Mendoza in Hollywood (Company)

by Kage Baker

  Einar bent and scooped up a double handful of sand, and let it sift through his fingers. “Right here. It’s all right here, waiting to happen, man. Immanent. The air is on fire with it. Jesus, I love this town.”

  I started and stared, because for just a second I had seen it all: the pretty houses, the ruined city in flames, the Yellow Brick Road curving away up the wall of a soundstage.

  “You are nuts,” I said. “But I’ll bet the Company brings you back here.”

  “Gotta hope.” He grinned. Suddenly his gaze focused on a point in the distance behind me. He reached up for one of his shotguns. I dove for the dirt. “No, it’s okay!” he said. “This is the trank gun.” He aimed and fired. There was a dull bang and a plaintive little yip, and destiny had found another coyote.

  We returned to the inn as darkness was falling. I had a couple of specimens of rare members of the artemisia family in my collecting kit, and Einar had a neatly trussed coyote sleeping peacefully in a wicker creel behind him. There was a loud argument going on around the cooking fire. The principal raised voice was female.

  “That man had actually participated in the Bear Flag Rebellion!” Imarte was wailing. “Do you realize what a unique opportunity has been lost? Have you any idea of the insights he could have given us into the mind-set of the Anglo-American rebels?”

  “I said I was sorry.” Juan Bautista sounded as though he would have liked to crawl into a hole in the sand. “But Erich will die if he doesn’t get the right food. It’s not like I was chewing it up and vomiting it for him, anyway.”

  “Oh, my goddess.” Imarte flung up her arms in disgust.

  “The thing stinks, Juan. You’re going to have to feed your bird someplace else, okay?” Porfirio said. As we rode into the clearing under the trees, it became obvious what he meant: someone, presumably Juan Bautista, had dragged a carcass into the clearing. It had been either a large dog or a small deer. I wasn’t a zoologist, so I didn’t know which. It had been worked over by coyotes already, so I doubted whether anyone else could have told either. Erich von Stroheim (that was what the baby condor had been christened) was sitting on it, looking bewildered. When Imarte raised her voice again, the bird ducked his head and shook his wings desperately, squeaking.

  “I don’t care what the little horror needs, he doesn’t have to have it here when I’m bringing home a client,” she said.

  “Oh dear.” Einar swung out of the saddle. “You lose another John?”

  It seemed that the stagecoach had made a stop, and while the horses were being changed and the drivers were refreshing themselves, Imarte had sallied down and offered refreshment to the passengers. One gentleman had felt confident enough in his appetite to be able to do justice to her offer in the comparatively brief time allotted, and so she’d led him up to the adobe. Unfortunately the first sight that met his eye was Erich von Stroheim pecking at his supper, watched fondly by Juan Bautista. Not only had the gentleman been unable to avail himself of the refreshment offered, he’d lost the lunch he’d partaken of earlier in the day, and departed hastily.

  “This cannot happen again,” raged Imarte. “That creature cannot be allowed to interfere with my work, do you understand? It’s not even as though he can be trained to live in the wild. He’s nothing but a pet.”

  “That’s enough.” Porfirio held up his hand. “Juan, take the carcass away now. Downwind, please. We can work out a supplement with chopped beef and an enzyme formula, okay? He’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Dejectedly Juan picked up the little condor and buttoned him inside his shirt. The bird made happy sounds. Juan took the dead thing by one leg and dragged it away into the darkness. Imarte went flouncing off to her room.

  “Ay-ay-ay.” Porfirio put his face in his hands. “And was your day good? Tell me your day was good.”

  “It was good,” I said. Einar took down the creel—the coyote twitched and growled in its sleep—and unsaddled our horses. He led them off to the stable, whistling a little tune.

  “Hell-oooo, everybody, I’m home,” said Oscar as he strode into the circle of firelight, leading his mule. Behind them the patent peddler’s cart lurched from side to side, catching its roof on the lower branches of the oak trees.

  “And you had a good day too,” Porfirio said.

