The Best of Kage Baker

by Kage Baker

  “Tcho-Tcho sees a man—a slender, dark man—” Mrs. Bryce went on, rolling her eyes back in her head in a sort of alarming way. “He wears Eastern raiment—”

  Marion downed her cocktail in one gulp. “Hey, look, Mrs. Bryce, there’s Greta Garbo,” she said. “I’ll just bet she’s a big fan of your books.”

  Mrs. Bryce’s eyes snapped back into place and she looked around.

  “Garbo?” she cried. She made straight for the Frozen Flame, dropping Lewis like a rock, though Tcho-Tcho snapped and strained over her shoulder at him. Garbo saw them coming and sank further into the depths of her chair. I was right. Mrs. Bryce was after bigger fish.

  I didn’t notice what happened after that, though, because I heard a clash of brass gates and gears engaging somewhere upstairs. The biggest fish of all was descending in his elevator, making his delayed entrance.

  I edged over toward the secret panel. My mouth was dry, my palms were sweaty. I wonder if Mephistopheles ever gets sweaty palms when he’s facing a prospective client?

  Bump. Here he was. The panel made no sound as it opened. Not a mortal soul noticed as W.R. Hearst stepped into the room, and for that matter Lewis didn’t notice either, having resumed the Charleston with Connie Talmadge. So there was only me to stare at the very, very big old man who sat down quietly in the corner.

  I swear I felt the hair stand on the back of my neck, and I didn’t know why.

  William Randolph Hearst had had his seventieth birthday a couple of weeks before. His hair was white, he sagged where an old man sags, but his bones hadn’t given in to gravity. His posture was upright and powerfully alert.

  He just sat there in the shadows, watching the bright people in his big room. I watched him. This was the guy who’d fathered modern journalism, who with terrifying energy and audacity had built a financial empire that included newspapers, magazines, movies, radio, mining, ranching. He picked and chose presidents as though they were his personal appointees. He’d ruthlessly forced the world to take him on his own terms; morality was what he said it was; and yet there wasn’t any fire that you could spot in the seated man, no restless genius apparent to the eye.

  You know what he reminded me of? The Goon in the Popeye comic strips. Big as a mountain and scary too, but at the same time sad, with those weird deep eyes above the long straight nose.

  He reminded me of something else, too, but not anything I wanted to remember right now.

  “Oh, you did your trick again,” said Marion, pretending to notice him at last. “Here he is, everybody. He likes to pop in like he was Houdini or something. Come on, W.R., say hello to the nice people.” She pulled him to his feet and he smiled for her. His smile was even scarier than the rest of him. It was wide, and sharp, and hungry, and young.

  “Hello, everybody,” he said, in that unearthly voice Ambrose Bierce had described as the fragrance of violets made audible. Flutelike and without resonance. Not a human voice; jeez, I sound more human than that. But then, I’m supposed to.

  And you should have seen them, all those people, turn and stare and smile and bow—just slightly, and I don’t think any of them realized they were bowing to him, but I’ve been a courtier and I know a grovel when I see one. Marion was the only mortal in that room who wasn’t afraid of him. Even Garbo had gotten up out of her chair.

  Marion brought them up to him, one by one, the big names and the nobodies, and introduced the ones he didn’t know. He shook hands like a shy kid. Hell, he was shy! That was it, I realized: he was uneasy around people, and Marion—in addition to her other duties—was his social interface. O.K., this might be something I could use.

  I stood apart from the crowd, waiting unobtrusively until Marion had brought up everybody else. Only when she looked around for me did I step out of the shadows into her line of sight.

  “And—oh, Joe, almost forgot you! Pops, this is Joe Denham. He works for Mr. Mayer? He’s the nice guy who—”

  Pandemonium erupted behind us. One of the damn chihuahuas had gotten loose and was after somebody with intent to kill, Lewis from the sound of it. Marion turned and ran off to deal with the commotion. I leaned forward and shook Hearst’s hand as he peered over my shoulder after Marion, frowning.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hearst,” I told him quietly. “Mr. Shaw asked me to visit you. I look forward to our conversation later.”

