The scenario would be repeated many other times that night along a stretch of the boulevard that runs from the eastern fringes of West Hollywood well into Hollywood, and on other nights and days as well. A moment later, he scurried around to the passenger side, hopped in, and the sedan slid off into the night.
The youth leaned into the car, his face just inches away from that of the middle-aged driver. It was midnight, and the driver of the late-model blue Mercedes had spent a few minutes cruising Santa Monica Boulevard before pulling up near one of several young male prostitutes beckoning from the curbside.
