by Kage Baker
Oscar gasped. He had been in the act of returning his hat to his head, but now he swept it off and bowed double.
“Princess Rodiamantikoff,” he said.
It was even she; but how changed. Gone were the Gypsy silks and cheap baubles. She wasn’t more tastefully dressed, you understand, but certainly more expensively, and there was now a coherence and even a dignity to her ensemble. She’d found some good luck somewhere. Her plain face was fuller by a few square meals, but the blue eyes were still knife-sharp, unwavering, superfocused. She extended a regal arm, pointing at Oscar with her parasol as the carriage braked to a stop.
“It is he,” she said. “At last we find you. Chief Running Deer and King Elisheazar have not searched cosmic ether in vain. You may approach us, sir, for we would discuss with you matter of trade.”
The effect on Oscar was—well, it was indecent. He was beside the wagon at once, planting a fervent kiss on her outstretched hand. The black coachman looked at him askance.
“Your Highness!” Oscar said. “How pleased I am to see that your fortunes have improved. Doubtless loyal friends at the distant court have contrived to send you support of a material nature?”
“Naturally,” she said grandly, lying through her teeth, if her pulse and respiration rate were any indication. “Not to mention certain assistance rendered by dear Spirit Guides and others in realms above who are anxious to see that great work goes forward.”
“And what great work would that be, ma’am?” Oscar asked, terribly interested.
“Ushering in of new era,” she said. “Epoch when unhappy multitudes gain peace and enlightenment through communication with world beyond. Secrets known only to arcane secret societies will at last be revealed to all! Futures foretold through modern methods of cartomancy passed on from ancient Egypt through Gypsy race. Loved ones who have passed over will send advice and encouragement through gifted individuals. We are pleased to be humble instrument of Spirits’ will. Spirits have told us you were also instrument, bringing cards for entertainment purposes only.”
“So Your Highness has improved her situation by telling fortunes?” Oscar’s eyes were wide with fascination, his cameras rolling.
“Please.” She raised a hand. “Grateful clients have presented tokens of esteem for messages received from beyond. We are now enabled to live in gracious home in better area of City of Angels. But now, Spirit Guides have advised we must prepare doorway to Spirit realm through construction of beautiful altar. Offerings will open pathway for clients to speak with loved ones through intercession of Spirits. Common household object of beautiful design must be used for this. Spirits have directed us to purchase from you beautiful cabinet whose gross material purpose is keeping pies. It will be consecrated to higher use through addition of sacred plates of metal from ancient Egypt, location of which revealed to us in trance.”
“The pie safe!” I think Oscar leaped a foot in the air. “You wish to buy the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe.”
She nodded demurely. “Do you deliver?”
He certainly did.
YOU NEVER SAW A MAN, mortal or immortal, strut around so. It took us a few days to get all the ingredients for a New England boiled dinner together, during which time we were treated to multiple retellings of the story of the sale, with the hunt, the chase, and the astonishing moment of the kill. What a triumph for the good gentlemen of the Criterion company! What invaluable documentation of the development of spiritualism as a movement in America, throwing new light on its evolution on the West Coast!
The dinner itself consisted of a big chunk of beef brisket, boiled, with side bowls of boiled potatoes, boiled onions, boiled cabbage, and boiled parsnips. There was brown bread with raisins, but even that was water-cooked, steamed in a can over the coals, like a plum pudding. Everything was liberally buttered and mashed, with lots of salt and pepper, which it very much needed, especially the beef.
In honor of the occasion the meal was served indoors, on our rickety kitchen table made bright with a sheet of checked oilcloth. We crowded around, Oscar and Porfirio in our two chairs and Einar and I seated on kegs from the storeroom, basking in the steamy warmth. Juan Bautista was obliged to take his meals in his rooms nowadays, lest John Barrymore attempt to commit suicide in his absence, and Imarte was out on the prowl. It was pretty cheery in there, even with the Boiled Everything, especially after Porfirio brought out an earthenware jug he’d been keeping warm in a covered basket.
“Okay, Yankee man,” he said, “it’s time for a toast. Hot rum punch, courtesy of the house.”
