Paul waits for Blake Biegler in the dusty field behind the school. Biegler is ten minutes late. He pokes his fingers through the chainlink, staring beyond the suicide barriers toward Golden Lakes. The morning traffic crawls up Route 8, but there's no sign of a blue Lexus. "Where the hell are you, Jiggler?" he mutters, to no one in particular.  Hiding under the bleachers a hundred feet away, some Bad Kids from Lincoln Falls are tending to their hacky sack welts and sharing lewd poetry about Lorena Bobbitt. Paul turns back to the circle driveway and sees Biegler emerging from a candy-apple red