Blue World (43 page)

“I can’t believe that,” John said. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Nose job. Plus my hair was short and I didn’t wear it so good. Plus I had a lot of baby fat, but still I had a nice body. When you crave attention like I did, you do stupid things.” She stuck her fork into her ham a few times. “I had to get married when I was seventeen. I had two miscarriages.” She was silent for a moment. “He knocked me around some. Busted my nose and three ribs. Bastard was a truck driver. He went out on the road just before Christmas, high on coke and drunk too. Skidded across the interstate and went through the guardrail. Scratch one truck driver. Then all of a sudden I was a bad girl.”

“What about your parents?”

“I lived with my ma and grandmomma. My dad didn’t come around, and my ma… well, she kinda craved attention too. She still lives there, but I guess she’s older now. I went back home for my grandmomma’s funeral, but nobody recognized me. I just stayed one day.” She pushed the aluminum tray aside. “I loved my grandmomma. She was good to me. She’d say, ‘Debbie, you better stop readin’ them movie magazines! You don’t want to wind up in California, no ma’am!‘ But… I always thought California was a place where it was easy to be loved. You know? Everybody in California was always smilin’ and dressed up so nice, and they all looked like they had money and lots of friends.” She took a quick sip of wine. “I was wrong.”

“Not everybody can be a star,” John said.

Debbie laughed, and there was some bitterness in it. “Try tellin‘ that to a nineteen-year-old Louisiana girl standin’ in a bus station with ten dollars in her purse. I mean… I

am a star!“ she said, catching herself. Then her eyes hazed over again. ”I could dance. Couldn’t sing worth a shit, though. And I had the country-girl look. You know? I swear to God, I got out of a lot of scrapes by the skin of my teeth. But then… bein‘ wild got to be excitin’. And gettin‘

paid for it too? Not a whole lot, but still…“ She shook her head. ”It’s a crazy world.“

“Do you send any money to your mother?” John asked.

“Fuck, no!” she said with a snort. “She’d just drink it up! And not Gallo white wine, either! She goes for the rotgut!” Debbie looked into Lucky’s eyes. There was some pain in them; why was that? “How old do you think I am?”

He was reluctant to say, and he shook his head.

“Twenty-six. I’ll be twenty-seven next month. That’s old for this business. Younger ones ride the buses in every day. They start them off at eighteen, but those girls are just like me: by the time you fuck for a camera, there’s nothin‘ you haven’t done.” She played with the stem of her wineglass. “Sometimes I feel real old, like old inside. You get old and start puttin’ on weight, they pair you up to scabs and the action gets rough. That’s why I’ve got to get this part down in L.A. on Thursday. I’ve got to.” Her eyes blazed with determination.

“Joey Sinclair told me about the audition,” John admitted. “He told me about… the work you do, too.”

That threw her for a loop. “You mean… you already knew about me? Uncle Joey told you?”

“Yes. Not in detail. Just that the audition is important to you.”

She didn’t know whether to be angry at him, for saying he’d never heard of Debra Rocks before and making her spill her guts, or pleased that he had waited for her. She chose the second. “Then you’re gonna go to L.A. with me? To bring me good luck?”

“I’ll go with you. I don’t know about the luck.”

“Great!” She clasped his hand excitedly. “If you’re with me, I’ll get the part! I know I will!”

He saw it then, and he understood it. That’s what this was all about; Debbie thought he was lucky for her, and his presence would somehow assure that she got the role in a legitimate production.

“Would you like to take a bath?” she asked him.

“Uh…” His gears were stripped again. “Uh… I don’t…”

“It’s a nice big bathtub. Come on, I’ll show you.” Debbie stood up, still clasping his hand, and pulled him to his feet. John resisted just a little bit, but not very much.

It was an old claw-footed white tub. She turned on the hot water and poured in some bubblebath for him that had the cinnamony-perfume smell he remembered. The bubbles boiled up, white and frothy, under the flow of steamy water. She rubbed his tense shoulders. “You’re just full of kinks, aren’t you? Go ahead and get in, a good bath’ll do you wonders.”

“I’d better not.” He watched the water stream in. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d relaxed in a bathtub; his apartment’s bathroom was large enough for only a shower stall.

