by Kage Baker
“We aren’t,” said Lewis firmly.
“No, this will work! Here’s what we do. We stake out the place, see, and watch in the morning as everybody leaves, until there’s nobody home but the lady of the house and Junior.”
“And the two dogs.”
“O.K., yes, the two dogs. And then you go up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Meanwhile, I’ll be going around the back of the house. The mortal lady opens the door, you ask her if she’d be interested in buying a magazine subscription.”
“I’ll have to be shouting over the baying of the hounds,” said Lewis. “Dogs never like me, you know. They can tell I’m a cyborg, somehow.”
“That’s the idea! They’ll be crazy to get through the screen door so they can kill you, right? And the lady will be apologizing and trying to pull them back—”
“Trying?”
“And if Junior’s awake it’ll distract him, too, so nobody’ll notice me going up the trellis under the kids’ room, going in through the window, nabbing the rock and getting out of there, especially if I do it in hyperfunction!” said Joseph. “Problem solved. You tip your hat, thank the lady and exit, meeting me back at the car.”
“Pausing only to pry a cocker spaniel off my leg.”
“Jeepers, Lewis, be a sport about this, can’t you? You’re a cyborg. You can outrun the dogs.”
FIVE: O, I AM OUT OF BREATH IN THIS FOND CHASE...
After a brief stop at the Orchid Apartments, wherein Lewis showered, shaved and put on a clean suit (thoughtfully tucking a can of red pepper into his pocket), they drove back to Yucca Avenue and parked halfway down the block, near enough to watch the front door. Lewis walked down to the Boulevard and returned with a copy of the Citizen-News, and, on climbing behind the wheel once more, opened the paper out, hoping to look as inconspicuous as possible.
At five-thirty the front door opened and the mortal man emerged, carrying a lunch pail.
“That’s Macready Senior,” said Joseph. “Works as a grip at Paramount. Off to catch the streetcar. One down.”
At seven the door opened again and a young lady in a navy blue uniform emerged, carrying an armful of books.
“That’s two,” said Joseph. “Junior’s sister, off to Immaculate Heart High.”
At seven-fifteen the door opened again and a swarm of children emerged, the two girls in navy blue, the two little boys in salt-and-pepper corduroy trousers and white shirts.
“Three, four, five and six,” said Joseph in satisfaction. “That’s it. Off to school, kiddies.”
But instead of parading off in the direction of the streetcar tracks, the children lined up expectantly by the mailbox.
“Perhaps they take the schoolbus?” said Lewis, folding up his paper.
“Crap!” Joseph sat bolt upright, staring at the older of the two boys. Lewis looked, then looked more closely.
“Oh,” he murmured. The mortal child was clutching an open shoebox, converted to a shrine by means of stained-glass windows drawn in crayon, housing a small plaster statue.
“He’s taking the damn thing to school!”
“Is that it?” Lewis intensified his focus. He made out the winking point of violet on the statue’s head, just before a yellow schoolbus pulled up to the curb and blocked his view. “Yes, that’s Pope Cornelius, all right, although he’s had to make over a statue of Saint Jude; I don’t suppose there are a lot of Saint Cornelius statues around. But his feast day is September 16, which is this Sunday, so—”
“Lewis, would you mind very much starting the car and following that bus?” said Joseph, slowly and carefully.
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” said Lewis, starting the car.
The schoolbus trundled along for some blocks, stopping often, difficult to shadow discreetly; but at last it pulled into a vast schoolyard just above Sunset. Lewis and Joseph pulled up and watched as the stream of children emerged from the bus and assembled in ranks before marching into the school.
“Cripes, the place looks like a fortress,” said Joseph. “Circle around. Let’s see if there are any windows.”
Lewis obliged. He found a spot a block away to the east that provided them with a clear view of the eastern wall of the school: six windows, three on the first story and three on the second. In each was framed an identical classroom: four straight rows of desks occupied by thirty-six uniformed children. Only the ages of the inmates differed, room by room, with a certain slump noticeable in the shoulders of the oldest ones. Joseph and Lewis regarded them in silence.
