by Tim Powers
Thomas pondered it. “There might be something to that,” he said.
“No,” Gladhand said. “There isn’t. Start sanctioning heat-of-anger crimes and you’ve lost the last hold on the set of conventions we call… society, civilization.”
He sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Some things, Rufus, cannot be avoided. They will happen no matter what efforts you make to prevent them. Once, when I was much younger, I was at a girl’s house with some friends. It was about noon, and we were all standing around the piano, singing and drinking lemonade. After a while I glanced down and saw, to my horror, that the fly of my trousers was unbuttoned. I’ve got to divert their attention, I thought desperately, long enough for me to rectify this potentially embarrassing state of affairs. Thinking quickly, I shouted, ‘My God, will you look at that!’ and pointed out the far window. They turned, and I buttoned my fly. But now, I noticed, they were regarding me with… surprise and loathing. Puzzled, I crossed to the window and looked out.” Gladhand sighed. “On the front lawn were two dogs engaged in the most primal sort of amorous activity.”
The theatre manager shrugged. “It was inevitable, I guess, that I would suffer embarrassment that day—and by fighting it, resisting it, I only managed to bring down an even greater embarrassment on myself.”
“You mean there’s no use in resisting anything?” Thomas asked doubtfully.
“I didn’t say that. The trick is, you see, to know which you are: the inevitable consequence or the doomed resistor. Though as a matter of fact—take my word for it!—you can’t know until it’s too late to change, anyway.”
Thomas nodded uncertainly.
“So!” concluded Gladhand briskly, “go rejoin your fellows. It’s too hot a night to spend inside.”
By the time the moon was high in the heavens most of Gladhand’s troupe was on the roof, sitting in deck chairs, propped against chimney-pots, or simply sprawled full-length on the tarpaper. Lanterns and wine had been brought up from below, and Spencer was striking chords on a guitar.
Thomas noticed approvingly that Negri had downed his sixth glass of wine, and was now getting to his feet to make a quick trip downstairs.
“I’ll be back in a flash, Sugar-Pie,” he told Pat, and lurched away toward the stairs. Thomas casually strode over and sat down where Negri had been.
“Hello, Rufus,” Pat said, a little wearily.
“Hi, Pat.” A kind of hopeless depression descended on him. I’ve got nothing to say, he realized. Why are Negri and I bothering this girl, anyway? Oh, come on, he protested to himself; all I’ve done is sit next to her. It isn’t me calling her Sugar-Pie.
“Let’s go see if the fire really did go out,” Pat suggested, getting up.
“Good idea,” Thomas said. They walked out of the uneven ring of lantern light to the rough, time-rounded stones of the coping. The city lay spread out before them, as clear as a toy held at arm’s length. The glow of the fire was gone completely. Distantly came the echoes of three quick gunshots.
“A wild, unholy night,” Thomas observed. Pat said nothing. “Where are you from, Pat?” he went on.
She sighed. “Oh, I come from quite a distance, the same as you. I’m the youngest of a very large family, and the smartest, so my parents sent me to the city.”
“To make good,” Thomas said.
“Or whatever.”
“Where the hell…?” came an angry shout from behind them. Thomas turned to see Negri striding furiously toward him across the roof. “All right, Pennick,” he spat, “you’re a little slower than everyone else, so I guess you’ve got to be told what’s what. Listen, and save yourself some trouble. Pat is my girl. And no—”
“I’m not your girl,” Pat said.
“Shut up,” Negri snapped. “I’ll decide. So, Pennick, if—”
“You’ll decide?” Thomas repeated, angry and laughing at the same time. “You heard her, Negri. She isn’t interested. What do you plan to do, cut your monogram in her forehead?”
Negri cocked his fist back, and it was seized firmly from behind. “You two aren’t going to forget the no-fighting rule, are you?” smiled Spencer, releasing Negri’s arm.
“Uh, no,” Negri admitted. “But I’m challenging this toad to a duel, to decide once and for all whether Pat is my girl or not.”
“How can a duel decide that?” Thomas protested. “You mean automatically if I lose—”
“Go ahead, Rufus,” Pat interrupted.