Debbie reached in and swirled the water, making the bubbles plump up. “I’m gonna go wash the wineglasses out. Go ahead, enjoy.” She kissed his cheek, her fingers caressing his chin; then she left him alone and closed the door. Alone, that is, except for Unicorn; the crab sat in a big detergent box full of sand over in the corner.

John sighed with relief. She wanted him to bathe by himself. Well, maybe that would be all right. Still, her touch and the idea of this bath had made his crotch stiffen and pound again. The smell was maddening, and deep down he relished the thought of wallowing in her scent. Steam welled into his face. He pulled his sweater off. Stop it! he told himself. He began to unbutton his shirt. No! You can’t! He shrugged his shirt off. The lathery bubbles had boiled up in waves. He unbuckled his belt, and he knew he had crossed the line.

He slipped into the hot water and winced as it embraced his testicles. He laid his head back against the porcelain, felt his muscles untense, smelled steam and cinammon.

In another moment the door opened, and she came in, nude.

He sat bolt upright, sloshing water out. Debbie had undone her hair, and it had fallen loosely around her shoulders. She had an all-over tan, and her body was magnificent. She was holding a straight razor and a can of Foamy. “I want to shave you,” she said.

“No!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, no!”

“You need a shave,” she said, somewhat taken aback. “I felt your beard when I kissed you.”

“Huh? Oh.

That beard.“ He touched the fine blond grizzle on his chin; he must’ve forgotten to shave this morning. His schedule was off, and his habits gone awry.

“You’re crazy,” Debbie said, and stepped into the water facing him.

She sat down straddling his lap, her smooth thighs pressed up against his sides. “I’m not gonna bite you,” she said, because Lucky looked as if he were about to leap up to the ceiling and cling there like a cat. “You are shy, aren’t you?” She shook up the can and squirted a gout of lather into her palm. “Well, that’s really refreshin‘.” Slowly, with tender attention, she began to smear the lather over his cheeks, chin, and throat. “Don’t worry,” she told him when he flinched again. “I used to be a barber. No foolin’. That was one of the jobs I had in L.A.” She leaned forward slightly, the razor ready, and her breasts brushed the hair on his chest. He dared not move, even as her breasts pressed against him, because she began shaving the left side of his face with long, slow strokes.

“You married, Lucky?” she asked him as she worked on his upper lip.

“No,” he said carefully.

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No.” He saw her look at him strangely. “I mean… I used to. What I mean is… we might be breaking up soon.”

“I figured you had to have a girlfriend. If you’re not gay, and you’re not bisexual, and I

know you’re not neuter, then you had to have a girlfriend.“ She focused on his chin and gently shifted her position. Her body was slick with bubblebath. ”Is she pretty?“

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend.

Man, you’ve got a concentration problem! Hold still, now.“

He did, as best he could. The razor slid over his throat like a feather. “Yes,” he said. “Very pretty.”

“What does she look like?”

“She… kind of looks like you,” he said.

The razor stopped. “You’re so sweet,” Debbie told him, looking into his eyes. “I swear to God, how come I never met anybody like you before?”

“I guess… we don’t move in the same circles.”

She started shaving the right side of his face, smoothly, slowly. “Well, we’ve hooked up now. Better late than never, huh? Believe it.”

He concentrated on staring at her eyes, shutting away the damp heat of her breasts against his chest and the firm pressure of her thighs on either side of him. The fire was still down in her eyes, but it was on a low burn now. Debra Rocks was sleeping.

Debbie finished the shave and washed the blade off in the bubbly water. Then she put the razor up beside the sink and slipped her arms around Lucky’s neck. “You can fuck me now,” she said softly.

“Please… don’t use that word.”

She frowned slightly. “What word?”

“You know.

That word.“

“Oh. You mean fu--” He put a finger to her lips, and she kissed it. “Okay. Just for you I won’t, Mr. Shy.” Her hand slipped down through the suds to his crotch. And lingered there.

She blinked slowly, staring at him. “Tell me one thing: why do you still have your underwear on?”

“I think bathtime’s over,” John said, and he worked loose from her and got out, the water streaming from his soaked Jockey shorts. He grasped a towel and wrapped it around himself.

“Wait a minute. Hold on.” She lifted a finger, as if trying to mark a sentence in the air where things had slipped out of her control. “Are you turnin‘

me down?“

“No. I’m just…” Think fast! “Like I said, I haven’t broken up with my girlfriend yet.”

