to his ear. The hooked kids cruising the parked cars for a portable typewriter or tape recorder. Something to be sold fast to get enough for a fix.
"To fuck is beautiful!" came the voice over the bullhorn. "But not with fucking male chauvinist fucking male pigs!"
A lackluster cheer went up from her audience. The child carrying the ABORTION NOW! placard waved her sign. Had there really been a time when people came only to ride the swan boats and listen to the band concerts? Now it was Gay Power and Women's Lib.
I strolled on across the park. Braless girls in tight jeans. The stuff of adolescent dreams. The whole scene in fact so dreamy as to make unreal the fact that I had just killed one man and was now on my way to kill another. Killing had seemed more appropriate to the black waters of the swamp where I had disposed of Stud's body. Here, with the sailboats scudding across the Charles and the flower children playing on the grass, death seemed far away.
Stacey and I had walked hand-in-hand across the Common when I had been at Harvard Law and she at Radcliffe. Each Sunday we had bicycled here to lie on the grass and listen to the concerts. I could see her slim figure, her great dark eyes, her cherry red lips as clearly as if it had been yesterday. With my head in her lap she had looked down at me and stroked her silken fingertips across my cheek and said, "Oh, Mr. Shaw, I do believe I'm rather fond of you, Mr. Shaw."
The memory was so painfully clear that for a moment I half expected her to come running across the grass to join me. I quickened my steps along the sharp incline of Beacon Hill.
The place I wanted was on the other side of the Hill. I j was after an authentic chopper, not some lily-livered Honda 350 or Triumph. The owner of the bike-repair shop looked like a Beak or Hell's Angel himself. When I told him I was interested in a used Harley in reasonably good condition, he squinted at me over the tip of his cigar and said, "Like for what, man?"
"To ride."
"You?"
"Me."
"That's a going machine, man."
"That's what I want."
He shrugged. "You want to spill your brains on the road that's your business, mister."
"Right."
"I ain't got one here, 'but I know where I can get one."
"Ready to go?"
He removed the cigar and spat on the cement floor. "As ready as you are, man."
"I want it today."
"Like an hour if the price is right, man."
"How much do you want for it?"
"Eight bills."
"Is it hot?"
He looked pained. "Oh man, would I be peddling a hot bike in my own shop? You could be fuzz for all I know."
I gave him a hundred on account and told him I'd be back in an hour to pick up the machine. I went into the first Army-Navy store I came to and bought levis, boots, a beat-up surplus leather jacket, and an Indian headband. I was torn between the headband and lovebeads, but decided the beads would be a bit much. I put on the outfit I had bought and dumped my shirt, suit, and tie.
The bike was waiting for me as promised-four hundred pounds of dynamite. I kicked it into life, and it answered with a snarl. I handed over seven hundred dollars. In return I was given a registration and bill of sale that looked reasonably authentic.
"I'll want to use the plate that's on there," I said. "At least temporarily."
"For seven bills you can use my mother," he said.
"Some other time."
"You are like really making the scene, man. What are you doing, splitting on your wife or something?"
"I'll need a helmet. Have you got one?"
"Not new. Nothing in the joint is new."
He produced a battered sky-blue helmet festooned with a sprinkle of stars. It was a little tight but wearable.
"You look pretty good, man. If you really want to make it with the chicks, you ought to run up to
"To fuck is beautiful!" came the voice over the bullhorn. "But not with fucking male chauvinist fucking male pigs!"
A lackluster cheer went up from her audience. The child carrying the ABORTION NOW! placard waved her sign. Had there really been a time when people came only to ride the swan boats and listen to the band concerts? Now it was Gay Power and Women's Lib.
I strolled on across the park. Braless girls in tight jeans. The stuff of adolescent dreams. The whole scene in fact so dreamy as to make unreal the fact that I had just killed one man and was now on my way to kill another. Killing had seemed more appropriate to the black waters of the swamp where I had disposed of Stud's body. Here, with the sailboats scudding across the Charles and the flower children playing on the grass, death seemed far away.
Stacey and I had walked hand-in-hand across the Common when I had been at Harvard Law and she at Radcliffe. Each Sunday we had bicycled here to lie on the grass and listen to the concerts. I could see her slim figure, her great dark eyes, her cherry red lips as clearly as if it had been yesterday. With my head in her lap she had looked down at me and stroked her silken fingertips across my cheek and said, "Oh, Mr. Shaw, I do believe I'm rather fond of you, Mr. Shaw."
The memory was so painfully clear that for a moment I half expected her to come running across the grass to join me. I quickened my steps along the sharp incline of Beacon Hill.
The place I wanted was on the other side of the Hill. I j was after an authentic chopper, not some lily-livered Honda 350 or Triumph. The owner of the bike-repair shop looked like a Beak or Hell's Angel himself. When I told him I was interested in a used Harley in reasonably good condition, he squinted at me over the tip of his cigar and said, "Like for what, man?"
"To ride."
"You?"
"Me."
"That's a going machine, man."
"That's what I want."
He shrugged. "You want to spill your brains on the road that's your business, mister."
"Right."
"I ain't got one here, 'but I know where I can get one."
"Ready to go?"
He removed the cigar and spat on the cement floor. "As ready as you are, man."
"I want it today."
"Like an hour if the price is right, man."
"How much do you want for it?"
"Eight bills."
"Is it hot?"
He looked pained. "Oh man, would I be peddling a hot bike in my own shop? You could be fuzz for all I know."
I gave him a hundred on account and told him I'd be back in an hour to pick up the machine. I went into the first Army-Navy store I came to and bought levis, boots, a beat-up surplus leather jacket, and an Indian headband. I was torn between the headband and lovebeads, but decided the beads would be a bit much. I put on the outfit I had bought and dumped my shirt, suit, and tie.
The bike was waiting for me as promised-four hundred pounds of dynamite. I kicked it into life, and it answered with a snarl. I handed over seven hundred dollars. In return I was given a registration and bill of sale that looked reasonably authentic.
"I'll want to use the plate that's on there," I said. "At least temporarily."
"For seven bills you can use my mother," he said.
"Some other time."
"You are like really making the scene, man. What are you doing, splitting on your wife or something?"
"I'll need a helmet. Have you got one?"
"Not new. Nothing in the joint is new."
He produced a battered sky-blue helmet festooned with a sprinkle of stars. It was a little tight but wearable.
"You look pretty good, man. If you really want to make it with the chicks, you ought to run up to
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