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“Here’s hoping it’s better than nothing,” Faith replied, standing and calling for Turk.
CHAPTER SEVEN
You got sand in your ears, boy?
He shook his head and pressed his chin to his chest, hardly aware he was doing it. “No,” he whispered softly.
So what are you waiting for? Grab your pecker and get on with it.
He pouted and shook his head again. He hated when Grandpa talked to him like that. It was so coarse and so angry, like he couldn’t stand the sight of his disappointing grandson and had to berate him for simply existing.
Look, boy, you want to spend the rest of your life getting walked all over, you be my guest. I ain’t wastin’ my time trying to turn a yellow daisy into a red-blooded man.
“I can do it!” he insisted, loudly enough that he jumped at the sound of his voice and looked quickly around to make sure no one noticed him.
They didn’t. They never did.Hecertainly didn’t.
The man he followed laughed and joked along with his new friends. He wore jeans and a tight t-shirt underneath a flannel sweater. His beard was fuller, the killer noticed. A little grayer than he remembered but just as well-groomed. The killer wondered if he was dating another hairstylist. His old girlfriend had been a hairstylist. The killer remembered her. Sammie. She was nice. She brought him cookies sometimes.
You keep quiet for now, boy, Grandpa said. Now that he was committed to this course of action, Grandpa was no longer sarcastic.Finish your drink and bide your time. He’ll have to move on eventually. When he does, you follow him, and when you can take him without being seen, you take him. You remember what I taught you?
“Long choke, not short choke. Short chokes leave bruises.”
A nearby couple looked questioningly up from their table and Grandpa snapped,You want to turn yourself in or something, boy? Keep your fool mouth shut and calm the hell down.In a softer voice, he added.You’ll get him. Just be patient and stay focused.
“Focused,” he said quietly.
Boy,Grandpa warned.
He nodded slightly and kept his fool mouth shut, just like Grandpa told him. Grandpa was always right. Grandpa cared about him.
He finished his drink and then ordered another. He sat back and pretended to watch the football game, but his focus never left the bearded man in the flannel sweater. He waited until the game was over, then joined with the crowd of irate locals in berating the moronic referees who had allowed the visiting team to commit so many fouls on their way to an obviously bullshit victory over the home team.
He waited until the bearded man stood and said his goodbyes to his friends. He called for his check and tipped the bartender generously. The bartender, a young woman of maybe twenty-five with a dynamite body and a healthy crop of long, natural blonde hair, smiled at him with the surface sweetness and barely concealed disgust of a young woman long used to the unwanted attentions of older drunk men.
He smiled and added just a touch of lust to the smile, enough to look like every other man in the bar but not so much that she would remember him. “Thank you.”
“You be safe out there, honey,” she said, and for a moment, he allowed himself to believe she actually cared.
She didn't, of course. No one did.
He stepped outside and panicked when he couldn’t see the bearded man. He looked right and left, his heartbeat quickening.No!he cried silently.I can’t lose him!
Calm your tits, boy, Grandpa replied with his usual vulgarity.He lives in Cedarwood. You know where that is.
He sighed with relief. Cedarwood was three blocks north and five blocks east. That was a right from the bar, and then another right on Larchmont Drive.
He walked along, unhurried, and in the distance saw his target turning right on Larchmont. He smiled to himself and felt his heart start to beat faster.
“Calm your tits,” he said softly.
He laughed at hearing himself repeat Grandpa’s favorite phrase. He wasn’t worried anymore. Why should he be? It was a beautiful night.
He didn’t notice the old police cruiser that pulled into the bar just as he left the parking lot. The agents inside of the cruiser paid no attention to the somewhat inebriated man choosing to do the safe thing by walking home rather than driving.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They found Ulysses Pratt at the bar, talking to a disgusted young blonde bartender and a few less disgusted but very inebriated middle-aged men. Ulysses was equally inebriated, as evidenced by his leers and occasional pawing at the bartender, who avoided his grasp with the practiced grace of a woman long accustomed to serving drinks to men.
