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Authors: Richard S. Prather
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button on my shirt. Little shivers grew out of nowhere and danced along my spine. She put one cool hand on each side of my face and pulled my face gently down to hers.
"Mañana," she breathed, and kissed me gently on my cheek, on my lips, on my throat. "Mañana, querido."
Hell, what with one thing and another, I didn't get out of there till damn near five o'clock.
Chapter Seven
I CLIMBED INTO THE Cad and stared at the windshield. I was plumb tuckered out.
It had rained again, but the skies were brightening and it looked as if Sunday might be crisp and clear. I started the car, drove up to Sunset, and turned east, listening to the tires humming on the wet street.
There were a lot of things I had to do, but the one really important thing was: What had happened to Tracy? She was a girl I'd never seen, never even heard of till Saturday afternoon. I'd only known about her for fifteen hours, but I was starting to feel responsible for her. So far she was just a face and a description. Georgia had left two color photos—a portrait and a full-length study—and Tracy's description with me when she'd left the office.
In the portrait, the face was that of a young girl with wide-set, intelligent eyes and brown hair fashioned in a feather cut. It was a face like that of a fine porcelain doll, and the eyes were the color of jade in moonlight. She was smiling; a pretty smile, but a little sad, and there was a small mole at the side of her mouth. Not beautiful, but pretty, attractive.
The full-length study was of a small girl with a slim, curved body—a woman's body, but curves that were fashioned with restraint. She was wearing a bright print dress and was leaning against the arm of a chair on the lawn of the Martin home.
The description: age, 19; height, five feet, two inches; weight, 110 pounds; eyes, green; hair, brown; identifying marks, mole left side of mouth, small scar inside left wrist.
And that was Tracy Martin. But where was she? And why? And how the hell was I going to find her? Los Angeles is the largest city in area in the United States, covering 452 Square miles. If she was in L.A., that narrowed it down to 452 square miles. Great.
And she could be in the morgue.
There was a pattern, though, so far. And if she fitted into the pattern, there was a way. A damn-fool, stupid way, but it was the only one I knew. There was so much I needed to know, so much that was missing. But I'd give it a whirl.
First, though, I was going to get religion. I was about to become a lamb fat for slaughter. I headed for Silver Lake Boulevard and the temple of the Inner World Society of Truth Believers. Narda,you'd better be good.
He was good. And everything leading up to his appearance was intelligently planned and executed for its ultimate effect. And that was a surprise. It was to me, anyway, because Southern California is a mecca and melting pot for half the cults and societies of the civilized, and sometimes uncivilized, world. Maybe you live here or you've been here and know about it, and maybe you don't. I was born in this town. A quarter century ago, when I was a towheaded kid starting to kindergarten, Los Angeles and Hollywood weren't what they are now. Pepper trees lined Hollywood Boulevard and the movies were silent, flickery things. L.A.'s city limits were a fraction of what they are today, and the population was only about half what it is now.
I've watched it grow, and as it grew, and as people from all over the States and even the world poured in, a rash of religious, vegetarian, mystic, and occult healers and savers sprang up like no other part of the States ever saw. Messiahs sprang up out of the ground, milked the suckers dry, then faded out of sight. Healers laid on hands, read the stars for propitious signs, and stood on their heads to save the downtrodden and, incidentally, make a fast buck.
Don't get me wrong. Some of them were sincere, tried to do good, and believed everything they preached. But most of them
"Mañana," she breathed, and kissed me gently on my cheek, on my lips, on my throat. "Mañana, querido."
Hell, what with one thing and another, I didn't get out of there till damn near five o'clock.
Chapter Seven
I CLIMBED INTO THE Cad and stared at the windshield. I was plumb tuckered out.
It had rained again, but the skies were brightening and it looked as if Sunday might be crisp and clear. I started the car, drove up to Sunset, and turned east, listening to the tires humming on the wet street.
There were a lot of things I had to do, but the one really important thing was: What had happened to Tracy? She was a girl I'd never seen, never even heard of till Saturday afternoon. I'd only known about her for fifteen hours, but I was starting to feel responsible for her. So far she was just a face and a description. Georgia had left two color photos—a portrait and a full-length study—and Tracy's description with me when she'd left the office.
In the portrait, the face was that of a young girl with wide-set, intelligent eyes and brown hair fashioned in a feather cut. It was a face like that of a fine porcelain doll, and the eyes were the color of jade in moonlight. She was smiling; a pretty smile, but a little sad, and there was a small mole at the side of her mouth. Not beautiful, but pretty, attractive.
The full-length study was of a small girl with a slim, curved body—a woman's body, but curves that were fashioned with restraint. She was wearing a bright print dress and was leaning against the arm of a chair on the lawn of the Martin home.
The description: age, 19; height, five feet, two inches; weight, 110 pounds; eyes, green; hair, brown; identifying marks, mole left side of mouth, small scar inside left wrist.
And that was Tracy Martin. But where was she? And why? And how the hell was I going to find her? Los Angeles is the largest city in area in the United States, covering 452 Square miles. If she was in L.A., that narrowed it down to 452 square miles. Great.
And she could be in the morgue.
There was a pattern, though, so far. And if she fitted into the pattern, there was a way. A damn-fool, stupid way, but it was the only one I knew. There was so much I needed to know, so much that was missing. But I'd give it a whirl.
First, though, I was going to get religion. I was about to become a lamb fat for slaughter. I headed for Silver Lake Boulevard and the temple of the Inner World Society of Truth Believers. Narda,you'd better be good.
He was good. And everything leading up to his appearance was intelligently planned and executed for its ultimate effect. And that was a surprise. It was to me, anyway, because Southern California is a mecca and melting pot for half the cults and societies of the civilized, and sometimes uncivilized, world. Maybe you live here or you've been here and know about it, and maybe you don't. I was born in this town. A quarter century ago, when I was a towheaded kid starting to kindergarten, Los Angeles and Hollywood weren't what they are now. Pepper trees lined Hollywood Boulevard and the movies were silent, flickery things. L.A.'s city limits were a fraction of what they are today, and the population was only about half what it is now.
I've watched it grow, and as it grew, and as people from all over the States and even the world poured in, a rash of religious, vegetarian, mystic, and occult healers and savers sprang up like no other part of the States ever saw. Messiahs sprang up out of the ground, milked the suckers dry, then faded out of sight. Healers laid on hands, read the stars for propitious signs, and stood on their heads to save the downtrodden and, incidentally, make a fast buck.
Don't get me wrong. Some of them were sincere, tried to do good, and believed everything they preached. But most of them
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