The Night Crew

excite him, would give him the taste of victory. That hadn’t happened, and the heavy work—kicking the boy to death— had grown boring. The boy didn’t plead, didn’t argue: he just groaned and said, ‘‘Aw, man,’’ or sometimes, ‘‘Dude.’’
    ‘‘Tell me what it’s like when you fuck her,’’ the man crooned. ‘‘Tell me about her tits again. C’mon, tell me. Tell me again what it’s like when you do the thing .’’ He kicked him again, and Jason groaned, rocked with the blow, and one arm jerked spasmodically. ‘‘Tell me what it’s like to fuck her . . .’’
    No response: maybe a moan.
    ‘‘Tell me about Creek: he looks like a monster. He looks like Bigfoot. Tell me about Creek. Was he with you two? Were all three of you fucking her? All three at once?’’
    But the doper wasn’t talking. He was in never-never land.
    ‘‘Fuck you,’’ the two-faced man said, finally. He was tired of this. He could hear the ocean pounding against the pilings below them, a rhythmic roar. He took a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .22 revolver from his coat pocket and showed it to the bubbling wreck on the floor.
    ‘‘See this? I’m gonna shoot you, man.’’
    ‘‘Dude.’’ Jason was long past recognizing anything, even his own imminent death, the killer realized.
    He squatted: ‘‘Gonna shoot you.’’
    He pointed the pistol at the boy’s forehead, and when the roar of the surf started to build again, fired it once. The boy’s head bumped back. That was all.
    The two-faced man waited for some sensation: nothing came.
    ‘‘Well, shit,’’ he said. He’d been having more fun when the doper was alive. Had he really fucked her? Anna? He had all the details. So maybe he had.
    He stood up, pulled open the window on the ocean-side wall, and looked down. Deep water. Everything dark, but he could hear the water hissing and boiling.
    Just like it should be, he thought, looking out, for this kind of scene.

four

    At a little after one o’clock, Anna stirred, then woke all at once, aware first of her pillow, then the room, then the faint whine of a jumbo jet blowing out of LAX. She lay in bed for a few minutes, rolled over, looked at the clock, yawned, sat up and stretched.
    Showered, washed her hair.
    Anna liked dresses, a little on the hippie side, small flowers and low necklines, when she wasn’t working, or working out.
    For work, she had a carefully thought-out uniform, designed to make her fit in as many social slots as possible. The uniform consisted of cream-colored silk or white cotton blouses with black slacks, expensive black boots, and one of several linen or light woolen jackets, depending on the season. She had three Herme`s silk scarves, and always carried one or another in a buttoned inside pocket, along with a pair of gold earrings. If she dumped the jacket in the truck and rolled the sleeves on the blouse, she was hanging out. If she wore the coat, she was all business, still casual, but working. If she added the scarf and earrings, she could get by at anything short of a formal affair. Even at a formal affair, she could pass as a caterer.
    Any of the looks might be necessary in a night’s work, doing reconnaissance before the cameras lit up, especially if the work scene involved cops or security people allergic to publicity.
    She also needed a more formal look if she’d be on-camera herself. She didn’t like going on-camera—anonymity made everything easier—but sometimes an interviewer was necessary. When there was no choice, she needed the right look.
    For the camera guys, appearance didn’t matter: there was no way to camouflage the video lights. Now, out of the shower, she dried her hair, pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and laced her running shoes. Stopped in the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, bracing against the wall to loosen her calves as she drank it.
    The day was fine, cool, with blue skies and a light breeze from the ocean. The beach was a half-mile away, and she loosened up as she walked over on Venice Boulevard, then took a finger street down to the beach.
    A very large black man, who’d once been a second-string linebacker for the L.A. Raiders, was doing pull-ups on a rack set into the sand. He lifted a hand to Anna, continuing the pull-up with only one hand. Anna waved back and continued on to the water’s edge, turned right and started running. Six miles: three miles up, three back. She ran along the surf, through the shore birds, a