The Flight

Chapter 9 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Nine

The Flight

Finding the home address of Dr. Edward Karl Reis was a piece of cake. Anyone walking into that courtroom walked out a celebrity, and so became a member of the video-bite carousel. After reviewing the same old clip of a harassed-looking Reis being escorted to his Ladera Heights home, Vilenov located his address in the phone book and made for the area. He was well disguised.

On entering the sporting goods outlet he’d immediately influenced the manager. That was at nine p.m. At ten o’clock he exited walking a top-flight European mountain bike, with over six thousand dollars stuffed in his fancy extra large backpack. Also in the backpack were a change of clothes, five pounds of trail mix, and the largest, deadliest hunting knife the manager could find. Vilenov was wearing an oversized green rayon parka, baggy gray exercise pants, and heavy leather hiking boots. The outfit altogether altered his appearance; he was no longer the grooving sidewalk peacock, nor the instantly recognizable gnarly fugitive. The parka billowed as he moved, its fur-fringed hood hiding all but his nose and chin. The sweatpants and boots made him a clunky, shapeless silhouette in a hectic world of blinding headlights and lancing neon. It may have seemed a strange outfit for a lovely September evening, but this is Los Angeles, where the unordinary is ordinary. Vilenov switched on the headlight of his brand new 21-speed mountain bike and pushed off down the sidewalk.

Ladera Heights is an upscale community on the outskirts of Inglewood, only a few miles from the ocean and not completely unfamiliar to a man who’d spent most of his life in Venice Beach. It was a long ride from Downtown L.A., but Vilenov wasn’t in a hurry. Though news of his escape blared from every car radio, he purposefully avoided shadows, emboldened by the tension. He grinned maniacally at pedestrians, ran red lights, darted through traffic--and all this non-paranoiac behavior made him look that much less suspicious. Beginning to enjoy the ride, he casually tapped the huge hunting knife on the handlebars while fantasizing the meticulous skinning of Reis. The blade was a good one; it would surely retain the bite to complete, by tomorrow at the latest, the drawn-out disemboweling of a certain duplicitous, rip-off defense attorney.

It was coming up on midnight when he rolled down La Brea into Inglewood. Streets were dark and quiet, the sky aching with stars. Vilenov, cockier by the mile, purchased a six-pack of Heinekens at a corner convenience store, chugged four bottles in the parking lot, and smashed the remainder on the asphalt. Aggressively drunk, he jammed the bike to Centinela while still riding the initial rush. In less than ten minutes he was zigzagging through Ladera Heights. Vilenov peed like a race horse behind a van, found the street he wanted, and pushed his bike uphill. Soon he was teetering on the lip of the curb opposite Reis’s house.

He dropped his bike and backpack on the sidewalk, pulled the knife from under his parka, and marched straight across the street. But the instant his foot met the property’s walk he was illuminated by porch floods flanking a wall-mounted security camera. A variety of alarms were activated on Reis’s gold Mercedes, cueing an enormous mastiff in the doctor’s backyard. The whole neighborhood came alive with howling sentinels. Lights burned in the houses to either side. Drapes were drawn aside.

“Jee-sus!” Vilenov tiptoed back to his bike as the facing houses lit up like Christmas trees. By the time he’d shrugged on his backpack and straddled his machine the street was a blinding, wailing madhouse. Vilenov coasted down the sidewalk crazily, veering on and off of lawns, into and out of the street. The front door of each passed house blew open to eject a sputtering homeowner, as though triggered by the friction of his spinning wheels. A pair of private security vehicles whipped around the corner. Half a minute later sirens were approaching fast on Centinela.

Vilenov kept right on riding, wobbling away from everything in his path, and by the time he pulled into the Mini Mart on La Cienega he was rattled, paranoid, and pissed. He took a nervous leak behind the trash bin, stormed inside and bought two quart bottles of Colt .45 malt liquor. Vilenov crammed one in his backpack, tore the cap off the other, and coasted down La Cienega toward the freeway. He had to walk the bike where the boulevard arched uphill. Having paused halfway to chug the quart in thirds, Vilenov accurately hurled the drained bottle at a parked car’s windshield. Upon reaching the railroad tracks just north of Florence, he remounted, veered left through traffic, and pitched headfirst over the curb into pebbles and scrub. Vilenov came up spitting blood, out of his mind with rage and alcohol.