  “Oh, first-rate. Finally persuaded Mr. Cielo over at the walnut orchard that he absolutely required the civilizing influence of music in his home. He took a flageolet and six pieces of sheet music. Any day now his neighbors (when he gets them) can expect to hear the strains of popular selections from The Bohemian Girl wafting through the walnut trees.”

  “Nice going.” Porfirio poked up the fire. “Get any good material on him?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Oscar set the hand brake on his cart and let the mule out from between the traces. “Got a fair holo of his kitchen and a splendid one of the parlor, all furnishings in situ. Extensive vocal recordings, too. Got him to tell me half the story of his life. The archivists will be pleased with yours truly, I shouldn’t wonder.” He patted his mule fondly.

  “So that’s what you do?” I asked. “You go around pretending to peddle stuff, and while people are talking to you, you record details of historical interest about them?”

  “Yes indeed! Though I hasten to add that no pretending is involved. I am a true and bona fide salesman of the first water. It’s more than a matter of personal pride with me, you see, that I can play the golden-tongued orator with the best of them when it comes to persuading a reluctant dweller in adobe that he or she wants—nay, must have—a patent cherry-pitting device superior to all previous models.” Oscar was completely serious.

  “Yeah, you are one nickel-plated Demosthenes, all right,” Einar said, emerging from the stable to take charge of the mule. “Hey, Amelia, sweetie! How we doing, babe? How’s our little hooves today?”

  “No trace of lameness, I’m pleased to report,” Oscar said. “She appears to have regained her customary surefootedness.”

  “Great.” Einar led her away, and Oscar strutted up to the fire, hands in pockets.

  “Yes, a most successful day. Might I inquire what’s for supper this evening?”

  “Grilled beef, tortillas, and frijoles,” Porfirio said. “I just haven’t had time to put it on yet.”

  “H’m.” Oscar stood there in the light of the fire, rocking back and forth, a small frown on his bland face. “No chance of any cabbage, I suppose.”

  “What do you want, man? It’s February.”

  “Oh, quite, quite, I see your point. You know what I’d like to do, though, when we can get a little more garden produce? I’d like to serve you folks a real authentic New England boiled supper. Yes, sir. You’d enjoy it no end. I daresay I could make the brown bread to go with it, too. I’ve got cans of molasses and a cake of raisins in my cart. Just the thing for a nippy night.”

  “Sure,” Porfirio said without enthusiasm. He gave a narrow-eyed smile. “I meant to ask you: have you managed to sell that Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe yet?”

  Oscar’s face lost some of its aplomb. “Well, no, not yet.”

  “Aw, that’s a shame.” Porfirio’s grin of sympathy was very white under his mustache. “I can’t think why nobody’s interested in that thing.”

  “Neither can I,” Oscar said. “You’d think, in this wild country overrun with mice and insects, that the natives would fight for a chance to possess such a marvel of guaranteed safe storage for all manner of comestibles, whether fresh-baked or fried, complete with buttermilk well and yeast compartment!”

  I leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. “What is this thing, señor?”

  “Ah! Let me show you,” said Oscar, running to his cart. Porfirio rolled his eyes at me, but I got up and went to look anyway. Oscar unfastened a couple of latches and opened out one whole side of his cart. Glass jars glinted, and various hanging utensils and tools swung and shone in the firelight; but Oscar gestured past them to a big cabinet kind of thing that took up
the entire back wall.

  “There you have it. Positively the last word in preservation of fine baked goods. All drawers lined with plated tin to prevent the unwelcome attentions of minor pests such as mice, rats, or voles. And! Regard the patented securing latches designed to foil the marauding efforts of coons, polecats, or possums! Why, given the superb solid-oak construction and high-quality brass reinforcement, I daresay the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe could withstand even the predations of our friend the bruin.”

  He didn’t know bears very well. Still, I had to admit the thing was impressive. It gleamed with fanciful brass trim all etched and inscribed with curlicue patterns of dizzying complexity. The various locks and latches looked formidable, and in addition to the drawers and cabinets were features at whose purpose I could only begin to guess: weird upswept or recessed sections.

