The residents of his apartment complex, built in the 1950s, had no idea who he was. This thought comforted Tarantula every time he parked outside 301 Ocean Avenue, nondescript middle-class housing. The four dozen or so other tenants enjoyed their views of the Pacific Ocean and kept to themselves. An expectation of minding one’s own business came with the territory; at least half the tenants were women who earned their livings on their backs, almost always with a studio-boss sugar daddy paying the rent, though sometimes they had to be more entrepreneurial.

As he walked up the stairs to his apartment, Tarantula felt like someone was watching him. He looked behind him, then resumed his climb to the third floor, breaking a sweat as he always did, beginning to gasp for air. He knew that his disgusting appearance was an asset to his desire for anonymity. Folks didn’t want to know more about him and made every effort to forget his existence.

He opened the triple locks of the steel-reinforced door and stepped in. The television could be heard from the study. It sounded like religious programming. That was too bad; he should have done his guest the courtesy of at least putting the game on, even if the Reds were up. He peered into the study, made sure that his houseguest was still there, then waddled into the kitchen and grabbed a beer, an ice-cold Olympia, out of the fridge. After making two punctures in the top with a can opener, he plopped himself down on his armchair, took a sip, and nodded off.

Hours later, Tarantula awoke to the sounds of a bang and heavy glass cracking.

The window in his living room, with its panoramic view of the Pacific faintly lit by streetlamps three floors down, revealed no evidence of disturbance. He heard the smashing sound again; it was coming from the study.

He ran in. Sheryl Ann Gold was sitting where he had left her hours before, her hands and feet tied tightly to a chair, a dishrag gagging her. Her eyes were wide open, but she looked confused. That flustered him, since he had assumed she’d been up to something. But she hadn’t moved, so there was no apparent way she could have caused the sound that—

Crack!

Tarantula turned to the window overlooking the alley and saw cracks in the glass spreading like a spiderweb. He dropped to the ground. Was someone firing a gun? Throwing rocks? He looked back at Sheryl Ann, who was shaking her head at him: No, no, no.