The 405 overpass at Florence includes a wide swath of crushed rock to accommodate tracks and ties. This left Vilenov plenty of room to stagger about unmolested until he reached the steel and cement rail overlooking the lanes some thirty feet below. He caught the rail at his waist and clung there, doubled over, staring deliriously at tons of hurtling metal. He wanted to heave but didn’t dare, wanted to haul himself back up but couldn’t move a muscle. The dazzling succession of sweeping headlights threw his mind into a magic lantern parade of memorized exploits. Lovers and enemies flickered and passed; each one a galling memory and slap to his pride. A whipped, stupefied gargoyle, Vilenov hung there snarling and slavering, paralyzed. And the freeway became a familiar driveway, and the rail at his waist became the rail on the upper landing opposite the apartment of that double-crossing b***h of a girlfriend. He was leaning on this rail tensely, staring at some frail old black man standing right beside him. The man was watching him hard. Moreover, he knew that this old man had something on him, and had to be mollified. But now Vilenov, visualizing himself kissing up to that devious prying rat, became absolutely livid with rage. In his imagination he hurled the filthy old snoop over the rail onto his cracking black busybody skull, then almost fainted from the resulting pain in his own head. His backpack had him; his center of gravity was between his shoulder blades...was at the back of his neck, was at his crown...he was about to be mangled and mashed into psycho jam, dragged flopping-all-fours through the rocketing madness below. He had to recover...had to push back...he had to right himself, or he’d be smeared, from here to San Pedro, by ten thousand rushing wheels.

An old nightmare, common to dreamers, returned to claim him. He was on his stomach on a tall building’s roof, his fingers numbly clenching the edge while the building gradually tilted. Nerveless and helpless, unable to feel his thighs or toes, he could only slip with the building until he was launched toward the yawning vortex below. Yet even as he was falling Vilenov was able to shove himself back from the abyss and onto the cotton-soft bed of jumbled rocks behind him. He rocked and rolled to his feet, grabbed his bicycle and ran weaving back to La Cienega. Halfway across the street his foot was tangled in spokes. He sprawled face-first on top of his bicycle, kicking and flailing his arms in the midst of braking and honking vehicles. Clinging to the handlebars, Vilenov found his feet and continued stumbling across traffic, flipping off drivers as he went.

Back on the west side of La Cienega, he rammed his bike between the tracks, shoved it over the ties for a quarter mile, and collapsed in the dirt near Florence and Manchester. He struggled to his knees. On the incline between the tracks and bordering bushes he tore off the puppet master of his backpack, crushed it in a bear hug and punched its lights out until his fists rang on glass. Vilenov pulled out the remaining quart of Colt and attempted to chug it, but the brew blew out his nostrils. Fighting for breath and hyperventilating, he forced the contents down, smashed the bottle on a rail, and brought the glass neck back in a handful of blood.

Nicolas Vilenov pivoted on his knees until he was facing the bushes. Embracing his stomach, he lowered his head almost to the ground, arched his spine, and puked his guts out. A minute later he clawed back up the incline with the disembodied face of Edward Reis hovering before him like a bone-white balloon, mocking his lunges, jerking away in little spurts that perfectly matched his lurching progress. Vilenov, swinging wildly, followed it onto the tracks, bashing his knuckles on the rails until his hands chanced upon a depleted fire extinguisher entangled in a yard of packing twine. Now the face of Reis appeared to float up out of the cylinder and stand on its surface like a sneering decal. Vilenov took the extinguisher in a stranglehold and squeezed till his hands could take no more, then tightly wrapped the trailing twine. He garroted the cylinder before bashing his bloody fists repeatedly against its smooth steel side.

The extinguisher rolled down the embankment with Vilenov furiously scrambling behind, straight into the bordering line of thorny, exhaust-dusted bushes. He swung and kicked wildly, tore at the parka’s snagged hood, butted the branches with his face and skull. Backpedaling in a crouch, he pitched onto the ties and immediately went into seizure. Gradually the spasms diminished. Vilenov lay absolutely still, spread-eagled on the tracks and staring at the cold moon through pinched and streaming eyes; a catastrophe just waiting to happen.

