In the Company of Thieves

by Kage Baker

  “But what was all that business about Junior Macready being covered with blood?” said Lewis, as Joseph scrambled out of the car.

  “I’m coming to that. Come on; if I don’t get out of this lousy undershirt it’s going to spontaneously combust,” said Joseph, digging in his pockets for his key. Lewis exited the car reluctantly and followed him into the courtyard. It might have been any one of a thousand such places in Los Angeles: an oval of lawn with a single lamp pillar in the center, and, opening off the tiny common area, eight identical cottages, each with a hibiscus bush on either side of its front door.

  “Excuse the mess,” said Joseph, heading straight for the bathroom. Lewis perched on the edge of a chair in Joseph’s tiny furnished parlor and looked around, as Joseph turned on the taps. There wasn’t much of a mess actually; there wasn’t room.

  “How do you live in here?” said Lewis. Joseph shouted from the bathroom:

  “Easy. I sleep in the bed and I shave in the bathroom. Mostly I eat in diners and coffee joints.”

  “But...it’s so featureless. Don’t you even have books, or pictures of your own?”

  “I have couple of books,” said Joseph. “Sentimental value, mostly. Look, Lewis, you know what happens the minute you start accumulating stuff.”

  There was a splash as he got into the tub and scrubbed vigorously. He went on:

  “You get too used to a comfy chair, or a nice view, and you start thinking like a mortal. You get scared to let go of things. You put down roots someplace and, if you’re lucky, the Company yanks you out and transfers you halfway around the world. If you’re not lucky, you stay on for fifty or sixty years and watch all your mortal neighbors die, while the neighborhood goes to hell. Travel light, Lewis, and keep your mind on the job.”

  “And carry only memories?” said Lewis.

  “Not if you can help it,” Joseph replied. “They weigh more than ten years’ worth of National Geographic Magazine, sometimes.

  “Anyway, where was I?”

  “So I go running up to the guys, who are standing around watching the tree like it was a public hanging, and I ask what’s going on. Lester says, Where you been, you missed all the excitement, I say, Some jackass wrecked my Ford, he says, Gee, that’s too bad, and I’m ready to grab him by the throat and choke him but Tex butts in and tells me how they dug down in a circle around this tree with picks and shovels, and then Stinky hooked the crane hoist around the trunk and they all stood back, and first it didn’t want to come but then Stinky gave it a real good wrench and pop, it just jumped right out of the ground, ten feet straight up.

  “Which was when this Mason jar came flying out of the roots and beaned Junior. Busted open and knocked him out cold. And the damn mortal points out the pieces of the Mason jar. I look, but there’s no sign of the Tavernier Violet.”

  “Oh dear,” said Lewis, as Joseph rose dripping from the tub and grabbed a towel.

  “So there’s this know-it-all mortal on the crew, we call him Doc, and he says how the jar must have been shoved down a gopher hole or something by a packrat, because they steal shiny things, like for example the big piece of costume jewelry that came flying out with the jar. No kidding, I say, wanting to sit down right there and bawl. And Doc says, Oh yes, obviously the piece went missing from some Bowl performance or other back in the ’20s. He had it all doped out, see. Can I have a look at it? I query.

  “Oh, says Mulligan, we gave it to Junior when he came around. Told him as how since he’d got crowned, he needed some crown jewels. It had gone right past me in the back of Cookie’s truck. The gods look down and laugh.” Joseph came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and rummaged in a dresser drawer for underclothes. Lewis averted his eyes.

  “How unfortunate. What did you do?”

  “Planted the tree where Reinhardt wanted it,” said Joseph. “What else could I do? Sweated blood until I saw Cookie coming back in his truck. No Junior with him; naturally we all crowded around and asked questions. The kid’s fine, except for twenty stitches in his scalp and a concussion. Cookie dropped him off at his parents’ house. He won’t be back to work on this job. I found out where he lived so I could send a fruit basket.”

  “Thoughtful of you,” said Lewis.

  “I’m not sending the guy a fruit basket, I’m breaking into his house!” Joseph, decently clad in a pair of drawers, went to his closet and pulled it open.