  Boy, did that get his attention. Those remote eyes snapped into close focus on me, and it was like being hit by a granite block. I swallowed hard but concentrated on the part I was playing, smiling mysteriously as I disengaged my hand from his and stepped back into the shadows.

  He wasn’t able to say anything right then, because Tcho-Tcho was herding Lewis in our direction and Lewis was dancing away from her with apologetic little yelps, jumping over the furniture, and Marion was laughing hysterically as she tried to catch the rotten dog. Mrs. Bryce just looked on with a rapt and knowing expression.

  Hearst pursed his lips at the scene, but he couldn’t be distracted long. He turned slowly to stare at me and nodded, just once, to show he understood.

  A butler appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was served. Hearst led us from the room, and we followed obediently.

  The dining hall was less homey than the first room we’d been in. Freezing cold in spite of the roaring fire in the French Gothic hearth, its gloom was brightened a little by the silk Renaissance racing banners hanging up high and a lot of massive silver candlesticks. The walls were paneled with fifteenth-century choir stalls from Spain. I might have dozed off in any one of them, back in my days as a friar. Maybe I had; they looked familiar.

  We were seated at the long refectory table. Hearst and Marion sat across from each other in the center, and guests were placed by status. The nearer you were to the master and his mistress, the higher in favor or more important you were. Guests Mr. Hearst found boring or rude were moved discreetly further out down the table.

  Well, we’ve nowhere to go but up, Lewis transmitted, finding our place cards clear down at the end. I could see Hearst staring at me as we took our plates (plain old Blue Willow that his mother had used for camping trips) and headed for the buffet.

  I bet we move up soon, too, I replied.

  Ah! Have you made contact? Lewis peered around Gable’s back at a nice-looking dish of venison steaks.

  Just baited the hook. I tried not to glance at Hearst, who had loaded his plate with pressed duck and was pacing slowly back to the table.

  Does this have to be terribly complicated? Lewis inquired, sidling in past Garbo to help himself to asparagus soufflé. All we want is permission to conceal the script in that particular Spanish cabinet.

  Actually we want a little more than that, Lewis. I considered all the rich stuff and decided to keep things bland. Potatoes, right.

  I see. This is one of those need-to-know things, isn’t it?

  You got it, kiddo. I put enough food on my plate to be polite and turned to go back to my seat. Hearst caught my eye. He tracked me like a lighthouse beam all the way down the table. I nodded back, like the friendly guy I really am, and sat down across from Lewis.

  I take it there’s more going on here than the Company has seen fit to tell me? Lewis transmitted, unfolding his paper napkin and holding out his wine glass expectantly. The waiter filled it and moved on.

  Don’t be sore, I transmitted back. You know the Company. There’s probably more going on here than even I know about, O.K.?

  I only said it to make him feel better. If I’d had any idea how right I was…

  So we ate dinner, at that baronial banqueting table, with the mortals. Gable carried on manful conversation with Mr. Hearst about ranching, Marion and Connie joked and giggled across the table with the male guests, young Hearst and his girl whispered to each other, and a servant had to take Tcho-Tcho and Conqueror Worm outside because they wouldn’t stop snarling at a meek little dachshund that appeared under Mr. Hearst’s chair. Mrs. Bryce didn’t mind; she was busy tr
ying to tell Garbo about a past life, but I couldn’t figure out if it was supposed to be hers or Garbo’s. Hearst’s executives just ate, in silence, down at their end of the table. Lewis and I ate in silence down at our end.

  Not that we were ignored. Every so often Marion would yell a pleasantry our way, and Hearst kept swinging that cold blue searchlight on me, with an expression I was damned if I could fathom.

  When dinner was over, Mr. Hearst rose and picked up the dachshund. He led us all deeper into his house, to his private movie theater.

