About four blocks south of the club, he finally hailed a cab that would stop to pick him up. “Where to?” the cabbie asked. John hesitated only a second, then gave him the address—or close to it—of Debbie’s apartment building. The only thing to do now was to unlock his bike and get back to the church. He felt like a mangy mutt with a scalded ass.
He reached into his pocket for the padlock’s key.
His fingers couldn’t find it.
Well, the key had to be on him! He searched his other pocket. No padlock key. It occurred to him that it might have fallen out on the dance floor at the Mile-High Club, but to go back to that wretched sin den would make his blood curdle. Anyway, if anybody at that place found a key on the floor, they’d probably swallow it. He searched both pockets again; the key was not in his jeans.
“You lose somethin’?” the driver asked.
“I’ve got my wallet,” John assured him. That was still in his back pocket—but the key, el zippo. He sat back, as the cab got closer to Debbie’s neighborhood, and wondered what to do. He couldn’t bring himself to ascend those stairs and knock at her door. If a grinning Italian stud’s face peered out, John would lose his Catholic manners. But he remembered putting that key in his right pocket! Why wasn’t it there?
“Hold it,” John said. The driver slowed down, smelling trouble. “Forget that first address. I need to go to the Cathedral of St. Francis, on Vallejo and—”
“Yeah, I know where it is. Pretty place.” The driver swung south, and John was headed home.
He decided he would have to deal with this problem tomorrow. Oh, Lord, tomorrow was Sunday! He was adrift in time, because his Saturday nights were usually spent in prayer and meditation. He stared out the window and caught his reflection in the glass. He wondered how he was going to sleep tonight, but he already felt the tingle of cold water on his flesh.
I’m possessed, he told himself, simply and frankly. I am totally possessed, and if my bed starts rocking tonight I’m going to blast through the wall and keep on running.
He sighed, and shook his head. He could still feel a little oil behind his knees.
11
“Now you can tell your friends you been fucked by the best,” the young, nude, and muscular man said as he sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and lit a cigarette. “Paulo D’Anthony, Italian stallion, hung and ready!”
“You mean dumb and reedy,” she muttered.
“Huh? What’choo say, baby?”
“Oh, Pauuuulo,” she crooned, glancing quickly at her imitation Lady Rolex.
“That’s what I thought you said.” He inhaled cigarette smoke and then puffed out thick rings. “Baby, you’re good. You’re real good.” He stuck his finger into one of the rings and churned it around. “But I can teach you a lot more tricks, baby. Just hang with me.” He got up, walked—a little sorely—into the bathroom of his cluttered apartment. He gave a cigarette cough, then began urinating without closing the door.
Debbie sat up. Her clothes were all over the floor, scattered by the whirlwinds of passion. Or what masqueraded as passion on a drug-drowsed Saturday night. Damn it! she thought, running fingers through her damp, tangled hair. What kind of pill had Big Georgia given her? It must’ve been the pill that made her lose her mind and follow this pizza squeezer to his apartment! Paulo was a great dancer and he had a sexy body and he drove a gray Mercedes convertible, but…
He left me, she thought. Why did he leave me?
Big Georgia had said she saw him walk out. That big bitch oughta have her clock cleaned for handin’ out Spanish fly and callin’ it a diet pill, she fumed. The coke, the wine, the pill…all of it had combined to land her right here, getting drilled by a strand of spaghetti. She had to get dressed and get out of here; she couldn’t stand sleeping in any bed but her own. She got her panties and bra on. Forget the hose, they were all ripped up anyway. Brutus Beefcake was in there gargling now, like he was trying to sing opera underwater. She picked up her blouse, put it on, and hurriedly buttoned it.
And from out of nowhere, she smelled his scent.
Maybe it was on her hands, she decided. There was still some residue of oil in the skin between her fingers. Maybe Lucky’s smell was caught in that. She couldn’t identify his aroma, but it smelled clean. The nearest thing she could think of was a brand-new copy of Cosmo that nobody had even touched yet.