  “How many trenchcoats and fedoras do you own?” said Lewis, staring into the closet.

  “Look, I’m a studio dick. A good operative dresses the part, right?” Joseph reached in and pulled out a black turtleneck sweater. “Here we go. Black shirt, black pants, black sneakers! If I have to burgle somebody’s house, I’m going to do it right.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t have a black mask,” said Lewis.

  “Good point,” said Joseph, struck by the idea. “Should I maybe try to get one from Bert Wheeler’s?”

  “I don’t think you can get there before they close,” said Lewis. “Anyway, that was sarcasm.”

  “Cripes, I’m starving. You want to stop at a diner and get a couple of sandwiches before I drop you off?”

  “I’ll drop you off at your burglary, Joseph, but I’m not loaning you my car,” said Lewis. “My case officer’s very strict about how many automobiles I’m issued in any one fiscal period.”

  “Yeah, O.K., I know how that is. You can stick around and be my getaway driver, then.”

  “Joseph, I’ve got work to do.” Lewis held up the folder of papers he had been clutching. “These have to be copied! They’ll be destroyed in an archive fire in 2236, unless I have a good fake to substitute for them.”

  “2236?” Joseph bent down to tie one sneaker. “Heck, you’ve got plenty of time, then.”

  FOUR: TO TRUST THE OPPORTUNITY OF NIGHT...

  In the end they got hamburger sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper at a stand on the Boulevard, and ate them on a side street below Franklin, a few blocks from Junior Macready’s house.

  “That’s the stuff,” said Joseph in satisfaction, tilting his pop bottle for a last swallow. He dropped it on the floor, wadded his sandwich wrapper into a ball and dropped that on the floor too, and sat straight. “O.K! 6700 Yucca. Let’s drive by and case the joint.”

  The area just north of Hollywood Boulevard dated from the time the town had been a teetotalers’ colony; it was green-lawn residential, with Eastlake and Craftsman homes set back from a street lined with jacarandas, and every back yard had an orange tree. Plenty of decorative gingerbread and trellises. Men were coming home to dinners; children were playing on the sidewalks, throwing long shadows in the slanting light.

  “You’re not going to try this until well after dark, I hope,” said Lewis fretfully.

  “Of course not. 6700! There it is. Make a left up here and park.”

  Lewis obeyed. They sat staring at 6700 Yucca Avenue. There was a long, long silence.

  “I perceive problems,” said Lewis at last.

  “No kidding,” said Joseph, disgruntled.

  The house sat on the corner of Yucca and Whitley. It was a big, rambling Craftsman, covered in shingles painted a cheerful yellow. Other than a sprawl of climbing Herbert Hoover roses over the front porch, there wasn’t a scrap of concealing vegetation anywhere on the house. Even the requisite citrus tree in the back yard was nowhere near an outer wall.

  “Not one iota of lurking space, and all the windows and doors exposed to public view,” said Lewis. “And...let’s see...I’m picking up ten life forms from inside. Two of which seem to be dogs.”

  The front door opened. A mortal man emerged, middle-aged but powerfully built, and sat down in a rocking chair on the front porch. He opened out a newspaper and put his slippered feet up on the porch rail. After a moment a mastiff, carrying an immense beef bone, shouldered open the screen door and lay down beside the rocking chair. The dog set to work gnawing on the bone. The bone split with a crack that rang out distinctly in th
e evening air. Joseph shifted in his seat.

  “That dog’s got good teeth, huh?”

  There was a frenzied barking from inside, and a cocker spaniel bounced itself against the screen door three times before bounding out at last, whereupon it raced madly from one end of the porch to the other. The mortal and the bigger dog ignored it. At last a little girl came out and grabbed the spaniel, dragging it back inside.

  “A big strong dog and a little yappy dog,” said Joseph, rubbing his chin. “And kids. Jeez.”

  “Is there any chance you got the address wrong?”

  Joseph pointed silently to the mailbox, upon which was painted MACREADY. Lewis sighed.

  Joseph crossed his arms and slouched back in his seat. Lewis leaned his elbows on the steering wheel and set his chin in his palms. Both men closed their eyes, listening, focusing in on the yellow house.

