Fade to Black by Ron Renauld

action!
    Gripping the empty bottle as if it were a hand grenade, Eric bit off an imaginary pullpin and heaved the glass across the parking lot. He broke into a run, and was several buildings away when the glass splintered into jagged shards against the brick wall, five yards from the necking couple. The girl screamed. The boy cried out, stepping out into the light, challenging unknown assailants.
    At the corner, Eric crossed the street diagonally and ran off down Weyburn in the direction of Bullocks. He laughed out loud, a B-movie cackle, equal parts of Peter Lorre and Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo. He heard the faint echo as he came to a parking structure. He slowed to a walk and faced the structure directly, placing his hands on his hips and cocking his head backward, giving the laugh his all. The echo ran into the parking lot, raced up and down the concrete tiers, then vanished into the night.
    Marilyn climbed out of the cab in front of Ship’s, three hours late for her rendezvous. She’d had more Burgundy than she thought, and she wobbled unsteadily on her spiked heels as she stepped up onto the curb.
    He was nowhere to be seen.
    Coffee, she thought reflexively. I’ll have a cup of coffee and see if he stops by.
    She brushed her hair out of her face and laughed bitterly. Who are you kidding? she told herself.
    How could she have forgotten? The poster had to have been from him, too. And now she couldn’t even remember his name. Derek? Richard? No, no, that wasn’t it.
    “Dumb blonde,” she cursed, standing in front of the coffee shop. She was letting the act get the best of her, letting it rule her life.
    She started for the coffee shop when she saw a westbound bus coming her way down Wilshire. He’s already gone anyway, Marilyn thought to herself as she flagged the bus down and boarded it. She took a seat near the driver, ignoring the lecherous gaze from the man across the aisle.
    Eric paced the streets of the Village until past midnight, watching a few of the theatre crowds let out, eyes sorting through the faces for a glimpse of Marilyn. She wasn’t there.
    To hell with her, he thought.
    To hell with Aunt Stella, too. Let her fall asleep waiting for him. She couldn’t treat him any worse, anyway. Let her demand a backrub. He’d throw the money back in her face. The bitch! Hellish old crone! Why couldn’t she love him, treat him the way he deserved. Like Ma Jarrett in White Heat. Cagney’s mother, Margaret Wycherly, always wishing her boy the best. Top o’ the world, she always told him. Always there, understanding, ready to help. Not that Cody Jarrett needed any help. He was the toughest, the smartest. It was Cagney’s best role, Eric thought. Arthur Cody Jarrett.
    He stopped in the arcade at the corner of Broxton and Westwood Boulevard, a brick-walled detour that arched through an old adobe façade. A shoe store had set up a display window featuring a line of cowboy boots. Part of the display was a cardboard cutout of Hopalong Cassidy, one-dimensional but larger than life, grinning out at the customer with the implied assurance that if he were still in the saddle today, this here was the footwear he’d have poking through the stirrups.
    “I got stood up, Hoppy,” Eric mumbled, blinking back tears. “Double-dealed by a tramp. What do I do with someone like that Hoppy?”
    Hopalong offered no advice. Only shoes.
    Eric walked back down Westwood Boulevard to his bus stop. He wasn’t sure how late the buses ran, but someone else was waiting at the bench, so he assumed he was in time for the last run.
    He sat on the top of the backrest of the bench furthest from the other man. Eric’s feet were on the seat and he hunched forward, lighting another cigarette.
    Ten minutes passed by without any bus appearing on the street. He asked the man two benches down which bus he was waiting for, but he was an Oriental who apparently didn’t understand English. He smiled and nodded his head politely at Eric.
    Then, out