on a hunch because of his own insecurity.
At the entrance to the disco, a fur wrap draped over her flimsy dress giving her protection from the autumn chill, she extended her arm to flag down a taxi, thinking that because the parade had drifted farther south in the city, and with the streets surrounding Union being freer of traffic, she would not have too long to wait.
But when after ten minutes no cab appeared, she gave up and began walking, mixing with noisy, costumed celebrants who thronged the pavement, delighting in the anonymity her costume gave her.
Then she felt a hand on her arm. Jim! she thought angrily. He’d chased her all this way. “I’m not going with you!” she shouted.
But when she turned she saw that it wasn’t Jim at all. It was Teddy. Uncostumed.
He looked mildly surprised, more amused, and he said, “Oh no? Is that your final word on the subject?”
She was heartened to see him. “Teddy! What are you doing here? How did you recognize me?”
She still had not removed her mask. Unless he had followed her out of the discotheque there was no way he could have known who it was.
But all she got from him was his customary smile that suggested he knew the world and the ways people had of dealing with it far better than she. “It must be magic,” he said.
“Magic? Were you watching me all this time?” She did not wish to provoke him by using the word spying. Teddy was not Jim Corona.
“I am always watching you. I find you lovely, in costume or out, and so I see nothing wrong with watching you.”
She drew her wrap tighter around her. “Well, I don’t like it.”
She was thinking: He must have been in the discotheque, disguised, observing me and Jim.
He ignored her last remark. Instead he took her arm and began to guide her up the street. She did not resist. “Where are you taking me?”
“First to my car.”
“And then?”
“Then to a very special place.”
Because of the mask he could not see the dubious expression that had taken hold of her face. “You’re crazy, Teddy,” she said affectionately.
“I am at that,” he agreed quite seriously.
C H A P T E R
S e v e n
H arry could not find Owens, not on Golden Gate, not on McAllister or Fulton, which ran parallel to it, not on Buchanan, Laguna, Webster, Steiner, or Octavia, which ran perpendicular to it. Among the stragglers who had detached themselves from the parade or had simply never caught up with it in the first place Harry could see no one who vaguely resembled the boozing, shambling derelict that Owens had become. Ghosts and Merlins, Jack the Rippers and Count Draculas, Frankensteins and vampires there were aplenty, even a few genuine bums who dazedly stared at such unusual exhibitionism, probably wondering whether what they were seeing had any basis in reality or was merely a result of hallucinations brought on by alcohol and the d.t.’s.
Harry kept going, having no time to admire the ingenuity of the disguises that greeted his eyes, half-running, half-walking, impatient with those that unwittingly impeded his progress. Every now and then he took out his radio and again attempted to establish communication with his partner. No luck.
Thirty-five minutes had been exhausted in this manner, and yet Harry had no intention of giving up his search even if he was obliged to call out an entire search party to join him in the effort.
Where, he thought, stopping now to catch his breath, where would he go to find trouble if trouble was what he wanted? It did not take him long to find an answer.
Golden Gate Park. There, with the woods and the brush and the dark, a man could commit his crimes, be they minor or major, without fear of discovery.
When he’d first seen him, Owens hadn’t given him a second thought. He was just another man in mufti though his size was formidable. Draped completely in a thick cotton robe all of black, with a skeletal mask blotting out his entire face, he must have measured almost seven feet,
At the entrance to the disco, a fur wrap draped over her flimsy dress giving her protection from the autumn chill, she extended her arm to flag down a taxi, thinking that because the parade had drifted farther south in the city, and with the streets surrounding Union being freer of traffic, she would not have too long to wait.
But when after ten minutes no cab appeared, she gave up and began walking, mixing with noisy, costumed celebrants who thronged the pavement, delighting in the anonymity her costume gave her.
Then she felt a hand on her arm. Jim! she thought angrily. He’d chased her all this way. “I’m not going with you!” she shouted.
But when she turned she saw that it wasn’t Jim at all. It was Teddy. Uncostumed.
He looked mildly surprised, more amused, and he said, “Oh no? Is that your final word on the subject?”
She was heartened to see him. “Teddy! What are you doing here? How did you recognize me?”
She still had not removed her mask. Unless he had followed her out of the discotheque there was no way he could have known who it was.
But all she got from him was his customary smile that suggested he knew the world and the ways people had of dealing with it far better than she. “It must be magic,” he said.
“Magic? Were you watching me all this time?” She did not wish to provoke him by using the word spying. Teddy was not Jim Corona.
“I am always watching you. I find you lovely, in costume or out, and so I see nothing wrong with watching you.”
She drew her wrap tighter around her. “Well, I don’t like it.”
She was thinking: He must have been in the discotheque, disguised, observing me and Jim.
He ignored her last remark. Instead he took her arm and began to guide her up the street. She did not resist. “Where are you taking me?”
“First to my car.”
“And then?”
“Then to a very special place.”
Because of the mask he could not see the dubious expression that had taken hold of her face. “You’re crazy, Teddy,” she said affectionately.
“I am at that,” he agreed quite seriously.
C H A P T E R
S e v e n
H arry could not find Owens, not on Golden Gate, not on McAllister or Fulton, which ran parallel to it, not on Buchanan, Laguna, Webster, Steiner, or Octavia, which ran perpendicular to it. Among the stragglers who had detached themselves from the parade or had simply never caught up with it in the first place Harry could see no one who vaguely resembled the boozing, shambling derelict that Owens had become. Ghosts and Merlins, Jack the Rippers and Count Draculas, Frankensteins and vampires there were aplenty, even a few genuine bums who dazedly stared at such unusual exhibitionism, probably wondering whether what they were seeing had any basis in reality or was merely a result of hallucinations brought on by alcohol and the d.t.’s.
Harry kept going, having no time to admire the ingenuity of the disguises that greeted his eyes, half-running, half-walking, impatient with those that unwittingly impeded his progress. Every now and then he took out his radio and again attempted to establish communication with his partner. No luck.
Thirty-five minutes had been exhausted in this manner, and yet Harry had no intention of giving up his search even if he was obliged to call out an entire search party to join him in the effort.
Where, he thought, stopping now to catch his breath, where would he go to find trouble if trouble was what he wanted? It did not take him long to find an answer.
Golden Gate Park. There, with the woods and the brush and the dark, a man could commit his crimes, be they minor or major, without fear of discovery.
When he’d first seen him, Owens hadn’t given him a second thought. He was just another man in mufti though his size was formidable. Draped completely in a thick cotton robe all of black, with a skeletal mask blotting out his entire face, he must have measured almost seven feet,
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