Dream Factories and Radio Pictures (8 page)

“What’s all this, then?” asked the Captain.

“My pictures got in yesterday, Chief,” said Sgt. Hank. “I was going to put ’em up on this wall I have to stare at all day.”

“Well, I can see how looking at the mayor’s no fun,” said Teeheezal. He picked up the top picture. It was a landscape. There was a guy chasing a deer in one corner, and some trees and teepees, and a bay, and a funny-shaped rock on a mountain in the distance.

He looked at the second. The hill with the strange rock was in it, but people had on sheets, and there were guys drawing circles and squares in the dirt and talking in front of little temples and herding sheep. It looked to be by the same artist.

“It’s not just paintings,” said Sgt. Hank, coming over to him. “It’s a series by Thomas Cole, the guy who started what’s referred to as the Hudson River School of painting way back in New York State, about eighty years ago. It’s called
The Course of Empire
. Them’s the first two—
The Savage State
and
The Pastoral or Arcadian State
. This next one’s called
The Consummation of Empire
—see, there’s this guy riding in a triumphal parade on an elephant, and there are these armies, all in this city like Rome or Carthage, it’s been built here, and they’re bringing stuff back from all over the world, and things are dandy.”

Hank was more worked up than the chief had ever seen him. “But look at this next one, see, the jig is up. It’s called
The Destruction of Empire
. All them buildings are on fire, and there’s a rainstorm, and people like Mongols are killing everybody in them big wide avenues, and busting up statues and looting the big temples, and bridges are falling down, and there’s smoke everywhere.”

Teeheezal saw the funny-shaped mountain was over in one corner of those two paintings.

“Then there’s the last one, number five,
The Ruins of Empire
. Everything’s quiet and still, all the buildings are broken, the woods are taking back everything, it’s going back to the land. See, look there, there’s pelicans nesting on top of that broken column, and the place is getting covered with ivy and briers and stuff. I ordered all these from a museum back in New York City,” said Hank, proudly.

Teeheezal was still looking at the last one.

“And look,” said Sgt. Hank, going back to the first one. “It’s not just paintings, it’s philosophical. See, here in the first one, it’s just after dawn. Man’s in his infancy. So’s the day. Second one—pastoral, it’s midmorning. Consummation—that’s at noon. First three paintings all bright and clear. But destruction—that’s in the afternoon, there’s storms and lightning. Like nature’s echoing what’s going on with mankind, see? And the last one. Sun’s almost set, but it’s clear again, peaceful, like, you know, Nature takes its time . . .”

“Sgt. Hank,” said Teeheezal, “When a guy gets arrested and comes in here drunk and disorderly, the last thing he wants to be bothered by is some philosophy.”

“But, Chief,” said Sgt. Hank, “it’s about the rise and fall of civilizations . . .”

“What the hell does running a police station have to do with civilization?” said Teeheezal. “You can hang one of ’em up. One at a time they look like nature views, and those don’t bother anybody.”

“All right, Chief,” said Sgt. Hank.

That day, it was the first one. When Teeheezal arrived for work the next day, it was the second. And after that, the third, and on through the five pictures, one each day; then the sequence was repeated. Teeheezal never said a word. Neither did Hank.

1914

T
HERE HAD BEEN MURDERS
three nights in a row in Los Angeles City when the day came for the Annual Wilcox Police vs. Firemen Baseball Picnic.

The patrolmen were all playing stripped down to their undershirts and uniform pants, while the firemen had on real flannel baseball outfits that said
Hot Papas
across the back. It was late in the afternoon, late in the game, the firemen ahead seventeen to twelve in the eighth.

They were playing in the park next to the observatory. The patrol wagon was unhitched from its horses; the fire wagon stood steaming with its horses still in harness. Everyone in Wilcox knew not to bother the police or fireman this one day of the year.

Patrolman Al came to bat on his unicycle. He rolled into the batter’s box. Patrolman Mack was held on second, and Patrolman Billy was hugging third. The firemen started their chatter. The pitcher wound up, took a long stretch and fired his goof-ball from behind his back with his glove hand while his right arm went through a vicious fastball motion.

