Mendoza in Hollywood (Company)

by Kage Baker

  Maybe.

  He was excited about something I’d said, intrigued, not suspicious. His blood was racing. And now he turned to look down into my eyes, and there was a genuine emotion visible for a second behind the smooth opportunistic facade. Was it sympathy? Not love by a long shot, but a good start; and a damned sight better than the reluctant intent to kill me. Yes, we were coming along splendidly.

  “Where will you go?” he said, taking my face in his fine strong hands and kissing me. “Why, wherever in this wide world you please, with such a brave heart. You’ve no need to sell yourself to strangers, my dear; you can make your own terms for a husband. If you once catch the eye of a man of property, your fortune’s made, and he’s a damned lucky fellow!”

  Well, that rang false, though I doubt a mortal girl could have told. He wanted something from me. Some detail of my pathetic story had suggested an opportunity to him. What did I care? I loved the taste of his mouth.

  “You are married, I suppose,” I sighed.

  “I? No. My line of work prevents that indulgence; travel, you know. And I’m no man of property, unfortunately. No, my dear, you can do better for yourself than me; but if you’ll allow me to come to your assistance, I think there are certain measures that can be taken to ease your entry into better society.” He looked deep into my eyes, and the fact that he had thought of a use for me didn’t make his smile any less sincere. “Upon my word I do.”

  “I am in no position to refuse assistance, señor,” I told him guardedly.

  “No, poor child, and God knows that’s none of your doing,” he said, settling me gently into the pillows. How persuasive and silken his voice, and how nicely he smiled with that wide humorous mouth of his. “See here: I represent the interests of Imperial Export of London. My firm would pay handsomely for the exclusive rights to supply British manufactured goods to the inhabitants of this coast. That’s not our main object, however. You may be aware that British textile industries have suffered from the American conflict. Cotton production in the Southern states (on which our mills depend) has come to a virtual halt, and the little that is being produced is blockaded. Meanwhile our researches indicate that the prevailing weather in this part of California would be ideal for cotton.

  “At the present time, the vast pastoral ranchos of your childhood lie fallow and desolate, mortgaged to unscrupulous Yankee moneylenders, and the hereditary gentry of your people are impoverished—not merely by debt but also by the present drought, which has driven the price of cattle down so far as to ruin them. Your countrymen have exchanged independence for a dubious citizenship in a nation that despises them. How they must regret signing the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo,” he said, not too theatrically, and had another sip of brandy.

  “Assuredly they do,” I said. “But what is to be done? Were we able to defend ourselves? Our cavalry was magnificent, señor, but we were something short on weapons. Perhaps before gold was discovered here we might have driven them out; after that, never in the world. The United States of America won’t relinquish California willingly. We must resign ourselves to being a conquered people.”

  How intently he was listening to me. His face didn’t show it, though, as he moved his hand idly along my thigh.

  “And if this Civil War of theirs should alter the situation in your favor . . .?”

  “I try not to hope for anything these days, señor,” I said, watching his hand. “Life is so uncertain.”

  “How very true. But consider what might happen if a benevolent interest were to buy up the debts of your countrymen. What if they found themselves once again in free and clear possession of their lands, with that same benevolent interest offering to lease their abundant acreage at handsome terms for a new industry?”

  “The British want to grow cotton here, señor?” I asked, drawing my brows together. I was beginning to understand Imarte’s blather about the fascination of secret history. “But . . .where would you get the workers, señor? Most of the Indian population has been wiped out. Who would pick this cotton?”

  “Not Negro slaves, certainly,” he said, smiling as his hand traveled. “But former slaves have a great deal of agricultural expertise, and if they were offered good wages for honest employment, I daresay many of them would find their way here. Irrigation would present a difficulty, but one easily surmounted by the best engineers an empire could provide. All this remains to be worked out. At the present time, my principal interest is in arranging to meet with the prominent rancheros of your father’s race and determining whether they might be interested in Imperial Export’s offer. I truly feel that such an arrangement would be in California’s best interests.