* * *

That crazy bull elephant kept right on coming in slow motion, trumpeting over its own rhythmic background of gasps and grunts. Vilenov melted into the landscape, trying to breathe with the wind, trying to wave with the tall grass, doing everything he could to become one with the savanna. But the bull’s beady black eyes were fixed on him. Its body enlarged tenfold with each bound, the phallic old trunk moving pendulously, swinging wider and higher as it neared. Vilenov couldn’t run, couldn’t rise, couldn’t even react; his limbs were stuck in muck, and every part of his body was numb. Two more bounds and the monster made its final lunge. During that leap it seemed to float like a dirigible, eclipsing the desert panorama, the sun, the very sky--landing at last with one long blaring, all-obliterating stomp.

Vilenov screamed down the embankment as the train hammered by, stopping his ears against the angry drawn-out howl of its horn. Not until the caboose was a tiny receding box did he gingerly pick himself free of the filthy bushes and blown litter.

Both bike and backpack were covered with dirt and crawling with ants. They were badly tangled in the dense growth separating Florence Boulevard and the tracks. It was just after dawn. He spent some time nursing his injured hand and tongue, then shrugged on his backpack and, looking for all the world like a penniless tramp, pushed his bike alongside the tracks to Manchester, his parka and sweatpants in tatters, his face all scratches and scabs.

Vilenov coasted to the Burger King on Bellanca, stood his bike in the rack, and waited in line with his hooded head down. After furtively fishing a five from his backpack, he ordered breakfast and coffee in the hoarsest of whispers. Hanging around waiting with the rest of the customers drove him crazy, so he nonchalantly stepped outside and bought a Times with the change from his five.

There he was, all over the front page, immortalized in that notorious booking photo. Beside his banner image were three small photographs aligned vertically. Vilenov snarled.

Hatch.

Prentis.

Abram.

He slunk back inside, carried his paper and tray to the remotest table. Vilenov held the newspaper propped in front of his face with one hand while he picked at his food with the other.

Lots of confused tough-talk had preceded the morning edition, resulting in an uneven battle plan designed to leave the masses with the impression that things were perfectly under control.

But right before that the state must have gone mad.

After an intensely uncomfortable wee hours confab with the mayor, the governor had agreed to place troops of the National Guard on standby. L.A.’s Chief of Police, during a bizarre three a.m. news conference in a packed West L.A. cathedral, had followed with the announcement of a countywide manhunt. Citizens were warned to avoid strangers. Vilenov was described as desperate, dangerous, and all but apprehended. Long before sunrise, day care centers, playgrounds, and elementary schools were hiring armed security guards. Vilenov frowned. Why did these people insist on treating him as a pedophile? He read on. Overnight, Hollywood had become the source for Vilenov sightings. Barely twelve hours on the street, and he was already responsible for the rapes of nineteen runaways and over thirty prostitutes.

Police in the beach communities of Venice and Santa Monica detained one hundred and ninety-three destitute men during that early morning scramble. Naturally, the area’s homeless advocates were instantly up in arms; blocking streets and courthouses in anticipation of the morning rush. But not all veteran residents of Venice-Santa Monica were upset with the new ultra-heavy police presence; decent people all around thrilled as crack w****s, border hoppers, shopping cart squatters, street preachers, and all manner of UFO abductees abandoned the area en masse. A quote from Reis made Vilenov bristle:

“This man, still haunted by pubescent fantasies, will flee to the one place he believes will have him; he will run home. But it would be unwise to view this as merely an instinctive attempt to evade his pursuers. Mr. Vilenov needs to be pursued. He needs the rush.”

Vilenov squeezed his fists under the table, and just like that a huge wall mirror across the room burst into a hundred pieces, the shards ringing on tabletops and floor. Every face in the place watched mesmerized as he dumped his tray in a trash container and stormed from the building.

His cool new bicycle was long gone. Vilenov closed his eyes and lowered his head. It took a hefty session of controlled deep breathing, but he managed to compose himself. He shrugged his backpack tighter and tramped west on Manchester, grudgingly admitting Reis was right: even an animal knows enough to turn home. White light crackled in his skull.

And Vilenov was sitting in a slump on a cement bench, staring at nothing.