  “Gee, Oscar, that’s really something,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? And yet—can I interest even one member of the native populace of Los Angeles in this modern marvel? You’d think any one of them would jump at the chance to call it his or her own. Yet here it remains, unpurchased, unowned.” Oscar shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Well . . .” I hunted for the words. “You know, Oscar, I’ve been in California for a hundred and sixty-two years now, and in all that time I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pie. Maybe that’s part of the problem? I mean, nobody even grew much wheat here until recently. And this safe was designed for real Yankee-style pies, right? Two crusts, blueberry or rhubarb filling, that kind of thing?”

  “True.” Oscar looked wistful. “I could go for some rhubarb pie myself this very moment.”

  “San Francisco,” Porfirio remarked from where he was stirring the frijoles. “That’s where he could sell it. Not in El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles.”

  “I beg to differ,” Oscar said hotly. “I have sold these people maple syrup, quilting frames, and birch beer extract. I will sell this fine item. I simply haven’t found the right customer yet.”

  “There must be plenty of gringos in Los Angeles,” I said.

  Porfirio grinned. “They don’t make many pies. Too busy shooting one another.”

  “I’ll sell it, I say, and not to a fellow Yankee,” vowed Oscar. “Do you hear me, sir?”

  “What, is this a bet?” said Porfirio, sitting back on his heels. “You want to wager on this?”

  “By the goddess of consumer goods, yes! Name the stakes.”

  “Okay.” Porfirio looked thoughtful. “Let’s say . . .I get one of those snappy patent pearl-handled shaving razors you carry, if you don’t sell that pie safe before you’re transferred out of here. If you do sell it to a nongringo, I’ll personally prepare that New England boiled supper for you. I’ll even eat it with you.”

  “Then dig yourself a root cellar and lay in the rutabagas and parsnips,” said Oscar, eyes flashing. “For I’m at my best when given a challenge, sir, I warn you.”

  Porfirio turned his attention back to the grilling beef. “Go for it, man” was his reply.

  Personally I thought Porfirio would lose the bet. Los Angeles was becoming more of a Yankee city with every passing year. I learned from our copies of the bilingual Los Angeles Star that bullfights had at last been outlawed, to be replaced with the more humane pastimes of baseball, Presbyterian prayer services, and debating the outcome of the Civil War.

  That Civil War raged on, over on the other end of the continent, at Mill Springs, Pea Ridge, and similar quaint-sounding places. Los Angeles was a world away from that, mired in its own problems. (Literally mired: the new brick sewers were proving a slightly more complicated engineering feat than had been expected.) To my amazement, though, the local Yankees—I must get out of the habit of calling them that, now that about half of them take it as a deadly insult—the Americans among us actually staked out sides and fought the war here in their own way, right in front of their bemused Hispanic neighbors. The older Yankee element, the sober sea captains and shopkeepers, were staunchly pro-Union. Banning, the stagecoach fellow, actually took time out from building his fine new house to donate land at San Pedro for a Union army barracks, so his side would have a military presence in California. The trash, the white boys from the States who’d failed at gold prospecting and trapping, were ramping stamping secessionists, so I guess Banning was wise.

  Maybe I’ll go on calling them Yankees anyway. The Union will win the war, after all. And it’s less offensive than calling them Americans, to the people of South America, who have a claim to that word too; and less offensive to the Yankees than calling them Anglos, when so many of them were shipped into this country as Irish bond slaves. Come to think of it, I guess most Latinos don’t like being called Hispanic, after the way the conquistadors treated their grandmothers. You can’t win, can you?

  To me, the whole issue seemed irrelevant, living back in that canyon as I was with the stagecoaches arriving and departing as time and mud permitted. I was more amused by the fact that Mexico was now in danger of becoming French. It should have warned me that I was out of touch, that I’d been in the hills too long. But for three hundred years now, the only political reality had been the long slow ruin of Old Spain’s fortunes in the New World. These Kentuckians, these Narragansettians, these absurd Cape Codders, I knew they too were destined for their part on the world stage. But I was perhaps too slow in realizing that the curtain had already risen on their act. How could it affect me, after all? Nothing in the pageant of mortal fools had been able to affect me since the English Reformation, and I’d sworn never to let anything else get to me again.

