Blue World

by Robert R. McCammon

  “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.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yeah. She’s about Debra’s age.” He noted the hustler’s strange expression. “My third wife,” he explained. “Not the mother of my sons.” He opened the refrigerator again, found a carrot, and chewed on it. “Debra’s worked hard. She deserves a good shot. You’re going to make sure she gets it. Right?”

  And John said it, quietly: “Right.”

  “Good boy. Now, listen up.” Joey Sinclair walked to John and stopped, and John saw the deadly darkness in the other man’s eyes. “Debra’s got potential. Real potential. Maybe she’s not as good a judge of character as she thinks she is, but I’m going to tell you something, and you’d better understand it.” He leaned his face close to John’s. “I’ve seen your kind in every gutter I ever stepped over. You don’t give a shit for anybody in the world but yourself. Well, I understand that. Maybe I’m like that too. But…you hurt Debra in any way—you make her shed one tear—and I’ll start right here…” He placed his finger on John’s forehead. “…and I’ll split you open down to here.” He jabbed John’s testicles. “Get it?”

  “Got it,” John answered.

  “You’re stupid, but you’re not dumb.” He crunched on the carrot, and then he said, “Nine o’clock Thursday morning. I’ll send the Rolls. Be here.” Joey Sinclair walked to the door, opened it, and left without a backward glance.

  13

  JOHN STOOD AT THE bay window in the golden afternoon light and slowly he sank to his knees.

  He could say a hundred thousand times “Hail Mary, Mother of Grace,” he realized, and still the storm inside him would not be stilled. How had he come to this place, weak and on his knees in the apartment of a porno star? Oh, Holy Father…this was more than his soul could withstand…

  He sensed a stealthy movement beside him, and looked to his right. The crab had joined him. It hunkered down on the carpet and just sat there.

  John clasped his hands before him, closed his eyes, and offered his face to the sun. He began to pray for guidance, for the tumult in his soul to be soothed, for his blood to stop its fiery racing through the avenues of his veins. He must be delivered from this tangled web of ev—

  There was the click of a key turning in the lock. The door came open, and there she was.

  He twisted his head around, but didn’t have time to leap to his feet. Debbie wore her jeans and a bulky pale blue sweater. Her face looked a little used and tired, as if she’d gone several nights without decent rest. Her hair was damp—from a shower or bath? he wondered—and it was pulled back again into a raven ponytail.

  She smiled, and it was like the sun emerging from gloom. “I saw the note was gone!” she said. “Uncle Joey must’ve let you in, right? I knew you’d come back! Lucky, I’m so glad to see you!” She closed the door behind her.

  John stayed where he was, frozen in an attitude of prayer.

  She bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips seared his flesh. Then she got down on her knees beside him, facing the sun. Their arms rubbed. “I like to meditate too,” she said. “It’s a kick.” She closed her eyes, and began to intone, “Ommmmmmm…”

  I’m going to scream, John thought. I’m going to scream so loud the windows will explode.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” she asked him suddenly, her gray eyes soft and inquiring.

  “I…” His tongue tangled.

  “I’ve read all of Shirley MacLaine’s books,” she went on. “I had a dream once where I was an Egyptian queen, and I was watchin’ them build the pyramids. It seemed like a real place. I mean…it was cosmic. So that’s why I read her books.” She turned her body toward him and took both his hands in hers. The golden light streamed around them and merged their shadows. “You know what she says? That people who loved each other in past lives always meet again. Somehow or other, they always get together. But sometimes you can miss your lover, and that’s why people live unhappy lives. So you’ve just got to hang in there, and maybe in the next life you’ll find your soul mate again. Do you believe that?”

  He couldn’t lie about something like this. “No,” he said quietly, and he saw the disappointment well up in her eyes.

  But it was quickly gone, like a little cloud past the sun. “I don’t either, not really,” she said. “But it would be nice to pretend, wouldn’t it?” She took his silence for agreement. “Anyway, I’ve found my soul mate this time around!” She squeezed his hands. “Lucky, I’m so glad you came back!”