“Then again, sometimes I don’t envy mortals at all,” said Lewis. “Slotted in like so many little machine parts. How can they bear it?”
Joseph shrugged. He pointed to the middle classroom on the first floor. There, on a table, was a veritable choir of plaster saints. Some were glued into abalone shells, some were mounted on pedestals made of painted tomato cans; there at the back was Saint Cornelius, with his violet crown.
“O.K., this isn’t so bad,” said Joseph. “We can come back here tonight and break into the place.”
“You’re going to desecrate a shrine?” said Lewis.
“What do you care? You were a Roman, not a Roman Catholic. It isn’t like Saint Cornelius is going to lean down and pitch a thunderbolt at you.”
“No, but the mortals believe in that sort of thing, and that can make a remarkable difference,” said Lewis. “Besides, it’s rather an endearing idea, don’t you think? This whole little pantheon of minor saints, looking out for the welfare of humanity? For example, Pope Cornelius is the one you pray to to keep away earaches. I find that charming.”
“You must have slept through the Reformation, huh?”
“No, I missed that century. I was Guest Services Director at New World One back then. Wouldn’t it be nicer world, really, if the mortals had someone to watch over them?”
“Maybe, but all they have is us. Mind taking me back to my place so I can get changed for work? And, uh, giving me a lift to the Bowl, afterward?”
“Doesn’t Mr. Mayer wonder where you’ve got to?”
“He thinks I’m visiting my mother in Altoona.”
Theseus and Hippolyta came hand in hand across the great creaking trestle, leading the splendid if half-costumed wedding procession. Ignoring them, an electrician and his assistant went up and down ladders among the trees, installing the tiny flickering lights that would, on opening night, impersonate fireflies. The assistant stage manager counted out beats, over the faint whine of a Victrola playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” beside his chair. It creaked to a close just as the royal couple stepped onstage. He turned and flashed Reinhardt a thumbs-up.
“You see?” said Reinhardt, dabbing the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “It is perfectly timed, and nobody fell off.”
“I do trust there will be a handrail of some sort, before performance?” said Theseus, with frosty noblesse oblige. He was being portrayed by John Lodge, a Boston aristocrat who had briefly condescended to the thespian life.
“But the point of the ramp is that it’s just supposed to sort of hang there, like magic,” protested the assistant director. Reinhardt looked back and forth between them until Lewis translated.
“A skilled actor is half acrobat,” he said in response. “But if he is frightened, have the crew string up hand ropes. Black velvet ones.”
Lewis repeated this in English, slightly edited, and the production manager threw up his hands in despair.
“Black velvet ropes? Where am I supposed to get those?”
“Theater supply wholesaler?” Lewis suggested. “Costume department?”
Miss Sibley, Lewis’s immediate superior in the ranks of Reinhardt’s assistants, fanned herself with a copy of the Los Angeles Times. She looked out at the hills beyond the Bowl and said doubtfully: “But in the actual performance, they’ll have to come all the way down from up there, won’t they? Carrying lit torches? My, that’ll be dangerous, with all that dry brush.”
&nb
sp; “The Fire Department gave him a permit,” said Lewis. “And he’s going to time it again at Dress Rehearsal.”
“Oh,” she said, but not as though convinced.
The crowds of attendants filed onto the set, and lined up a little awkwardly on the turf. Weissberger turned to look at Reinhardt, who smiled and nodded. “Please,” he said. “Go on.”
The action of the play went forward—lovers forgiven, pomp and ceremony, and in came Bottom and his mates to present their play-within-the-play, Pyramus and Thisbe. Lewis leaned forward in his seat, in anticipation. He had seen some four hundred and seventy-three performances of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, over the centuries, and Pyramus and Thisbe just got funnier every time he saw it.
The Prologue was spoken, the Wall spoke his piece. Enter Pyramus and Thisbe (Walter Connolly in rattling armor, Sterling Holloway in demure drag). The lovers swore to be true through the Wall’s chink, and the fatal assignation at Ninny’s Tomb was arranged. Exit Lovers and Wall; enter Lion and Moonshine, Moonshine being personified by Otis Harlan, best known later as the voice of Happy the Dwarf in Snow White. Enter Thisbe once more, Lion roars; Thisbe screams and flees, dropping Veil, which is promptly seized and rent by Lion. Exit Lion; enter Pyramus, leaping to conclusions and a death scene of epic awfulness. Shakespeare, perverting all his genius to write as badly as possible!