“Oh, my,” said Oscar, rising unsteadily to his feet, doubtless feeling the powerful gravitational force exerted by his ingested supper. “And isn’t this just the weather for it, too. I haven’t had rum punch in decades. You’re a prince, sir.”
“Hell, we always knew you’d sell that thing,” Porfirio lied, carefully tilting the jug to fill our graniteware mugs. Out jetted a stream of something as red as a streetwalker’s dress, dotted by bits of orange peel and clove and fragrant with fiery rum. We howled in anticipation and raised our drinks high.
“To a radiantly successful mission, Oscar,” Porfirio said. “Not only for unloading the pie safe, but for the commendation the Company has decided to grant you for the sheer volume of sociological material you compiled while you were trying.”
“Surprise!” Einar and I yelled, and Oscar turned pink.
Porfirio held out a hand for dignity and order. “And what could be more appropriate in your honor,” he said, “than a polycultural cocktail? The cranberry of New England, the orange of Old Spain, the peach of Georgia, spices from the Far East, and rum from Jamaica, all boiled and served as hot as your pursuit of the Willing Customer. We wish you many more, man.” He threw back his head and gulped the drink down, and we followed his example.
Oscar actually got misty-eyed. “I’d no idea,” he said. “A commendation? Imagine. All I’ve ever wished was to do my job, you know, to the best of my limited abilities. Setting aside false modesty, though”—and he stuck out his chest with pride—“I must say, when once I set my mind to accomplish a thing, I can’t be beat.”
“And what do we have for the winner?” Einar said, jumping to his feet. He gestured gracefully at an invisible prize. “Two months’ all-expenses-paid vacation at that fabulous Company resort, Pacifica Three, on the beautiful island of Molokai! You’ll enjoy unlimited use of Company research facilities while dining on exotic tropical cuisine! When you’re not lounging by the library pool, you can saddle up a pony and explore the island’s natural wonders, or barter for anecdotal material at the friendly local leper colony. Other activities include windsurfing, spearfishing, and hot-air ballooning.
“But that’s not all!” He turned and gestured in the other direction. “Tanned, relaxed, and refreshed, you’ll return to an assignment personally selected by you. That’s right. You may choose to go through either:
“Door number one, to the lush plains of the Oklahoma Territory, where you’ll document consumerism in the developing settlement culture. Or,
“Door number two, just a canoe ride across to the beautiful Big Island of Hawaii, to report on the growing dependency of the native population on manufactured trade goods. Or,
“Door number three, to that all-male Queen of the Pacific Northwest, Seattle! You’ll cheer (and record) as the arrival of female citizens and quality merchandise changes this lumber boomtown into an American metropolis.”
Well, that was too much. Oscar’s legs gave way under him, and he sat, put his head in his hands, and cried for sheer happiness. I could have cried too, from envy. How often do immortals get choices of anything? And here was Oscar, who’d cheerfully trundle his peddler’s wagon into hell if the Company told him to, given the opportunity I’d been pining for. It just goes to show why one should do one’s best to be a good little machine.
I was preparing to drink to his health as Porfirio poured us another libation from the jug, when we
were all alerted to the approaching presence of a mortal on the immortal arm of Imarte.
Porfirio halted in mid pour, scanning, and we tuned in as well. No trouble; the mortal was in a happy, lustful mood, slightly drunk, and Imarte wasn’t concerned.
“Why, sir, I declare I am simply in love with England,” she was gushing. “I do feel that what we colonists gained in liberty was quite outweighed by our loss in culture. This must all seem so terribly rude to a gentleman like you-all.”
“My dear lady, who can feel the want of social graces in your fair presence?” was the gallant if somewhat adenoidal reply. We heard an indrawn breath, and then: “By Jove! Is that rum punch perfuming the night air?”
“I believe it’s some of the other lodgers here . . .” We heard her voice sharpen a little as she bustled after him, for he was coming down the passage to our kitchen like a devil after a soul. A moment later, he had stepped into the circle of lamplight, and we beheld a slightly weedy mortal youth clutching a leather valise to himself. He resembled Charles III of England, with the same sad, remote eyes; and their expression chilled further as he found himself in a room full of strangers. You could see him brightening, however, when he noticed our weapons and decided we were colorful and exotic.