  Do I have to tell you it was on a scale with everything else? Walls lined in red damask, gorgeous beamed ceiling held up by rows of gilded caryatids slightly larger than lifesize. We filed into our seats, I guess unconsciously preserving the order of the dinner table because Lewis and I wound up off on an edge again. Hearst settled into his big leather chair with its telephone, called the projectionist and gave an order. The lights went out, and after a fairly long moment in darkness, the screen lit up. It was Going Hollywood, Marion’s latest film with Bing Crosby. She greeted her name on the screen with a long loud raspberry, and everyone tittered.

  Except me. I wasn’t tittering, no sir; Mr. Hearst wasn’t in his big leather chair anymore. He was padding toward me slowly in the darkness, carrying his little dog, and if I hadn’t been able to see by infrared I’d probably have screamed and jumped right through that expensive ceiling when his big hand dropped on my shoulder in the darkness.

  He leaned down close to my ear.

  “Mr. Denham? I’d like to speak with you in private, if I may,” he told me.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hearst,” I gasped, and got to my feet. Beside me, Lewis glanced over. His eyes widened.

  Break a leg, he transmitted, and turned his attention to the screen again.

  I edged out of the row and followed Hearst, who was walking away without the slightest doubt I was obeying him. Once we were outside the theater, all he said was, “Let’s go this way. It’ll be faster.”

  “O.K.,” I said, as though I had any idea where we were going. We walked back through the house. There wasn’t a sound except our footsteps echoing off those high walls. We emerged into the assembly hall, eerily lit up, and Hearst led me to the panel that concealed his elevator. It opened for him. We got in, he and I and the little dog, and ascended through his house.

  ***

  My mouth was dry, my palms were sweating, my dinner wasn’t sitting too well…well, that last one’s a lie. I’m a cyborg and I can’t get indigestion. But I felt like a mortal with a nervous stomach, know what I mean? And I’d have given half the Renaissance masterpieces in that house for a roll of Pep-O-Mints right then. The dachshund watched me sympathetically.

  We got out at the third floor and stepped into Hearst’s private study. This was the room from which he ran his empire when he was at La Cuesta Encantada, this was where phones connected him directly to newsrooms all over the country; this was where he glanced at teletype before giving orders to the movers and shakers. Up in a corner, a tiny concealed motion picture camera began to whirr the moment we stepped on the carpet, and I could hear the click as a modified Dictaphone hidden in a cabinet began to record. State-of-the-art surveillance, for 1933.

  It was a nicer room than the others I’d been in so far. Huge, of course, with an antique Spanish ceiling and golden hanging lamps, but wood-paneled walls and books and Bakhtiari carpets gave it a certain warmth. My gaze followed the glow of lamplight down the long polished mahogany conference table and skidded smack into Hearst’s life-size portrait on the far wall. It was a good portrait, done when he was in his thirties, the young emperor staring out with those somber eyes. He looked innocent. He looked dangerous.

  “Nice likeness,” I said.

  “The painter had a great talent,” Hearst replied. “He was a dear friend of mine. Died too soon. Why do you suppose that happens?”

  “People dying too soon?” I stammered slightly as I said it, and mentally yelled at myself to calm down: it was just business with a mortal, now, and the guy was even handing me an opening. I gave him my best enigmatic smile and shook my head sadly. “It’s the fate of mortals to die, Mr. Hearst. Even those with extraordinary ability and talent. Rather a pity, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hearst replied, never taking his eyes off me a moment. “And I guess that’s what we’re going to discuss now, isn’t it, Mr. Denham? Let’s sit down.”

  He gestured me to a seat, not at the big table but in one of the comfy armchairs. He settled into another to face me, as though we were old friends having a chat. The little dog curled up in his lap and sighed. God, that was a quiet room.

  “So George Bernard Shaw sent you,” Hearst stated.

  “Not exactly,” I said, folding my hands. “He mentioned you might be interested in what my people have to offer.”

  Hearst just looked at me. I coughed slightly and went on: “He spoke well of you, as much as Mr. Shaw ever speaks well of anybody. And, from what I’ve seen, you have a lot in common with the founders of our Company. You appreciate the magnificent art humanity is capable of creating. You hate to see it destroyed or wasted by blind chance. You’ve spent a lot of your life preserving rare and beautiful things from destruction.