While Little Caesar was pronging her, a storm of half-remembered faces had swept through her mind. So many men, so little time: that had been her motto. And not just in the business, either. She liked sex; she enjoyed its funk and bump and pulsing heat, and afterward she liked to recline on a man’s body like a queen on a muscular throne. But there were so many faces, most of them without names. Or fake names at best, names like Bart and Glenn and Ranger and Ramrod. If they didn’t have huge ones, a lot of them would be grooming poodles.
It was funny, though. Real funny. Tonight, while Nero the Zero had been whispering some kind of gibberish in her ear, she had thought most clearly of Lucky. His face, while he’d been sleeping after the massage. He’d looked…so peaceful lying there. That’s why she hadn’t awakened him; she just sat down and stroked his hair, and had a memory of home.
It was all in black and white, like one of those classic movies they shouldn’t ought to colorize. She had been sitting on a grassy slope, with the town behind her and the huge white clouds floating in the sky, and she was picking dandelions and watching the wind blow them west. West, over the Louisiana forest toward the hills of California. Where those dandelion umbrellas would finally land, she didn’t know, but her hometown was too small for all of them. Her hometown grew mills and water tanks, railroads and rust. Dandelions would not root in iron; they needed the California sun.
And what she’d never realized, until that memory of home with the silk of Lucky’s hair under her fingers, was that she’d come to California as a dandelion blown on the wind, but her soul had grown its own iron.
Why did Lucky walk out on me? she asked herself. Nobody did that to Debra Rocks; nobody.
And maybe the fit of anger that had coursed through her had helped bring her to this bed too. Well, Lucky would come back, she knew. Oh, yeah, he’d be back.
If he wanted his bike, that is. While he’d been asleep, she’d taken the padlock key out of his jeans pocket and hidden it. This wasn’t the first time she’d started out with one guy and ended up with another, and she’d wanted to be prepared in case Lucky got lost in the shuffle. Such things happened.
She heard the noise of a tape being popped into the cassette player in Paulo’s bathroom. About four seconds later, the theme music of a Rocky movie—“Eye of the Tiger,” she thought it was—blared from the tinny speaker, and Paulo leapt through the bathroom’s door wearing only a black velvet G-string and flexing his muscles.
“Double biceps shot!” he yelled, and flexed. “Look at these quads, baby!” Another exaggerated pose. “Crunched abs!” He made his stomach muscles stand out like a washboard.
“Oh, no,” Debbie said. “Oh, no!” She couldn’t help but giggle—and then the floodgate broke and she hollered with laughter. Paulo had combed and sprayed his hair into a stiff helmet of curls, and he was making such ridiculous faces as he shot his muscle poses that he looked like he was agonized with hemorrhoids.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Debbie shouted, holding her aching stomach as she laughed. “You’re killin’ me!”
He shot one more flex that made his thigh muscles bulge enormously, and then he finally realized why she was laughing. “Hey! Bitch! I’m showin’ you my muscles here! Pay some respect to a bodybuilder!”
Her laugh stopped fast. “Don’t you call me a bitch, chump! And stop tryin’ to show off! I’ve seen better in the monkey house at the zoo!” She got up, really angry now—at herself, this dork, Big Georgia, and Lucky too—and pulled on her skirt.
“Where you think you’re goin’? Huh?” He moved toward her, crowding her. “Where you think you’re goin’?”
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“Don’t touch me. I’m goin’ home.” She picked up her clasp purse and slid her hand into it.
“When I say you go home is when you go home. Me. Paulo D’Anthony.” He reached to grab her elbow. “Hear it, bit—”
Her hand flashed out of the purse and popped another finger; this one was long and steel-blue, and its point rested lightly on Paulo’s throat.
“Okay,” Paulo said, wide-eyed. “So you can go home already.”
“Turn off that damn music. I hated that movie.”
