Chapter 11
Bob Anderson stood in the Los Angeles airport. He had taken a TWA flight direct from New York's Kennedy airport and, though he was not a superstitious man, he knew the flight was going to turn out a bummer. The reservations office had bumped him from a morning flight and he had had to wait around till late afternoon for another plane. He killed the time in the airport bar where the bartender miscounted his change twice and nearly got him into a fight.
His troubles weren't over once in the air. The stewardess spilled a hot dinner in his lap, almost roasting his nuts. And the two buck earphones he bought to watch the movie didn't work. By the time he arrived in LA, Anderson had had his fill of the West Coast. He couldn't wait to get the hell out.
But he wasn't going until he found his daughter. A small slip of paper ripped from the sheriff s Telex in Haven had brought him to California. It read that his daughter had been arrested in Jacumba for hitchhiking and that she had been released the following day.
Anderson didn't know where Jacumba was. He didn't even know how to pronounce the damn name. With a handful of dimes, he went to a pay phone and began trying to convince the telephone operator that, indeed, Jacumba did exist and that he wanted to speak with the sheriffs office.
After more change went into the phone, a snarling voice from the other end said, "Sherriff's substation, Deputy Burns."
Anderson carefully explained who he was and detailed the information he had on his missing daughter. The sheriff was reluctant to help at first, but Anderson persisted and by the end of his handful of dimes, he learned his daughter was headed toward San Diego.
"Thanks," he said slamming down the receiver. He turned from the phone booth and looked for the baggage area. Of course, it was clear across the airport.
He cursed to himself and started walking down the corridor where a big sign read: "Welcome to Los Angeles."
"What a shit hole," Anderson said aloud. "What a goddamn shit hole of humanity."
By nightfall he had rented a car and driven down Interstate into San Diego. The freeways were surprisingly easy to figure out, which amazed Anderson after the complaints his friends made about the road system. San Diego turned out to be another surprise. It was a nice, clean town with a beautiful skyline, a friendly beach community and a clean bay one could swim in.
Anderson checked into a spiffy motel on plush Harbor Island, then started looking for his daughter. The police, he knew only too well, would help him only if they happened to run across his daughter. He could hire a private investigator, but that would run into money. He ate at a small coffee shop and got into his car. The desk man told him that the beach area was a good place to begin looking because all the kids hung out there. Anderson, with no better lead, decided to take the advice.
"How do I get there?" he asked.
"Follow the hitchhikers," the bored desk man replied. "Or pick one up."
It was a city of hitchhikers, a vast place of marvelously engineered freeways and boulevards with plenty of kids standing along the way looking for a free lift. Bob Anderson was amazed at the number of fine looking girls scattered like dry leaves along the roadside. Even in the darkness, he saw them standing there in their ragged blue jeans and frilly blouses, holding up signs with destinations scrawled on the front.
He pulled to the roadside and picked up a girl. She had brown hair and long thin legs and nice tits that bounced without the restraint of a bra. Her name was Debbie and she was going to Pacific Beach.
"Where does everyone hang out?" he said.
"It depends who you are and what you want," she said impishly.
Anderson knew he had a rare find. By the time he turned off for Pacific Beach, Debbie's lips were busy cleaning his hard, throbbing cock. Her lips made an oval and the soft edges stroked him until he spurted like a fountain down her throat.
He was getting closer to finding Mary. And Debbie, he thought, was going to help.