His entire face was masked in sweat; he could feel it seeping out of his matted hair under the parka’s hood. With an effort he closed his gaping mouth and brought his eyes back into focus. When a city bus pulled up five minutes later he boarded self-consciously and inserted a dollar in the slot. Not a face turned as he passed, but every eye watched him walk unsteadily down the aisle and squeeze beside a pregnant Latina. The bus was packed. Vilenov, peeping groggily from beneath his parka’s drawn hood, saw a split field of barely averted faces. He put his hands in the parka’s pockets and lowered his head as though snoozing. After a couple miles of this the dull ache in his temple grew to a screaming pain. Vilenov’s jaws clamped shut, his head rocked back, his eyes rolled up. He looked like a man being electrocuted. The faces lining the aisle slowly turned in unison. Their eyes coldly watched him sitting bolt-upright, his Adam’s apple thrust out, his white fingers tearing into his knees. Except for the muffled sounds of traffic and the engine’s steady hum, the world inside the bus was dead-quiet. Finally a long rasping breath escaped between Vilenov’s teeth. His chin dropped to his chest. Pink flecks shifted rapidly at the corners of his mouth while the light fluttered in and out of his dull gray eyes. His hands relaxed and the faces just as slowly turned away. With tears covering his cheeks, Vilenov struggled to his feet, slammed against a seat, and staggered down the aisle between the quickly turning pairs of knees. He grabbed the vertical pole by the front steps and the weight of his backpack almost propelled him onto his rear. The driver wordlessly pulled to the curb at Lincoln Boulevard. The doors hissed open and Vilenov pitched out, straight through the open front doorway of the corner liquor store. He watched from behind the store’s display window as the bus passed the next bench without pausing.

Vilenov bought a bag of beef jerky, a half pint of vodka, and a 16-ounce can of Old English malt liquor for a chaser. The in-store television showed the mayor addressing a news conference; assuring the good citizens of L.A. that, although time was running out for Nicolas Vilenov, he was still considered extremely dangerous. The mayor introduced a Colonel Peebles, liaison officer for police and National Guard. Peebles warned civilians to prepare for the sight of military vehicles on their generally quiet streets.

The clerk, a round Nicaraguan with a Raiders cap and caterpillar mustache, slapped his palm on the counter. “Look like they just about get that guy, eh, amigo?” Vilenov lowered his head. “What you think about that spooky stuff? Eh? You think he bite woman? You think he do little children?” The clerk, uncertain of Vilenov’s race, seemed to be making a game of trying to get a peek at his face. “¿Niños?” he said.

“I dunno,” Vilenov grunted. “Nowadays I can believe just about anything.”

“You right!” The clerk slapped the counter again. “People today got no Jesus!”

“I’m hip to that,” Vilenov whispered. “Thanks, dude.”

“You drink him down, man. Kill cold in no time. And when you done you come back for more.”

“Viva la whatever,” Vilenov rasped. As soon as he hit the sidewalk he threw away the beef jerky and split the cap on the vodka. The first swallow obliterated his sense of persecution, the second did wonders for his headache.

It was a long walk down Lincoln to Venice. Halfway there Vilenov’s half-pint was history, the malt liquor merely backwash. He decided to take a chance at the Marina Market on Mindanao Way, prudently buying a fifth this time to save himself the risk of another trip. The whole place was uptight. The liquor clerk didn’t say a word, but took Vilenov’s money and slapped down the change.

Vilenov stepped outside and gazed over the Marina. Before him was the market’s parking lot, then the thin asphalt curve of Admiralty Way. Across Admiralty stretched a bike path and, beyond, a low fence surrounding the harbor’s launch ramps, where hundreds of sails poked up like bleached stalagmites. Vilenov zigzagged between the parked cars to Admiralty and dashed across the road at the first break in traffic. The pretty little bike path was, as always, a liquid parade of tobogganing bicyclists, pimp-walking roller skaters, and ponytailed hausfrau in spandex and sports bras.

He sat heavily on a wood bench in a cloud of gulls, regretting not having picked up a loaf to toss, slice by precious slice. It was already warm, but he remained bundled in the parka. Vilenov broke the cap on the vodka and took a long swallow. Fiji Way, to his left, ran west to Fisherman’s Village, a collection of gift shops looking over South Channel. In the cul-de-sac of Fiji was the Marina del Rey Sheriff’s substation, his first stop after the Purly raid. To his right was Mindanao, a short road terminating in the small artificial peninsula of Chace Park. Vilenov took another swallow. For no reason at all Abram’s face came to him, drifting into his mind more like an afterthought than a memory. Vilenov’s free hand clenched once, twice. The squeezing motion felt good, as if that self-serving pig was close enough to squeal. He tilted back the bottle, and the alcohol was like acid on his lips and tongue. He had to squint to see. The area was so picturesque it was hard to imagine such a thing as a manhunt. The air was very sweet and clear.

