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.
The van went on about twenty yards. And then its brake lights flared. It stopped dead in the middle of the street.
John’s heart was pounding, and he smelled the electricity of his own fear. That van again. Its driver was drunk or crazy. In either case, John didn’t care to stick around. He saw the entrance to a narrow alley just ahead, and he pedaled toward it.
In the van’s darkness, Travis slipped three bullets into his Colt and clicked the cylinder shut. Then he laid the gun on the stained seat beside him and drove on, turning sharply right at the next corner and picking up speed.
As John came out of the alley, he saw the van roar around the corner and come after him.
His first thought was Oh, Jesus. He stayed on the sidewalk, veered away from the van, and started pedaling fast. Faster. Faster.
The van’s tires jubbled over potholes, then hit smooth pavement again. Its engine snorted and popped like the ravenous, saliva-damp mouth of a hungry beast.
John’s legs pumped furiously, his body thrust forward, head over the handlebars. His eyes were wide and glittering, and he knew now that he was a long way from home.
The van pulled up level with him. There was a flash and crack! from its interior.
John thought he heard a hornet zip past his head; he was aware of heat, the tang of scorched metal, his hair standing up at the back of his neck. He heard the glass of a window explode in the wake of his bicycle, and three seconds later he realized he’d just been shot at.
Maybe he peed in his pants; he didn’t know, since he was already soaked, but his bladder certainly gave a lurch. Another alley entrance was ahead; he veered into it, his rear tire skidding, and as the alley took him, another bullet ricocheted like a scream off the red bricks.
John shot out of the alley’s far side, swerved right, and sped across the street. Cold sweat had surfaced on his face. My God! he thought, amazed. My God, why would anybody want to kill me?
An engine roared. The van tore around the corner, coming out of the low-lying fog, and raced toward him.
John’s foot slipped off a pedal. He lost control of the handlebars, and then he was going up onto the curb, trying to drag his feet against the pavement. He skidded into a group of garbage cans around a burned-out streetlamp, and there he fell off the bike into the embrace of Hefty bags.
Travis slowed the van, lifted the Colt, and wedged his arm up on the driver’s door. The barrel glinted, steel-blue. He saw the man—the sonofabitching Satan who was trying to steal his date—get up on his knees and reach for his fallen bicycle. The bike rider looked up, and Travis grinned. He had a clear shot. Right between the eyes.
He squeezed the trigger.
The van’s front-left tire hit a pothole.
John saw the flash of gunfire. And there was a clang! of metal against metal and sparks leapt off the streetlamp’s pole right in front of his face.
The van went on maybe fifteen yards before its brakes squealed. It stopped, and Travis shouted, “Shit!” and reached back to his gunbelt for more bullets.
John scrambled onto his bike, turned in the opposite direction from the stopped van, and started pedaling frantically down a hill;
Travis got another bullet into the Colt, and then he glanced into the sideview mirror. He thrust the gun out, taking aim at the rider’s back by the mirror’s reflection. But in the next second the bike rider descended the grade and vanished into a pocket of fog. Travis slammed his fist down on the steering wheel, and he started to back up, but here came another car behind him. Travis pulled his gun hand back in. The driver stopped and honked his horn.
Travis started to get out and kill him, but that would be a waste. Anyway, a siren was wailing. Most likely whoever owned that broken window had called the cops. If that Satan showed up again, he’d be sorry as dust, like they said in Oklahoma. Travis shot the car’s driver a bird, and then he sped on, turned left at the next corner, left again, and headed for safety.
15
“YOU’RE NOT TAKING YOUR vitamins,” the monsignor said sternly. “You look like you need some iron.”
“No, sir,” John said. “I’m fine.”
“I know when somebody needs iron.” McDowell opened a desk drawer and brought out a bottle of Iron Plus tablets. “Here. I take ’em all the time. A man gets to a certain age, he needs a lot of iron.”
“Yes, sir,” John said, and put the bottle in his pocket.
“Okay, let’s get down to business.” McDowell opened a schedule book. “As you know, Father Stafford and I are going to the state Catholic convention in San Diego. We’re leaving Saturday morning and we’ll be back on Wednesday.”
John blinked. “I…thought I was going to be a delegate too.”
“No, I decided to take Father Stafford along. I don’t think you’re up to politics, do you?” His thick brows lifted.
“No, sir, I suppose I’m not,” he had to agree. His bones were still trembling from what had happened last night, and he’d been able to sleep, fitfully, for only three hours.
“Right. So you’ll be manning the helm, so to speak. I expect you to be up to the task.”
John nodded, without fully hearing him. “Up to the task” meant strict office and consultation hours, duty in the confessional, on call and available at all hours for whatever might come up. That meant also, he realized, that from Saturday to Wednesday it would be impossible to see Debbie.
The hand of God had finally jerked him back to reality.
