Dinner at Deviant's Palace (34 page)

There was a pause, then, “Who are you?” the girl asked.

“My name is Fracas McAn.”

The wagon had zigzagged to a halt now, and the girl got up and disappeared inside. Modesto nudged McAn, who dutifully dug a fifth-card out of his pocket but held onto it.

After fully two minutes the girl reappeared, her arm around a tottering, unsteady figure with a bandaged head. The bandaged man sat down and smiled weakly at McAn, but it was several long seconds before McAn handed the fifth-card to the boy. Modesto snatched it, kicked his bike around and cranked it away up the street.

Rivas’s smile remained in place but turned a bit sour when he became aware of the way McAn was staring at him. Damn it, he thought, you’d think I was an embalmed corpse. “Hello, Frake,” he said, glad that at least his voice hadn’t deteriorated. “This is a coincidence, running into you first thing.”

“Well, actually, Greg,” said McAn, “it isn’t. Could I hop up there and talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. Barbara, could you step back so Frake can have the other half of the bench?”

McAn climbed up and perched beside Rivas. “I’ve got some important information for you, Greg,” he said. “I’ve had kids watching for you for days, ’cause I figure I owe you one for helping me get my quarry away last week. But first, tell me… tell me what
happened
! What’s behind the walls of the Holy City? How did you get hurt? Why are you coming back from the
west
?”

Rivas smiled. “I’ll tell you the whole story over a pitcher of beer at Spink’s, after I deliver my quarry to her father. But I can tell you this—I’m afraid you’re out of a job. Jaybush is—if not dead exactly—certainly out of the Messiah business.”

McAn blinked. “You mean… how…” A slow grin built up on his face. “No kidding! I do want to hear about it. But let’s have that pitcher
before
you deliver Miss Barrows. There are some aspects of that situation that I know and you need to be aware of.”

“How do you know her name?”

“I can see Spink’s from here. I’ll tell you when we’re at a table. It isn’t really,” he said, rolling his eyes toward the rear of the wagon, “a story for the ladies.”

“Okay.”

McAn hopped down to the pavement. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, and started walking.

Barbara guided the wagon to Spink’s, but their remaining horse was so tired that McAn got to the place first and was holding the front door open when Rivas stepped carefully down from the wagon.

“Thank you, Frake,” he said, “but I’m really not quite as frail as I look.” Once inside, he looked around. The chandeliers were lit and raised, though they were swinging a little, implying that Mojo had only recently cranked them up. The shadows of Noah Almondine’s paper dolls seemed to Rivas to be waving at him. A young man he’d never seen before was sitting on the stage, tuning a pelican and exchanging desultory jokes with Tommy Fandango. Mojo was behind the bar, muttering weary curses and trying to unjam a clogged sink with a piece of wire.

“I can’t believe it’s been only ten days,” Rivas said, shaking his head gently. “Uh, could you buy the pitcher, Frake? I’ve got a fortune in the spirit bank but not a jigger on me.”

“Sure, Greg. How’s this one?” asked McAn, indicating a table by the window.

Rivas grinned, for it was the table Joe Montecruz had been sitting at when he’d originally tried to talk Rivas into this redemption. “Appropriate,” he said, pulling out a chair before McAn could do it for him.

When they were both seated, Mojo ceased his labors and came puffing over. “What’ll it be, gents,” he recited.

“A pitcher of beer and two glasses, Mojo,” said Rivas.

The old man looked at him disinterestedly, and then his eyes went wide in recognition. “Leaping Moses,
Greg
!” he exclaimed. “Damn, boy, what happened to you?”

“Nothing some beer won’t start to fix.”

Mojo turned to the stage. “Hey, Tommy, look who’s back! With a full beard!”

Fandango peered across the room at them. “Oh, hi, Greg… uh…” He wiped his mouth uncertainly and glanced at the pelicanist, who was now staring at Rivas with alarmed hostility. “Are you back, then?”

Rivas smiled and waved. “No, no. I’m… retired.” I keep sitting at this table and telling people I’m retired, he thought. “So,” he said, turning to McAn. “What’s up? Why did you post a watch-for-’em on me?”

McAn said, “I’ve been hired to do the breaking and restoring of Urania Barrows.”

Mojo brought the pitcher and glasses, and Rivas didn’t reply until the old man had bumbled off and they’d filled the glasses. “Well, you’re welcome to it, as it happens,” he said, “but old Irwin Barrows doesn’t know that. When we made the deal, I insisted on doing that part too. Doesn’t he think I’ll object?”