Reinhardt shifted in his seat. He stood and advanced a few steps down toward the stage. The suppressed giggles of the other actors fell silent at once.
“This is good,” he said, “but I think it would be funnier if Thisbe is more bulky, more the big plowboy. Can you try it that way?” Lewis opened his mouth to translate, but the actor playing Quince (Frank Reicher) relayed the request first.
“But he isn’t a plowboy, Professor Reinhardt,” said Holloway. “Francis Flute is a bellows-mender.” He mimed pumping a pair of bellows. “It says so in the script.”
Reicher translated. Reinhardt frowned. He looked away, waving his hand.
“Then I would like to see you play it bigger. More the country bumpkin.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Holloway. He squared his shoulders manfully.
“Please, go on, then,” Reinhardt said. Under his breath he murmured, “It would have been so much funnier with W. C. Fields.” He turned and climbed back to his seat. The actors watched him with a certain amount of resentment. Harlan sidled up to Holloway and thumped him on the shoulder.
“What the heck,” Harlan piped cheerfully. “You can go have yourself some fun tonight and forget the old—”
Miss Sibley leaned toward Lewis, and unpursed her lips long enough to whisper: “This is dreadful. Don’t they realize the Professor is one of the giants of German romantic theater? The studios ought to have leaped at the chance to loan him their stars!”
Lewis looked sympathetic, but shrugged. “Plebeians, I suppose. It’ll all work out on the night.”
SIX: WHEREFORE WAS I TO THIS MOCKERY BORN?...
The evening star was just visible when the Plymouth pulled up outside the school above Sunset. Joseph scrambled out of the car and closed its door. He had once again dressed in his all-black ensemble.
“Why don’t you just circle the block a few times, O.K.?” he said. “Less conspicuous.” Lewis sighed, shook his head, and pulled out from the curb.
He was on his fifth circumnavigation when he picked up the frantic transmission:
Lewis! Corner of Selma and Cherokee! Step on it!
Lewis, already headed down Selma, gunned the motor accordingly and a moment later drew level with Joseph, who vaulted into the passenger seat and pointed in the direction of a rapidly disappearing Model T. “After that guy!” Joseph shouted.
A thrilling car chase did not ensue, because the Model T proceeded up to the Boulevard and joined the slow procession of evening traffic in a westerly direction. Joseph did not, therefore, go into Action Cyborg mode and leap from the front seat of the Plymouth to the roof of the Model T and rip it open like so much paper, hauling his quarry out to deliver a lethal karate chop. Real cyborgs seldom get the chance to do that sort of thing, and never in front of several hundred mortal witnesses.
“What happened this time?” said Lewis, waiting for the STOP signal to swing down out of sight.
“It started out easy,” said Joseph, peering ahead at the Model T, now separated from them by a slow-moving touring car. “Go! Go! Come on! Transom window in the second-floor boys’ bathroom left open a crack. I got it open, squeezed though headfirst, ran downstairs to the kids’ classroom. The shrine was right where it ought to be, all right, but somebody’d pinched the diamond.”
“How do you know it was this person?” Lewis inquired, trying to pass the touring car.
“Because I switched to thermal vision, O.K.? And there were all these fading green and orange steps going up and down the aisles, and brighter steps going up to the table with the shrines, and a big red handprint around Saint Pope Cornelius and a thumbprint right in the middle of his face, and flaming red prints going away from the table again and out the classroom door!
“So I ran after them. They went all the way down the hall, and right there at the end was this big door with window panes. On the other side of it was this mortal, all lit up like Satan, locking the door and putting his keys in his pocket.”
“Must be the school janitor,” said Lewis.
“So I scrammed, and just as I was sticking my head out the bathroom window I saw the guy getting into his car.”
