by Tim Powers
“Would it?” Thomas asked drowsily. “Go to the dogs, I mean.”
“Yeah, probably,” the man said. “The people would try to wipe out the androids, and the androids’d fight back, and then San Diego or Carmel would send an army against L.A. while none of us were paying attention.” He sucked the scotch. “I don’t know. Who cares? I don’t care. Do you care?”
“Not me,” Thomas said agreeably. “I don’t care.”
“Right! Have some scotch.”
“No… well, okay, maybe I will.” The man handed him the bottle and Thomas opened his robe and poured some of the liquid on his stiffening bandage. It felt wonderfully cold on his feverish skin, and smelled so invigorating that he gulped a mouthful of it.
He handed it back to his companion. “Thanks.”
“How’d you get cut?”
“I was shot at,” Thomas told him. “Some crazy old man tried to serve me poisoned coffee, and I ran, so he shot at me. Three times.”
“I’ll take care of him,” the man said with a reassuring nod.
“You will?” Thomas asked curiously.
“Sure. I think I’ll take care of the whole damn city. I’ve had my eye on ’em for a long time. Sin everywhere you look. Dope, whores, murderers—do you know what I saw the other day?”
“What?”
“A screwdriver. There were these two girls, see, photographs, in the plastic handle. They had black bathing suits on, but when you turn the screwdriver upside down the bathing suits slide off, and the girls are naked. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
“Oh, yeah.” Thomas nodded and eyed his companion uncertainly. The man was big, with a puffy, ruddy face, and eyes that hid between thick eyebrows and sagging pouches.
“You’re just passing through, you say?” he asked. Thomas nodded. “Well, I’ll hold off till tomorrow night before I unleash them old seven angels of doom, okay?”
“Okay. Much obliged.” I’d be well advised to leave now, Thomas felt, and got to his feet.
“Taking off so soon?”
“’Fraid I have to,” Thomas said.
“Okay. Listen, if you get in any jams, tell ’em the Lord of Wrath is a buddy of yours.”
“Will do.” He waved and walked back out to the sidewalk. I hope San Pedro Harbor isn’t too much further, he thought. I don’t think I could ever get used to this city life.
The sun was well on its way down the afternoon side of the sky when Thomas crossed Park View Street and found himself in MacArthur Park. He had been walking all day, and his wound was throbbing, so when he flopped down on one of the wooden benches he began considering the feasibility of spending the night right there. The tall buildings around the park were softly lit by the golden light, their eastern sides and inset windows shadowed in pale blue. Very pretty, he thought—but I feel the evening chill coming on. I’ll need newspapers to stuff inside my robe for warmth.
An armed street vendor was pushing a cart along Sixth Street. “Get yer red-hot mantras right here, folks. Can’t meditate without a mantra of your own. We got ’em, you want ’em.”
“Hey!” Thomas called. The merchant stopped and looked up the grassy hill to Thomas’ bench. “Can you eat those things? Mantras?” It had occurred to him that it might be some sort of Mexican food.
The street vendor simply stared at Thomas for a few seconds and then moved on, repeating his monotonous sales pitch. Oh well, Thomas thought. I probably couldn’t have afforded one, anyhow.
He had sat back on the bench, and was trying to muster the energy to get up and look for newspapers when he became aware of muffled laughter behind him. It was the first sign of mirth he’d heard since parting ways with St. Coutras that morning, and he turned around curiously.
A young man of roughly his own age—possibly a year or two younger—was leaning on a tree trunk ten feet behind him. He was dressed in brown corduroy pants and coat, with leather boots, and his unruly hair was as red as a new brick. He saw that Thomas had noticed him, so he gave up on trying to conceal his laughter and fairly howled with it. Thomas stared at him, beginning to get annoyed.
“Ho ho,” said the red-haired one finally. “So you’re going to eat a mantra, hey. With proverb jelly and a side order of gregorian chant, no doubt.”
“It’s not food, I take it,” said Thomas stiffly.
