.”
“Do you know where she is?”
He scratched his head. “She packed up some stuff and split.”
“When was this?”
Frown. Another head scratch. “Yesterday—yesterday night.”
“What time?”
“Um . . . I was just comin’ home and she was leavin’. It was at night. I said, You wan’ me to carry that stuff for you? but she i’nored me.” He belched and I could smell the hops. Taking a swig, he said, “Why you looking for her, man?”
“I’m a friend.”
He smiled. “Well, she’s okay . . . ackshally she’s a old bitch.” Laughter from some of the others.
A crew-cut kid said, “You’re just pissed ’cause she cleaned you out, Kyle.”
Thumber moved his head fast and stared at him. The other boy said, “Face it, Kyle.”
“Fuck you.” Kyle looked back at me. “She cheats, the old bitch.”
“At what?” I said.
“Everything. Poker, craps, dice. What’d you play with her?”
“Chess.”
“Yeah? Well, hate to tell you, but maybe she got herself a new boyfriend.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She split with a dude.”
Another of the boys said, “Pass the rinds.”
Kyle bent and fumbled on the grass for a long time, to a chorus of derision, before finally picking up a bag of pork rinds. Rolling it up, he tossed it behind his head. Someone caught it. Someone else said, “Shit! Watch it, asshole!”
I said, “Do you remember what this guy looked like?”
“Nope, but he had a fine Beemerdubyou.” To his friends: “Remember that Beemerdubyou? With the bitchin’ spoiler on its ass?”
A round-faced boy with very long, wavy blond hair said, “Din’t it have a bra?”
“Yeah,” said someone. “For its tits.”
Laugh track.
I looked back at the curb. The Seville was five cars down the block, under a working streetlight. The driver’s window was open, and I was pretty sure I saw Spike’s blocky head leaning out.
“A dark gray BMW?” I said. “Chrome wheels?”
“Yeah,” said Kyle. He shifted imaginary gears. “Gonna get me one of them.”
“Bullshit,” said another boy. “First you got to get your license back. Then you gotta learn how to play cards not like some asshole.”
“I’ll get it back, fuck you,” said Kyle. Suddenly, his shoulders were hunched and he was drawing his hand back, as if ready for a touchdown throw. He snapped his wrist and tossed his beer can. It flew by me and landed in the street, clattering and rolling, narrowly missing a parked car.
“Hey, man,” said someone. “Chill.”
“Fuck you!” Kyle was up on his feet. Both his hands were tight and he was bouncing on bare feet. He had nothing on but baggies. Tangles of tattoos on both arms.
He said, “Fuck you,” again.
No one answered. The snoring boy was awake.
Kyle wheeled and looked at me.
“What do you want?” he said in a new voice.
I gave him the thumbs-up sign and left.
As I got back in the car, Robin said, “Was everything okay back there?”
“Fine,” I said. “Oh, glorious youth.”
CHAPTER
31
I drove back to Malibu thinking of something Doris had told me.
“I like Nevada.”
A serious gambler? Was that where the payoff money had gone? If there’d ever been any.