by Kage Baker
Lewis, midway through another sip, nearly choked. He set the glass down hastily. “But—Joseph, that’s Facilitator work! I’m only a Literature Preservation Specialist,” he said aloud, so shocked he was.
“Hey, you’re a smart guy. Improvise,” said Joseph breezily. He looked up with a smile of gratitude at the waiter who brought his drink. “Thanks a million, pal. How about a menu?”
The waiter obliged in silence. Joseph took a fortifying gulp of Scotch and studied the menu, ignoring Lewis’s expression of dismay. “Say, is the chicken pot pie any good?”
“Never mind the chicken pot pie! What could you possibly want with Mr. Reinhardt? He doesn’t run in—” Lewis tried to find a tactful way to say it, and couldn’t—“your sort of circles. No fisticuffs, no boozing, no gambling. No ladies of the evening. No mob connections.”
“This has nothing to do with Reinhardt,” said Joseph. “I just need a job on the construction crew. You can get me one, right?”
“Wrong,” said Lewis. “Joseph, I’m not even an assistant director, for gods’ sake! I’m a director’s assistant and translator! I just explain things to Mr. Reinhardt and keep his production notes tidy.”
“And I’m sure you do a swell job, too,” said Joseph. “I’ll bet he’s never had such tidy notes in his whole life. Which is why he’ll undoubtedly appreciate your valuable recommendation that he employ your dear friend who’s the best set painter in Hollywood.”
“But you aren’t,” said Lewis. “And anyway, there aren’t any painters on this show. It’s outdoors. He’s even having the Bowl shell taken off. We’re putting in trees instead. Moss and cobwebs and things. And a giant ramp for a procession onstage.”
“Well, O.K., so I’m the best giant ramp builder in Hollywood.”
“But you aren’t!”
“I built goddam pyramids in Egypt, I can build a ramp at the Hollywood Bowl,” said Joseph, exasperated. “For crying out loud, Lewis, use your imagination! This is a Company job. And what All-Seeing Zeus wants, he gets. Don’t make me go to your case officer on this.”
“You would, too, wouldn’t you?” said Lewis waspishly. He drained his martini at a gulp. “Why don’t you just use your awesome powers of persuasion on Mr. Reinhardt yourself? He’s sitting right over there.”
“No kidding?” Joseph leaned out of the booth to stare.
“Discreetly, for heaven’s sake! He doesn’t like being bothered,” said Lewis. Joseph leaned back again but kept his gaze on the occupant of the table across the room. He saw a middle-aged man with stern, heavy features and blazing blue eyes. Max Reinhardt looked like a Beethoven symphony personified, all thunder and lightning, but at the moment he was placidly dawdling over the remains of a substantial dinner.
“Talk about lucky coincidences,” said Joseph. He got to his feet, shot his cuffs, straightened his tie, and approached Reinhardt’s table with his hand out and an ingratiating smile on his face.
“You’ll be sorry,” Lewis murmured, but was ignored.
“Say, Mr. Reinhardt, what a pleasure to run into you like this!” said Joseph, in his most captivating tones. “Joseph Denham. May I trouble you for a moment of your time?”
The great man looked up, disconcerted. “I beg your pardon?” he said, in German.
“I just wanted to say, Mr. Reinhardt, how happy we are to have you here in Hollywood, bringing your unique brand of showmanship to our shores,” said Joseph, switching to perfectly accented Viennese with overtones of Berlin. He shook Reinhardt’s hand. “And I just wondered whether you might have an opening in your show for a man of my talents. Maybe I should explain—”
“Please,” said Reinhardt, with a shy smile that did not extend to his eyes. “I—er—” He fumbled in his coat. “One moment please—I have a card case.” Further fumbling did not produce one. He glanced down at the remnants of his meal and said, “Would you have the kindness to excuse me one moment?”
“Of course!” Joseph stepped back. “Take all the time you want.”
Reinhardt walked to the back of the restaurant and vanished around the corner of a booth. Five minutes passed. Ten more went after them.
“I ordered you the chicken pot pie,” Lewis called. “You may as well come back, you know. He’s halfway to his hotel by this time.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Joseph, though with a sinking feeling. “I think he’s looking for his card case. Maybe he dropped it in the john.”