Al connected with a meaty
crack
; the outfielders fell all over themselves and then charged toward the Bronson place. Al wheeled down to first with blinding speed, swung wide ignoring the fake from the second baseman, turned between second and third, balancing himself in a stop while he watched the right fielder come up with the ball on the first bounce four hundred feet away.

He leaned almost to the ground, swung around, became a blur of pedals and pumping feet, passed third; the catcher got set, pounding his mitt, stretched out for the throw. The umpire leaned down, the ball bounced into the mitt, the catcher jerked around—

Al hung upside down, still seated on the unicycle, six feet in the air over the head of the catcher, motionless, sailing forward in a long somersault.

He came down on home plate with a thud and a bounce.

“Safe!” said the ump, sawing the air to each side.

The benches emptied as the catcher threw off his wire mask. Punches flew like they did after every close call.

Teeheezal and Sgt. Hank stayed on the bench eating a bag of peanuts. The people in the stands were yelling and laughing.

“Oh, almost forgot,” said Sgt. Hank, digging in his pants pocket. “Here.”

He handed Teeheezal a postcard. It had an illegible postmark in a language with too many
Z
s. The front was an engraving of the statue of a hero whose name had six
K
s in it.

Well, was at a café. Bunch of seedy-looking students sitting at the table next to mine grumbling in Slavvy talk. This car come by filled with plumed hats, made a wrong turn and started to back up. One of the students jumped on the running board and let some air into the guy in the back seat—’bout five shots I say. Would tell you more but I was already lighting out for the territory. Place filled up with more police than anywhere I ever seen but the B.P.O.P.C. convention in Chicago back in ’09. This was big excitement last week but I’m sure it will blow over. Will write more soon.

—Angus

PS: Even here, we got the news the Big Ditch is finally open.

* * *

It was the bottom of the eleventh and almost too dark to see when the bleeding man staggered onto left field and fell down.

* * *

The man in the cloak threw off all six patrolmen. Rube used the emergency pistol he’d gotten from the wagon just before the horses went crazy and broke the harness, scattering all the picnic stuff everywhere. He emptied the revolver into the tall dark man without effect. The beady-eyed man swept Rube aside with one hand and came toward Teeheezal.

The captain’s foot slipped in all the stuff from the ball game.

The man in the dark cloak hissed and smiled crookedly, his eyes red like a rat’s. Teeheezal reached down and picked up a Louisville Slugger. He grabbed it by the sweet spot, smashed the handle against the ground, and shoved the jagged end into the guy’s chest.

“Merde!”
said the man, and fell over.

Rube stood panting beside him. “I never missed, Chief,” he said. “All six shots in the space of a half-dime.”

“I saw,” said Teeheezal, wondering at the lack of blood all over the place.

“
That
was my favorite piece of lumber,” said Patrolman Mack.

“We’ll get you a new one,” said the captain.

* * *

They had the undertaker keep the body in his basement, waiting for somebody to claim it. After the investigation, they figured no one would, and they were right. But the law was the law.

Sgt. Hank scratched his head and turned to the chief, as they were looking at the man’s effects.

“Why is it,” he asked, “we’re always having trouble with things in boxes?”

1915

T
EEHEEZAL GOT OFF THE STREETCAR
at the corner of what used to be Sunset and Ivar, but which the village council had now renamed, in honor of a motion picture studio out to the northwest, Sunset and Bison. Teeheezal figured some money had changed hands.

The P.E. Street Railway car bell jangled rapidly as it moved off toward Mount Lowe and the Cawston Ostrich Farms, and on down toward San Pedro.

In the park across from the station, Patrolmen Chester and Billy, almost indistinguishable behind their drooping walrus mustaches, were rousting out a couple, pointing to the
No Sparking
sign near the benches. He stood watching until the couple moved off down the street, while Billy and Chester, pleased with themselves, struck noble poses.

He went inside. The blotter on the desk was open:

Tues. 2:14 
A.M.
Two men, Alonzo Partain and D. Falcher Greaves, no known addresses, moving-picture acting extras, arrested D&D and on suspicion of criminal intent, in front of pawn shop at Gower and Sunset. Dressed in uniforms of the G.A.R. and the Confederate States and carrying muskets. Griffith studio notified. Released on bond to Jones, business manager, 4:30 
A.M.
Ptlmn. Mack. R.D.O.T.

