Epitaph in Rust

by Tim Powers

  “I get a thousand a day to look for him,” St. Coutras remarked.

  Albers’ face turned red, but his smile held its ground. “That’s right,” he said levelly. “Where are you staying?”

  “At a friend’s place. Never mind where. I’ll come back here at four-thirty. See you later, gents.” He got up, clamped his pipe in his mouth and left the room.

  “I don’t like his attitude,” Harper complained. “Are you really going to pay him all that money? I think you promised him more than the city owns.”

  “He’ll be paid, all right,” Albers rasped. “We’ll give him a few dozen of his own bullets, in the head.”

  Harper grinned and nodded, and was about to speak when a girl leaned in the door. “Police Chief Tabasco is here to see major-domo Lloyd,” she said.

  “Send him in,” Albers said. “None of you say anything, hear?” he added to his four companions.

  Police Chief Tabasco was tall, with fine blond hair cut in bangs over his surprisingly light blue eyes. His face was pink and unlined. When he stepped into the room he made the five men look scrawny and unhealthy by comparison.

  “Where is major-domo Lloyd?” he asked.

  “Well,” Albers said thoughtfully, “to tell you the truth, he’s dead.” Harper didn’t interrupt, but clearly wanted to. Tabasco raised his golden eyebrows. “You see,” Albers went on, “he admitted to us that Mayor Pelias is dead, and then immediately regretted betraying that secret, and leaped,” he waved at the open window, “to his death.”

  “You’re lying,” Tabasco observed calmly. “Pelias is alive, and Lloyd knew it. He and I looked in on the comatose mayor earlier this morning. You killed Lloyd, correct? Why?”

  “Oh, hell,” Albers said, sitting down. “Okay, I guess Pelias is alive. No, we didn’t kill Lloyd. I threatened him with torture if he wouldn’t spill a few secrets, and he dove out the window. Look, Tabasco, if we’re going to govern this city, there are several things we’ve got to know. First, where is—”

  “You’re not going to govern this city.”

  “Oh? Who is, then? Pelias? Lloyd? Alvarez? Your

  “Why not me?” Tabasco asked quietly.

  Albers leaned forward. “Are you getting delusions of humanity? Listen, the people of this city would rather have a trained dog for mayor than a damned grass-eating, vat-bred android. Don’t you know that? You creatures are just barely put up with as policemen. If—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” Tabasco said, a little heatedly. “But I would remind you that I control—absolutely—the only armed force available to Los Angeles, whereas you have nothing, not even—”

  “I’ve got Thomas,” Albers said.

  “Who?”

  “Thomas. The monk from Merignac. I have him.”

  “You’re lying again,” Tabasco said, but his eyes were lit with desperate hope.

  “Believe that, if you like,” said Albers carelessly. “I’ve got him, anyway. And I don’t need you.”

  “I knew you were lying,” Tabasco said, the hope leaving his eyes. “If you really had him you’d know how much you do need me. And you’d know better than to sneer at androids. I want all five of you out of the city by sundown tomorrow. I’ll instruct my officers to shoot any of you on sight after that. Do you understand?”

  “Why, you filthy—we’re the—you can’t tell the city council to—”

  “I’ll assume you do understand. Goodbye, gentlemen. May we never meet again.”

  Peter McHugh put down his coffee cup and newspaper and stood when he heard booted feet pounding up the stairs.

  “That you, John?” he called, his hand hovering over a .38 calibre revolver lying on the wicker table beside him.

  “Yes,” came the answer, a moment before John St. Coutras burst into the room.

  “Up and saddle the horses,” the old man barked. “If we move quick we can get out of this doomed city with no trouble.”

  “What? Wait a minute. What happened at city hall? You didn’t hit anybody, did you?”

  “No. But I got Albers to agree to so many crazy payments that I know he means to kill me. Hell, he even offered me a thousand a day to look for some monk. If we can get outside the city walls within the next hour, we—”

  “Hold it. Listen to me. I got another offer for the guns. A hundred and fifty apiece.”

  St. Coutras halted. “You did? From who?”