“Hell, no.” The young man walked over and put one foot up on Thomas’ bench. “It’s a chant that you say over and over in your mind when you’re meditating. Like… one-two-three-four-who-are-we-for, or Barney-Google-with-the-great-big-googly-eyes.”
“Oh.” Thomas tried not to look chagrined.
“Where are you going, anyway? I’ve been following you ever since Beverly. A young monk with no rosary, soaked in blood and reeking of whiskey—an unusual sight, even these days. I’m Spencer, by the way.”
“I’m Thomas.” They shook hands, and Thomas found that his anger at being laughed at had evaporated. “I’m trying to get to San Pedro,” he explained. “How much further is it?”
“An easy twenty miles,” Spencer said. “Maybe more. Catch the Harbor Freeway about eight blocks east of here and then go south till you fall into the ocean. What’s in San Pedro?”
“I’m going to sign aboard a tramp steamer,” Thomas said, a little defensively.
“Oh. Where are you going to spend the night? On this bench?”
“I was thinking of it.”
Spencer stared at him and then burst out laughing again. “You’re lucky I came by, brother,” he said. “I don’t even want to hint at what’d happen to you if you slept here. This isn’t like sleeping in the orchard out back of the chapel, you know.” He sat down beside Thomas and lit a cigarette with an unnecessary flourish. “They give you any education at your monastery?” he asked after puffing on it for a few moments.
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “In some things.”
“Ever hear of Shakespeare? William H. Shakespeare?”
“Sure.”
“Ah. Well, the Bellamy Theatre, over on Second Street, is putting on As You Like It, which this Shakespeare wrote. I’m in it, I’m one of the actors, and I could find you a place to sleep at the theatre. We all sleep there.”
“That’d be great,” said Thomas eagerly. It was already getting cold, and the prospect of sleeping on a bench was quickly losing its charm.
“Come on, then,” Spencer said, hopping to his feet and flinging away the cigarette. “If we move fast we can get there in time to grab some food.”
Thomas needed no further encouragement.
The few shopkeepers who had opened their doors were locking up now. The evening wind was tossing bits of paper along the sidewalks and carrying, from time to time, the sound of sporadic gunfire from distant streets. Thomas thrust his hands into his pockets and shivered.
“You’re broke, aren’t you?” Spencer asked. “Uh… have no money, that is.”
“Well, I’ve got eleven solis, but that’s it. Yeah, I’m ‘broke’ all right.”
“Were you robbed?”
“No, that’s all I came with.”
“What? You—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Thomas interrupted. “It’s not quite as stupid as it sounds. I didn’t plan on doing it this way.”
“How did you plan on doing it? And what are you doing, anyway?” Spencer lit another cigarette. He let it hang on his lower lip and then squinted through the smoke.
“Running away from the Merignac monastery, up in the hills.” Thomas answered. “I was an orphan, you see, so the monastery kindly indentured me to work for them until I turned twenty-five—which is four years from now—in exchange for room and board and education.”
“And you’re making a… premature exit.”
Thomas nodded.
“And you grabbed the collection basket one morning, and jumped over the wall, and then discovered there was only eleven solis in it.”
Thomas laughed ruefully. “That’s almost right,�
� he admitted. “I made a kite and a fishing pole, and last night I went sky fishing.” (“Jesus,” Spencer muttered.) “Those bird-men make their nests up at the high end of the valley, you know, and the monastery lies right in their flight-path. I’ve heard they grab bright, glittery objects like coins and jewelry, and carry ’em home in their pouches to decorate their nests; so I figured if I caught about ten of them, over a period of a month, say, I’d have enough money to fund my escape.”
“Did you know…do you know what they do to sky-fishers?”
“Yeah. They cut their hands off. Seems a little extreme to me.”
“Well, sure. All the penalties are extreme. But the government claims those bird-men are tax collectors, see. They’ve got big nets set up by the Hollywood Bowl, and they catch them, empty their pouches, give ’em a little food and then send them on their way. It’s a government monopoly. Anytime you catch one yourself, it’s the same as holding up a tax collector at gunpoint.”
“Oh.” Thomas thought about it. “Then I really was robbing from the collection basket.”