  “OUT OF MASA,” announced Einar, rummaging through the storeroom. “Out of brown sugar. Out of coffee. Half a bag of pinto beans. You want me to go to the store, chief?”

  “Good idea. You can take those damn coyotes to the transport depot too, how about it?” Porfirio said.

  “Okay, okay. I didn’t think they’d make that much noise. The last batch didn’t.”

  “You’re going into town?” Imarte stuck her head out of her room. “Will you wait until I’m dressed? I’d like to go down to the Bella Union.”

  “I wasn’t planning on staying overnight,” Einar said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll catch the next stagecoach home.” She ducked back into her room, and there was a great rustling of silks and creaking of whalebone. I was wondering why she didn’t walk back—I would have, because the pueblo didn’t look that far away from up on the ridge—when Einar turned to me and asked:

  “How about it? You want to come?”

  I blinked at him in surprise. “Okay,” I said, deciding to continue my program of readaptation to human company, though it did seem a bit reckless. If there were bloodthirsty crazies hiding out in the chaparral, how many more of them would be in the infamous saloons and gambling dens? On the other hand, I’d have to visit the place sometime, and Einar seemed able enough with a gun.

  I went to put on my best shawl and pin up my hair. By the time I came out, Einar had hitched a pair of horses to our wagon. Imarte came sashaying from the adobe, complete with painted face, scarlet satins, and feather boa.

  “Wow, you really do look like a whore,” I complimented her, with my most naive expression.

  “Thank you. You won’t mind riding in the back with the coyotes, will you, dear?” She vaulted into the seat beside Einar. “This satin crushes so terribly, the least little thing makes wrinkles that simply won’t come out. I envy you that plain broadcloth. And how lucky you are to be able to wear that color. Dirt and stains are almost invisible on that particular shade of—what would you call it? Olive drab?”

  “Matches your eyes, doesn’t it?” I said, clambering up into the back, where the month’s catch of Canis latrans slept soundly in their crates.

  “Break it up, ladies,” Porfirio snapped at us. I shelved my next remark, which had to do with the bitches I was riding with. You know, in the twenty-second century the feminist Ephesian Party will bid for political p
ower on the grounds that if women ran the world, there would be less senseless aggression. Strangely, they’ll never be able to get a consensus within their own party. Can you imagine why not?

  “Let’s have a nice happy little drive into town, shall we?” Einar said. He clucked to the horses, and we bumped and rolled away down the canyon, to turn right on the dirt road that was El Camino Real and would one day be the Hollywood Freeway.

  “Check it out!” Einar pointed with his whip as we rumbled along. “Hollywood Bowl, back up in there. Symphonies under the Stars. That hill over there? Whitley Heights, where all the movie stars live before Beverly Hills is fashionable. Rudolph Valentino will have a house right there.”

  “I’ve never seen one of his films,” I said. “I really ought to, sometime.”

  Einar half-turned in his seat as an idea hit him. “We should have a film festival! We can show them after dark. All the great Golden Age of Cinema stuff. I wonder if I can get films that were shot right here in town.”

  “Probably.” Imarte sniffed. “You could try to find the interesting ones. There are only a few with any historical value, in my opinion.”

  “We’ll do it,” said Einar, bouncing on his seat. “We’ll have the first film festival in Hollywood, how about it? I’ll see what I can order from Central HQ.”

  We emerged from Cahuenga Pass and swung left down the track of the future Hollywood Boulevard, where Einar gave us a running commentary on the famous sights we couldn’t see yet. I remember the corner of Hollywood and Vine, not for any precognitive vision of Clara Bow zooming around it in a fast car but because we had to bump through a particularly vicious seasonal creek that cut across it, and mud splattered Imarte’s scarlet finery. I was proud of myself for not smiling.