“Don’t nod. Say ‘yes,’” McDowell insisted.
“Yes, sir,” John answered.
“All right. Take this.” He handed John a list of functions and meetings scheduled between Saturday and Wednesday. They were all low-level priority, but required a Catholic presence. “I’ll have more information for you on
Thursday. Be here at ten o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood up, and that’s when it hit him. “Ten o’clock? This Thursday?”
“There’s a problem?”
The walls seemed to spin around him. John clutched hold of the monsignor’s huge black desk. “No,” he said finally. “There’s no problem.”
“Okay, good. Have a nice day.”
John somehow got out of there, and he went straight to his apartment and took an iron pill. He stayed at the church all day, reading, studying, and praying with a vengeance. He didn’t glance at the red X even once, though he knew exactly where it was all the time. He wanted to fill his mind up with crisp holiness, because it had an inclination to wander in two directions: toward the memory of Debbie, shaving him in a bubblebath with her breasts pressed against his chest, and toward the memory of gunfire.
He’d almost called the police when he’d gotten home. But of course there would have been complications. The police might have come here to see him, and the monsignor would find out, and want to know where he’d been riding his bike at that time of night. Complications best avoided.
Whoever had shot at him was crazy or high on drugs. It had been a chance encounter. John was alive, though the first bullet had come so close he’d found slivers of glass in the back of his sweater when he got home. Leave it at that.
On Wednesday afternoon, when his work and studying were done, he took off his collar, put on some casual clothes, and walked his bike down to the street. He had to lean over and pretend to be adjusting something on his bike, because Garcia, the maintenance man, went past him and said, “’Afternoon, Father.” Then, when Garcia was out of sight, John got on his bike and pedaled away.
He didn’t intend to go to Debbie’s. Maybe he didn’t. But that’s where the wheels took him. Her Fiat wasn’t at the curb. He drove past Giro’s, wandered around the sinuous streets for about an hour, and then back to Debbie’s. Still no Fiat. A working day, he thought. He felt a jab at his heart, and he went home.
He was wide-awake at six o’clock on Thursday morning, listening to the clock tick.
Monsignor McDowell expected him in his office at ten o’clock. That was when he would be on an airplane to Los Angeles, the lucky charm of a porno star who hoped today would be her big break. He got out of bed and took vitamins, and then he stood under the shower and just let it drench him. After his shower, he sat down and polished his black shoes.
The clock ticked on, and at a quarter to eight he dressed in jeans, shirt, and sweater and took his bike to the street. It would take him only fifteen to eighteen minutes to reach Debbie’s apartment if he pedaled at a steady pace, but he wanted to get out early, before Darryl and the monsignor were in their offices.
He locked his bike to her stairs and went up to her.
She answered the door with a smear of white powder at her nostrils. “Lucky!” she said breathlessly. When she hugged him, he felt how she was trembling. She pulled him in, her hand clenched around his with desperate strength. “It’s good you got here early, you can help calm me down. You want some coffee? I can’t cook worth a shit, but I can make bitchin’ coffee. It’s black. You like yours black?”
“Black’s fine.”
She poured a cup for him, but she was shaking and the cup clattered on the saucer as she brought it to him. “I’m kind of nervous,” she apologized. “I didn’t spill any on you, did I?” He said no. “Uncle Joey told me he was bringin’ you a suit. He said you and he had a real…how’d he put it…communion.”
“Yes,” John said, “I think we understood each other.” He watched as Debbie drank down a cup of coffee, took a bottle of some kind of pills from a cupboard and popped two of those, and generally behaved like a pinball knocked between flippers. She went into the bedroom, emerged a few seconds later having taken off her white gown; now she had one leg in hose and one leg bare, her breasts fully exposed. “Do I sound hoarse?” she asked him. “I think I sound hoarse. My God, if I’m gettin’ a cold I’ll just die!”
“You sound fine,” he assured her, averting his eyes from her breasts.
She struggled with her black bra, couldn’t get the clasps done. “What time is it? Lucky, what time is it?”
“Eight-twenty-six.”
“Damn it, I can’t get this fuckin’ thing on! I can’t…” He heard her voice choke. “I can’t…do anything right!”
He got up, walked to her, gently took the back of her bra, and clasped it. She was trembling, and she kept running her hands through her hair like fleshly brushes. “Shhhh,” he whispered to her, and he put his arms around her from behind. “Come on, settle down.”
Still shivering, she leaned her head back against his shoulder. The waves of her black hair floated before his face, and he could feel her heart beating—like a trapped bird trying to fly—through his hands. Lucky had a gentle touch, she thought, and she let his heat soothe her freezing bones. “I’m torn up,” she said. “Just hold me, okay?”
He tightened his grip on her, and he smelled the perfume of her hair. He kissed the soft nape of her neck, his lips stinging, and then he rested his head against hers.