Spencer snapped his fingers, sending his cigarette flying at a rat who had poked his nose timidly from behind a collapsed and abandoned couch; he missed, but the shower of sparks sent the rat ducking back into the shadows. “And all you got out of it was eleven solis.”
“That’s right,” Thomas said. “I was caught by the abbot the first time I did it. Did you know those bird-men can talk? And yell? So I had to punch the abbot and take off immediately.”
Spencer shook his head wonderingly. “You’re lucky to have got this far. Sky-fishing, punching old priests—and how did you get so bloody?”
“I was shot—relax, I don’t think it’s serious; just plowed up the skin—by a madman. And I’ve been having adventures all day. I was chased by gangs, some guy gave me wrong directions for San Pedro, so I was walking north on Vermont for an hour, and—”
“I get the picture,” Spencer said. “Well, the Bellamy Theatre is just around this corner. We can get you some hot soup, a clean bed and a solid roof to sleep under.” He clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “Relax, brother,” he said. “Your troubles are over.”
They picked their way for a few yards down a cobbled alley that reeked of Chinese food (“Restaurant next door,” Spencer explained) and then climbed a swaying wooden stairway that brought them to a narrow balcony overlooking the alley. Two ruptured, rain-faded easy chairs and a mummified plant in a pot gave evidence of some long-ago attempt to make the balcony habitable, but the only occupants at present were two surly cats.
“This way,” said Spencer, leading Thomas around the chairs to a plywood door set in the brick wall. He knocked on it in a three-two sequence.
“Who is it, for Christ’s sake?” came an annoyed female voice. “The door ain’t locked.”
Spencer pulled the door open. “It’s supposed to be locked,” he complained. “Gladhand said you’re only supposed to open it when somebody gives the secret knock.”
Thomas followed Spencer inside and found himself in a red-carpeted, lamp-lit hallway, looking at a short, dark-haired girl wearing a brown tunic and leotard.
She stared at Spencer for a moment and then, with exaggerated caution, leaned out the door, peered up and down the length of the balcony, pulled the door closed and bolted it securely. “Don’t we have a dresser or something we could lean against it?” she asked innocently.
“Save your cuteness for somebody else, will you, Alice?” said Spencer. “Now sober up, I want you to meet somebody. Thomas, this tawdry baggage is Alice Faber. Alice, this is Thomas, a friend of mine. He needs a place to sleep tonight.”
“My God,” Alice exclaimed, looking at Thomas for the first time. “He’s all bloody! You’re all bloody! Did somebody knife you?”
“No,” said Thomas, embarrassed. “I… uh, was shot at. There was this old guy with an armload of books, and—”
“We’ll have to get you cleaned up,” she interrupted, taking him by the arm. “I won’t do it, but Jean will. I get sick if I see blood. Really. Jean!”
“I’ll see you later,” Spencer said. “When the girls get through with you, there’s somebody you’ve got to talk to.”
“Okay,” Thomas said, and allowed Alice to lead him down a tightly curving stairway to another, wider hallway.
“She’s probably in the green room,” Alice said “Hey, Jean!”
“Yeah?” came a lazy call.
“Come out here and clean up this young man who’s been shot! He’ll bleed to death right here if you don’t move fast.”
“I’m not bleeding,” protested Thomas.
A tall, thin girl leaned out of a doorway. Her tired, sarcastic expression turned to alertness when she saw Thomas swaying in the hall, leaning on Alice’s arm and looking pale and exhausted in his ragged, blood-streaked robe.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Thomas said. “The bullet just creased me, really…”
The sudden shift to the warmth in the building from the chilly air outside had made him dizzy, and he wasn’t sure what he was saying. Jean was standing in front of him now, he noticed, and had apparently asked him a question. Probably asked me my name, he thought; he was still trying to pronounce “Thomas” when her face slid away below him and the back of his head struck the floor.
CHAPTER 3
The Misunderstanding in Pershing Square
“WELL NOW, SPENCER. WHAT’S this I hear about you taking in a stray monk? What if—” The voice became softer. “Oh, is that him?”