When he woke it was late afternoon. He was on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands tucked between his thighs; just another Venice derelict on the wrong side of the tracks. His backpack was gone. Vilenov rolled off his bench and staggered to the Marina’s information center, a quaint little nautical cottage at the corner of Mindanao and Admiralty. Mercifully, the restroom door was unlocked. He splashed water on his face and hair, paid his respects to the urinal, and turned around completely unprepared for the bloody ragged creature in the mirror. Vilenov tore off the parka and screamed until the pain in his head made him cling desperately to the sink. A minute later he yanked open the door and went stumbling north along the bike path with venom in his eyes. Bicyclists, fighting their machines, rode well around him, joggers stopped to look back with strange expressions. On all sides, strollers turned angrily or fearfully, lovers’ hands unlocked and clenched into fists. Tiny pockets of rubbernecks grew, uncertain of their emotions.

Vilenov stomped across the street to that long swath of shaved grass opposite Sweet Harbor known as Admiralty Park. Here the bike path, crossing Admiralty Way at an abrupt signal, continues along in a two-lane bisection of this swath, curving gently between exercise stations and dog walks. Vilenov stormed past sunbathers, sightseers, and assorted loitering chatterbrains, past dippers and danglers and dealers, tromping along furiously until a high trio of helicopters caught his attention. He watched very narrowly for a minute, trying to find a pattern. When he looked back down black-and-whites were all over the place. He instinctively joined the crowd, and as he worked his way into the thickest part of the packed park things quickly went from sociable to surreal. All around were opposing tables of Hysterics and Enablers, enlisting the audience of gaping crackheads and vagabonds while Jesus freaks worked hard to convert insolent Vilenov freaks. Riot-helmeted bicycle cops in short pants and white polo shirts gingerly coasted throughout the little park, back and forth across Admiralty, up and down the neighboring street. All sense of sobriety, of basic sanity, and of social etiquette, had absolutely gone to Hell. He smiled and relaxed. He was nearing Venice.

There was a hard squeal of tires. Vilenov raised himself on his toes to see a sheriff’s car neatly cutting off the park’s entrance. He lowered his face and pushed his way back to the bike path.

Waiting at the park’s far end, a pair of those roving sentinels stood straddling their bikes’ frames, admitting exit and egress like nightclub bouncers. Vilenov’s only course was obvious. He tied his shirt around his neck, stuck a stupid look on his face, and began to jog, smothering his features as he chugged between the coldly watching pillars. Following the bike path down, he came puffing upon Washington Boulevard and almost sagged with relief.

He was home.

The ocean was less than a mile to his left, and just north of the Admiralty-Washington intersection were the Venice Canals. And everywhere were black-and-whites; their noses poking out of subterranean garages, their roof lights standing out amid parked cars. Helicopters, aggressively monitoring the Venice Beach crowd, were swarming over the strand like flies over a dog’s mess.

Vilenov nonchalantly fell in with a small herd jogging in place at the corner. When the light changed he panted along to the far curb, but as the others turned and flapped gasping to the beach he made a hard right and jiggled up to Laguna Liquor on the corner of Washington and Abbot Kinney. He jogged straight into the store and fixed the clerk with his cold gray eyes. The man dutifully bagged all the register’s twenties with a pint of sloe gin while Vilenov ran in place, studying the shelves. A few seconds later the clerk turned. With the nervous delicacy of a man handling eggs, he stacked on the counter: a pair of fancy iridescent inline roller skates, an AC/DC baseball cap with built-in radio and headphones, bright blue wraparound sunglasses, and a red and white bandana. Vilenov nodded, scooped up the stack, and jogged back outside. Still hopping foot to foot, he stuffed the bills in his underwear, tied the bandana round his forehead, found a hard-rock station, and slapped the cap on backward. He sat on the curb to catch his breath, yanked off his boots, tied the laces together, looped the boots around his neck. Vilenov then laced on the skates and awkwardly pushed himself upright. He placed the gaudy shades over his eyes and studied his reflection in a plate glass window. Not bad. A few tattoos and nose rings, a pair of leopard skin bikini shorts, and he’d be Venice-all-over. He guzzled two thirds of the pint, reeled a ways on his new skates, and smashed the remainder on the sidewalk. Sloe gin is tough on the plumbing.