“Oh, dear, he’s probably headed for a pawnshop,” said Lewis.
“Crap. Well, I know what we’ll do. You rear-end the guy as hard as you can. I’ll jump out—”
“Joseph, this car is Company property!”
“So are you.”
“And I’m cheaper to repair!”
“Lewis, for Christ’s sake—Right! Make a right! He’s going up La Brea!”
Lewis cranked the wheel and they followed the Model T uphill as far as Franklin, where it pulled to the curb and parked. They cruised past it as a mortal emerged. But for his grubby overalls and undershirt, he might have been a Prussian officer or a headwaiter at some particularly snooty restaurant; he had an upright bearing and meticulously waxed moustaches.
Joseph, glaring at him as they passed, said: “That’s the school janitor, all right.”
“Oh, my gosh!” said Lewis. “That’s not all he is! Don’t you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Access a record of male film stars for the years 1910 to 1925!”
Joseph obeyed, as Lewis took them up to La Brea Terrace and turned around. “Larry Montcalm? Jeepers, that was Larry Montcalm? He used to make three grand a week over at Selig Polyscope!”
“Lo, how the mighty are fallen,” said Lewis. He pulled to the curb and parked, setting the hand brake, as Joseph stared at the mortal.
“I bet he’s going to change his clothes and hock the diamond. Where’s he going?”
They watched as Montcalm entered the vestibule of a brownstone on the corner. Joseph got out of the car. “You stay here.”
“Gladly,” said Lewis. Joseph strode down the street, looking determined, and vanished into the brownstone. A moment later he came running back uphill.
“Goddammit, he lives in the basement! Go down and park on Franklin.”
Lewis groaned, but obeyed. By the time he had found a parking space, Joseph was ready to leap from the car in his agitation.
“Look at that! Could the basement windows be any more exposed? Right out on the sidewalk, for crying out loud! So much for a surreptitious entrance that way. Can you pick him up at all?”
“Sssh!” Lewis waved a hand distractedly, squeezing his eyes shut as he focused on the basement windows. Clinking, rattling, rustling, the sound of running water, a single mortal heartbeat...“He’s alone, at least. Seems to be taking a bath.”
“O.K.; I’ll have to go in and knock on his door,” said Joseph. “Though I don’t look like a cop
, in this getup...crumbs. You could pass for one, though. Look, why don’t you go knock on his door and tell him you’re a plainclothes cop—”
“What, from the Parochial School Patrol? How would anybody but us know he stole anything, at this point?”
“You could say you’re a G-Man, and you’ve been tailing him on suspicion of being a Socialist or something—”
Lewis had several objections to this plan, and during the time they were bickering over alternate strategies the mortal finished his bath, got dressed and was humming to himself as he made noises suggestive of preparing a light meal.
“O.K.,” said Joseph at last, “then you’re going to have to drive me to a market where I can buy about ten boxes of Cracker Jack, because—”
“Wait! Was that his doorbell that just rang?”
They both focused on the basement. Yes; they heard footsteps crossing the floor, and then:
“Muriel, dearest! You’re a little early; I’m afraid I was just sitting down to dine. Don’t you look ravishing in that charming ensemble, though!”
It was a high voice with a peculiar throttled intonation, the sort best suited to cartoon characters. Martians in tennis shoes, perhaps.
“Well, that explains why his career didn’t survive the Talkies,” said Joseph.
“You look swell, yourself. Do you really like it?” said another mortal voice, female, not young, a little breathless. “I took the hem up a couple of inches, just like you said. And I made the hat myself, out of an old brocade cushion—”
“Delightful. Delightful. Yes, we’ll be the sinecure of all eyes!” The male mortal sounded sly. “Particularly since...but where are my manners? May I offer you a plate of Campbell’s?”
“Oh, no thanks, dear, I had a sandwich before I came over. I’m too nervous to eat much anyhow. Say, look at the right sleeve, here. Does it look like I got that stain out?”
“Why, it’s like new! No one could tell, I assure you. And, under the circumstances, I doubt anyone will be looking at your arm, dear Mureil.”
“Why, whatever do you mean, Lawrence?”