Blue World (41 page)

John was busy at the church all day, and that night he went into his apartment and read about the temptations of Christ. There wasn’t much in the lesson that cooled his fever. He looked up D. Stoner in the telephone book; of course, as he’d known it would be, her number was unlisted. He popped the

Road Warrior into the VCR and sat down to watch it for about the eighth time. It was one of his favorite movies, but he couldn’t take it all the way through and it popped out again. He drew the blinds on the huge red X. He wasn’t interested in roaming Broadway’s dens; he needed only to see Debbie.

Not Debra. She scared him, but she drove him crazy too. That sight of her, dancing wildly at the Mile-High Club, still remained behind his eyes. He’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep between the time he’d witnessed that dance and the time for early Mass. He felt as if the gears of his brain had gone into overdrive and were beginning to spark and smoke with friction.

Sunday night he slept a grand total of four hours, give or take. He thought he must have awakened every ten minutes to her smoky voice calling his name: not John, but Lucky.

On Monday he had a meeting with Monsignor McDowell at ten o’clock. He pulled it off as best he could, but McDowell said he looked tired. Was he taking vitamins? John said no, and McDowell gave him a bottle of One-A-Days. At lunch he had a meeting with Mr. Richardson and Mrs. Lewandoski, co-chairpersons of the upcoming November fund-raising drive. He hung in to that one too, as figures and prospections were bandied about. He found himself writing lucky on his notepad.

It wasn’t until after three that his schedule was clear. Father Stafford was in the confessional this week. John went to his apartment, removed his collar, put on his jeans, a dark green flannel shirt, and a gray pullover. He sneaked down to the street, praying that the monsignor wouldn’t catch him. He hailed a cab two blocks away and gave the driver her address.

He told himself that all he wanted was his bike. But he knew better.

Debbie’s Fiat was not parked anywhere in sight. In the vestibule, his bicycle was still chained to the stairs. John walked up to her apartment.

Taped to the door was an envelope that had lucky on it. He sat down on the top step, opened the envelope, and began to read the handwritten letter.

It said:

Lucky. I knew you’d come back. At least, I hope you have. The key’s inside, in the cookie jar. Hope you’re not mad. Ha Ha.

I have a modeling assignment today (Monday) and I should be back around six. Why did you run out on me?

Me run out on her?

he thought. A little ember of anger-- or jealousy--stirred. He read on.

I need to talk to you. About important stuff. Please be here at six. Okay? I’ll give you back your bike. See ya.

It was signed

Your Soul Mate.

He stared at the two words that made him feel queasy.

Modeling assignment.

He knew what that must mean.

He was wondering where to kill the time for two hours or so when he heard someone coming up the steps. A heavy footfall, making slow progress. A gray-haired, balding man in a dark blue suit was coming up, gripping hard to the railing. He had the face of a weary basset hound, his gray eyebrows meeting between his eyes. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses, and he stopped for a second when he saw John.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Number six?” He nodded at the door.

“That’s right.” A little alarm bell began ringing in John’s mind.

“You’re Lucky. Right?” The thick eyebrows lifted.

“Right. How did you know?”

“Debra told me.” Not Debbie, John realized the man had said. “She said you might show up. I’m here to feed her crab.” He brought a key from his pocket and unlocked her door. “You can come in, if you want.”

John entered. The man closed the door. He trudged into the kitchen and went to the cabinet where the cans of tuna were.

“I’m kind of at a disadvantage here,” John said. “You seem to know who I am. Who’re you?”

“Joey Sinclair,” the man said as he used a can opener on the tuna. “I’m Debra’s manager.” He glanced at John over the rim of his glasses.

John grunted. He had seen the crab, up on the windowsill sunning itself amid the pots of cacti.

“Joey Sinclair and Sons,” the man added. “It’s a family business.” He scooped the tuna out onto the tray with a fork and set it down. Unicorn didn’t budge.

John had realized that was probably the man’s blue blazer and tie in the closet. And those were probably the man’s sons who’d escorted Debbie in the white Rolls.

“Harbor sewage,” Sinclair said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Tuna smells like harbor sewage, doesn’t it? Guess that’s why her crab likes it so much.”

“I’ve never met anybody who kept a land crab as a pet before.”