Paulo backed away from the switchblade, grinning weakly, all his muscles suddenly turned to fleshy dumplings. When he’d reached the bathroom and turned off the tape, he sneered. “Y’know what’s wrong with you? You ain’t had a good fuck in so long it made you go crazy!”
“Ha,” Debbie said softly, folded the switchblade up, and returned it to her purse. She put on her heels, secure that he wasn’t going to crowd her again. She left the bedroom, and Paulo followed her like a puppy, but at a respectful distance.
“You don’t have to go, baby,” he whined. “Come on. You want money? I’ll give you money.”
“No thanks.”
“Coke. I’ve got a real strong connection, baby. Get you all the blow you need.”
“I’ve got my own dealer.” She picked up her leopardskin jacket where it lay on the floor, the first stop of the sex express.
“Shit!” Paulo said bitterly, his fragile ego starting to fall to ruins. “You don’t know a real man when you see one!”
“Do tell,” she said, shrugging into her jacket.
“Hey.” Paulo’s voice was softer now, and something in it was desperate. “Don’t leave me alone, okay?”
“You’re a sweet kid. Have a good life,” she said, and she had her Fiat keys in her hand as she went through the door out into the hallway.
He followed her, still G-string-clad. Now his face was swelling with rage. She was waiting for the elevator to come up. “You suck, you know that?” he shouted, oblivious of his neighbors at almost three-thirty in the morning. “You suck big ones!”
“That lets you off, then,” she answered calmly. The elevator doors slid open.
He couldn’t let her go without one last angry shot. “You ain’t nothin’ but a fucked-up two-bit whore!”
She paused, her back to him and spine stiff, her hands holding the doors from closing. Slowly her head turned. Her beautiful face was as tight as metal, and the fierce fire in her gray eyes struck Paulo dumb. “Better get your mama to pop those pimples on your ass,” she said tautly, and let the doors hiss shut behind her.
Paulo stared at the sealed elevator, his face slack and a pulse beating at his temple. He had the urge to go after her, to chase her in the street, but he let it go. There was no use. A woman like that didn’t belong to anybody, and never would. Well, the bitch just didn’t know what she was missin’. He pulled his chest up again and swaggered into the apartment, shut the door, and locked it.
A shadow disengaged itself from the other shadows at the far end of the corridor, near the stairwell. There was the steady noise of bootheels approaching Paulo’s door.
Paulo opened his refrigerator, popped a beer, and swigged half of it down. The doorbell buzzed. Now, who the hell could that be? Probably some dumb-ass neighbor called the cops, wants to make a big thing about the noise. Hell, life was noise!
He stormed to the door, reached out, and put his hand on the lock. Hold it, he thought. Can’t be too careful around here. He peered through the door’s spyhole, saw a blond crewcut guy he didn’t know. “Who’re you?”
The guy smiled coldly. “You lookin’ at me, man?”
“Yeah, I see you.” Freaky tattoos at the corner of the guy’s eyes. “What do you want?”
“She’s my date,” the guy said.
“Huh?” Paulo saw the freak lift something. There was the glint of metal. The spyhole went dark. “Hey, what’re you tryin’ to—”
The gun went off, and the bullet blasted through the spyhole’s glass and into Paulo’s right eye. It went through the back of his skull in a grisly shower of bone, brains, and curly black hair. The second bullet caught Paulo over the heart as he staggered back, and blood exploded from Paulo’s nose and mouth as his aorta ruptured. He slammed down on his back, his body continuing to twitch even though his brain knew nothing more of movement.
The cowboy had already reached the stairwell and was descending to the street.
At the curb, Debbie was pulling away in the green Fiat. She thought she’d heard a faint, muffled backfire, maybe from a car on the next street over. She headed for home and a good hot bath.
After two or three minutes, a gray Volkswagen van rounded the corner and drove in the direction of Debbie’s apartment. There was a scream from the floor where Paulo had lived.
12
SUNDAY PASSED, A DAY of torture.
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.
Sundav 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 hou
nd, his gray eyebrows meeting between his eyes. He wore black hornrimmed 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?”