  “And,” he continued, tracing the curve of my shoulder with a finger, “if I were to engage in negotiations with a representative of the displaced ruling class at my side, one who could advise me as to local customs and relationships . . . my chances of success would be greatly improved.” Had his teeth always been that long? Yes, in that saturnine smile. I realized that it looked strange to me because I’d so seldom seen my poor godly Nicholas laugh. We’d been happy, though, at least at first . . .

  “I don’t know if I could be as much use to you as all that, señor,” I felt obliged to say. “It’s hardly as though I have the ear of Pio Pico. I’m a cook in a stagecoach inn, nothing more.”

  “But you know the land, you know the people,” he said. “And you yourself are one of the deposed gentes de razón. Your experience with the Yankees is common to them all. Should they not be more readily disposed to listen to my offer of better treatment at British hands if you added your charming voice to mine?”

  I smiled at him and stretched. “Am I to be your Malinche, señor? You know the story? She was born near Campeche, where your English pirates used to make so merry. Long before that time, however, the Aztecs enslaved her people and were exacting cruel tribute from them. One day Cortes came from the sea and offered to free her people. She became his interpreter, and led him into Aztec lands to overthrow her tribe’s oppressors. Are you planning a revolution, señor?”

  “Nothing so uncivilized.” He took my hand and kissed the fingertips. “Surely there’s been enough blood shed in this poor country. Wouldn’t you like to live in a city where you could walk down the streets without fear of being shot? I can assure you, in her native land your mother had no need to wear a pistol. Order and safety and the rule of law, that’s the blessing of a modern empire.”

  “That was what the Yankees promised us, too,” I said lazily, tickling him. He arched his back and reached for my hair.

  “Well, can one really expect better from Brother Jonathan?” He loosed the end of my long braid. “His nation of liberty was founded on the backs of Negro slaves and at the cost of exterminating the aborigines. As far as I can tell, the Yankee’s idea of freedom is his right to carry a pistol with which he may shoot strangers in the street. No wonder his Union has crumbled. My expectation is that it will shortly expire of its own viciousness; and when that happens, California will have the chance to begin anew.”

  “Under Britain’s guidance.”

  “Of course,” he said, unraveling the serpentine twists of my braid.

  It all seemed like a great idea to me, except for the fact that I knew it would never happen, thanks to whatever critical mistakes Mr. Rubery was even now in the act of making. All because he had set his valise down in the wrong spot. But why shouldn’t I go along with it? What a splendid ride it would be, with this polished and dangerous mortal man, and who cared when it came to a stop? I had no idea what bizarre decision of God’s had placed my lover in my arms again, in defiance of reason and death; but now that I had him back, damned if 1 would ever let him go again.

  “Exigua pars est vitae quam nos vivimus,” I said.

  To my astonishment, he looked blank and then furrowed his brow. “Brief is that part of life . . .” he translated haltingly.

  “The part of life we actually live is too short,” I said in English. 1
switched to the Latin in which I’d flirted with Nicholas Harpole centuries past. “What is this, young man, have you forgotten your grammar?”

  In schoolboy Latin, with several pauses, he said, “The sword, when it is not drawn daily, rusts.” He leaned back and looked at me, and there was that flicker of real feeling again for a second. Was it grudging respect I saw there? Maybe even the beginning of admiration? “You have had a classical education. And your memory is better than mine, I fear. Tell me, can you actually shoot with that pistol of yours?”

  “To kill,” I said.

  What a gleam came into his eyes. I had him now, and he was determined to have me. My hair coiled in his fingers like snakes as he pulled my face close for a kiss.

  “Madness, to leave you scrubbing pots for vaqueros,” he murmured. “You’ll have a house in London, if that’s your pleasure, or rule a plantation here that would be the envy of some queens. I’ve the wherewithal to free you from this miserable life, my girl, if you’ll accept my offer on Imperial Export’s behalf. And consider the benefit to your countrymen, Señorita Mendoza. What, pray, is your Christian name?”