Vilenov clumsily skated Washington east, pushing off parked cars to maintain his balance. By the time he’d reached Lincoln Boulevard the sun was repainting the horizon.

Lincoln was filthy with cops, up and down; plain-clothes loitering at the bus stops, bicycle patrollers on every corner. Emboldened by alcohol, Vilenov skated awkwardly across the intersection, falling twice. A bicycle cop helped him up and warned him to be careful: he was in a heavily monitored, officially-sanctioned search area. Vilenov, rubbing a skinned knee, thanked him effusively. He certainly didn’t want to run into any nasty criminals. Directly overhead, a helicopter dipped, rose, and veered south. Vilenov skated on for a block before rolling straight into a vacant wrought iron bench. He tore off the skates and cap and dropped them in a trash can, laced on his boots and tottered into the new mall’s supermarket. There he bought a 750 milliliter bottle of Hiram Walker’s excellent apricot brandy. Vilenov cussed out a pair of stupid dawdling old ladies, scattered a train of stupid useless shopping carts, and went staggering through the parking lot gulping sweet fire.

In the deepening blue Nicolas Vilenov began to feel wonderful; lightheaded, strong, independent. It wasn’t just the brandy. It was a combination of freedom, gorgeous weather, and all those recent encounters that had worked in his favor. He was feeling very full of himself. The state’s most recognizable man was able to boldly blunder behind enemy lines and come out smelling like a rose.

An LAPD cruiser passed slowly, even as he was insolently raising the brandy to his lips. Vilenov defiantly tore off his shades and flung them aside. C’mon, man, he thought, bust me! The car moved along, and Vilenov’s little burst of passion passed as quickly as it had come. He took another swallow and went weaving between the parked cars, having never felt so unfettered, so unhurried, so indifferent to the big picture. It was like being in some goofy Broadway musical, where the innocent young hero wanders about on the wings of love, unaware of staring passersby.

But he wasn’t in love�"few men in the world were as far removed from that priceless state as Nicolas Vilenov. So maybe this crazy feeling was just trying to tell him he was ready. Maybe his new love was right here, in this very parking lot, and maybe their eyes would simply lock. Just like in some goofy Broadway musical. He gulped the brandy and licked his lips. She wouldn’t have to be gorgeous, of course. She’d just have to be nice, and vulnerable, and stacked to the rafters. He smiled at the women walking by.

No, not her.

And no, not her.

Or her.

But then he saw heaven from behind, bending over to scooch shopping bags on the back seat of a dark green Accord. Oh yes. Shoulder-length brown hair and pretty little kitty face. Beige leggings and tight fuzzy sweater. All the good, all the important parts screaming against the material. Just begging for it.

As she swung shut the door he sauntered over and looked her straight in her pretty brown eyes, gave her his widest smile, and let his gaze run up and down her ripe-to-bursting body. Still riding his Broadway fantasy, Vilenov bowed deeply and said with all the gallantry he could muster,

“Hi! My name’s Nicolas. But you can just call me Nicky. That’s what all my b*****s call me. We’ll be going for a drive now, and then I think we might have a bite and take in a little TV before bed. Don’t worry. I’m absolutely sure you’re going to like me.” He stepped around to the passenger side and waited for her to unlock his door, a dreamy tune in his head. As she backed out the car he took another long swallow. “I’d be glad to share some of this with you, m’dear, but the cops in this town are really down on drinking and driving. Every day I thank the good Lord they’re out there, sniffing and testing, citing and towing, keeping the public safe and sound.” He carefully chugged a quarter of the remaining brandy, taking it down with little fish-like partings of the lips. His tongue was on fire. “What’s your name?”

“Cindy. Cindy Mathe--”

“Cindy’s just fine. Cindy, you and I are lovers. And tonight, baby, we’re gonna hammer down the wind.”

“Where...where are we going?” Her voice sounded tiny and robotic, like a round-hipped, skinny-waisted, big-busted talking doll for sweet little girls with long blonde braids.

Perfect.

“Oh...I don’t know,” he said breezily. “Why don’t we just head west. I’ve always been partial to the beach.”