  “I don’t know his name. We’ve been dealing through an intermediary a red-haired kid named Spencer. But the offers genuine, I’m convinced. We’ll deliver the crates through the sewers, from north of the wall.”

  St. Coutras ran his fingers through his beard ruminatively. “This is a hundred and fifty cash we’re talking about?” he asked in a more quiet tone of voice.

  “Nothing but. The kid wanted to give me five thousand down, right there. Had it in a knapsack. I told him I’d have to see you before I could take it.”

  “Well” The old man sank into a chair. “Is there any more of that coffee?”

  “Coming up, boss.”

  Thomas looked critically at the final couplet of his sonnet while he chewed on the back end of his pen; after a few re-readings of the poem he decided it would do, and slid the paper into the box he’d appropriated for his personal belongings. The first eight lines of it he’d written the night before, in a bleak mood brought to a head by eight consecutive cups of black coffee and three stout maduro cigars, and enough of the mood had carried over to the morning for him to write the last six lines immediately upon awakening.

  He had stood up, stretched, and was pulling on his pants when a loud crack sounded from the floor above him. Splinters and dust whirled down through one of the beams of morning sunlight.

  He bounded upstairs to the stage, where he found Gladhand and five villainous-looking men staring at a small, ragged hole in the polished wood of the stage. Smoke was still spiraling up from it.

  “What the hell,” Thomas said, unable to come up with anything better, but feeling that he ought to say something.

  “Oh, good morning, Rufus,” Gladhand said. “Nothing to be concerned about, that explosion. Just a special-effect device we’re testing.”

  “More special effects?” For four days now Gladhand had been consulting furtive men—“technicians,” he called them—and buying dozens of sturdy, heavy wooden boxes that he stored carefully in the basement. He’d explained, in answer to Thomas’ questions, that the boxes contained the wherewithal for various spectacular special effects he intended to use during the scene in the play in which the god Hymen appears.

  Gladhand now nodded vaguely. “Oh, yes. I’ve decided to have a few miracles and apparitions and such things take place when Duke Frederick gets converted by the holy man in the wilderness.”

  “But that’s only referred to. How will—”

  “I’ve written in a new scene so as to have it take place on stage. Plot’s too rickety otherwise. Look, I’m pretty busy right now, but I want to talk to you later. Meet me … on the alley balcony right after the noon rehearsal, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Thomas wandered to the dining room and wheedled a late breakfast of coffee and sweet rolls from Alice, who had already begun to put everything away. He sat down at one of the long tables and gulped the oily coffee. After she’d rinsed out the pots and wiped down the counters, Alice sat down beside him with her own cup of coffee.

  “You’re a late sleeper these days,” she remarked, looking through her purse for a cigarette. “How are you and Pat getting along these days?”

  “Horrible.”

  “Oh, you had a little fight? Well, don’t worry, it—”

  “We didn’t have a fight,” Thomas said. “We never have fights. We just have … bafflements. Each of us is certain the other’s lost his or her mind.”

  “Well, maybe you two just aren’t meant for each other.”

  “Yeah,” Thomas admitted, trying not to gag as he sipped at the coffee. “Logically s
peaking, that’s true. But when we do get along—and we do, sometimes—its the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Which is most common? Getting along or not getting along?”

  “Oh, not. By a long shot.”

  Alice shook her head with mock pity. “De course ob de true luhv nebbah did run smoooth,” she leered in some badly-imitated dialect, as she picked up the two empty cups and walked bizarrely into the kitchen.

  Thomas stared after her and then slowly got to his feet and went below to put his shoes on.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in the greenroom, going over his lines with the girl Skooney, who obligingly read all the other parts. After a while Pat came in and sat down, and Thomas regarded her warily out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a clue to her current mood.

  “You’re not paying a hundred percent attention to this,” Skooney said.

  “Oh, I think I’ve got it down pretty well already. Thanks, Skooney.”

  “Anytime,” the girl said, getting up to leave.

  “Morning, Pat,” he said when Skooney was gone.

  “Hi, Rufus,” she answered with a friendly smile. Aha, Thomas thought; she’s in good spirits. And in the morning! Absolutely unprecedented. The feeling that had spawned his sonnet began to evaporate.

