Slythe flew into L.A. He waited impatiently at baggage claim. He had no clothes, but there was no way his straight razor would make it through security. He collected the small bag he had checked for that purpose, rented a car, and drove into town. He stopped at the first closed gas station he came to and put a rock through the window. He went in and stole every gas can he could find. It took him two more gas stations to get as many cans as he needed.
He drove to an open self-service station and managed to fill the cans while pretending to fill his tank.
He stopped at a news kiosk, bought a couple of newspapers, and drove out to Billy Barnett’s address.
The Barnett residence was a two-story house set back from the street. The lights were on, and there was a car in the drive.
Slythe drove by slowly. As he passed the house, he could see someone in the living room. He checked the time. Ten-fifteen. Good. Billy Barnett shouldn’t be up long. He was a movie person, and movie people had early calls. A producer would want to be on the set, parading around like a big shot and impressing the actresses.
Slythe began driving irregular patterns through the neighborhood, occasionally passing Billy Barnett’s house in different directions at varying speeds.
By eleven-twenty the light was out and the car was still there.
Perfect.
Slythe found an all-night diner and ordered French toast. He sat sipping coffee and reading the papers he had bought. Around one-thirty he availed himself of the bathroom, paid his bill, and took one last swing around Billy Barnett’s neighborhood. By now all the homes were dark.
He parked two houses down and began the laborious task of lugging the gas cans to the house.