Blue World Read Online Free PDF Page B

crayons, and most of those seemed to be so dry they were crumbling to pieces. Even the box itself wasn’t attractive. Junk, as far as Calvin was concerned. How Mr. Marco thought he could push the thing to some L. A. collector was beyond him; now, those fake jewels and wigs he could understand, but this… ? No way!
    The box was chipped and scarred, showing the bare wood beneath the black lacquer at three of the corners. But the lock was unusual: it was a silver claw, a human hand with long sharp fingernails. It was tarnished with age but seemed to work okay. Mr. Marco would appreciate that, Calvin thought. The makeups themselves looked all dried out, but when Calvin unscrewed some of the numbered jars he caught faint whiffs of strange odors: from one a cold, clammy smell, like graveyard dirt; from another the smell of candle wax and metal; from a third an odor like a swamp teeming with reptilian life. None of the makeups carried brand names or any evidence where they’d been bought or manufactured. Some of the crayons crumbled into pieces when he picked them out of their tray, and he flushed the bits down the toilet so Mr. Marco wouldn’t find out he’d been tinkering with them.
    Gradually the joint overpowered him. He closed the case’s lid, snapped down the silver claw, and went to sleep on his sofa bed thinking of Deenie.
    He awakened with a start. The harsh afternoon sun was streaming through the dusty blinds. He fumbled for his wristwatch. Oh, God! he thought. Two-forty! He’d been told to call Mr. Marco at nine if the job went okay; panic flared within him as he went out to the pay phone at the end of the hall.
    Mr. Marco’s secretary answered at the antique shop on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. “Who may I say is calling, please?”
    “Tell him Cal. Cal Smith.”
    “Just a moment, please.”
    Another phone was picked up. “Marco here.”
    “It’s me, Mr. Marco. Cal Doss. I’ve got the makeup case, and the whole job went like a dream…”
    “A dream?” the voice asked softly. There was a quiet murmur of laughter, like water running over dangerous rocks. “Is that what you’d call it, Calvin? If that’s the case, your sleep must be terribly uneasy. Have you seen this morning’s
    Times?“
    “No, sir.” Calvin’s heart was beating faster. Something had gone wrong; something had been screwed up royally. The noise of his heartbeat seemed to fill the telephone receiver.
    “I’m surprised the police haven’t visited you already, Calvin. It seems you touched off a concealed alarm when you broke into the display case. Ah. Here’s the story, page seven, section two.” There was the noise of paper unfolding. “A silent alarm, of course. The police think they arrived at the scene just as you were leaving; one of the officers even thinks he saw your car. A gray Volkswagen with a dented left-rear fender? Does that ring a bell, Calvin?”
    “My… Volkswagen’s light green,” Cal said, his throat tightening. “I… got the banged fender in the Club Zoom’s parking lot…”
    “Indeed? I suggest you begin packing, my boy. Mexico might be nice at this time of year. If you’ll excuse me now, I have other business to attend to. Have a nice trip…”
    “Wait! Mr. Marco! Please!”
    “Yes?” The voice was as cold and hard as a glacier now.
    “So I screwed up the job. So what? Anybody can have a bad night, Mr. Marco. I’ve got the makeup case! I can bring it over to you, you can give me the three G’s, and then I can pick up my girl and head down to Mexico for…
    What is it?“
    Mr. Marco had started chuckling again, that cold mirthless laughter that always sent a chill skittering up Calvin’s spine. Calvin could envision him in his black leather chair, the armrests carved into faces of growling lions. His broad, moonlike face would be almost expressionless: the eyes dull and deadly, as black as the business end of a double-barreled shotgun, the mouth slightly crooked to one side, parted lips as