The Shadow Hunter

school.”
    “
Wrong
.” Hickle stamped the flat of his hand on the table, rattling the plates, then bit his lip in embarrassment. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be overemphatic. But people are always saying stuff like that. I heard it the whole time I was growing up. Get out in the adult world, and everything changes for you. That’s what they say.”
    “But it doesn’t?”
    “Not at all. High school
is
real life. It’s real life without any pretense.”
    He took another gulp of beer, but it wasn’t alcohol that was allowing him to talk so freely now. It was her questions, each as gently probing as a scalpel, and her calm, meditative gaze, and the silences she gave him in which he could say whatever he liked without judgment or reproach.
    “Let me tell you about high school.” He picked up a carrot stick from a side dish and toyed with it distractedly. “There was this guy in our class, Robert Chase. He wasn’t particularly smart. Not an idiot, you understand, but no genius either, and not a good student. He cut class, got Cs and Ds, smoked dope in the bathroom, screwed around. But he had one advantage.”
    “Let me take a wild stab. Was it…the look?”
    “That’s right. Good old Bob Chase.” Hickle’s mouth twisted into an ugly shape. “The girls called him Bobby with that sigh in their voice, you know? He was tall, had thick curly hair and washboard abs, was a star on the basketball team. They all
loved
him.”
    She heard the stale envy in his voice. She said nothing.
    “So a couple of months ago I’m reading the
LA Times
, and what do I see? Robert Chase from my hometown is chief of stafffor a member of Congress in Washington, DC. He’s an up-and-comer. They say he might run for office himself. He could end up as the goddamned—sorry—end up as President. Why? I’m smarter than he is. I got better grades. I didn’t slam kids into lockers and sucker-punch them for laughs.” Hickle snapped the carrot stick, tossed the pieces aside, and picked up another. “But I don’t have the look. Be honest. Could I ever be President?”
    In her mind Abby saw a convention hall, balloons, cheers, and in the spotlight the baffled, rumpled, shaggy figure of Raymond Hickle, black hair sloppily askew, neck red with acne, face drawn and fleshy at the same time—hollow around the eyes, meaty and thick at the jaw. She imagined him trying to make a speech, command respect, summon all his authority, and what she heard was a crowd’s laughter. “Not everybody has to be President,” Abby said gently.
    Hickle waved off this reply as if irritated by it. “The President was just an example. People like Bob Chase are the winners in life. They can do whatever they want. They can have whoever they want. Anyone, anything.” He turned his head, averting his gaze from the truths he was telling. “If they want money, it flows to them. Or fame…look at them on every magazine cover. Or, well”—he blushed—“sex, you know—if that’s what they want, they get it.”
    Abby nodded, thinking hard. Years ago Hickle had fastened on Jill Dahlbeck, an aspiring actress not unlike many of the women in this room. Now his obsession was Kris Barwood, a more accomplished celebrity. Most likely there had been others, all famous or striving for fame. He was drawn to beautiful women, but beauty was not enough for him. There had to be stardom or the promise of it. Stars were golden people, and he desperately wanted to be one of them. He had not outgrown his adolescent longings for approval and admiration. For him, all of life was prom night, and he was the only one going stag.
    “How about happiness?” Abby asked softly. “Do they get that too?”
    “Of course. We just drove through Beverly Hills. Did you see the houses? Or go up to Malibu…”
    Where Kris lived. Abby lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”
    “It’s beautiful there. Have you seen it?”
    “No.”
    “It’s magical.”
    “You mean the beach? The seashore?”
    “All of it. Malibu’s a perfect place. How could anybody live there and not be happy? It’s paradise.”
    Abby had in fact visited Malibu many times. For her, the town fell short of its reputation. The hills were sere and parched for half the year, afflicted by mudslides in the rainy season and chaparral fires in the hot, dry months. Beautiful homes could be glimpsed behind gated walls, but the main thoroughfare was lined with ramshackle surf shops and bike rental outlets. She would not have called it