  “Hey, noon rehearsal in five minutes,” Lambert called, walking through the hall.

  Thomas inwardly cursed the interruption; but then reflected, after Pat had blown him a kiss and darted out of the room, that the rehearsal call had probably saved him from unwittingly puncturing her good mood. Anything, it seemed, could cast her into heavy depressions or smoldering anger—a kiss at the wrong time, the lack of a kiss at the right time, a careless sentence, a carefully considered opinion—and her good cheer was always slow to return.

  It’s too bad she’s the first girl I ever really knew, Thomas thought. I have no way of knowing whether all girls are this way or if she’s unique. I wonder if every guy heaves an instinctive sigh of relief when he’s kissed his girl goodnight, and the door is shut, and he can go relax by himself?

  The noon rehearsal went quickly. Gladhand wasn’t watching as closely as he usually did; his corrections were infrequent and brief, and he had the actors skip over two scenes that he didn’t feel needed any work. The theatre manager seemed preoccupied, and kept staring into space and running his fingers through his thick black beard.

  By one-thirty everyone was wandering offstage and deciding whether to eat in the theatre or at a restaurant somewhere, and Skooney was switching off her treasured lights.

  Ben Corwin was sitting on the balcony when Thomas got there. The old man’s moustache, beard and shirt were dusted with brown powder, and he was sneezing and sniffling so hard that he could only wave and blink his wet eyes at Thomas by way of greeting.

  “That stuff is going to kill you,” Thomas remarked. “Why don’t you drink, instead?”

  Corwin managed to choke, “Good enough for androids … good enough for me.”

  Thomas sat down, wishing he had a really cold beer. This blasted desert wind is getting tiresome, he thought. I’ll never lose this cold while it keeps up.

  The plywood door dragged open after a minute or so, but it was Spencer, not Gladhand, who stepped out onto the balcony.

  “Howdy, Rufus,” he said. “Clear out of here, Ben. Important conference coming up out here. You’ve got to move on.” The old man uttered an obscene suggestion. “Will you leave for a five-soli bill?” Spencer asked, pulling one out of his pocket and holding it just out of reach of Ben’s waving, clutching hands.

  Finally the old man struggled to his feet. “Give it here,” he said clearly.

  “It’s yours,” said Spencer, letting him take it. “Go buy yourself a bottle of your favorite white port.” Muttering incoherently, Corwin tottered down the stairs.

  “A conference?” Thomas inquired as Spencer sat down.

  “Yeah, sort of. I’ll let Gladhand explain.”

  The door grated open again and Gladhand wobbled out on crutches, closely followed by Negri. “Two more chairs, Bob,” the theatre manager said. Negri ran to fetch them, and in a moment the four of them were seated facing each other.

  “There’s something it’s high time you learned, Rufus,” Gladhand began.

  “Before it’s too late, sir,” Negri said, “reconsider. It’s crazy to trust—”

  “We’ve been through this, Bob,” Gladhand said, a little impatiently. “Be quiet.”

  “Sir,” Negri pursued, “might one—”

  “Might one bugger off, Negri?” Gladhand said angrily. “Robert, you see,” he went on calmly, “doesn’t want me to tell you. He doesn’t trust you, Rufus.”

  “I have no idea what’s going on here,” Thomas said, truthfully.

  “Let me explain,” Gladhand said. “We are a theatre company, are we not? Right. But, lad, that’s not all we are. The Bellamy Theatre is a front—no, that’s not quite right—is the secret, uh, center of the only organized resistance force in L.A. My employees are guerrilla soldiers as well as actors.”

  Thomas blinked, and then nodded slowly, trying to assimilate the idea. “That explains one or two odd remarks and looks,” he said. “Ah! And those ‘special effects’ are really weapons?”

  “Some of them,” Gladhand nodded. “Some of them really are special effects devices. Don’t get the idea that the play is simply a mask, a cover. Our guerrilla efforts are no more important than our dramatic ones.” He lit a cigar. “Would you leave us, Robert?”

