He passed the locked bait shop and the gutting tables and the steel pump and fire-hose station. The radio music faded into the distant din of the breakers. Soon he could hear his own footsteps on the weathered boards and the slosh of waves lapping the pylons far below.

At the farthest reach of the pier, Keegan leaned over the scarred wood railing and looked down at the inky water. He pulled the bundle from his waistband and felt the heft of it in his hand. He glanced behind him, down the length of the pier. None of the fishermen had moved from where they sat. If they’d noticed him at all, they were no longer interested.

He could see the milky glow of Avalon on Catalina Island, a smudge of light on the black horizon. A scattering of ships’ lamps dotted the sea. The dim shape of the old Pacific Park amusement pier lay half a mile to the north, fenced off and falling into ruin. Its ramshackle Ferris wheel and the roller coasters and the old dance hall, all faintly dusted with moonlight. It was an eyesore. An arson job waiting to happen.

Keegan threw the package overhand, a lofty lob to get it as far away from him as he could. He watched the dark shape tumble in an arc through the moonlit sky. There was a small, silent plume of white in the distance, and it quickly vanished among the glimmering swells.

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, August 17, 1962

KEEGAN LOITERED AT the corner of Fifth and Hill, where he could keep an eye on Lusk’s newsstand over on the edge of the park. It was a little after five, and sunrise was more than an hour away. It wasn’t cold out, but the streets were sunk in the color-muted gloom of the wee hours. The Pershing Square palms were dwarfed by the dark buildings that loomed all around. The early, empty MTA busses were running, but otherwise the city still slept. Keegan kept close to the building on the corner, ready to duck out of sight if need be. Someone, wrapped in a grubby newspaper, snored in the alcove of the Owl Drugs across the way, a shambled shape that was only vaguely human. Keegan wondered how many times his own writing had served as a blanket against the chill. Maybe his doomed career as a newsman had accomplished something after all.

A white box truck rumbled up Hill Street with its high beams on, and Keegan ducked closer to the corner alcove. At Lusk’s corner, the truck pulled across lanes and parked, facing the wrong way. Lusk got out, jingling keys, and went to his newsstand. He unlocked the padlock on the plywood back door and went back to the truck.

Keegan looked both ways and jogged across the street against the light.