Blue World (32 page)

Over a squatty gray building he could see a large red X, a symbol on a building on Broadway. He could also see part of another sign:

Girls and Boys.

Monsignor McDowell, at their conference this morning, had told him there was a shooting in one of the flesh parlors last night, but the details were unknown. The young priest had never walked down that street, a block away from the Cathedral of St. Francis, and thinking about its dens of lust and corruption made his stomach churn.

Well, everyone in the world had free choice as to what to do with his life. That was part of the majestic beauty of God’s creation. But the young priest wondered often why God allowed such carnality and sin to survive. Surely mankind would be better served if all those places were leveled to the ground. He stared at the huge red X for a moment longer, then grunted, shook his head, and turned away.

He sipped at his coffee and regarded the half-finished jigsaw puzzle that lay on a table nearby. It was a picture of thousands of multicolored jelly beans, and he’d been working on it steadily for about two weeks. He saw where two more pieces fitted, and slipped them into their notches.

Then it was time to go. He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and gargled with Scope. Then he put on his dark shirt and white collar over his undershirt, went to the closet and got his black suit jacket. At the top of the closet was a shelf holding a dozen jigsaw puzzles in their boxes, some with the shrinkwraps still unbroken. He kissed his rosary, said a quick prayer before the Cross, put a pack of Certs in his pocket, and went out his apartment door. On the breast pocket of his jacket was a little plastic tag that identified him as Father John Lancaster.

Outside his door, a carpeted corridor led him from the rectory to a staircase. He descended it, went through another door and into the administrative wing of the church, where his own office and the other offices were.

Father Darryl Stafford, a dark-haired man in his early forties, came out of his office to the water fountain and saw Lancaster. “Hi, John. Almost that time, huh?”

“Almost.” John checked his watch. Two minutes before three. “I’m running a little late.”

“You? Late? Never happen.” Stafford took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on a white handkerchief. “I’ve got the preliminary budget figures almost ready. If you want to go over them tomorrow, my schedule’s clear.”

“Fine. How about nine o’clock sharp?”

“Nine sharp it is.” Stafford returned the glasses to his face. He had large, owlish, intelligent eyes. “You heard about the commotion last night, I guess?”

“I heard about it. That’s all.” John took a couple of steps toward the next door, feeling the pull of the confessional.

But Father Stafford was starved for conversation. “I talked to Jack this morning.” Jack Clayton was a police officer who patrolled the area. “He says two people were killed and one wounded. A lunatic shot up one of those parlors and ran out the back door. He got away. Somebody described the guy pretty well, though, and Jack left the report with me. He wants us to keep a lookout for… Now get this.” He smiled with a hint of wickedness. “A man with red tears tattooed on his cheeks. Face cheeks, I mean.”

“It’s a relief to know I won’t have to be pulling anybody’s pants down,” John said, and then he grasped the door’s handle and hurried into the church as Stafford said, “You and me both, pal!”

The chimes began to ring, announcing confessional. John’s shoes clicked on the white marble at the front of the church, and he was aware of several people sitting in the pews, but he kept his head down, his face away from them. He entered the confessional booth, closed the door, and sat down on a bench covered with red velvet. Then he slid open the small grilled partition between his cubicle and the next, popped a Cert into his mouth, and waited for the chimes to cease. He took his wristwatch off and placed it on a little shelf where he could see it. Confessional was over at four-thirty, and at five-thirty he had a dinner appointment with the mayor’s council on the homeless problem in the area.

As the chimes echoed away, the first person entered the cubicle and knelt down. A bearded mouth pressed toward the grille, and a man’s Hispanic-accented voice said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

It was the beginning of the ritual, and John listened. The man was an alcoholic, and had stolen money from his wife to buy liquor, then beaten her when she complained. John nodded, said occasionally, “Yes, go on,” but his gaze kept straying to the wristwatch. The man left, armed with his Hail Marys, and the next person--an elderly woman-- entered.

“Yes, go on,” John told her, as her rubbery red lips moved on the other side of the grille.