After a tiny pause, Spencer shrugged. “Okay, a duel, then. Jeff, set up the table.”
The rest of the actors cleared a circle in the center of the roof, and set the lanterns so that the area was well-lit. Chairs for spectators were ranged around the perimeter, and Gladhand stumped over and lowered himself into a front-row seat. “This should be instructive,” he remarked.
Spencer walked into the circle and raised his hands for silence. “Quiet,” he said, “while I explain to Rufus and Pat how our duels work. On the table Jeff is trying to set up, you’ll notice, is a chessboard. What Rufus and Bob are going to do is play a game of chess—the chess-pieces, though, will be different-sized glasses. One duelist’s glasses will be filled with red wine, the other’s with white. When you capture a piece, you must drink it. One loses by passing out or being checkmated.”
Jeff had set up the table and two chairs, and was now placing glasses in the chessmen’s places. The pawns, Thomas noticed, were shot glasses, the bishops and knights fairly capacious wine glasses, the rooks tumblers, and the queens full-sized beer schooners. The kings were represented by conventional wooden chess pieces, and Jeff held these until the color choice should be made.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Spencer said. “In each of my hands is a cork, one from a Zinfandel, one from a Chablis. Rufus, right or left?”
“Hold it,” said Negri. Thomas looked warily across the table at him. “Take the damn wine away. That’s for kids. We’ll duel with rum, light and dark.”
An interested murmur arose from the assembled actors. Clearly this had not been done before. Spencer turned uncertainly to Gladhand, who shrugged and nodded.
“Okay,” said Spencer, “Jeff, give the wine to the spectators and dash below for four bottles of rum.”
Thomas looked past Negri and saw Pat sitting in the first row. She smiled at him. I’ve got to win this, he thought.
“Bob’s been drinking all night,” called someone in the crowd. “Rufus is nearly sober. It ain’t fair.”
Gladhand spoke up: “Rufus has a bad cold, which will doubtless be a handicap equal to Bob’s degree of drunkenness. Besides, Bob is the challenger, and is familiar with the strategies of wine-chess.”
Jeff came clattering back up the stairs with four bottles of rum under his arm. He handed them to Spencer, who uncorked them, held the corks tightly in his fists, and turned to Thomas. Thomas tapped one fist, which opened, revealing the dark cork.
“Rufus is black, Robert white,” Spencer said. He filled Thomas’ glasses with the dark rum while Jeff filled Negri’s with the light. Finally they both stepped back, leaving a daunting array of drinks gleaming in the lamp-light on the table. “Your move, Bob,” Spencer said.
Negri edged his king’s pawn forward two squares. Thomas replied with the same. Abruptly, Negri’s queen was slid out of the ranks all the way across the board to the rook’s fifth place.
Thomas saw the trap immediately; he had last fallen for it before he was ten. Negri hoped Thomas would advance his king’s knight’s pawn one square in an attempt to drive the enemy queen away. If he did, of course, Negri’s queen would leap three spaces to her left, taking Thomas’ first-moved pawn and, inevitably with the next move, would dart invulnerably in and capture Thomas’ rook.
Thomas automatically reached forward to move his knight to his king’s bishop’s third—and paused. What if, he wondered, I let him have the rook? I could move my queen’s knight up to the bishop’s third when he takes the pawn, as if I’m threateni
ng his queen; and then when he takes the rook I could hop the knight back down in front of my king, which would bar his queen from decimating my ranks any further. And it would leave him with a tumbler and a shot glass worth of dark rum in him.
Thomas withdrew his hand and looked closely at Negri. How much can he put away, I wonder? He’s already had a good amount of alcohol this evening—and his mouth is tending to sag, and his eyes aren’t focusing perfectly. By God, I’ll try it.
Thomas advanced the knight’s pawn.
“Hah!” barked Negri as he slid the queen over and tapped the shot glass that was Thomas’ first-moved pawn. He snatched it up and tossed it off, smacking his lips. “Not bad,” he announced, setting the glass aside. “I believe I’ll have some more.”
Thomas obligingly brought his queen’s knight forward, allowing Negri’s queen to take his king’s rook. A mutter of dismay and approval passed over the spectators as Negri drained Thomas’ rook-glass. “Ahh!” he exclaimed. “How does your queen taste, Pennick? I mean to find out.”
