The Straw Men 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Straw Men, The Lonely Dead, Blood of Angels. Michael Marshall
under two hours, and then he’d be back. The Promenade was wall-to-wall browsing opportunities, most of them still open for business. She could get a Frappuccino and just hang. Wander round Anthropologie, on the lookout for gift ideas. Check the listening posts in B&N, in case they’d finally racked up something new. Even go sit in the Deli, and have a Cobb salad by herself. Basically, bottom line, simply make sure she was at the right place at the right time, and then – depending on what kind of mood he was in – either reveal that Sian hadn’t showed, or pretend everything had gone as usual.
She dialled Sian to make sure that this plan wouldn’t be undermined by Mrs Williams calling her mom. She couldn’t get through, which probably meant the car was up and running again and out of radio contact in a canyon. Sarah was confident that if her mother had been contacted then she’d know all about it already. Helicopters would be circling overhead, Bruce Willis being lowered down toward her on a rope.
She left a message for Sian, then walked over and went into Starbucks. It had occurred to her that if she did go to the Deli she could have whatever she wanted, rather than ordering the Cobb salad because that’s what they always did, dieting twenty years before they needed to. She could have, of all things, a burger. A huge great big burger, rare, with cheese. And fries.
She was thinking that maybe this was what it was like to be a grown-up, and that it could work out kind of interesting.
She’d come to the end of her Frap, and The Manics had bellowed their last this time round, when she saw a tall guy come out of the bookstore. He ambled a few yards, then stopped and peered up at the sky. It wasn’t yet dark, but it was getting past twilight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and struggled to extricate one from the packet while juggling what was evidently a heavy bag of books. This went on for quite a few moments, the man completely unaware of Sarah’s amused scrutiny. She was thinking that in his position she might try putting the bag down, but this obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
Eventually, exasperated, he walked over to the fountain and stuck the bag down on the edge. Once he’d got the cigarette lit he put his hands on his hips, looking down the way, before glancing at her.
‘Hello,’ he said. His voice was soft and cheerful.
Now that he was closer she thought he was probably about forty, maybe a little less. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, as there was a lamp behind his head and his face was slightly difficult to see. He just had that kind of older guy thing.
‘Say that again.’
He said: ‘Er, hello?’
She nodded sagely. ‘You’re English.’
‘Oh God. Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, like, you have an English accent.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ He took another drag of his cigarette, and then looked at the bench. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Sarah shrugged. Shrugging was good. It didn’t say yes, it didn’t say no. Whatever. The bench was plenty wide. She was salad-bound within seconds anyway. Or burger-bound. Still undecided.
The man sat. He was wearing a pair of corduroys, not especially new, but a light jacket that looked well-made. He had big, neat hands. His fair hair had been dyed a stronger blond, but expensively, and his face worked pretty well. Like a hip science teacher, or maybe social studies. The kind that probably wouldn’t sleep with a student, but could if he wanted.
‘So are you an actor, or something?’
‘Oh no. Nothing as grand as that. Just a tourist.’
‘How long are you here for?’
‘A couple of weeks.’ He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small object, made of shiny chrome. He flipped the top off and revealed it to be a small portable ashtray.
Sarah watched this with great interest. ‘The English smoke a lot, don’t they.’
‘We do,’ said the man, who wasn’t English. He stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the ashtray back in his pocket. ‘We are not afraid.’
They chatted for a little while. Sarah reminisced about London. The man was able to join in convincingly, as he had returned from the country only two days before. He did not reveal that the Barnes and Noble bag he was carrying was full of books he had owned for some years, nor that he had spent a full hour in the bookstore sitting in the Politics and Economics section, his face averted from the other customers, watching out of the window for Sarah to arrive. He instead asked for suggestions for what else he should see in the city. He listed the parts of Los Angeles he had already visited, a selection of the usual tourist traps.
Sarah, who took her responsibilities seriously, suggested the La Brea tar pit, Rodeo Drive, and the Watts Tower, which she felt would give a good span of where LA had come from, and where it was going. Plus, she thought privately, on Rodeo he could replace his corduroys with something a little more bon marché, as Sian – who’d vacationed in Antibes last year – was fond of saying.
Then the man went quiet for a moment. Sarah was thinking that it was time for her to windowshop her way down to dinner. She was gathering herself to say good night, when he turned and looked at her.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he said.
This might or might not be true – Sarah’s opinion was currently fiercely divided on the subject – but it was without question straight out of the ‘Watch out, a wacko’ box of conversational sallies.
‘Thanks,’ she said, bright-eyed with deflection. For a moment the evening seemed a little cooler, then steadied as she took control. ‘Anyway, nice talking to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quickly. ‘That’s rather an odd thing to say, I know. It’s just that you remind me of my own daughter. She’s about your age.’
‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘Cool.’
‘She’s back in Blighty,’ the man went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘With her mother. Looking forward to seeing them again, don’t you know. Top hole. Gor blimey. Princess Di, God rest ’er soul.’
His eyes flicked away from her then, took a quick glance around. Sarah assumed he was embarrassed. In reality he was estimating that in about twenty seconds all paths would converge to convenience him, the lines of sight all elsewhere. He was good at judging this kind of thing, at telling when he would be in vision, of seeing the small steps that would take him back out of sight. It was one of his special skills. He shifted a few inches closer to the girl, who stood up.
‘Anyway,’ Sarah said. ‘I got to go.’
The man laughed, as he felt the lines fall into place. He grabbed Sarah’s hand and tugged it with surprising force. She squawked quietly and fell back onto the bench, too shocked to resist.
‘Let go,’ she said, fighting to stay calm. The ground seemed to be falling away, a vertiginous, fluid feeling. She felt as if she had been caught cheating, or stealing.
‘Pretty girl.’ He gripped her hand more tightly. ‘A keeper.’
‘Please, let go of me.’
‘Oh shut up,’ he muttered, all pretence of an English accent gone. ‘You ludicrous little slut.’ His fist jackhammered up in a compact, short-armed punch, smashing straight into her face.
Sarah’s head jerked back, her eyes wide open and stunned. Oh no, she thought, the interior voice quiet and dismayed. Oh no.
‘Take a look, Sarah,’ the man said, his voice low and urgent. ‘Look at all the lucky people. The people who aren’t you.’
He nodded down the Promenade. Only a block down, the street was crowded. People going in and out of stores, taking exploratory looks at restaurant menus. Around Sarah and the man there was nobody to be seen.
‘Once there was just bush here, do you realize that? Ragged coastline, rocks, shells. A