“Yes, of course,” said Lewis. Joseph waited five more minutes and then returned to the booth, sighing.
“Hell. He took a powder, didn’t he?”
“It’s just possible,” said Lewis, without a trace of sarcasm. “That’s not the way to approach him, you know. Reinhardt can vanish in a puff of smoke when he’s feeling pressured. Doesn’t quite inhabit the same base terrestrial regions as you or I. He’s a true artist. And you just might have given the impression you were a Nazi spy, with that accent. He’s a Jewish refugee, in case you were unaware.”
“But I used his own accent. Mortals like that. It relaxes them,” said Joseph.
“I use British-accented schoolbook German,” said Lewis. “It’s what he expects. I’m afraid you came off a bit unnecessarily Mephistophelean.”
“How are you going to get me on the crew, then?”
Lewis pursed his lips. “Let’s just pretend for a moment that our masters did me the honor of programming me as a big-cheese Facilitator, like you, instead of as a humble Preserver. Of course I’ll wave my magic wand and get you a job on the show, Joseph; nothing easier! Perhaps you ought to tell me why you need one.”
“It’s a long story.” Joseph slumped over his drink. “You ever hear of the Lost Treasure of the Cahuenga Pass?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I guess not, huh?”
“No,” said Lewis. “No, I haven’t. This is just going to get weirder, isn’t it?”
“1865,” said Joseph. “Maximilian ruling Mexico, as much as he was able. The rebellion happens. Mazatlan, big wealthy port city with a lot of European émigrés living there, declares for the rebels. But the rebels are running out of guns and ammo. Freedom-loving Mexicans pass the hat to raise money to buy more. Rich mortals donate gold and jewels.
“The treasure’s sent north by ship, with two Mexican captains and a couple of English mercenaries who just happen to be there agitating against French rule. Imagine that, huh? The plan is to take the loot to San Francisco, buy arms with it and take them back to the heroic freedom fighters. But, en route, the Mexican who knew all the contacts dies, without getting the chance to pass the secret names to his fellow conspirators.
“So the three remaining mortals land in San Francisco with all this fairly heavy and obvious treasure. They don’t know who they can trust. They decide to ride out into the hills and bury the treasure, then go back to Mazatlán to find out who they’re supposed to contact. They do. They come back to San Francisco, but the treasure’s gone. Doesn’t make any difference in the long run; Maximilian goes down anyway, poor dope.
“One of the English guys passes the story of the treasure on in his family, and one of his descendants is one of the founders of Dr. Zeus. Or something like that. Anyway, the treasure got the Company’s attention.”
“Cahuenga Pass is a long way from San Francisco, Joseph,” said Lewis, taking another sip of his martini.
“I’m coming to that, O.K.? What happens is, this shepherd is grazing his flocks in the hills above San Bruno and he sees the three guys burying the treasure. As soon as they go, he digs it up again.
“Then he loads it on two mules and a horse and decides to make tracks. He goes south and gets as far as—”
“The Cahuenga Pass,” said Lewis, pointing over Joseph’s shoulder in the direction of the Pass.
“Yeah. Where his nerve gives out. He stops at a stagecoach inn and tavern. Guess who runs it?”
“No idea,” said Lewis. Then he winced. “Oh—wait—that was where—”
> At that moment the waiter brought his veal cutlet and Joseph’s chicken pot pie, and there was appreciative silence for a while before Joseph resumed, speaking through a full mouth:
“Stagecoach inn’s a Company HQ. The mortal brings the loot straight to the arms of Dr. Zeus, can you beat it? The operative running the place is a Security Tech. He reports straight to the Company and is told to persuade the mortal that Los Angeles is really dangerous (which it was) and he really ought to hide anything valuable he might happen to be carrying nearby and rest up awhile.
“Which the mortal obligingly does. He goes up into what’s now the Hollywood Bowl and buries the loot in six little caches around an ash tree. Goes back to the tavern and gets drunk. Keeps drinking. Drinks some more. The Security Tech sneaks out, finds where the loot is buried, contacts Dr. Zeus for further orders. Company tells him to leave it be, but make sure no mortals get a chance to get near it.