Thomas moved his queen’s knight to his king’s second square. Negri made as if to take Thomas’ king’s knight, then noticed that it was protected by its twin.
“You can’t stop me, Pennick,” he said, and took instead Thomas’ rook’s pawn. He drank it in one gulp, but set the empty shot glass too close to the edge of the table, and it fell when he let go of it.
A few people in the crowd giggled, and he shot a venomous look in their direction. “Go to hell, Jeff,” he barked.
“Take it easy, Robert,” Gladhand spoke up. “You know better than to yell at an audience.”
Thomas now moved his king’s knight to his bishop’s third, threatening Negri’s queen; she withdrew, and the tension was relaxed for the moment. Thomas had lost two pawns and a rook—but his men were opening out fairly well, and he had his unmolested queen’s side to castle into if need and opportunity should arise. And Negri, to Thomas’ well-concealed satisfaction, was beginning to look really drunk—frowning at the board in a passion of concentration, and pushing the curly hair back from his forehead with rubbery fingers.
A stray gust of the warm wind flickered the lanterns and, for a moment, blew the heavy rum fumes away from Thomas’ face. He looked up, caught Pat’s eye and winked. She winked back, and he felt suddenly proud and brave, as if he was facing Negri at misty dawn somewhere, settling the question with sabres.
The game progressed slowly, with Thomas drinking a piece—slowly, and in several swallows—only to avert direct danger or to press a certain advantage. Every few moves he tried to sacrifice a pawn, or an occasional bishop or knight, to increase the watery, fuddled look in Negri’s eyes.
“He’s trying to get you drunk, Bob!” came a call at one point. Negri’s derisive laughter at that sounded genuine, but he glanced furtively at the tally of empty glasses along the sides of the table; and then smirked confidently to see how many more of Thomas’ glasses had been emptied than his own.
Despite Thomas’ stay-sober strategy, he found himself having to work at keeping all the threats, protections and potential lines of attack clear in his mind. I’ve got to mount that checking attack with my bishop and queen, he thought a little dizzily. I’d like to get my rook into position to back them up, though. Can I? Sure, but it’ll take… three moves. Can I count on Negri not to put me in check—or interfere with my queen and bishop—for three moves?
He regarded Negri suspiciously. What if he’s pretending to be drunker than he really is? I’ve got to chance it, he thought, and moved his rook.
Negri moved a pawn out of its home row.
Thomas moved his rook the second time.
A bishop-full of light rum advanced from Negri’s ranks and came to rest, threatening Thomas’ beer-schooner queen, on a square that was protected by a pawn and a knight.
Thomas’ heart sank. There goes my whole plan, he thought. With my queen moved I won’t be able to salvage any part of it. Did he do that simply to foul me up, or is there another purpose? He stared carefully at the board—and it was all he could do to stifle a gasp of horror.
Negri’s bishop was now in a position to take the pawn behind which stood Thomas’ modest wooden king—and a forgotten white knight stood by to back the move up. He’s going to do that next, Thomas realized. It won’t quite be checkmate, but that probably won’t be long in following.
The silence was absolute, and Thomas fancied he could hear the sweat running down his neck into his collar.
There’s only one slim hope, he thought. If it doesn’t work, all I’ll have done is hand him the game. And Pat, too, he reminded himself.
He moved his rook the third time.
There were a few gasps and groans from the crowd, and Negri looked both surprised and pleased. “You’re drunker than I thought, Pennick,” he said slowly. Thomas watched him closely, almost able to read the sluggish thoughts that reeled through the narrow spotlight of Negri’s consciousness. He’s puzzled, Thomas thought, that I ignored his threat to my queen; and he’s wondering whether to take her or pursue his planned attack. Negri looked up sharply, and Thomas crossed his eyes slightly and hiccupped. I’ve got to make him think I’m drunk, he thought—that I didn’t even see the threat. Come on, Negri. Take a certain queen instead of an uncertain checkmate.
“I said I’d taste your queen, Pennick,” Negri said finally, tapping her with his bishop. Thomas tried to look surprised and dismayed.
