Immediately a crowd formed around the young singer. She was used to people forming crowds around her. What she was not used to was being ignored. And past the row of poor huts the victims lived in she saw two men, one Oriental and one white, who were not even bothering to look her way.
She made fifteen million dollars a year, was on the cover of almost every major magazine in the West, and she was of absolutely no interest to these two. This she spotted despite the fifteen microphones in her face, cameras whirring behind them.
"I soytinly don't need no more publicity in case yer asking," she said with a New York accent that advertised itself better than Broadway. "I'm here to help da people. All right? Whyn't youse guys go talk to da people. Dare the ones what's sufferin' around here. "
"What do you think of the negligence of American factories?"
"I'm against anything that hurts," said Debbie. "What hurts people is what I'm against. I hate unhappiness and they oughta outlaw it."
"Do you think America has failed to outlaw unhappiness because it's racist?"
"I don't know. I know the people of Gupta need our help. And I'm here to see what I'm singin' for. We're gonna save the people. All us rock stars and singers are going to save the people of the world and we're gonna start here for the people of Gupta. Ain't no reason they should suffer and die just 'cause they was born here. They gotta get treated fair, see?"
"Since when has your new philosphical approach taken over your career?"
"I always believed this stuff. 'Cept youse guys never asked me about that."
Debbie left a half-dozen television reporters commenting on how she was showing new and deep spiritual feelings, how she was revealing a political sensibility she never had before. However, she wasn't considered too knowledgeable about international politics because she had failed to blame everything on America.
Debbie excused herself from her agent, her manager, the reporters, the guides, and the Indian constabulary to walk down the muddy street toward the two men who hadn't even glanced over at her.
The Oriental, in a gold kimono, was talking in the native language to two old men who were describing something with their hands. The younger white man, the attractive one with a sense of being able to do anything a woman might want, or perhaps anything he wanted for a woman, was listening. Debbie shook the multitude of bangles around her neck to make some noise. She also shook a large part of her amply endowed body. She did not believe in bras or panties.
Neither the Oriental nor the white looked up. The white man had found two Indian children to whom he gave money.
"I'm for charity too," said Debbie.
"Good," said the white man. "Why don't you buy yourself some decent clothes then?"
"Hey, you know who I am, wise guy?"
"Somebody who needs a good wash and possibly a simonize. Where did you get that color hair?"
"Does the Chinaman know who I am?"
"He's Korean, and I don't think so."
"If this wasn't so insulting I'd laugh. It's really funny, you know? Really funny. Do you know who you're ignoring, Mr. Nobody? I ain't never heard of you. "
"What's bothering you?" said Remo.
"You, wise guy. You," said Debbie, poking him in the chest. The chest muscles seemed to catch at her purple fingernails. She noticed the Korean had even longer fingernails than she did. She wondered how he kept them that way.
"Well, then leave," said Remo.
"What'cha doin' here? Whose agent are ya?"
"If you knew, little girl, I'd have to kill you," said the white man with a friendly smile indicating that perhaps he was joking. But Debbie felt a tingling sense of danger.
"I'm here helpin' dese people. I don't just throw a coupla bucks at kids. I'm gonna earn 'em millions. Make 'em rich. Show da world how to treat people. You know much about music?"
"Not much," said Remo.
"That explains it," said Debbie. "No wonder. I'm a big rock star. Youse guys heard about rock, ain't cha?"
"Music?" said Remo.
"Yeah. Music. Maybe you heard my songs but don't know it's me, right?"
"Could we do this some other time?" said Remo.
"Hey, I'm the most desired woman in the world. Don't you brush me off, punk. You hear?" said Debbie. She pushed her fingernail into him again. For the last three years since her hit single "Rack Me, Rip Me" shot her to the top of the charts, she had discovered two ways to get anything she wanted, legal or illegal. One was to ask for it and the other was to demand it. Now she was demanding.
And there was a person actually refusing. He was saying no to Debbie Pattie.
"Hey, what's your name? You don't have to kill me if you tell me that."
"It's Remo. Leave me alone or stand downwind."
"Wise guy. What'cha make, Remo?"
"I make myself happy."
"Money, jerk."
"I don't count it," said Remo.
On hearing that the Korean sighed but continued his conversation with the old men of the village. Even though she didn't understand the language, Debbie Pattie knew the old men were telling the Korean they didn't know the answers he sought. Their shoulders shrugged and their worn brown faces wrinkled in dismay. She thought they were cute, the way they squatted in the Indian dust. But the wise guy was absolutely beautiful. He seemed to move gracefully even when standing still.
"You wanna work for me? I'll pay you more than ya gettin' now."
"Hey, kid. Leave us alone. You don't even know what we do. "
"I know I can buy you, punk."
"Well, you're wrong. So good-bye."
"You know how many guys'd kill demselves just to touch me once? So how come you don't even ask me about myself? Ask me what I sing. Ask me what I do. How about it?"
Debbie transferred the peach-sized wad of gum to the other side of her mouth. Remo noticed even the gum was off-color.
"Will you go then?"
"Yeah. I'll go."
"All right, what do you sing?"