“So the Company op takes a subsonic generator up there, one of the old field models, and hides it in a bush by the ash tree and switches it on. It puts out its fourteen-cycle note at maybe sixty decibels, so any mortals coming close will panic if they walk into its range.
“Meanwhile, back at the tavern, the shepherd drinks himself into collapse. He has a local friend who comes and moves him to his house, so he can recover there. Only he doesn’t. He gets worse and dies. But before he does—he tells his friend about the treasure, and where he buried it.”
“And his friend goes to dig it up, but runs into the subsonic field and panics?” said Lewis.
“Has an anxiety attack so bad he has a stroke and dies,” said Joseph. “Though not before the story gets out. Madre de Dios, it’s a Cursed Treasure! So none of the local mortals ever dare come search for it again. And there it sits, until the 1880s. This was where I came in.”
“Wait. The treasure’s hidden in the Hollywood Bowl. You need to dig it up?” Lewis knit his brows. “But you could go up there anytime, Joseph. You needn’t be employed there. The place is completely open.”
“No, I don’t need to dig it up. There’s a complication,” said Joseph. He held up his empty glass and waved it hopefully in the direction of a waiter. The waiter glided close, took the empty glass and returned a moment later with a full one.
“There would be a complication,” said Lewis.
“1885,” said Joseph. “First big real estate boom in L.A. County. The joint is filling up with mortals. Company decides the treasure needs to be moved to a place it’ll stay hidden. I get orders to go to the Cahuenga Pass HQ. I report for duty and it’s Palinurus in command there now, remember him? He sets me up with a cover as a Basque shepherd.
“So I go back in there and dig up the treasure, move the rest of it to a different location close by. One that’ll have a famous landmark close to it pretty soon that’s going to stay there for the rest of recorded history, so the Company knows it’s going to be pretty much undisturbed. With a couple of brief exceptions.”
“Oh,” said Lewis. “Light dawneth.”
“It doth, huh?” Joseph drained his drink and crunched ice.
“Why didn’t the Company just have you retrieve the whole treasure right then?”
“It’d contradict the Temporal Concordance. More than that, you don’t need to know.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I go back to HQ. Palinurus and I spread the word that some coins and jewelry have been found, up in that canyon. The local mortals remember the story from twenty years before and everyone tells me, Señor, be careful, that’s a Cursed Treasure! And I say, Ha! Don’t be foolish, there’s no such thing as a curse! Then I leave, announcing I’m going home to my native Pyrenees, and six months later Palinurus spreads the word: That Basque fell overboard on his way home and drowned! And what sunk him was...the Cursed Treasure, sewn into his coat!”
“Unnecessarily theatrical, if you ask me,” said Lewis.
“Yeah, well, it kept the mortals from snooping around up there,” said Joseph. “And now the Company sends word it would like a Company op on the spot to make sure Mr. Reinhardt’s stupendous colossal earthworks don’t disturb a Company cache. That’s where I come in. All you have to do is get me on the work crew.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Lewis. “I have my hands full with my own mission, though, I warn you. I won’t be able to help you much.”
Joseph grinned. “Relax! How many centuries of experience have I racked up, misdirecting mortals on account of Dr. Zeus didn’t want them to see something? ‘I will lead them up and down’!”
“Fair enough. I may be able to get Mr. Girton to take you on. You won’t bother Mr. Reinhardt again, though, will you?” said Lewis. “I don’t think you made a favorable impression on him, somehow.”
“Trust me!” said Joseph cheerily, and signaled the waiter for another drink.
TWO: SO QUICK BRIGHT THINGS COME TO CONFUSION...
Joseph was as good as his word, though Lewis (hurrying along in Reinhardt’s wake clutching sketch pads and the promptbook) spotted him on the work crew a scant week later.
Joseph had taken some pains with his disguise as a mortal laborer, purchasing overalls, workboots and a battered felt hat from an old-clothes dealer. When he spotted Lewis, he lifted his hat with an ironical smile. Reinhardt didn’t seem to recognize him, at least; but on those occasions when the great man floated through the set, his eyes seemed focused on the faery forest that didn’t yet exist, rather than the acoustic shell that was in the process of being moved from its base by a horde of sweating workmen.