The queen was heavy, and Negri lifted her with both hands. He peered dazedly for a moment into the amber depths of the glass, then took a deep breath and set it to his lips.
Everyone on the roof watched tensely as Negri’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down and the bottom of the glass slowly rose. The color had drained from his face, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, but still he kept methodically gulping the heady brown liquor. Finally he drained it—flung the empty glass away—shuddered—and slid unconscious from his chair to the tarpapered floor.
Spencer hopped up and, with an upraised hand, silenced the quick rush of cheers and boos. “Rufus,” he said, “you’ve lost your queen. Do you choose to resign?”
“No,” Thomas said.
“Then since your opponent is unconscious, you are clearly the winner.”
There was more cheering and booing, and a brief scramble for the remaining glasses on the board, and then Thomas got up and walked out of the ring of light to gulp some fresh air.
“Rufus.”
He turned around and saw that Pat had followed him. “Thank you,” she said, and kissed him, a little awkwardly. As far as he could recall, it was the first time anyone had ever kissed him, but he was drunk enough not to get flustered.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I didn’t really do anything, though. Just fed him rum until he passed out.”
“No, no,” she protested. “I was watching closely. You calculated just how much alcohol you could let him have without losing the game yourself. It was fascinating. What does alcohol do to your brain, anyway?”
“Haven’t you ever had any?”
“No. My family was—what’s the word?”
“Teetotalers,” he supplied, and she nodded. “Well,” he said, “alcohol, enough of it, wrecks your ability to concentrate. It’s like trying to run down a familiar hallway that’s suddenly dark, and cluttered with a lot of boxes and old bicycles and fishing poles. Or like the first day of a cold, when you’re dizzy and light-headed and can’t remember what the correct answer to ‘Good morning’ is.”
“I hear every drink destroys ten thousand brain cells. Why do… why do people get drunk, anyway?”
“Well, not everybody drinks to get drunk. Just a little every now and then is very pleasant. And, hell, the loss of a few thousand brain cells here and there—who counts?”
She stared at him with a total, undisguised lack of comprehension. “I don’t understand people,” she said. “It’s late; I’m going to turn in. See you tomorrow.” She turned towar
d the stairs. “Oh, and thanks again for… rescuing me.”
“You’re welcome again. Good night.”
Now what, he asked himself when she’d disappeared, happened there? She obviously doesn’t approve of drinking; but she doesn’t quite disapprove, either—she simply can’t understand it. Oh well, he thought, she seems to like me. After all, I risked a whole truckload of brain cells to save her from being Negri’s Sugar-Pie.
With a shiver of blended surprise, pleasure and apprehension he realized that he was, as the saying goes, falling in love with her.
BOOK TWO
Nathan Gladhand
CHAPTER 7
A Bad Dinner at the Gallomo
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON of the next day, rumors began to reach the city—the merchants on the long coast run from La Jolla and Oceanside told of hundreds of campfire lights glimpsed in the valleys south of El Cajon, and of streaks of smoke and raised dust on the southern horizon during the day. At sunset the inevitable suspicion was confirmed by the Escondido mail rider: General Alvarez of San Diego had mobilized his army and was marching north.
During the next two days details trickled in—agreed, contradicted and amplified each other—until the full situation was clear. Alvarez was advancing up route five with a force of a thousand men and eight siege-mortars.
Los Angeles’ buffer states Santa Ana and Orange sent ambassadors racing to the city to beg troops for the defense of their borders—and were reluctantly denied aid by major-domo Lloyd, who was said to have turned them away with tears in his eyes. Souveraine of Santa Ana declared that he couldn’t, unsupported, defend his unwalled city, and that he’d side with Alvarez when the time came. Smith of Orange came to the same decision, with, as he put it in the letter he sent to Lloyd, “incalculable reluctance.”
Thursday morning dawned clear and warm, for the Santa Ana wind was still surging in off the desert. One week exactly had passed since the bombing of Mayor Pelias’ chambers; and the crowds that gathered around the news-loudspeakers sent despairing groans up into the cloudless blue sky when it was announced, once again, that the mayor was still unconscious.
