Blue World (36 page)

John brushed his teeth and changed his clothes for a bike ride; he put on a pair of faded jeans, a plaid workshirt, and a brown wool sweater. No need to wear the collar today, or carry it with him. He was letting himself off-duty, for just an hour or so at least, and he hoped God would understand that he needed the break. Darryl would be back within thirty or forty minutes, so someone would be available in the church. Everything was fitting together. John put on his beat-up old Nikes--old basketball shoes--and then he took a screwdriver and removed the ratchets from the bike’s front tire. Now it was ready for the street, and so was he. He put on his beige windbreaker, zipped it up, and locked the door behind him as he walked his bike out into the hallway.

His watch showed two-twenty-seven.

On Vallejo Street he boarded the bike and started pedaling west. Then north. Then west again. The afternoon was crisp and sunny--a perfect October day--but it looked as if a lot of people had had the same idea as John; the streets had a lot of auto traffic, and here and there were traffic jams. But John breezed through the knots, the wind in his hair, and kept going, pedaling steadily away from Debra Rocks.

He looked at his watch. Two-thirty-nine. She would be there by now. Signing autographs. Talking to other men, in that smoky Southern accent. Smiling at them. His pedaling got a little faster. He hit a traffic jam, turned north again, and started up a moderate hill. Two-forty-two. Oh, yes, she would be there, smiling and talking. Maybe wearing a tight red dress. Blowing kisses. Maybe licking that lower lip to drive some other fool crazy. My God! he thought. He hoped Vic would have put away all those gargantuan members, so she wouldn’t be offended.

Then John had to laugh at his own stupidity, but the laugh was strained. Those awesome things would be no surprise for Debra Rocks. She probably… well, she probably knew what they were used for.

He pedaled on, as his wristwatch showed two-forty-four.

It was a beautiful day. Perfect for a bike ride. The wind was clean and fresh, and when he inhaled the sweet autumn air he…

He smelled her scent, and it almost made him go over the curb and wreck.

Two-forty-six.

His heart was beating very hard. Slow down, he told himself. Slow down, you’ll kill yourself.

And it came to him with brutal clarity: if he did not see Debra Rocks before three o’clock, he would never see her again in his life. And forever after--forever after--he would thrash in the sheets and wonder what her face, framed by that rich black hair, looked like.

Not worthy! Not worthy! he shrieked at himself as tears filled his eyes. He grazed past a pedestrian and made the man leap for his life. Not worthy! he raged inside.

His willpower collapsed, not in bits and pieces, but as suddenly as the walls of a sand castle under a foaming, thundering wave. It just simply vanished.

Ten minutes before three.

John turned the bike in a quick, jarring circle and pedaled frantically toward Broadway.

His lungs gasped and heaved. He was sweating profusely under his shirt. Still his legs pumped the pedals. Faster. Faster. He ran a red light, heard a cop’s whistle blow shrilly, but he hunkered down and kept flying.

Seven minutes before three.

Traffic was snarled ahead of him. He turned into an alley, raced through it and out the other side, leaving a wino grinning in his breeze. Then he was on Filbert Street, battling his way east, and then south, swerving through traffic and around pedestrians.

Four minutes before three.

I’m not going to make it, he realized. No way. I went too far to turn back. I went way too far…

He raced across Vallejo, a good three blocks west of the church. The next street sign said Broadway and Taylor. He swerved violently and headed east along Broadway, and he saw the big red X in the sky. He glanced quickly at his watch: two minutes before three.

A woman with shopping bags in her arms stepped out in front of him.

He yelled, “Watch out!” and swerved around her, but the abrupt motion made the bike’s frame shudder and then he clamped on the brakes because he was heading straight for the display window of a Chinese grocery.

The brakes bit in, and John got the bike under control again, inches away from the smashing of glass and slivering of flesh amid hanging greased ducks. But he’d lost precious speed, and he had to build up again. There were a lot of people on the sidewalk, and cars choked the street.

His wristwatch showed one minute after three.

And that was when he skidded to a stop across the street from Vic’s Adult Books.

