A Time of Predators

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Professor Curtis Halstead yawned, looked at his watch, and settled back into his ancient leather easy chair. Paula hadn’t been on the 12:30 A.M. has, or she would have called from the depot; the next, and final, wasn’t due from San Francisco until 2:10. He stretched a heavy arm toward his glass of red wine, planning to read the dozen mimeo’d papers he’d collected that evening from his graduate seminar in anthropology at Los Feliz University.

But sitting there in the pool of light from the floor lamp, with the living room of their big old house creaking homely about him, Curt felt his eyelids getting heavy. He surrendered, draining his glass and setting aside his papers to slide lower in the chair. In a few minutes his breathing was even and steady.

“You ever had a guy try to queer you?” asked Rick Dean idly.

Rick was nineteen, lean and dark and intense, with a Barrymore profile. Sitting in the front seat of Heavy Gander’s 1956 Chevy station wagon, he turned so the remark would include the two in back as well as Heavy. One of them, Champ Mather, worked his big calloused hands and frowned with the effort of expressing himself.

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