  “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, before he could think about it. And added, “You had the padlock key.”

  “Yeah. Guess I pulled a fast one on you, huh? Forgive me?”

  How could he not? “Of course.”

  She got up and stretched her body. “Wow, I’ve had a day! Hi there, Unicorn! Uncle Joey come by and feed you yet?” She saw the tuna chunks, and also the spilled cookies and packets of cocaine on the counter. “You do that?” she asked him.

  “Sorry. I was looking for the key. I was going to clean it up.”

  “Aw, I’ll get it.” She went to the counter, put everything back into the jar but one packet of cocaine. She began to get out the mirror, straw, and razor blade again.

  At once John was on his feet. Debbie formed two lines on the glass with the razor blade, and leaned forward with the straw to her nostril.

  Before she could inhale, John reached out and grasped the straw away. She looked up, puzzled. “Hey! What’re you—”

  “I don’t want you to do that anymore,” he said. He snapped the straw and dropped it into the trash. “That shit…that stuff…isn’t good for you.”

  “Oh, it’s good shit,” she said. “It’s fresh. I got it yesterday.” She lifted the mirror to her nose and inhaled first one line, then licked her finger, put it into the other line, and worked the powder into her mouth and gums.

  Hopeless, John thought. He felt as strong as a wrung-out rag.

  “How come you left me?” she asked. Her gaze had sharpened. “At the Mile-High Club. How come you walked?”

  “I didn’t leave. I went into the bathroom. When I came out, that transves… I mean, Big Georgia said you’d gone.” He avoided her eyes. “With that guy you were dancing with.”

  “Oh.” It came clear to her. That Big Georgia wanted every man she saw! “Oh, he wasn’t anybody,” she said, putting her drug paraphernalia away. “Just a good dancer.” She frowned and touched between her legs. “Gee, I’m kind of hurtin’.” Quickly she realized Lucky didn’t yet know about her line of work, and she turned away. “I…did some modelin’ at a gym today. You know, leotards and like that. I had to do a lot of stretchin’.”

  My soul, John thought, is the size of a cinder.

>   Debbie picked up Unicorn and took him to his sandbox in the bathroom. Then she caught her reflection in the mirror, and she stood staring at herself for a moment. Her lipstick was smeared, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  I have to tell him, she thought. I can’t lie to him anymore.

  She tried to shove that thought away, but it lodged in her like a thorn. If he listened, and ran out…well, he wouldn’t do that. Lucky was her soul mate, right? Believe it. And anyway, what kind of man would run out after she told him what had to be said? If there was any such man on earth, she hadn’t met him yet. She ran a finger lightly over her lips; they were a little swollen.

  It was time. Now or never.

  She went to a closet in the bedroom, opened it, and reached to the top shelf, having to stand on her tiptoes. Her body felt like a well-used glove. She grasped the brown leather photo album, brought it down, and went out to Lucky.

  He was sitting in a chair, facing the window, with his head in his hands. He looked as if he’d had a rough day too. She came up behind him, and when she touched his shoulders, he jumped.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” he said.

  “You’re tight. Your shoulders. Lot of stress in there, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Much of it had come from Joey Sinclair. He felt her fingers work deep into the stiff muscles, and he closed his eyes and tried to relax.

  “I have to tell you some things,” she said after a long pause. Her fingers kept kneading Lucky’s shoulders with slow, steady power. “I’m an actress. Remember, I told you that before?” He nodded. “Well… I’ve got a different name, too. An actress name.”

  His eyes opened, but he kept his head lowered.

  “Debra.” She hesitated. Four or five seconds went past. “Rocks,” she said, almost like an afterthought. “Get it? Debbie Stoner? Debra Rocks?”

  “I get it,” John said softly.

  “I came up with that one myself.” Her fingers kept working, but Lucky’s shoulders didn’t seem to be getting any looser. “Have you…like…ever heard of me?”

  “No,” John said, and his heart clenched. He heard her release a breath she’d been holding.