“Damn, I’ve gotta get ready!” she remembered, and she pushed out of his arms. She raced into the bedroom again, where John could hear her tearing through the closet.
Unicorn came scuttling to his feet, passed him, and climbed up into a cactus pot, where it busied itself digging into the sand.
At seven minutes before nine the door buzzer was pressed, and John answered it because Debbie was still in the throes of decision between a skirt-and-sweater outfit or her red dress. At the door stood a broad-shouldered, dark-haired young man who had the same chilly, heavy-lidded eyes as his father. “You Lucky?” he said, and John nodded. “This is for you.” He thrust forward a dark blue suit, white shirt, and a paisley-print tie on a hanger. “To borrow,” he added ominously. The young man bulled his way past John. “Hey, Debra!” he shouted toward the bedroom. “Pop’s in the car! Move your ass!” Then his gaze locked, disdainfully, on John. “Well, put it on, cockface! You think you’re supposed to just stand there and look at it?”
John took off his clothes and struggled into the suit; struggled because it was at least a size too small, and the shirt was starched as if it had been fashioned from platinum. He forced the gruesomely tight collar buttoned and put on the necktie. Had to tie it once, twice, a third time before Sinclair’s son said, “Shit! Don’t you know how to tie a fuckin’ tie? C’mere!” He jerked John toward him bv the paisley, roughly untied it, and started over again. “Debra!” the young man hollered. “Pop’s parked in the handicapped zone!”
“I’m ready,” she answered as she emerged from the bedroom.
Both John and the young man stared at her.
She had chosen her red dress, the same curved glimpse of fire John had seen when he’d come out of the confessional. Her makeup was perfect, her black hair glossy and brushed back from her face, cascading softly over her tanned shoulders. Her face had the glow of life and energy, and her gray eyes were level and steady; she was in control.
Debbie put on a light red jacket, got her clutch purse, and went to the door. Sinclair’s son opened it for her, and John followed them down the stairs in his too-tight slacks.
The interior of the white Rolls reeked of cigar smoke. Joey Sinclair’s other son was behind the wheel, and Sinclair himself sat in the huge expanse of the rear seat. “Debra, you’re stunning,” he said as he kissed her hand. Then, to John: “Hey, Lucky! You must be putting on a little weight!” John smiled grimly, and Sinclair dug an elbow into his son’s side and laughed like a foghorn.
“This is the deal,” Sinclair said as they drove to the airport. “Solly’s meeting you in L.A. You’ve got reservations at Spago’s at one-thirty.” He glanced at John. “That’s a classy place,” he said, for Lucky’s benefit. “Your audition’s at three-thirty. Solly’ll get you there on time. Then he’ll get you back to LAX. Your plane leaves at eight-f
orty. I wanted to give you plenty of time, if the Bright Star boys want to take you to an early dinner.” He took Debra’s hands between his own. “Let’s look at you. Open your mouth. Brush your teeth good? Want a mint? Chuck, give her a mint!” The young man instantly handed her a pack of Clorets. “Your hands are like ice,” Sinclair said. “You toot some blow?”
“A little bit.” She put on her sunglasses.
“Good. It’ll keep you charged.” Sinclair’s head suddenly turned, and be stared forcefully at Lucky. He had felt the damn hustler watching him. “What’re you lookin’ at, you little fuckhead?”
“Joey!” Debbie said, a little sharper than she’d intended. “Please… Lucky’s my friend.”
“Oh, I know what he wants.” Sinclair dug out his wallet and opened it, exposing a thick pad of green. He counted out four one-hundred-dollar bills, and then he slapped them down on John’s knee. “That’s Debra’s play money. She sees something she wants, she gets it.”
“Thank you, Uncle Joey,” she told him, but she was staring out the window.
John and Debbie were sitting on an airplane within twenty minutes. At two minutes before ten, the jet’s engines whined, and shortly afterward the shuttle-service craft began to taxi toward the runway.
Debbie grasped John’s hand. “I get scared on takeoff,” she explained.
He squeezed her hand, and he was looking at his watch as it ticked dead on ten o’clock and he knew Monsignor McDowell was glancing at his own watch.
The plane took off and headed south.
As they flew, Debbie took off her sunglasses and told him what movie she was auditioning for: “It’s called The Rad Brigade. Rad for Radiation. See, it’s a sci-fi movie about after a nuclear war, and these teenagers get all mutated and have super powers and stuff. Then they have to…like…fight the bad mutant gang. I’m up for the part of Toni, the hooker.”
John couldn’t help it; he smiled slightly and shook his head.
“It’s a big part!” Debbie said. “Toni’s a mutant too, see. Like…her boobs glow in the dark. But she protects the Rad Brigade from the Blaster Bunch, and she’s a hero. Or heroine. You know what I mean.”