Ahead of him, a traffic signal turned red. He kept his foot on the accelerator as he approached it.
Not much of a risk. It was two o'clock in the morning, after all, so what were the odds of a car swooping down from one of the sides and nailing him? Slim to none. Phil hoped for a spurt of adrenaline as he shot across the intersection against the red light. He didn't get it.
He crossed the center line.
Oh yes.
His heart quickened, his stomach knotted.
'All right,' he gasped.
This is good, this is fine.
Hands slick on the steering wheel, he sped up the downhill lane.
'Bat outa hell!'
He killed the headlights. Enough light came from the street lamps for him to see the road ahead. Almost. The pavement was a vague runway bordered by dark slopes, curving and twisting upward.
He steered around a bend one-handed as he turned on the radio. 'This is KLFC bringing you mellow sounds from midnight till dawn.'
'Shit on it.' Phil turned the knob and got Bruce Springsteen. 'The Boss!' he yelled, and twisted the volume high.
A ghost of light swept across the darkness ahead. With a whoop, Phil flicked the steering wheel. The Jaguar lurched to the right as the glare of headlights hit his eyes. A horn blasted. A Mustang flew by, very close but missing.
Phil laughed.
He had a green light at Mulholland. He shot beneath it so fast that his tires left the pavement when the road dropped away on the other side.
The road down from the crest was wide and, he knew, often heavily patrolled. He turned on his headlights and slowed down to t speed limit.
The fun was over. He still felt a little light-headed and shaky, and he held onto the good feelings for a while by thinking back to his wild trip to the top and his close one with the Mustang.
It had been bitchin', definitely bitchin'.
When he reached the intersection with Ventura Boulevard, he turned the radio off. He waited out the traffic signal, then made a left and drove to Earl's Body Shop.
He swung into the driveway, stopped in front of the closed double doors of the garage, and honked his horn.
Moments later, one of the doors rolled upward. Earl, the stub of a cigar jutting from a corner of his mouth, waved him in.
Phil pulled the Jaguar forward. Behind him, the door rumbled down. He shut off the engine and climbed out.
Earl squinted at the car through a gray screen of smoke. 'Looks like a beauty,' he said.
'She is a beauty,' Phil told him. 'Handles like a dream.'
Earl walked around the car, puffing and nodding. 'You were gonna have this to me last week.'
'Don't sweat it, Earl.'
'I ain't sweatin'. It's only just I told the guy he'd get it, know what I mean?'
'Well, now you've got it.'
'Takes time, the paint job, changin' the serial numbers, all that…'
'Takes time,' Phil retorted, 'finding a Jag in mint condition.'
'Thought you had one all lined up.'
'I did. I had the baby. Snatched it over in Beverly Hills, but it was raining like shit and some old fart walked right out in front of me and I creamed him. Creamed him real good, and I think some gal saw me nail him so I had to bail out. Who needs that kind of heat? Not me. Hey, this is a better car, anyway. That other one didn't have brakes for shit.'
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Richard Laymon, Alarums
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