Free Boulevard by Bill Guttentag Page B

wasn’t a skinhead but running with them. One of the older skinheads, with a fat ring through his nose, held a nearly empty quart of Colt, leaned over the kid and the girl, taunting them.
    â€œCan’t take it, huh, baby?”
    â€œI can take it,” the little kid said in a voice that had yet to crack. “I can take it—”
    And he threw up again. The pack took off down the street, but the girl wrapped her arm around his shoulder and stayed next to him.
    â€œI’m sorry, June Bug,” he said.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. Just get the shit outta your body and you’ll be okay.”
    Casey looked from the skinheads to Terry, another of the triplets.
    â€œPoor kid,” she said.
    â€œYeah?” Terry said, “you won’t be saying that in a year, when he has a knife shoved up against your throat.”
    Casey suddenly jumped back. Scared. Timmy had silently flown back behind Casey and pulled to a tight stop behind her—so tight his handlebars lightly bumped into her ass.
    â€œHe got ya,” Terry laughed.
    He did. But then, she leaped backwards—up onto his handlebars. Timmy didn’t seem to mind, and rolled her back and forth. Casey liked that.
    â€œNice jump,” Timmy said.
    â€œGymnastics classes—four years.”
    â€œReally?” Paul called over.
    â€œReally and truly. I wanted to be a cheerleader. Can you believe it? Hey, I could’ve done it for your games. We could’ve gone out.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œYou didn’t go after cheerleaders? Not once?”
    â€œOnce.”
    â€œSee.”
    â€œI was faking. Whole thing was a joke.”
    â€œYou were probably a good faker though?”
    â€œWanna see?” Paul said with a smile.
    â€œYeah.”
    Casey waved for him to come over. Every minute he was with her was a great minute—she may have been grimy, cold, and living on the street—but Paul somehow made it better. He hopped off the trash can heading towards her—but a Camry pulled to a stop. Paul looked at Casey, then ran over to the car.
    The little skinhead made it to his feet, and along with the girl, scrambled after the rest of their gang. Timmy leaned forward on his bike to where his face was beside Casey’s.
    â€œWhere to, madam?”
    â€œWhere to? … Hollywood!”

15
    L ater, at a much slower speed, Casey and the triplets were back riding down Santa Monica Boulevard, heading for the 7-11. She had tired Timmy out, and now was sitting on Tracy’s handle bars. For once, Hollywood was fine with her. More than fine—no one telling you to go to sleep, to go home—do anything you didn’t want to do. Tracy was happy for the passenger and led the way with Casey leaning forward like a masthead. As she silently blew down the road, lit by orange-tinted streetlight lights, she saw her shadow passing like a flying ghost over one hustler after another. When they breezed by Carl’s Jr. at the corner of La Brea, Casey saw Paul.
    â€œHey. Stop.”
    â€œYou bet,” Tracy said. “I love this place.”
    Casey thought it was pretty much like the rest—and then she saw it wasn’t. She jumped off and went over to Paul, who was surrounded by half a dozen girls—all cute—the oldest of whom couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Paul took a smoke from a girl who looked fourteen and was wearing a super-tight yellow miniskirt. Beside her was a girl a year or two younger and the cutest of all, wearing tiny shorts, a skimpy black bra and black leather boots which rose past her knees to the middle of her thighs.
    â€œMeet my favorite girls,” Paul said.
    He slipped his hand around the waist of the girl in the miniskirt, “This is Barbara … .” Then he put his other arm around the younger girl. “… And this is Gina.”
    Gina sweetly said hi. A second later, Timmy leapt off his bike, and suddenly planted a kiss