Sunlight poured down into the Bowl valley, soft and with a certain heaviness; it was easy to imagine the light falling like a blanket, muffling the noise of the crowbars and chains. Any time work stopped, a dreamlike silence descended. The immense half-cup of the shell inched its way along, surreal as a pyramid walking under timeless light, and finally vanished like a magician’s trick.
Truckloads of earth were brought in, then, mountains of loam, to be shoveled and sculpted on the wide bare stage; then the base was built for the great trestle that was to bridge the ravine behind the stage. Reinhardt stalked out across the valley floor to watch, mopping his face with a handkerchief in the heat, barely noticing Lewis at his elbow. He frowned at the timber framework against the bright sky. Lewis squinted up at it hoping Reinhardt hadn’t noticed Joseph, swaggering with a bucket of nails along an eight-inch catwalk three stories above.
“Es geschieht schnell, Herr Professor,” said Lewis.
“Yes, but,” said Reinhardt. He fell silent a moment, apparently forgetting Lewis was there. At last he scowled and waved his hand at the raw planks and beams. “Too real,” he said, as though to himself. “It must be clouds and moonlight. Herr Thomas must build mist, and stars. Book—...?”
Hastily Lewis put the promptbook and a pencil in Reinhardt’s hand. Reinhardt opened it, licked the end of the pencil and set to scribbling in a margin. He walked away, failing to look where he was going, and Lewis had to steer him around three ladders and a lumber pile before they got back to the stage. Behind them, Lewis heard Joseph whistling “The St. Louis Blues.”
The way was cleared at last for the Wood Near Athens to rise.
Lewis followed like a shadow as Reinhardt stalked through the forests of Calabasas, hand-selecting live trees to be planted on the stage. No mere spindly little ornamentals, either; gigantic oaks, elms and aspen trees were dug up, loaded onto wagons and trucked into the Bowl. There Reinhardt sat at the top of the house like God with a megaphone, directing as each tree was moved into precisely the right spot. A few feet this way—a few feet that way—more forest, more shadows, more mystery!
Watching him, Lewis shook his head in sympathy. It would never be exactly as Reinhardt dreamed; nothing could. How lucky mortals are, thought Lewis, that they never live long enough to learn it.
LEWIS!!!!!
Lewis sat bolt upright in bed, convinced the telephone was ringing. It wasn’t. A mortal might have looked next
at his alarm clock, but Lewis did not require one. He stared around at his apartment, noting the predawn gloom beyond the windows. No desperate cyborg clinging to the fifth-story ledge; no one standing by his worktable, where his inks and papers were tidily arranged around the copies he was making of Reinhardt’s papers. Tea makings laid out in the kitchenette, his solitary three-minute egg and slice of toast still inhabiting the realm of yet-to-be, his carefully pressed suit still over the chair where he had laid it out the night before. He was, as usual, alone. So who—
Lewis, where the heck are you?
Lewis scowled and pressed his fingertips to his temples. You needn’t transmit at that volume! And I’m in bed, where do you think? It’s half past six.
O.K., sorry. I’ve been signaling for five minutes. Some people have to get up early, you know? Joseph seemed to be struggling with his temper. Look, I’m in a jam. Some goddam mortal wrecked my car. I need a lift to the Bowl. I’m late for work.
Crumbs. I’m still in my pajamas. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You’re over on Morningside Court, aren’t you?
Just throw on a bathrobe!
I can’t walk through the lobby in my dressing gown! Why can’t you take a streetcar?
It’ll take too long. Come on, Lewis, be a pal!
Muttering to himself, Lewis scrambled out of bed and got dressed. It was ten minutes before he retrieved his Plymouth coupe from the Orchid Apartments garage, and drove straight into morning rush-hour traffic. There was a traffic accident at Highland; he lost more time casting about for Joseph’s street. Altogether it was a full hour before he spotted Joseph, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of a tiny apartment court and shouting at a cop who stood beside Joseph’s Ford, which was now fenderless and doorless on its left side and displaying more of its undercarriage than was strictly proper.
“No, it was parked!” he was saying. “I’m up at five, I’m shaving, I hear this helluva crash, I go running out in my underwear and see this huge Oldsmobile backing out of my car with some idiot college kid at the wheel! He took off toward Vine! What are you going to do about it? There you are!” He turned to Lewis. “What kept you?”