McAn frowned, as if trying to think of a civilized way to say something uncivilized, then obviously gave up and just said, “Irwin Barrows intends to have you killed as soon as you’ve brought his daughter back.”

Rivas laughed softly and took a long sip of the beer. “Does he indeed,” he said, letting the heavy glass clank back down onto the table. “Because he thinks we’ll be wanting to run off together?”

“Right. So, uh, what I want to tell you is, if you
do
want to run off with her, just get what money you’ve got, and go, right away. Don’t go near his place.”

Rivas stared at McAn, then looked around the bar. “
I’ve
been recognized,” he said, “and even though it’s not crowded right now, it’s a safe bet that you have too. He’d know you warned me.”

“As I said, I owe you one.”

“Thanks, Frake.” Rivas had another pull at the beer. At least he was making the glass easier to lift. “But as a matter of fact, I don’t want to run off with her. I’d
like
to return her to him. How does he plan to do it, anyway?”

“He’s pinning his main hopes on you being killed in a duel with her fiancé. I gather you called him out before you left, and he’s going to insist on satisfaction.”

“Ah. Yeah, I called him sport. You’ve seen him?”

McAn nodded. “Not even eyebrows. Of course, in the shape you’re in, you’d certainly be justified in asking for an extension on the date of the duel. I’m not sure what Barrows would think of that. I guess if you’re not interested in his daughter anymore—and haven’t messed with her during this redemption—”

“I haven’t.”

“—Then he probably won’t care what you do. Unless you insulted him, too…?”

“Maybe I did. It all happened a long time ago.” He reached out, hoisted the heavy pitcher and topped up his glass, reflecting that all this weight-lifting ought to help him get back in shape.

“In any case, if you
had
wanted to marry her, and managed to kill Montecruz, I’m pretty sure Barrows would have fixed up a fatal accident for you to have. I’m just saying this to let you know what kind of scene is waiting for you up on that hill.”

Rivas shook his head wonderingly. “And he was appointed distiller of the treasury by the Sixth Ace! Incredible. I’ve always known he was tough, but…”

“You tapped the stressed part of his personality and it broke.”

“Can happen,” Rivas said. “Not always a bad thing, maybe.”

McAn shrugged. “Anyway—if you’re staying, want me to be your second?”

“I’d appreciate it, Frake. Let’s not rush this beer, though—the ladies will stay in the wagon, and even though I’m not a big fan of bugwalk, I’d like to hear this pelicanist.” As he drank, his fingers absently toyed with the bulky lead-wrapped pendant he’d made the day before, which hung now on a wire around his neck.

After a tiring visit to the commander of the Ellay forces to warn him that the San Berdoo army would probably attack from the south, Rivas borrowed some money from McAn and bought some clothes to replace the ones Barbara had bought for him in Venice, and they managed to get enough food, despite the widespread pre-siege hoarding, to cook up some dinner in the wagon’s kitchen. Urania ate sparingly and hardly spoke at all, though McAn tried to draw her out, and it was obvious to Rivas that he was looking for anxieties and weak spots that he’d be able to use against her in their upcoming breaking and restoration sessions. Finally there were no more excuses for delay, so two fresh horses were hired and Rivas, McAn, Barbara and Urania set out for the Hollywood Hills and the Barrows estate.

The air was chilly up in the hills, away from the street pavement that would hold the sun’s warmth nearly until dawn, and as the horses pulled the battered old wagon around the last steep bend, Rivas shivered and pulled the blanket closer around himself. He had insisted on joining McAn on the driver’s bench, and as McAn flicked the reins again, Rivas shook his head. “I think we passed the place,” he said, squinting around at the trees made visible by the wagon’s swinging lantern.

McAn looked over at him. “No, it’s still ahead of us.”

Urania was braced in the kitchen doorway behind Rivas, and he felt her shift her feet. Yeah, Uri, he thought—I’m a little surprised too that I forgot.

“Here we are,” McAn said, slanting the horses sharply left onto an ascending brick-paved driveway. An iron gate blocked the way ahead, bracketed by two lamps on short stone pillars.

“We could still go away together, Greg,” said Urania suddenly. “It’s still a few yards short of being too late.”

McAn reined in the horses and put on the brake, then looked away, out into the darkness. Rivas heard the creak of the bunk in the wagon as Barbara stood up to listen.

“No, Uri,” he said.