The last phrase officially meant Released until Day Of Trial, but was station house for Rub-Down with Oak Towel, meaning Patrolman Mack, who was 6'11" and 350 pounds, had had to use considerable force dealing with them.

“Mack have trouble?” he asked Sgt. Hank.

“Not that Fatty said. In fact, he said when Mack carried them in, they were sleeping like babies.”

“What’s this Griffith thing?”

“Movie company out in Edendale, doing a War Between the States picture. Mack figured they were waiting till the hock shop opened to pawn their rifles and swords. This guy Jones was ready to blow his top, said they sneaked off the location late yesterday afternoon.”

Teeheezal picked up the newspaper from the corner of the sergeant’s desk. He scanned the headlines and decks. “What do you think of that?” he asked. “Guy building a whole new swanky residential area, naming it for his wife?”

“Ain’t that something?” said Sgt. Hank. “Say, there’s an ad for the new Little Tramp flicker, bigger than the film it’s playing with. That man’s a caution! He’s the funniest guy I ever seen in my life. I hear he’s a Limey. Got a mustache like an afterthought.”

“I don’t think anybody’s been really funny since Flora Finch and John Bunny,” said Teeheezal. “This Brit’ll have to go some to beat John Bunny Commits Suicide.”

“Well, you should give him a try,” said Sgt. Hank. “Oh, forgot yesterday. Got another from Captain Angus. Here go.” He handed it to Teeheezal.

It had a view of Lisbon, Portugal, as seen from some mackerel-slapper church tower, the usual address, and on the other half:

Well, I had another boat sink out from under me. This time it was a kraut torpedo, and we was on a neutral ship. Had trouble getting into the lifeboats because of all the crates of howitzer shells on deck. Was pulled down by the suck when she went under. Saw airplane bombs and such coming out the holes in the sides while I was under water. Last time I take a boat called after the Roman name for a third-rate country. Will write again soon.

—Angus

PS: How about the Willard-Johnson fight?

The windows suddenly rattled. Then came dull booms from far away.

“What’s that?”

“Probably the Griffith people. They’re filming the battle of Chickamauga or something. Out in the country, way past the Ince Ranch, even.”

“What they using, nitro?”

“Beats me. But there’s nothing we can do about it. They got a county permit.”

“Sometimes,” said Teeheezal, “I think motion picture companies is running the town of Wilcox. And the whole U.S. of A. for that matter.”

1916

J
ESUS CHRIST, SMOKING A CIGAR,
drove by in a Model T.

Then the San Pedro trolleycar went by, full of Assyrians, with their spears and shields sticking out the windows. Teeheezal stood on the corner, hands on hips, watching them go by.

Over behind the corner of Prospect and Talmadge the walls of Babylon rose up, with statues of bird-headed guys and dancing elephants everywhere, and big moveable towers all around it. There were scaffolds and girders everywhere, people climbing up and down like ants. A huge banner stretched across the eight-block lot:
D. W. Griffith Production—The Mother and the Law
.

He walked back to the station house. Outside, the patrolmen were waxing the shining new black box-like truck with
Police Patrol
painted on the sides. It had brass hand-cranked sirens outside each front door, and brass handholds along each side above the running boards. They’d only had it for three days, and had yet to use it for a real emergency, though they’d joy-rode it a couple of times, sirens screaming, with the whole force hanging on or inside it, terrifying the fewer and fewer horses on the streets. Their own draught-horses had been put out to pasture at Sgt. Fatty’s farm, and the stable out back converted into a garage.

The village fathers had also wired the station house for electricity, and installed a second phone in Teeheezal’s office, along with an electric alarm bell for the squad room on his desk.

The town was growing. It was in the air. Even some moving pictures now said
Made in Wilcox, U.S.A.
at the end of them.

The blotter, after a busy weekend, was blank.

The postcard was on his desk. It had an English postmark, and was a view of the River Liffey.

Well, with the world the way it is, I thought the Old Sod would be a quiet place for the holiday. Had meant to write you boys a real letter, so went to the Main Post Office. Thought I’d have the place to myself. Boy, was I wrong about that. Last time I look for peace and quiet on Easter Sunday. Will write more later.