“Oh, I say, though. Are you banditti?”
“No, señor, we are merely the staff here,” Porfirio said. “You must be aware that it is advisable to carry firearms in Los Angeles.”
“Quite!” Our visitor gave a horsey little giggle. “The code duello seems to rule in your streets; and may I say that, while I find the brevity of life here appalling, it certainly is lived with a manly lack of hypocrisy and cowardice.”
We blinked at him. “Thank you,” said Porfirio at last. “May we offer you a glass of punch, señor?”
“Yes, please. I shan’t be sorry for the warmth.” He set down his valise and rubbed his hands together. “For a tropical country it’s devilish cold here o’nights, you know.”
“Subtropical,” I corrected him absently.
“What?” He turned to stare at me, but then his attention focused on the glass Porfirio was holding out to him. “Oh, now that’s something like. To your good health, all.” He raised his glass to us and drank deeply. Imarte scowled at us from the doorway behind him.
“Mr. Rubery, dear, recollect what happens when a man mixes his liquors. We don’t want Bacchus’s vine to make it difficult for us to offer myrtle to Venus, do we?” she told him rather acidly. He smiled into his empty glass, licked his chops, and turned to her with an awful leer.
“I’ve a constitution of iron, my dear. But let it never be said of me that I kept a lady waiting. Gentlemen, madam, I’m obliged to you for the potation.” He gave us a nod and set down the glass. Sliding an arm around Imarte’s waist, he let himself be pulled off in the direction of her bedroom.
“She’s going to be mad as hell with us if he passes out before she can get him talking about secret plans,” Einar said, grinning as he raised another toast to Oscar.
“He left his valise,” I said, nudging it with my boot.
“Don’t open it. It probably has one of those trick locks that spray tear gas, as in From Russia, with Love,” he warned me.
“More likely a spare pair of socks and a set of embroidered hankies,” said Oscar disdainfully. “What a prime example of a weak and decadent aristocracy. Did you see the way his teeth—”
What problem he had with Mr. Rubery’s teeth I was never to learn, for at that moment we all picked up the signal we had come to dread: a mortal out there in the night, drunk and wrathful, putting the spurs to his poor horse. Cyrus Jackson.
“Two kilometers out and coming in fast,” Einar announced, getting to his feet.
“Riding,” said Porfirio, pulling out his gun and checking the chambers.
“You can’t kill him,” Oscar said, blowing out the lamp. The room glowed as we switched to infrared. “There’s a mortal witness. That Britisher.”
“Damn. You can’t even shoot him with a trank,” I said, following them out the back door. The valise was right where I could trip over it; impatiently I grabbed it up and shoved it into a cupboard. “The witness would still think we’d killed the guy.”
“But I’m getting tired of Señor Cyrus Jackson,” Porfirio growled. “Tired of his staking us out all the damn time. I think the moment has come to nail his nasty ass to a wall.”
“Uh-oh,” said Einar, as we emerged into the clearing around the cookfire. Mr. Jackson’s signal was growing louder and clearer as he galloped toward us, and it wasn’t giving us the usual spectrum of his jealous misery and self-pity; it was off the scale. The man was in a homicidal rage. Einar leaned forward slightly, staring intently down the canyon. We heard the thunder of hoofbeats stop abruptly, and there was a thudding crash and a curse.
“I got his horse to throw him,” Einar said. “And . . . shit, he’s still coming.”
There he was on visual now, a grotesque figure by infrared, crawling out of the bushes where he’d landed with the boneless impunity of a drunk and staggering to his feet. On he came, up our canyon trail, pulling his gun from its holster.
“It’s your party, boys,” I said, and winked out to the hillside, where I crouched down and did my best to resemble an ordinary rock formation. I still had a good view of the clearing, with the three of them standing undecided as the monster lurched toward them.
What’s happening? Imarte broadcast in panic, having just noticed the approaching hazard.
Keep your Englishman quiet, Porfirio told her. Maybe he should get his pants on, though.
I’m staying inside with my birds, Juan Bautista transmitted from his room.
“We’d best get these poor creatures out of sight,” Oscar said, nodding at the tethered mounts on which Imarte and Mr. Rubery had ridden in from Los Angeles. He took their bridles and led them off to the stable. “Might I suggest a timely visit from Michael Finn? I’ve a bottle of chloral hydrate I’d be most happy to contribute to the occasion.”
