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.
br /> 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 bald-headed, 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 cinammony 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?”
She answered, in that voice that made his bones shake, “Yeah, this’ll do it. Oh, wait a sec. I need some raisin bran.”
And then, as John strode quickly down the aisle toward the register, he came into contact with Debra Rocks.
8
SHE WAS THERE IN front of him, her arms burdened with groceries, before he could stop. They crashed together, and the impact staggered them both back. The girl said, “Shit!” and dropped her carton of eggs and they smacked hard on the floor. A package of Charmin tumbled out of her grip, and a plastic bottle of Wesson Lite hit the floorboards.
John Lancaster reeled back, stumbled into a rack of paperback books, and the things went everywhere. Then, trying to keep from falling on his ass, he grabbed hold of a rack of cigarette cartons and those too flew into destruction. He did go down on his butt, and he sat there stunned and red-faced.
“You…dumb shit!” Debra Rocks shouted. “Look what you did! You broke my eggs!”
“I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry,” he babbled, his cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, crap!” she said, waving away his apologies with an impatient hand. She glanced back at the cash register, where the two punks were buying six bottles of wine. The elderly woman with the snood had gotten in line behind them. “You made me lose my place in line!” Debra snapped. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses, and maybe that was for the best, because the anger in them might have broken his heart.
He got to his feet. “Please…let me help you.” He picked up the carton of eggs, and yellow yolks oozed out.
“Forget it!” she said bitterly, and then she picked up her oil and Charmin and went back to get a fresh carton of eggs.
John sat there, in cigarette cartons and egg yolks. He looked down, saw ten or twelve packs of Luckies scattered around him. Luckies, he thought. Oh, yes, this was certainly his lucky day, all right! First he had followed a porno star and then he had broken her eggs and had her curse a blue streak at him. He felt disgusted with himself, totally sickened at what he’d done. Well, it was time to get up and go home. He had met Debra Rocks, and this was enough.
A Latino boy came to clean up the mess, his eyes shooting daggers at John. John got up, brushed off the seat of his jeans, and went past the cash register where Debra Rocks was angrily putting her items down to be checked. He didn’t look at her, but she glanced at him and said, “You’ve got eggs on your ass!”
He got out fast, his head lowered with shame.
“Can you beat that?” she asked Anna, Giro’s wife. “Guy busted hell out of the place and didn’t even buy anything!”
“I think he must be on drugs. Better to let him go than start a scene.”
“This neighborhood’s drawin’ a lot of creeps.” She watched the total come up, and took the money from her purse. She paid the creep no attention as he began to walk the bike slowly, defeatedly, away up the slope of Raphael Street.
“How’s your acting coming along?” Anna asked as she counted out the change.
“Oh…fine. I’m up for a bit part in a soap opera. Might go to New York next month. And I just finished a commercial.”
“Really? For what?”
“Um…this right here.” She held up the Wesson bottle. “You don’t see me in it much, though. I’m just…like…sittin’ at a table while the hubby and kids tell me how good a cook I am. That’s a laugh.” She nodded toward the half-dozen frozen dinners Anna was sacking for her.
“I’ll look for it,” Anna said brightly. “You know, Giro’s nephew from Sacramento is coming next weekend. You remember, I showed you his picture. Handsome boy, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Real handsome.”
“I can maybe introduce you, if you like. He’s a popular boy with the ladies.”
Her brow furrowed. “Next weekend? Oh, I’m modelin’ at a car show in Anaheim! Had it set up two months ago. Sorry.”
“You don t worry, I m going to get you and Julius together! A pretty young girl like you ought to have a steady boyfriend!”
“Yeah,” she agreed, picking up her groceries, “I ought to. See you next time.” She took two steps, and brushed a little metal rod attached to a counter on the cash register. The counter’s number had been 763. Now it clicked over to 764—and an alarm bell went off.
Debbie jumped and almost said What the fuck is that? but checked herself. She knew what it was, though she’d never won the contest before and never had expected to.
“Hey! Look at the number!” Anna said delightedly. “Well, it’s about time you won the contest!” She switched off the bell, picked up a microphone, and turned it on. “Giro! We got a winner! You know who it is? That nice girl Debbie Stoner!”
“I’ve…never won anything in my life!” she said, still a little dumbfounded. “I mean, never.”
“This must be your lucky day, then!” Anna opened the cash register and handed the girl her prize money: one hundred and fifty dollars. Giro, a thin man with curly gray hair, came up to the front with his Polaroid. “Debbie, stand over there!” He motioned toward a white background sheet taped to the wall that had GIRO’S CORNER on it and was covered with the Polaroid snapshots of previous monthly winners. “Come on, we’ve got to get a good picture!”
Debbie looked through the window. The man who had bumped into her was almost to the top of the hill. She saw him pause and rub his legs, as if his calves were cramping. She realized that she wouldn’t have won the money if she hadn’t had to go back for unbroken eggs. “Stand right there, Debbie!” Giro directed, and she stood on a red X that had been taped to the floor in front of the other pictures. “Take your sunglasses off, now! And let’s have a big smile!”
She hesitated at taking off the shades. “The flash’ll hurt my eyes.”
“No, there’s no flash! Come on! Be proud of your beauty!”
Her hand slowly rose, and she removed the sunglasses. Her deeply tanned, lovely face had high, sculptured cheekbones, and her nose was thin-bridged and sharp. Her gorgeous charcoal-gray eyes held hints of deep blue, and they blazed with intense inner fires.
“Big smile now!” Giro urged.
Her lips, which were pale and only lightly glossed, made a pinched semismile.
“Think of something funny!” Anna said.
I
could give you a smile, she thought, that would blow that camera apart. But she liked Giro and his wife, and she didn’t want to fuck them over. So she let the pinched, false smile remain on her face, and Giro said, “Cheese!” and snapped the picture.
“Julius is going to fall in love when he sees this picture!” Anna said excitedly.
Debbie looked toward the bike rider again. He had gone over the top of the hill and out of sight. Her heart had started beating a little harder. She shoved the hundred and fifty dollars into the pocket of her jeans. “Listen… I’ve gotta go. You folks take care now!” She headed quickly for the door.
“Don’t spend all that money in one place!” Giro told her, and she waved and left with her sackful of groceries. She began running up Raphael Street.
“Such a lovely girl,” Anna commented. “Gonna make somebody a fine wife.”
“Like Julius, you mean. Well, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Giro bent down to examine the box of magazines that had come in from the distributor about an hour ago. He moved aside copies of GQ, Mother Earth News, All-Pro Wrestling, and the Atlantic Monthly.
“Why do we get that trash?” Anna asked, and motioned distastefully toward one of the magazines.
“Because they sell, that’s why.” He pushed aside the six copies of X-Rated Movie Review. On its cover was “Today’s Hottest Stars! Sunny Honeycutt! Debra Rocks! Giselle Pariss!”
The aerobics classes Debbie took five days a week paid off for her. She reached the top of the hill and saw the blond-haired man walking down the reverse slope about sixty feet away.
John’s legs had stopped cramping. It was that last ride, following the speeding Fiat, that had knotted up his calf muscles. Still, they were going to be sore for quite a few days. He took three more paces, and then he got on his bike. It was going to be a painful ride home. But maybe he deserved the pain. Maybe it was God, reminding him to walk the straight-and-narrow. Not worthy! he thought, and he felt close to a sob. Oh, Jesus…not wor—