was not that he was not attracted to girls his own age; he was. But once he was close enough to see behind the rouge and lipstick and beribboned hair he found them silly, unserious to a fault. They represented the type of people who populated the world, or at least as much of the world as he knew, with their babblings and petty arguments and insincere compliments, and he rejected them and rejected their world as well. He was more than content to walk alone.
Piper was a town of two thousand people, in the western Panhandle, on one of the main routes to the Gulf beaches. It was the type of place that people only passed through going elsewhere, stopping maybe for gas or at the numerous fruit stands lining the highway north toward the Alabama border, oranges and grapefruit mostly, melons, none of which was any fresher really than they could buy in their grocery stores in Birmingham or Atlanta or Chattanooga, since Piper was two hundred miles from the fruit-growing region down in the central part of the state, the fruit stand owners relying on the motorists’ sudden awareness that soon they would leave Florida and their realization that they hadn’t bought enough fruit to take home with them. Piper had little in common with the beach towns with their gaudy pretensions to happiness and escape—the broken promises and the desperation. Piper didn’t even have a single motel, only an ancient tourist home sitting in stoic defiance of the obvious illogic of stopping when you’re a mere two hours from the beach. Nobody ever stopped there.
It was a perfect early summer evening, not too hot, and the boy, whose name was Lester Ray Holsomback, walked along a dirt road—actually a street of the town—that ran along the river. He wore tight jeans and a white T-shirt, with a package of Camels rolled up in the sleeve. He was clearly visible in the bright moonlight, would have been even if he had not had on the T-shirt. He was just under six feet tall, with shoulders so wide they strained the T-shirt in the back. His hair was silky black, short, cut about half an inch all over, not so much cut as just there. He had a birthmark on the left side of his crown, white hairs in a misshapen V, as though some God or Fate had reached down and said thoughtfully, “Hmmmm, okay, him,” and put a check mark there. His eyes were a light blue, sometimes in certain lights almost gray, providing a contrast with the sun-darkened skin of his face. The only odd thing about him this night was that he wore on his face a Frank Sinatra mask, made of rubber, fastened with elastic bands in the back. He came around toward the end of the road, a turn-around at the river, behind the city dump, paused in the moon shadows, and stood looking at the car parked there.
It was an old Chevrolet coupe, black with a red top. He knew whose it was: Billy Blankenship, a senior next year at the high school, whose father ran a business supply store downtown. Lester Ray stood in the shadows and lit a cigarette. He was not concerned about being seen. He knew he wouldn’t be, because the occupants of the car would be too busy. He could not see them, but he knew they were in there. He had watched them come down here before, had seen them pass by his house earlier on this night, Billy and his girl friend, named Lucy Hatter, nicknamed “Lucy Goosey.” A fat girl. Giggled all the time.
Lester Ray had quit school in the sixth grade. He did not know this couple very well personally, since he spent most of his time hanging out with Mrs. McCrory and doing yard work for her, or working in the pool room—sweeping out the place, racking balls—and, with whatever money he could put together, drinking beer at Saddler’s Lounge, on the edge of town. He was not likely to see either one of them in one of those places. He just knew who they were. He moved out into the clearing of the turn-around, took a last drag on the cigarette and flipped it out into the road, the butt making a little golden rocket arch before it hit the sand. He walked up closer to the car. He peered into the open window. They were in the back seat.
He could see Billy Blankenship’s plump ass pumping up and down, the girl’s knees sticking up on each side. There was complete silence, not even any heavy breathing, much less moaning or whispering or crying out. Lester Ray fingered the switchblade knife in his pocket. He straightened the Frank Sinatra mask, made sure it was tight. He reached into the window and tapped Billy Blankenship on his ass; the boy froze.
“What’s the matter?” Lucy Hatter said.
Billy still did not move. After a few moments he said, “Awww, now, Bubba, is that you? You crazy son-of-a-bitch.”
“What is it?” the girl said.
“Somebody playin a trick,” the boy said.
“Somebody’s here? Git up offa me!”
They scrambled up, struggling in the narrow space. They were both buck naked. Lester Ray could see the girl’s big meaty breasts waggling. They were both trying to see out the car window.
“Ain’t no Bubba here,” Lester Ray said.
“What the fuck?” Billy Blankenship said, gaping at the Frank Sinatra mask outside in the moonlight.
“Frankie boy is here,” Lester Ray said, “get out of the car.”
“What the fuck?” Billy said again.
“Get outta the car,” Lester Ray said, “I ain’t gonna tell you a second time.” Lester Ray pulled out the knife and snapped it open. He held the blade up, letting it glint in the moonlight.
“Jesus,” Billy Blankenship said.
“No, just old Frankie Sinatra,” Lester Ray said, and laughed.
Billy Blankenship cocked his head to the side, trying to get a better look at him. “Who in the fuck are you?” he said. “Fuck, this ain’t Halloween!”
“Get outta the car, hand me your pants and her purse. Now.”
“Wait. Let her get her clothes on,” Billy said.
“Hell no. Out!”
Billy clambered out, naked, his pecker still about half hard, drooping, pointing to the ground. The girl followed, heavy hipped, bulbous breasts wallowing. Lester Ray checked out her big bush of black hair under the hand that she tried to shield herself with. She was standing pigeon-toed, with her other arm across her breasts.
“What do you want?” the girl asked, in a high whine.
“I told you,” Lester Ray said, “I want your money. Give me your pants and your purse, and don’t try nothin or I’ll cut your balls and tits off.”
“Give it to him, Billy, for God’s sakes,” Lucy said.
Billy was rummaging around behind him in the car. “If this is a damn trick, I’m gonna . . .”
“Believe me, this ain’t no trick,” Lester Ray said. He was wary of him, poised, in case he came out with a tire iron or something. But Lester Ray was a head taller than Billy and fifty pounds heavier, and he would have bet good money that the boy would do nothing to defend himself or the girl.
The boy pulled his pants out and handed them toward Lester Ray. “Give me the wallet and all your change,” Lester Ray said, motioning with the knife. Billy held out a handful of change and Lester Ray took it and put it in his pocket. He reached into the proffered wallet and slid the bills out; he could see that there were ones and fives. And some tens. Billy’s folks were well-off. He flung the wallet out into the road. “Now your purse, lady,” he said. She was shaking all over. She got the purse and handed it to him. He snapped it open with one hand, holding the knife on them. There was a red, plastic billfold in there with nothing in it but a one-dollar bill. He took that and flung the purse after Billy’s billfold. “Give me your car keys,” Lester Ray said.
“What the fuck?”