He breathed hard, wiping his face with his sleeve. If he hadn’t been riding his bike steadily for more than two years, he never would’ve made it. A knot of men milled around the open doorway of the bookstore, grinning and looking around sheepishly. They obscured his vision, and he couldn’t see a thing. Move out of the way! he urged them mentally. Please move out of the way!

And then the knot of men untwined and parted, and a black-haired young woman wearing sunglasses and a white dress that sparkled with pearls walked sexily through the doorway onto the street.

John stopped breathing.

The way she walked said she knew she was being watched, and she enjoyed the attention. The white dress was so tight it might have been sprayed on. Her black hair had been brushed into glossy waves around her shoulders, the whiteness of the dress accenting her tan. She was slender and full-breasted, and her long legs took her to the curb with the grace of a woman who knows where she’s going. Even from across the street, John could see the dark red of her pouting lips.

She’s about to cross the street, John thought. She’s about to cross the street and pass right in front of me!

But a white Rolls-Royce sedan slid to the curb. One of the men--a big brawny guy in a brown leather jacket--opened the door for her, and with a wave and smile at the other men who watched, she eased into the back seat. The brown jacketed man got in with her, and so did another man in a denim jacket. The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the curb and merged with the traffic, slowly heading east toward the bay.

The men in front of Vic’s Adult Books stood waving and grinning like children. Then they dispersed, and Debra Rocks was gone.

Not yet, John thought. Not yet.

He could see the big white car up ahead. It was already being stalled by the Saturday-afternoon traffic. John cast all thoughts aside except one: to follow that car and catch a glimpse of Debra Rocks’ face. He started pedaling after it.

The Rolls-Royce turned on Montgomery Street, and began heading toward the Coit Tower. John lost it as it sped ahead, but he kept pedaling and found it two blocks away, caught in traffic. The Rolls turned west on Union Street, and John kept up the pace, determined not to let the car out of sight.

A block further, and John saw the sedan’s taillights flare. It pulled into a parking lot, and John stopped his bike in a shadow.

The two men and Debra Rocks got out. They walked her to another car: a dark green, beat-up old Fiat convertible with silver tape holding the top together. They talked for a moment, and the man in the denim jacket lit a cigarette and gave it to her. Then the other man brought out his wallet and counted a few bills--four of them--into the girl’s outstretched palm. She put them into her clasp purse--and then the man in the brown leather jacket put his hand firmly on Debra Rocks’ right behind cheek.

Let her go, you bastard, John thought.

Debra Rocks reached back, grasped the man’s wrist, and removed his hand.

Then she said something that made them laugh, and she unlocked the Fiat’s door and slipped behind the wheel, flashing a quick glimpse of brown thigh. John heard the engine mutter, growl, and finally roar to life. It sounded a little sick. The two men walked back to the Rolls, and Debra Rocks’ Fiat pulled out of the parking lot and sped away.

John pedaled out of the shadow and raced after her.

She was a fast driver, and she knew the winding, narrow streets. He would have lost her in the area of close-packed apartment buildings and town houses in North Beach, but she pulled to the curb to get a

Chronicle from a newspaper machine. Then the Fiat went on, slower now, zeroing in on a destination.

Finally she pulled to the curb in front of a dark red building with white trim. John stopped down the block and pretended to be checking his bike’s front tire. Debra Rocks got out of the Fiat, locked the door, and then entered the apartment building.

This is where she lives, John thought. It’s got to be. He was maybe two or two and a half miles from the Cathedral of St. Francis, but his legs felt as if he’d pedaled twenty-five. He gave it a few minutes, still pretending to inspect his bike, and then he slowly strolled up to the dark red apartment building. It had bay windows on all three floors; as he looked up at them, he suddenly saw the bamboo blinds being raised up from the third-floor windows. On the sill were what appeared to be large clay pots holding gnarled cacti.

John stepped back, out of sight of whoever might be at that window. The blinds remained open. He was trembling, his heart slamming in his chest. From this vantage point he could look down at the bay and see the brightly colored sails of boats against the blue water. He smelled the tang of ocean air, and he wondered when he had known he was going to follow Debra Rocks home.