  “Dolores,” I said, because that was what I’d been using for the last few decades or so. Then I remembered that my mother was supposed to have been English. “Dolores Alice Elizabeth Mendoza.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax.”

  “Charmed, Señor Bell-Fairfax.” Dear God, what a Victorian name. It suited him, though. “I’d be lying if I told you your offer of financial assistance didn’t attract me, and I seldom lie, señor,” I said, and bit his lower lip gently. “But I rather imagine the Americans will have something to say about the Verdugos and the Picos signing lucrative contracts with a foreign power.”

  He took my untasted glass and set it atop the headboard. Rising to lean over me, he took my two hands in his own. “Let me make an analogy, if I may,” he said. “I think of California as a beautiful girl, lost beyond the mountains. In her veins runs the mingled blood of the Latins, passionate and heroic, and the cooler blood of the pragmatic races. Now, she is nominally under the protection of her two stepbrothers, the lantern-jawed gentlemen Jonathan”—he took my left hand and stretched it out above my head—”and Sam”—he took my right hand and stretched it out too, and lowered his face inches from mine. He went on. “But they have not dealt with her in a brotherly fashion, have in fact spent her inheritance recklessly. This would be bad enough; but Jonathan and Sam are now locked in a fratricidal struggle, tumbling perhaps to their destruction. And what of the lovely California?”

  What indeed, I wondered, as our lips met in a fierce kiss. He rose on his elbows again. “Who will defend her? For she must be defended. Cruel eyes watch from the howling wasteland and plot her ravishment. To the south is the French beast, and his contemptible lackey the Austrian.” He raised one hand and brought it down, down, threatening my left breast. “What they have planned for the fair maiden is too terrible to be imagined, except in the mind of a lascivious Frenchman. And what is this to the north?” He lifted his other hand and poised it over my right breast. “Dimly seen on the horizon, shambling down from the region of ice and snow where he is monarch, the Russian bear. What is his intention? What has it ever been, my dear, but rape and pillage?

  “Who will defend her from them?” he said, leaning down to me, laughter glinting in his wicked eyes. “She cannot flee to the east—savages bar the way, and Mormons, only too eager to seize her. She cannot flee to the west, either. But she has one friend, I assure you, one stout friend who will rise to help her, who will bring her peace and contentment, who will look after her best interests, and invest her dowry wisely. And that stalwart stands ready to crown her with the wealth of a prosperous empire, if only she will raise her eyes to him.”

  We embraced. In the subsequent tumult the brandy glass was knocked from its place on the headboard, and it fell behind the bed and shattered, so the sweet narcotic spilled out. And the whole time, I swear to you, a little brass band was playing “Rule Britannia” in the air just above our frantic bodies.

  And that was how I became a double agent, señors, a spy in the pay of Her Britannic Majesty. And, you know something? I’m not sorry. I wish it had worked out. Would Lower Canada have been so bad, really? But the laws of nations count for nothing, in the end. The only law that matters is the one that states that history cannot be changed.

  WE DECIDED I SHOULD accompany him back into Los Angeles, where Mr. Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax had some correspondence to look to, since he had only just arrived yesterday from Veracruz. Then the first order of business would be to find me some clothing suitable to my role as Imperial Export’s cultural liaison. Following that, we would make a brief sea voyage across the channel to Catalina Island. It seemed that there were some other representatives of Imperial Export on the island, doing scientific research for possible investment proposals. They had made quite a comfortable camp there, away from the gunfire and generally insalubrious air of Los Diablos. Perhaps we might stay over there a few days, while we planned a strategy for gaining the support of the rancheros.

  Once we had managed to pry ourselves apart, I got dressed first and went out to leave a note on the credenza in my room. This also gave Edward a discreet opportunity to go through the valise and make sure that all its contents were as they ought to be. I realized with a start that we’d been in bed a lot longer than I’d imagined; the sun had already dipped down behind the ridge. That surprise was minor compared to my shock at encountering Juan Bautista, coming down the canyon with a couple of wicker cages. He seemed like a ghost, so unreal had my former life become in the last few hours.