  Negri raised his eyebrows incredulously.

  “Leave us,” Gladhand insisted, and Negri stalked inside, pausing to give Thomas a look of pure hate. “You showed good … aptitude,” Gladhand continued, “in that foolish raid on the android barracks last week. I’d have taken you into our confidence right then, if it weren’t for the fact that the police were devoting so much time and effort to catching you. I was afraid you’d be seized at any time, and so for security reasons I kept you in ignorance of the … other half of our activities.”

  “And … what changed your mind, sir?” Thomas asked.

  “Things are quickly coming to a head. A crisis nears. Major-domo Lloyd committed suicide this morning; Alvarez has certainly reached the Santa Margarita River by now; and every two-bit politico south of Glendale is trying to take the reins of the city. I need every good man I can get, and it would be the exaggerated caution of a madman for me to keep you in the dark any longer. By the way, do you gentlemen recall those half-matured androids you saw under glass in that secret android brewery last week?” Thomas and Spencer nodded. “Well, Jeff told me at the time that the face they all wore looked familiar. Today it struck him whose it was. He swears it was the face of Joe Pelias.”

  “Good God,” Spencer said. “Replacements, in case the real one dies?”

  “I believe so,” Gladhand nodded. “They’ll be mature in another week, I’d judge, if they were already recognizable. We can’t waste time, you see.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “What is it you’re hoping to do? In long-range terms, I mean?”

  “Kill Pelias—it was our bombs that nearly did him in last week—and institute a new government, hopefully in time to defend the city against Alvarez.”

  “What sort of new government?”

  Gladhand shrugged. “A better one than this Pelias has given us. I know of a man with an unarguably valid claim to the mayor’s office. We will, I hope, manage to establish him when Pelias is finally disposed of.”

  Thomas pondered all this. “Were you the ones who made that assassination attempt on Pelias ten years ago?”

  Gladhand smiled oddly. “No. That attempt was certainly none of our doing. Anyway, our organization has only been in existence for eight years.”

  “Does Pat know?” Thomas asked. “Is she in this?”

  “Yes. I told her about it two days ago. She’s in.”

  “Well, what can I do to join? Sign something in blood? Sca
lp a cop?”

  “No, none of that. We’re very informal in that respect. Take my word for it that you’re a member. I did want to tell you all this today, though, so that you could help Spencer out tonight. He’s going to make the final arrangements on a purchase of a hundred rifles, in a bar called the Gallomo. I’d like it if he wasn’t alone, and you two seem to work well together.”

  “Sure, I’ll go along,” Thomas said. “How are we going to get all those rifles back here, though?”

  “We won’t,” said Spencer. “We’re just going to make a down payment, assuming the guns haven’t already been sold. Delivery will be in a couple of days, through the sewers.”

  “I’ll want you both to carry pistols,” Gladhand said. “Just in case, you know.” He picked up his crutches. “In the meantime, get some lunch, and Spencer can fill you in on the details.” He swung himself erect and re-entered the building.

  Four hours later Thomas was doing his best to eat a particularly gristly beef pie. “The drinks here might be okay,” he told Spencer, “but the food is vile.”

  “Well, hurry up and finish it,” Spencer said. “The guy’s supposed to be here in ten minutes, and you’ve got your face in a goddamned pie.”

  The pie had begun to cool off, and things were beginning to congeal in it, so Thomas pushed it away. “If things get rough we can throw it at somebody,” he said.

  “Yeah, and—don’t turn around. He’s here. Good. That means we outbid city hall.”

  Thomas slowly picked up the pitcher and refilled his beer glass. “Is he coming over here?” he whispered.

  “He’s getting a drink first. Making it look unplanned, I suppose. Ah, here he comes.”

  Peter McHugh sat down and nodded to Spencer. “Who’s your buddy?”

  “A colleague,” Spencer said. “He’s okay. City hall didn’t go for it?”

  “Oh, they claimed to, but my partner suspected they didn’t really intend to pay him. He’s got good instincts for that kind of thing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s out in the wagon; he’ll be in in a minute. You’ve got the five grand?”