“Yes, sir,” came a whisper. “I figured he might be your Touchstone.”
“Well, let’s not jump the gun here. Let’s see… he looks okay, I guess. Is he smart?”
“He’s read Shakespeare. And he’s adrift completely—has some crazy idea of going to San Pedro and becoming a sailor.”
“Hmm!” An odd, slow bumping-and-sliding sound was repeated several times. “Hand me my cigars, would you Spencer? Thanks.” There was the scratch and hiss of a match being struck.
It was the sharp smell of tobacco fumes that finally pulled Thomas up into complete wakefulness. He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a great stone head that rested on a shelf only a foot away from him. It was bigger than life-size, and although the forehead and part of the thick, wavy hair were chipped, and the nose was broken off entirely, Thomas could see that it was a fine piece of craftsmanship. The shelves above and below the head were cluttered with bundles of colored paper, a stack of cardboard swords with tinfoil-wrapped blades, a number of grotesque wooden masks, and piles and piles of crumpled, glittery cloth.
“Oh hell. I admit I’d have done just what you did, Spencer. Of course with our luck we’ll no sooner get St. Francis here really good in the role than Klein will reappear.”
“Don’t be pessimistic.”
“I have to be, I’m the manager.” Thomas heard the ponderous bump-and-slide again. “Has he eaten anything within the last couple of days? He looks like one of the old Nevada atrocity posters.”
Thomas sat up slowly, scratching his head. “You did say something about soup,” he reminded Spencer.
Standing next to Spencer he saw a burly, bearded, bald-headed man with a thick cigar clamped in his teeth. The man was propped up awkwardly on a pair of crutches, and Thomas knew then what the bump-and-slide sound had been.
“Spencer told me your name,” the man said, “but I’ve forgotten it. Francis? Rufus?”
“Thomas,” supplied both young men at once.
“Oh, that’s right.” He poled his bulk laboriously across the room and thrust his hand toward Thomas. “I’m Nathan Gladhand.”
Thomas shook the muscular paw, and Gladhand lowered himself into a wicker chair. “Jean said you’d be unconscious until morning,” he said, laying the crutches on the floor beside him.
“It was the mention of food that snapped me out of it,” Thomas said, hoping that wasn’t too broad a hint.
“Get him some soup, will
you, Spencer? And bring a bottle of cognac and three glasses.” Spencer darted out of the room.
“Where are we?” asked Thomas, peering around at the high-ceilinged chamber. A flickering lantern nearby illuminated endless piles of poles, plywood and boxes.
“In the theatre basement,” Gladhand said. “You can sleep here. Listen,” he added, fixing Thomas with a direct stare, “I don’t mind helping a distressed traveler—I’ve been one myself, often enough—but I won’t keep freeloaders.” He held up his hand to silence Thomas’ protests. “What I’m trying to say is—you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“That’s what you were trying to say?”
“Let me finish, will you? What I mean is, you can work here.”
“Oh. Doing what?”
“That depends. Spencer says you’ve read Shakespeare. Who else have you read?”
“Oh… Byron, Kipling, Baudelaire, Ashbless…”
“You go for poetry, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I, uh… hope to publish some poems of my own, sometime.”
“Of course you do.” A tarnished brass woman stood with upraised arms beside Gladhand’s chair, and he tapped his cigar-ash onto her head. “Spencer may have mentioned that I’m putting on As You Like It here. We’re supposed to open two weeks from now, on the twenty-second, and the guy that was playing Touchstone left the day before yesterday. Just walked out.”
“You want me to play Touchstone,” Thomas said.
“Right. Not that I’d even consider you, of course, if experienced actors were available.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Which they aren’t. You’ll get no salary, but you get room and board, which is not something to snap your fingers at, these days.”
Thomas shrugged, and noticed for the first time that he was wearing a long woolen bathrobe. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Where are my clothes, by the way?”
“Your robe we burned. The sandals we gave to an old Olive Street beggar named Ben Corwin. We’ll give you new clothes, don’t worry about it.”