When the woman left, John put another Cert into his mouth. The next person--a man with a terrible wheeze in his lungs--left body odor behind him. There was a pause of about ten or twelve minutes before the next person, also a man, entered, and in that time John wondered if he was going to be able to pick up his other suit from the cleaners before five-thirty. Then he brought his mind back on track and tried to concentrate on a rambling tale of infidelities and misspent passions. But John wanted to listen; he honestly did. It was just that the seat was hard and the red velvet was thin, the confessional’s walls were starting to close around him, and he was aware of his stomach rumbling from the cold coffee. After a while the ritual became just that--a ritual. John would say, “Yes, go on,” and the confessor would continue with a list of sins and miseries that became terribly, sadly commonplace. He felt freighted with human ills, contaminated by the knowledge of good and evil. It was if Sin and the Devil reigned full sway over the world, and even the walls of the church creaked and showed hairline cracks against such hideous pressure. But John clasped his hands together, sucked on a Cert, and said, “Yes, go on.”

The man said, “Father, I’m through,” and sighed as if the telling had shrunk fifty pounds off him.

“Go with the grace of Christ,” John told him, and the sinner left.

More came and went. The watch showed four-sixteen. John waited, thinking about his report to be given to the mayor’s council tonight. He needed to look over it again, to make sure he hadn’t made any errors in the figures. Another two minutes crept past, and no one else came in. John shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Surely somebody could invent a more comfortable way to--

The cubicle’s door opened. Someone entered and knelt down.

John smelled a musky, cinnamony perfume. It was a welcome aroma, clearing away the last traces of body odor the third confessor had brought in. John took a deep breath of the perfume. He’d never smelled anything quite like it.

“Anybody in there?” a young woman’s voice asked. A long, red-polished fingernail tapped the grille.

“Yes, go on,” John said.

There was a pause. “Go on?

Shit, I haven’t started yet.“

“Please don’t curse,” John said sternly.

“So who’s cursin‘?” The woman hesitated again. Then: “Debbie, you’re one stupid jerk to think this would do a damn bit of good!”

She was talking to herself. He let that curse word slip past, because Darryl used it all the time and even the monsignor was prone to it. “It might do some good,” John said. “If you’re sincere.”

“Oh, sincere!” She laughed softly. She had a smoky voice with a strange accent. “Father, sincere’s my middle name!”

“I’m listening,” John told her.

“Yeah, but is

God listenin‘?“ she asked pointedly.

“I believe He is.”

“Good for you.”

John waited. The young woman didn’t say anything else for a moment. Gathering her thoughts? John wondered. She certainly sounded bitter, torn up internally, in need of confession. Her accent, he’d figured out, was Southern: Deep South, maybe Georgia, Alabama, or Louisiana. Whoever she was, she was a long way from home.

“I don’t have anything to confess,” she said suddenly. “I’m okay. It’s just… well…” She trailed off. “This is harder’n I thought it was gonna be.”

“Take your time,” he advised, but as he said it he glanced at the watch.

There was a longer pause. Then: “A friend of mine is dead.”

John didn’t reply, urging her to continue by his silence.

“She got killed. I told her not to work that scuzzbox. I

told her not to! Janey never listened to a damn thing anybody ever told her! Hell, you tell her not to do it and that just makes her want to even worse!“ She laughed harshly. ”Listen to me, babblin‘ on like I’m really talkin’

to somebody!“

“Go on,” John said quietly.

“Janey was somebody. Hell, she was a movie star! She did five flicks in two weeks, and I swear to God that’s got to be a record. We went to Acapulco together last year, and we met these two Mexican lifeguards. So Janey says, Debbie, let’s make us a Mexican double-decker sandwich and really get it on.”

John’s eyes had widened. The girl on the other side laughed, softly now, a laugh of remembrances. “Janey liked to live,” the girl said. “She wrote poetry. Most of it was crap, but some of it… some of it you could tell her was good and really mean it. Oh, Jesus…”

He heard something break inside her. Just that quick, the tough shell cracked. The girl began to sob--the heartcrushed sobbing of a lost child. He wanted to soothe her, reach through the grille between them and touch her, but of course that was forbidden. The girl caught back another soft sob. He heard her open her purse and fumble in it. There was the sound of a Kleenex being pulled out.

“Damn, my mascara’s all over the place,” she said. “I got it on this white cloth over here.”