  “And—just as necessary—you’re a man with vision. Modern science, and its potential, doesn’t frighten you. You’re not superstitious. You’re a moral man, but you won’t let narrow-minded moralists dictate to you! So you’re no coward, either.”

  He didn’t seem pleased or flattered, he was just listening to me. What was he thinking? I pushed on, doing my best to play the scene like Claude Rains.

  “You see, we’ve been watching you carefully for quite a while now, Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “We don’t make this offer lightly, or to ordinary mortals. But there are certain questions we feel obliged to ask first.”

  Hearst just nodded. When was he going to say something?

  “It’s not for everybody,” I continued, “what we’re offering. You may think you want it very much, but you need to look honestly into your heart and ask yourself: are you ever tired of life? Are there ever times when you’d welcome a chance to sleep forever?”

  “No,” Hearst replied. “If I were tired of life, I’d give up and die. I’m not after peace and tranquillity, Mr. Denham. I want more time to live. I have things to do! The minute I slow down and decide to watch the clouds roll by, I’ll be bored to death.”

  “Maybe.” I nodded. “But here’s another thing to consider: how much the world has changed since you were a young man. Look at that portrait. When it was painted, you were in the prime of your life—and so was your generation. It was your world. You knew the rules of the game, and everything made sense.

  “But you were born before Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address, Mr. Hearst. You’re not living in that world anymore. All the rules have changed. The music is so brassy and strident, the dances so crude. The kings are all dying out, and petty dictators with dirty hands are seizing power. Aren’t you, even a little, bewildered by the sheer speed with which everything moves nowadays? You’re only seventy, but don’t you feel just a bit like a dinosaur sometimes, a survivor of a forgotten age?”

  “No,” said Hearst firmly. “I like the present. I like the speed and the newness of things. I have a feeling I’d enjoy the future even more. Besides, if you study history, you have to conclude that humanity has steadily improved over the centuries, whatever the cynics say. The future generations are bound to be better than we are, no matter how outlandish their fashions may seem now. And what’s fashion, anyway? What do I care what music the young people listen to? They’ll be healthier, and smarter, and they’ll have the benefit of learning from our mistakes. I’d love to hear what they’ll have to say for themselves!”

  I nodded again, let a beat pass in silence for effect before I answered. “There are also,” I warned him, “matters of the heart to be considered. When a man has loved ones, certain things are going to c
ause him grief—if he lives long enough to see them happen. Think about that, Mr. Hearst.”

  He nodded slowly, and at last he dropped his eyes from mine.

  “It would be worse for a man who felt family connections deeply,” he said. “And every man ought to. But things aren’t always the way they ought to be, Mr. Denham. I don’t know why that is. I wish I did.”

  Did he mean he wished he knew why he’d never felt much paternal connection to his sons? I just looked understanding.

  “And as for love,” he went on, and paused. “Well, there are certain things to which you have to be resigned. It’s inevitable. Nobody loves without pain.”

  Was he wondering again why Marion wouldn’t stop drinking for him?

  “And love doesn’t always last, and that hurts,” I condoled. Hearst lifted his eyes to me again.

  “When it does last, that hurts too,” he informed me. “I assure you I can bear pain.”

  Well, those were all the right answers. I found myself reaching up in an attempt to stroke the beard I used to wear.

  “A sound, positive attitude, Mr. Hearst,” I told him. “Good for you. I think we’ve come to the bargaining table now.”

  “How much can you let me have?” he said instantly.

  Well, this wasn’t going to take long. “Twenty years,” I replied. “Give or take a year or two.”

  Yikes! What an expression of rapacity in his eyes. Had I forgotten I was dealing with William Randolph Hearst?

  “Twenty years?” he scoffed. “When I’m only seventy? I had a grandfather who lived to be ninety-seven. I might get that far on my own.”

  “Not with that heart, and you know it,” I countered.