“I don’t think this guy’s in any mood to sit down and have a drink with us,” Porfirio said. “Thanks all the same.”
“Smoke and mirrors, I guess, huh, chief?” Einar asked, rubbing his chin pensively. Porfirio nodded, and they winked out simultaneously, to reappear in the shadows on opposite sides of the clearing just as the mortal man came raving into sight.
He stopped when he saw the house. He stood swaying for a moment. His rage was building to a peak again. He groped around for the bottle he’d lost in his fall; when it failed to present itself, he let out an inarticulate roar.
A gasp from within the house, and some kind of half-smothered inquiry from Mr. Rubery, which fortunately Mr. Jackson was unable to hear. But he had recovered his bearings enough now to remember why he was there. Shambling forward, he addressed the house and drew a deep breath.
“Marthy!” he called. “You come on out of there, you faithless bitch!”
There was silence, at least as far as his mortal ears were concerned. I could hear the pounding of Mr. Rubery’s terrified heart as he struggled to get back into his clothes.
“You come on out here where I’ve waited for you,” roared Mr. Jackson. “You, no-good . . . you’re a pitiless wanton. You’re the goddamn woman in purple and scarlet, that’s what you are. Marthy!”
I could hear Mr. Rubery whimpering, partly in terror and partly in pain as Imarte had hold of his arm in a viselike grip. In a low and exceedingly calm whisper she was explaining to him the dangers of heedless flight. Mr. Jackson, meanwhile, had leaned over backward until he looked likely to topple, staring in an accusatory way at the stars.
“I defy you stars!” he said, and hiccupped. “The way you looked down on me an’ laughed. Marthy, ever’ night I sat up there an’ watched for you, an’ waited for you, and it was so cold. You din’t care none! Oh, Marthy, I’d ’a given you ever’thing that was mine, my good name and all, if you’d ‘a loved me.” At this point his gun went o
ff accidentally, kicking up a spurt of dust in the starlight. He was thrown backward and fell on his ass.
At the sound of the gunshot, Mr. Rubery intensified his efforts to escape to such a degree that Imarte had to let go of his arm or break it. He blundered frantically down the passage into the kitchen, where he tripped over a chair with a crash. Even Mr. Jackson heard it, and he scrambled to his feet with an agility I would not have thought him capable of in his condition.
“All right, I know you’re in there with her. Come out here, you no-good English nancy boy,” he said. “You prancin’ Ephebe! Bring him out, Marthy! Jesus God, woman, ain’t it enough you’ve run my heart through with needles? Ain’t I sat up there bleeding for you, crying in the dark with nobody to care?”
Mr. Rubery was going round and round in the kitchen like a trapped rat. Oh, he must have been hunting for his valise. Mr. Jackson thrust his head forward, peering at the house through narrowed eyes. He had to have been one hell of a hunter when he was sober, because even liquored up he was pinpointing Mr. Rubery’s location as accurately as I was.
“I got you, limey coward,” he snarled. “We go down to hell together, but you go first.” And he started for the house with an un-nervingly steady stride; at least, until Einar popped up beside him.
“Sorry, pal, you just crossed the line,” he said, and winked out again. Mr. Jackson jumped and stared; he looked all around and then turned to look behind him.
Einar popped into view again, not an inch from his face. “You could drop the gun,” he suggested. Instead Mr. Jackson swung it up and fired wildly at him—or at the place he’d been, for of course Einar winked away once more. Even with the echoing gunfire, though, we all heard the crash as Mr. Rubery got the kitchen door open.
“Enough is enough,” said Porfirio, appearing behind Mr. Jackson with the empty frijole pot in his hands. When Mr. Jackson whirled about to see who was speaking, Einar popped up again and gave him a good push. As Mr. Jackson toppled backward, Porfirio shoved the pot down over his head. Mr. Jackson dropped his gun to clutch at the pot with both hands as he fell, and Einar kicked the weapon out of reach. Then Mr. Jackson was on his hands and knees in the dust, struggling blindly to rise and shaking his head, but the pot wouldn’t come off.