“Me neither.” Sinclair smiled slightly, but smiling seemed like a real effort for his heavily lined, large-jowled face. “Debra’s a real unusual girl. She tells me you’re in public relations.”

“That’s right.” Careful, he thought.

“With whom?”

“Well, I…” He was stuck. Joey Sinclair was watching him with old, sharp eyes. John knew a man named Palma, a member of the church, who was an account executive with an advertising company called Chambers, McClain, and Schell. So that’s the company he named.

“Uh-huh.” Sinclair went directly to the telephone book. John’s mouth had gotten dry, and his heart was pounding. “Let’s see here.” The man was turning the Yellow Pages. “Chambers, McClain, and Schell.” He tapped the listing. “On Pine Street. That’s expensive office space.” He picked up the telephone and started dialing with a gnarly finger.

When Joey Sinclair had dialed four numbers, John said, “Wait.”

The man stared at him, finger poised. “There’s something you’ve decided to tell me?”

“Yes. I… I’m not working in the office anymore. I’m free-lancing.”

“But they’ll know your name there, right? John Lucky?” He pressed the fifth number.

John took a breath, held and slowly released it. “No,” he admitted. “They won’t.”

“Oh, my. I’m sorry to hear that.” Sinclair gently returned the phone to its cradle. Then he turned toward John, and his eyes looked like the business end of pistol barrels. “Harbor sewage,” he said. “I smell it now worse than ever.” He approached John and slowly circled him. “Where do you live, John Lucky?”

John didn’t answer. There was no need to try to fool this smart operator.

“I knew I smelled shit when Debra told me about you.”

His voice had gotten ugly. “Debra’s usually a pretty good judge of character; I’m surprised she fucked up on this one. You think you’re real cute, don’t you?” Sinclair stepped between John and the door. He suddenly looked a lot bigger and meaner than he had when he’d come up the stairs, as if anger had nourished him. “I know what you are.”

“You do?” His voice shook.

“I do. A priest…”

John thought his heart was going to explode.

“… might be what you need right now, fuckhead,” Sinclair continued. “To give you the Last Rites.”

He’s Catholic, John realized. His heart was still slamming.

“So tell me why I shouldn’t go down to the car and get my son and let’s do a little boogie on your brainpan, Mr. Vice Cop?” Sinclair shoved John with rough, surprising strength. The crab scuttled quickly past John’s feet, almost tripping him up.

“Listen… wait… I’m not a cop.”

“Uh-huh.” Sinclair shoved him again, and John staggered back against the kitchen counter. “You ain’t got anything on Debra or me, or anybody else,” Sinclair said. “I run a clean modeling agency. It’s just that I came up here and found you prowling around my ladyfriend’s apartment. So I decided I’d better pull my gun, because you looked dangerous.” He opened his coat, reached in and drew a wicked little .38 revolver from a shoulder holster. John lifted his hands, stepped back, and almost knocked the cookie jar off the counter.

“I’m tired of being hassled by you vice fuckheads.” Sinclair raised the pistol and took aim at John’s skull. John had the sensation of flinching inside his skin; his hands lifted to protect his face. He heard the click of the hammer drawing back, and he thought:

I’ve heard that sound before.

“Please… all I want to do is… just get my bike keys and go.” John grasped the cookie jar, his hands shaking, opened it, and reached inside. No keys, just cookies. He turned the cookie jar over on the counter and everything dumped out--including three cellophane packets full of cocaine, right there in full view.

“Oh, shit,” Sinclair whispered, and now it was his voice that trembled.

A silence stretched. John saw the padlock key lying next to an Oreo, and he snatched it up.

“Hey, I’m a big kidder, huh?” Joey Sinclair said, and his grin showed a row of sparkling white capped teeth. “Bet I had you going, right? Look.” He flipped the .38’s cylinder open and shook it. No bullets fell out. “An old man and his toys!” Sinclair said, his eyes bright and scared. “My sons don’t let me carry bullets. They don’t want their senile old daddy to shoot his own cock off, right?”

The center of power had taken a violent and startling shift. John watched, amazed and stunned, as Joey Sinclair laid the gun down on the counter and lifted his hands in supplication. “I’m senile as hell! Ask anybody!” He glanced at the cocaine packets and then back to John, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “We can make a deal, right? You know, if Debra goes to the slammer, she’s not going to look so good when she comes out.”