  He stopped and stared at me, openmouthed. “Is something wrong? You look different.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “But I’m going into the field for a while myself. I may not be back any time soon. Let the others know everything’s okay.” After all, if Imarte could do it, why couldn’t I? But Juan Bautista had noticed Edward’s horse, and was lifting his head and scanning.

  “Who’s the mortal?” he said. “And—hey! Who’s going to fix dinner tonight?”

  “Fix your own damned dinner,” I snapped. “Look, you know that special research Imarte’s doing? About the English? Well, tell her I’m following up a lead for her. Tell her I’ll bring her back some invaluable first-person narratives.”

  “But you’re a botanist,” he said.

  “Have you noticed there are no plants left to study around here? I’m making myself useful, that’s all. And if you want to do the same, why don’t you go saddle me a horse?” I said, putting every ounce of authority I had into the request. He nodded meekly and set down his cages, hurrying off to obey. And it seemed to me, señors, that my reason was a perfectly valid one. I was indeed contributing to another operative’s research. Perhaps even you would have accepted that as an excuse. If only the rest hadn’t happened.

  Edward emerged from the inn, fully dressed, hat in one hand and valise in the other. He had to duck to avoid the top of the doorway. “With whom were you speaking, Señorita Mendoza?” he asked politely.

  “The stable boy. Only an Indian, señor, and he knows nothing,” I said. “He’s fetching me a horse.”

  “Good,” he said, and set his hat on his head, which made him nearly seven feet tall. Just like Nicholas. The extraordinary height must have been something of a disadvantage for a spy. He went to fasten the valise securely into a saddlebag. When he had made fast the buckles and straps, he vaulted easily into the saddle and sat, reins in one gloved hand, waiting as Juan Bautista led out my horse. It took me a moment to notice Juan Bautista standing there helpfully, ready to give me a foot up onto my own mount.

  Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax looked like a god in the saddle. I had a moment of lurching terror as I realized how much I loved this man, whoever he was. His long-ago death had blasted my immortal life. What would it do to me, if it should happe
n again?

  But this wasn’t the same man, was it? He was certainly no saint and martyr, as my Nicholas had been. Subtle, politic, quite capable of a double cross, I should think, and certainly of cold-blooded murder if duty required it. He hadn’t expressed any religious opinions, and I’d be willing to bet he had none, to be in his line of work. Could I be happy with this man?

  I was insanely happy.

  And that is, finally, the only reason I can give you for why I swung into the saddle, snarled, “There’s cold beef in the pantry” to Juan Bautista in Spanish, and rode away with Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax.

  We went at a swift canter through the slanting red sunlight, toward the place that would one day be black towers blighting the sky but for now was only the adobe sprawl I’d come to loathe so much. We were shot at only twice, and both times Edward sent off a lead riposte with a speed that was breathtaking, for a mortal. We made such good time that the sun was setting as we rode down Calle Principal.

  Edward made for the telegraph office while I waited in the saddle. He emerged with a communication he’d received on flimsy paper. I read it upside down without his noticing.

  E. A. BELL-FAIRFAX, REP. IMPERIAL EXPORT CO.

  YOURS OF 14TH REC’D II:PM. BEST REGARDS FROM

  GOLDEN GATE. SUCCESSFULLY RECOVERED FROM LA

  GRIPPE AND LOOK FORWARD TO PROFITABLE

  VENTURE WITH CHAPMAN. A. RUBERY, SALES MGR.

  Edward exhaled angrily, but there was a certain satisfaction in his eyes as he mounted again, and we ventured once more into the mean streets.

  “Good news, señor?” I asked.

  “Tolerably good,” he said. “It seems my young idiot of a friend has managed to succeed in his affairs, against my expectations. Alfred never had much head for business. Privilege tends to soften the brain, or so I’ve observed.”