  Cracking of bone. Rustling of newspaper pages being turned. Water running; the clatter of dishes being washed. Two mortal voices—young, female—raised over the sound of the water: So then I told her she could keep her old roller skates. Gosh, did she get mad? I’ll say she did, but...

  A click, a squeal, dance music coming over a radio—the Paul Whiteman Orchestra, ladies and gentlemen! Feet thundering across a hardwood floor, shrill voices in anger: Gimme! Give’m back, you dirty bum! Ma! He took my Mickey Mouse! A female voice cutting in: Can’t I get a moment’s peace in this house? Mother, can’t you make them understand that I am talking on the telephone?

  An older voice, female: Now, boys, do you want me to take this up with your father? Another radio switched on, with a higher, tinnier tone: four gunshots and a groan. Stop shooting, boys; we’ve caught our jailbird. Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you, mug? Don’t you know...

  Creaking, as stairs were climbed. Junior, dear? Sit up, now; I’ve brought you a nice glass of grape juice. Oh, you barely touched that soup! Sorry, Ma; I kept spilling it. Thanks. Now, you boys stay out of Junior’s room! Gee, you look like you been in the war! Beat it, pipsqueak. Say, what’s this thing? Where’d you get a purple diamond?

  It ain’t a diamond. It’s a piece of fancy glass the guys stuck in my pocket. Some consolation prize, huh?

  Can I have it? It’d make a swell hat for Saint Cornelius!

  Both Lewis and Joseph opened their eyes and turned to each other, frowning in perplexity.

  Sure. Just stop making so much darned noise. Okey-dokey! Oh, dear, this shirt was practically new, wasn’t it? Maybe if I soak it with some White King...

  “Saint Cornelius?”

  Lewis accessed rapidly. “Cornelius the Centurion, pagan convert, first century. Also Pope Cornelius, third-century martyr.”

  “I know! What’d he mean, ‘a hat for Saint Cornelius’?”

  Lewis shrugged.

  “As if this wasn’t hard enough,” muttered Joseph. “Now I’ll have to break into a kid’s room. Toys all over the place. Marbles. Jacks. Oh, this is going to be some picnic.”

  “If you can get inside at all,” said Lewis, eyeing the mastiff on the porch.

  The man on the porch read his paper until twilight, when he slapped at a mosquito, then rose abruptly and carried his paper indoors. The mastiff followed him. Soft evening fell, lilac-colored and unobtrusive.

  There, a light went on in the front parlor; through the window the man could just be glimpsed, in an armchair beside the radio that played dance music. A light in the kitchen window, where the dishes were dried and put away; lights blooming yellow in the upper windows, where someone small was bathed, protesting loudly, and someone else was coached over his schoolwork, and a heated conversation was carried on concerning how stuck-up Mary Ellen Donaldson had become since her aunt had taken her on that trip to France. Someone else was reading a novel, by a pink-shaded lamp; someone else was listening to Cab Calloway in the dark, though the radio cast a dim golden halo on the wall behind it.

  Lewis sighed.

  “I envy the mortals, sometimes.”

  Joseph shrugged. He knew the feeling.

  “If only they lasted,” he said.

  “Would their lives be so sweet, if they did?”

  “They don’t see what we see,” said Joseph. “And, hell, we blink, and they’re gone. This is what I was talking about! Seven more years, and Junior’ll be sweating on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific. The kids’ll grow up and go away. There’ll be a condo block on this spot in fifty years, the gardens all gone, and you and I will be the only ones who remember these people.”

  “But we will,” said Lewis.

  “You think that’s a good thing?” said Joseph. “We can’t afford to, you know.”

  It grew late. One by one the upper lights went out; the man in the parlor got up, shut off the radio, and went through the house locking the doors and closing the windows. The immortals heard him climbing a flight of stairs, breathing hard. A light went on, briefly, as teeth were brushed; a light went out. Darkness.

  They waited another hour, listening hard for the slowed heartbeats, the quiet breathing or snores that signified everyone slept. When it had been twenty minutes since the last car had passed on the street, Joseph yawned and stretched.

  “I guess there’s no point in putting it off,” he said. “What do you figure? Roof approach? Chimney, maybe?”