“Wait. Just wait. You’re sayin‘ you’re not gonna fu… not gonna be with me because of your other girlfriend?”

“That’s right.” He scooped up his jeans and got into them, wet Jockeys and all. He tried as best as he could to keep his eyes averted from her body.

Debbie laughed and smacked the water with her palm. “You are weird!

I’m offerin‘ to you on a platter what a thousand guys would die to have, and you say no! Man, I was right! You’re not from this world!“

“I’m not a thousand guys,” he said, putting on his shirt. “I’m me.”

“I thought you said I was beautiful.”

“You are. But…” He pulled on his sweater. “This isn’t right.”

“Who says?” Her voice had taken on a hint of acid.

“You told me you were hurting when you came in from… uh… your work today. So the only reason you want me to make love to you is that you want to make sure I’ll be back on Thursday.” He saw her face tighten as he hit the truth nerve. “I told you I’d go with you to Los Angeles, and I will. Trust me.”

She was silent for a moment, and then she also got out of the tub. John handed her a towel, which she wrapped around her body as gracefully as if it were yet another piece of sexy clothing. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “Debra almost got out.” She watched as he sat on the edge of the tub to put on his socks and sneakers. “I’ve never met anybody like you before. You know what I want. What do you want?”

The question was as blunt as a baseball bat, and it swung hard against John’s brain. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and that was the truth too. He laced up his sneakers. “I think I’d better go now. Thanks for the dinner. And the shave too.” He touched his smooth chin.

Debbie followed him to the apartment’s door. “Listen… you can at least leave me your telephone number, can’t you? If… like… I wanted to call you?”

John hesitated. He had his own private line, of course, but there was another problem to consider: if Debbie heard his voice without seeing his face, might she remember the voice of a priest in a confessional? “I move around a lot,” he said lamely. “I’m hardly ever at home.”

“Okay.” Again there was a spark of pain in her eyes; she wasn’t used to being rejected by a man, and it hurt like hell. “Then you take my phone number and you call me whenever you… like… get the urge.” She went to a desk, opened a drawer, brought out a little card, and gave it to him. On it was printed simply D. Stoner and a telephone number. He tucked the card into his jeans pocket.

She caught his arm as he started through the door. “Lucky? You do… like me a little bit, don’t you?”

John looked into her face--that beautiful face with its smoldering gray eyes--and he thought: You just don’t know. “I like you a lot,” he answered, and she smiled and let him go.

Halfway down the stairs, it occurred to him to stop and check his pocket for the padlock key. It was right there where he’d put it. He went down to his bike, unlocked the padlock, and wrapped the chain around the handlebars. Then he walked the bike out onto the dark street, got on--his wet underwear wasn’t going to make this a pleasure trip--and began pedaling toward Vallejo Street.

A battered Volkswagen van pulled away from the curb a block up from the apartment building and followed.

The first tendrils of fog were beginning to drift in from the bay. John crested a hill and could see the fog-smeared lights on the Golden Gate Bridge; then he started down again, pedaling at a slow, easy pace and wondering how he was going to get away from the church all day Thursday.

A van brushed past him, dangerously close, and John had to swerve violently away. He went up onto the curb between two parked cars, and he shouted, “Watch it!” as the van rounded the corner ahead and disappeared.

Somebody was drinking and driving, he thought. That was much too close. He pedaled on the sidewalk, past multicolored Victorian houses, and then he swung back onto the street again.

The van rounded the corner behind him, and followed as he turned south.

Monsignor McDowell would absolutely freak out if he had an inkling of what had happened tonight, John mused. That is, what had almost happened. Well, the monsignor would freak out, nonetheless. He swerved to avoid a series of potholes. The streets in this area weren’t in such good shape, and some of the ornate streetlamps had burned out. Patches of fog rolled like ghost breath across the pavement.

He felt heat on the back of his neck.

He swiveled his head--and saw the van, right there, bearing down on him.

With a shout, he cut the handlebars to the right and narrowly missed crashing into the side of a parked Toyota; he skimmed past it, and the van skimmed past him by bare inches. He hit the curb, jarred up over it with a bounce that shook his teeth, and then he skidded to a stop just short of a wrought-iron fence.