“That’s all right.”

“Looks expensive. Man, you holy guys really know how to spend the bucks, don’t you?”

John heard her fighting against more tears. “I’m not such a holy guy,” he said.

“Sure you are. You’re plugged into God’s hotline, aren’t you? If you aren’t, then you’re in the wrong job.”

He didn’t respond. He had stopped looking at the wristwatch.

“Some freak killed my friend,” she went on quietly. “I called Janey’s folks. They live in Minnesota. You know what that sonofabitch told me? He says: We have no daughter. Then he hung up in my face. I even called before the rates went down, and that’s what he has to say!” She hesitated, battling a sob. Her voice had gotten full of grit and fire. “The county’s gonna bury her. That shit she had for an agent said she was just a lost investment. You ever hear anything to beat that?”

“No,” John said. “I never have.”

She blew her nose into the Kleenex and snuffled. “Shits,” she said. “Dirty, rotten shits.”

“When did your friend die? I can look into the funeral arrangements if you--”

“Janey hated the Catholics,” she interrupted. “No offense meant. She just thought you guys were screwin‘ everything up by not lettin’ people use birth control and all. So, thanks, but no thanks.” She snuffled again. “It happened last night, over on Broadway. Janey was workin‘. A freak shot her. That’s all I know.”

“Oh.” The realization hit him that Janey’s death was connected with the shooting at the porno parlor. And if Janey had been working over there, then this girl on the other side of the booth was probably involved in that business too. His heart had started beating a little harder, and her musky scent filled his nostrils. “I’ve never been over there,” he said.

“You ought to walk the strip sometime. It’ll give you an education.”

“I don’t believe I want that kind of knowledge.” He sat up a little straighter.

“Hell, you’re a man, aren’t you? And sex makes the world swing round.”

“Not my world.” He had the sensation of things getting out of control, of damp heat at the base of his spine.

“Everybody’s world,” she said. “Why does a priest hide his head in books all day, and take cold showers ten times a day? God made the world, right? He made sex too.”

“Miss…” he began, but he didn’t know what he was going to say. He just wanted to stop her. “That’ll be enough,” he managed.

She laughed again. “Can’t stand the heat, huh? I figured you guys were pretty close to the edge.”

Had it shown in his voice that quickly? he wondered. And shame hit him, hard and fast. He thought her perfume must be drugging him or something, because his brain gears were clogging up.

She leaned close to the grille. He could see her full, slightly parted red lips, the same color as her nails.

“Anybody ever asks you,” she whispered in that smoky, knowing voice, “you can tell them you met a real-live movie star. Debra Rocks. That’s me. I’ve got a movie showin‘ on the strip. Tell all your friends.” He watched as her tongue slid wetly along her lower lip, and he realized she was getting a real thrill out of baiting him. The realization angered him, but it started the clockwork mechanism that neither praying nor spiritual literature nor philosophical contemplation could halt. His groin began to throb.

She pulled her mouth away from the grille. “Sorry,” she said. Her voice had changed, gotten softer again. “It’s in my bones. Listen… all I’m askin‘ is that you… like… say a prayer or somethin’ for Janey. Okay?”

“Okay,” John answered. His voice sounded as if he’d been gargling with glass.

“I feel a lot better now,” Debra Rocks said, and then she got up and John heard the booth’s door open and close. Then the click of high heels on the marble floor. She was walking fast, in a hurry to go somewhere--or just in a hurry to get out of the church. The chimes began to ring, signaling the end of confession.

John had a sheen of sweat on his face, and his insides felt as hot as a blast furnace. She would be almost to the door by now, about to return to the street. The chimes rang on. He was not supposed to leave the confessional until they ended, at exactly four-thirty. But his hand reached for the latch, grasped it, and hung there. The pounding at his crotch was almost unbearable, a pain that he’d thought he’d forgotten.

He glanced at the watch. The seconds were moving too fast. The chimes went on.

John turned the handle and stepped out.

A slim girl with long black or dark brown hair, wearing a tight red dress, was just reaching for the door. It opened, letting in a glare of chilly sunlight, and then Debra Rocks was out the door and it closed behind her.