  “When did you get magic weight-loss powers?” said Lewis. Joseph gave him an aggrieved look.

  “Listen, I can flatten myself out like a cockroach when I have to,” he said, and got out of the car. “I don’t suppose you could give me a hand with the streetlights?”

  “I can try,” said Lewis. “Best of luck, old man.”

  Joseph snorted and padded off into the night. Lewis looked at the two nearest streetlights, one halfway down the block and the other on the opposite corner. He bent his head and fixed his attention on the nearer one. He had never attempted this trick, and had no idea if he could really transmit in such a way as to interrupt the circuit.

  Come on, Lewis...He scowled at the light, massaging the bridge of his nose, rubbing his temples, deep breathing, anything he could think of to focus. There! The light was flickering. Dimming. Yes! Down. Down, but not out...still, he could now make out the pale blue light of the waxing moon.

  A faint thump sounded from the direction of the house. Was that Joseph, launching himself at the roof in hyperfunction? Lewis glanced over and saw Joseph poised on the chimney, looking down uncertainly. Joseph looked up, aghast, and Lewis realized that the streetlight had brightened again with his lapse of attention. He turned back immediately and dimmed it once more.

  He kept his gaze riveted on the light, forcing himself to concentrate, emptying his mind of all other thoughts...except...Joseph would be covered in soot if he went down the chimney, wouldn’t he? Greasy sandwich wrappers and sticky pop bottles were bad enough, but...of course, a mission was a mission, and nothing mattered but the work, and...all the same, maybe it would be best to spread some newspaper out over the upholstery...did he have any newspaper in the trunk? He didn’t think he did...oh, wait, he had a road map some over-helpful service station attendant had pressed on him, the last time he’d gotten petrol...no, he was playing an American, mustn’t call it that...

  There was a crash from the house and a thunder of barking, and a split second later Joseph materialized by the car. He nearly yanked the door off in his haste to scramble in.

  “Drive!”

  “Wait!” Lewis tore open the glove box and felt around for the map.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll get soot all over everything—”

  “I didn’t go down the chimney!” Joseph threw himself in and pulled the door shut.

  “Ow! Get off my arm—”

  “Will you drive, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Did you get it?”

  “No—” The barking was still going on, and lights had begun to go on in the house. Lewis started the car and they took off down Whitley, making a right at the B
oulevard.

  “Shall I circle back and drop you off at your place?” said Lewis hopefully.

  “No! Drive around for a while,” said Joseph, sounding furious. “We’re going to have to go back.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lousy chimney was blocked,” said Joseph. “What’s the matter with people? Why don’t they hire a chimney sweep once in a while? Boy, are they going to get a surprise next time they try to light a fire in there. There must have been three dead crows blocking the flue.”

  “But you obviously got inside.”

  “Yeah, somebody left a bedroom window open. So I crawled down the side of the house and hung there a minute, checking it out. The smells were a dead giveaway: bubble gum, cedar pencils and goaty little kid sweat. Bingo, I said to myself, and kind of seeped down closer and scanned their breathing and brain rhythms. Two mortal children, males, both of ’em sound asleep. No dogs in the room.

  “So I crawled in over the sill and looked around. Right there, on top of this desk, is this shrine made out of a shoebox, with a plaster figure of a saint in it. And guess what’s stuck in a lump of plasticine on top of the statue’s head.”

  “The Tavernier Violet,” said Lewis. “Oh! It must be Pope Cornelius. The papal tiara, don’t you see?”

  “Who cares which stinking Cornelius it’s supposed to be?” Joseph shouted. “It’s sitting right next to one of those goddam clockwork monkeys with cymbals, O.K.? And just as I put out my hand, and I swear I didn’t even touch the thing, just as I reach for the statue, Bobo the Chimp starts whaling away with the cymbals. Both kids sit up in bed, scream like a couple of bats, and a hundred and sixty pounds of mastiff comes charging down the hall. Exit Joseph, and how!”

  “How unfortunate,” said Lewis. ‘What will you do?”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Joseph, attempting to calm himself. “We’re going to go back there and get inside in broad daylight.”