He climbed up the first step. Then, that one conquered, he went all the way up the steps and into the building’s small vestibule. There were mailboxes with names identifying the occupants: six mailboxes, six apartments. His gaze scanned them: R. Ridgely, Doug and Susan McNabb, J. Meyer, Dwayne Miadenich, K & T Canady, D. Stoner.

D. Stoner.

Debra Rocks?

D. Stoner lived in apartment number six. That might be the one on the third floor, where the window blinds had just opened. And he was considering that possibility when he heard someone coming quickly down the stairs.

John got out just as fast, going to his bike and walking it away from the entrance. He slipped into a doorway two buildings up, and kept watch.

She came out. No longer in her white pearl-studded dress, but wearing tight, faded blue jeans, clunky boots, and a thick red sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail, and again she wore her sunglasses. Still, John was too far away to clearly make out her features. He expected her to get into the Fiat and speed away again, but this time she dug her hands into the pockets of her sweater and began to walk briskly in the opposite direction, heading down the hill toward the bay.

He let her get a good distance in front of him, and then he swung up onto his bike and slowly followed.

She turned south on Bailey Street. Out for a walk? John wondered. Or going somewhere in particular? She had a battered-looking purse with leather fringe slung over her shoulder, and John noted how her walk had changed; it was still sexy, but in a natural way. She was not showing off for anybody, and that thrilled him even more. She walked with long strides; the walk of a woman who is used to going places and doing things for herself.

On the next corner was a small neighborhood grocery store called, appropriately, Giro’s Corner. John watched as the girl went inside and the door closed behind her.

Now was the moment. He knew it. Maybe he would never be able to get so close to her again. All he wanted to do was walk past her, glance at her face, maybe get a last whiff of her scent. Then he would leave, and it would be over. He would walk past her, and know who she was, and she would never know that he had been in the confessional as she sobbed over a murdered friend. It would take just a minute. Just one minute.

He parked his bike outside the grocery store, and he went inside too.

It was a small, cramped place with a cash register in front and narrow aisles packed with groceries. It smelled of Italian bread, and at the back was a little bakery. The wooden floorboards creaked under John’s shoes. A gray-haired woman with a friendly face and blue eyes smiled at him and said, “Come in!”

“Thank you.” He looked around, couldn’t see where the girl had gone. The aisles were piled high with canned goods, boxes, and bottles. A sign caught his eye:

Giro’s Monthly Contest! Will This Be YOU?

And handwritten in red Magic Marker was

-764.

John walked along the center aisle to the rear of the store, squeezing past an elderly woman in a brown coat and snood.

Two leather-jacketed punks, both of them shaved baldheaded, were appraising the wine selection. John realized one of them was a girl, but he tried hard not to stare; anyway, he was looking for someone else. He turned another corner, and caught a glimpse of her ponytail as she turned the corner at the end of the aisle. He walked after her. “Marsha!” a hefty, big-jowled man in a 49ers sweater called to someone out of sight. “I found the dill pickles, finally at last!”

John eased around the next aisle. And there she was about ten feet away, still wearing her sunglasses; she was squeezing peaches, and John abruptly stopped. She glanced over at him, and he picked up the first thing that came to hand: a huge cucumber. He immediately let it drop and pretended to examine some bottled eggplant. Debra Rocks put four peaches into a plastic bag and walked on to the far end of the aisle. She inspected cartons of eggs.

John took a deep breath. He felt dizzy, alarmingly lightheaded and out-of-control. And there it was, just the faintest hint of that cinnamony perfume he’d smelled in the confessional. Or maybe it was cinammon, because there were bundles of fresh cinammon sticks on the shelf in front of him. When he dared to look up at her again, she was gone.

He heard her boots thumping on the floorboards. In a hurry once more. Going to the cash register? He walked briskly around the aisle after her--and there he came face-to-face with the bald-headed male and female punks, who slipped by on either side of him. John caught a glimpse of red through a crack between the aisles. He picked up his pace, and then he heard the woman at the cash register say, “Got everything you need today, Debbie?”