After a pause the brake squeaked off, the reins flapped and the wagon got moving again.

A restored telephone booth stood beside the driveway ahead, and when the wagon halted in front of the gate an officious fat man hurried out of it toward them. “I’m sorry,” he was saying in tones of satisfaction, “I wasn’t told to expect any donuts tonight. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

“We’re Fracas McAn,” said McAn evenly, “and Gregorio Rivas, and Urania Barrows.”

“And a friend,” put in Rivas.

The guard, startled, peered more closely—then, albeit with ill grace, walked back to the gate and unlocked it. “You might have had the thoughtfulness,” he remarked stiffly, “to have brought the young lady home in a less shabby vehicle.”

Rivas laughed, with an edge of hysteria. “Hell, he’s right. What were we thinking of? Something with, like, bells and ribbons and a pipe organ….”

The gate was open, and McAn flicked the reins. “Cool off, Greg,” he muttered as they moved forward and the gate was drawn closed behind them.

The guard commenced clanging a bell, and the racket was kept up, raising a sympathetic chorus of bird cries in the surrounding shrubbery, until the driveway leveled out under the wagon’s wheels and they were in the paved front yard, where a grander wagon was half loaded with furniture and crates. The front door of the big old house was open and several men were hurrying down the steps and toward the newly arrived wagon.

“Uri!” came Irwin Barrows’s well-remembered voice. “Uri! Damn me, if that fool grabbed the wrong bell by mistake—”

“It says donuts, Mister Barrows,” pointed out another voice dubiously.

“Donuts! Damn me! I’ll—”

“Urania is here, Mister Barrows,” called Rivas.

The tall, white-haired old man walked slowly forward, after having waved someone else back. “Mister Rivas,” he said. “You’ve come for your final five thousand fifths.”

McAn glanced at Rivas in surprise.

“No,” said Rivas.

“I see,” said Barrows, a weary harshness in his voice. “You think you’ll go away with her, is that it? And you think that waiving the second half of your fee will make me more—”

“No,” Rivas interrupted. “Urania and I have no plans for getting married or going anywhere together. But I overcharged you eleven days ago, in the… heat of the moment. Here’s your daughter. We’re square.”

“Uri!” Barrows called, a new suspicion evidently having occurred to him. “She’s hurt, badly hurt, is that it? Or no, a babbling idiot because of having repeatedly taken the sacrament, right? God damn you, you—”

“Maybe he just brought back her corpse, Mister Barrows,” helpfully suggested the other man, whom Rivas recognized now as the bald Joe Montecruz.

“No, dad, I’m okay,” said Uri in a loud but listless voice. She edged behind Rivas and dropped to the ground, then plodded across the paving stones to Montecruz, who took her into his arms with an ostentatious show of emotion.

Barrows slowly walked the rest of the way to the donut wagon. He was frowning thoughtfully as he stared up at Rivas’s face, which, under its bandage, was lit in craggy chiaroscuro by the wagon’s lantern. “You’ve suffered, sir,” he said.

“Redemptions are never easy,” said Rivas.

“He…
killed
Norton Jaybush,” McAn told Barrows, awe putting a slight quaver in his voice.

“You did?” asked Barrows, startled.

“More or less.”

Barbara was standing behind Rivas now, and she put her hands on his shoulders. “He cut Jaybush’s throat,” she said.

Barrows hesitated; then, “Perhaps neither of us is quite the same person he was two weeks ago,” he said. His uncertain gaze slid away from Rivas to the big old house and the grounds, and Rivas belatedly realized that Barrows and his people were in the process of leaving to take refuge inside the city walls, and that soon this house and these vineyards might very well be sacked by the San Berdoo army. “Thank you for my child,” Barrows said. “Now please go.”

Rivas lifted his head and looked past Barrows. “I think Mister Montecruz has something to say to me.”

Montecruz looked up, blinking as he changed his focus, then released Urania and walked toward the wagon. His walk was uncertain, as though he were dutifully taking part in a ritual that had been improperly prepared. Finally he stopped and stared impassively at Rivas. “You insulted me,” he said flatly.

Rivas, huddled in his blanket, smiled. “You’re right. I did.”

“I…
must
demand satisfaction.”

“And I’ll give it,” said Rivas. “I apologize. I was wrong to say what I said. The speech you made, which goaded me into insult, was the truth, which of course is why it stung me so deeply.” Rivas spread his hands. “You were right. I was wrong. I mean that.”