It finally dawned on John what the man was talking about. He said, “I’m not a vice policeman.”

Sinclair looked like a man who’d been tickled with a feather and kicked in the crotch at the same time. “Huh?” Some of the meanness started to return to his eyes. “What kind of cop are you, then? A narc?”

“No. I’m… not a policeman at all.”

Sinclair lowered his hands. His mouth worked for a few seconds, but made no noise. John could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Sinclair picked up the .38. “Okay, I’ll bite. You’re one of Rio’s boys, right? That sonofabitch is still trying to steal my business, is that it? Never! Rio couldn’t make a decent fuckflick if Cecil B. deMille came back from the dead and wanted to direct it!” He stabbed a finger at John. “And you’re not stud enough to take Debra away from me, either!”

“I don’t know anybody named Rio,” John said. The key was in his hand. He was ready to go. Why, then, did his legs not start moving?

Again Joey Sinclair was struck silent. His heavy-lidded eyes slowly blinked. “So that’s it. Yeah, I know your type. You’re either a private dick trying to dig up dirt on her, or you’re a rotten little hustler on the make. Which is it?” He didn’t give John time to answer. “I think you’re a hustler. Hell, if you were a private dick you’d have your ass covered. Anyway, Debra’s not fucking anybody’s husband right now. Yeah, you’re a hustler. God knows she’s had her fill of them too! I should’ve spotted you for a hustler right off.” He returned the pistol to his shoulder holster. “Maybe I

am getting senile.“

John didn’t care to debate that point. He headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sinclair asked sharply.

John stopped with his hand on the knob. “Out of here. I’m going down to get my bike, and I’m--”

“You’re staying right here until Debra gets home,” Sinclair said, glowering. “If you were a vice cop or one of Rio’s boys, I would’ve kicked your ass out. You might be a lousy hustler, but… Debra thinks you’re her good-luck charm.”

“What?”

“You heard me.

Lucky.“

He sneered it. Then shook his head, stepped over the feeding land crab, went to the refrigerator, and pulled out two bottles of beer. He threw one of them to John. “She begs for trouble,” he said, almost to himself. He popped the beer open and swigged it. “Debra believes in the supernatural. She’s… like… a real spiritual girl.” He wiped a froth of beer from his lips. “On Thursday she’s got a callback reading for a legit flick in L.A. You’re going with her.”

John felt his jaw drop like an anvil. “I… can’t…”

“I know you can’t pay for it, punk,” Sinclair said. “You probably haven’t got ten bucks to your name. I’m buying the tickets. You’ll get some money to take her to lunch too. I’ll make the reservations. Somewhere classy.” He looked at

John, eyes narrowed. “You own a coat and tie?” He grunted with disgust when John didn’t respond. “Damn hustler! Okay, I’ll spring for a suit too! What’re your sizes?”

“I… wear a size forty coat. Long. I…” His mind spun. “Size thirty-two waist. Thirty-three length.”

“What about your collar?” Sinclair asked.

“My… collar?”

“Yeah. You know, the thing that goes around your neck. What size collar, stupid?”

“Fifteen.”

“It’ll be a blue suit. You can pick it up here on Thursday morning. Nine sharp. And don’t wear those damned basketball sneakers. Wear black shoes, and make sure they’re polished. Your plane leaves at ten.”

“Why…” John waited for his senses to stop reeling. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want Debra to do good at her audition. She’s been wanting to get a shot at legit for a long time. My associate Solly Sapperstein’s been trying to find a movie for her. Of course, the legit boys don’t know Debra’s… uh… past experience. She’ll be auditioning under the name Debbie Stoner.” He chugged down the rest of the beer and dropped the bottle into the trash. “If she’s confident, she’ll do good. And she’ll be confident if she thinks she’s got her lucky-charm boy with her. If she gets the job, maybe I can start managing some legit actresses. You never know.”

“Does she… does she have a chance to get the part?”

“They called her back. That’s a good sign.” He belched. “I met Debra in L.A. about six years ago, at my other office. She was working the topless clubs, doing a few loops and bits on the side. That was before she got her nose fixed. I did it for her.”

“You did a good job.”

Sinclair looked at him and scowled. “I didn’t do the surgery, stupid. I paid for it. Anyway, it did a lot for her confidence. My wife showed her how to do her makeup and hair.”