An Epitaph in Rust

  “Yeah. The official word is—give up?—he’s still in a coma.”

  “I didn’t know you could be in a coma this long.”

  “Oh, sure. Three days isn’t the world record. I think he’s alive,” Spencer said, “because Lloyd, the major-domo, hasn’t named a successor, and he hasn’t tried to take the office himself, either. I’m sure he’d have done one or the other if Pelias was dead.” Spencer pointed over the rooftops at a trailing plume of smoke that stood out sharply against the blue sky. “Roughly Alameda and Third Street, I’d guess. And I heard exchanges of gunfire three times this morning, in the south. Somebody’d better take charge pretty soon.”

  Thomas nodded helplessly. “Uh … will there be a funeral or something for Jean?” he asked.

  “No. Not for us, anyway. She has some folks in Glendale, and Gladhand had her body sent out there.”

  For a while, neither of them spoke, and then Thomas turned to reenter the theatre. “You heard right,” he said. “The new girl is real pretty.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Dark-Rum Queen

  Two seats to Thomas’ right, Gladhand puffed on a cigar and regarded the people on stage through narrowed eyes. The short-haired man, Lambert, whom Thomas had met earlier in the greenroom stood with Alice in the foreground; behind them were a young man and woman Thomas didn’t know, and, holding a script, Pat Pearl.

  They’d begun rehearsing the fifth scene of Act Three. Phebe, played by Alice, was unsympathetically explaining to Lambert’s Silvius that she wished he’d stop bothering her with his wooing.

  “That’s good,” called Gladhand. “Just the right amount of impatience. Silvius, try to look anguished, will you? Dumb, sure, but anguished too. All right, now, Rosalind, walk over to Phebe.”

  Pat stepped forward, and Thomas envied her air of self-possession. Gladhand had decided that his two new players ought to at least walk through their parts, reading from scripts, and Thomas feared that he’d bungle even that. He remembered uneasily the panic that had always assailed him when he’d been called on to serve Mass as a boy.

  Rosalind, through Pat, was now advising Phebe at length to take Silvius at his word. “Sell when you can: you are not for all markets,” she told her finally. It was a long speech, but Pat read it well and with conviction.

  “Not bad,” said Gladhand.

  The scene moved on, and it developed that Phebe had now fallen in love with Rosalind, who was to be, in the actual performance, disguised as a man. Needlessly complicated, Thomas thought. And it’s just not credible that Rosalind’s disguise could be as convincing as the plot demands.

  “Hold it, Rosalind,” Gladhand interrupted. “Do that last line again, but look at Phebe when you say it. You were looking out here at us.”

  Pat nodded and repeated the line, looking this time toward Phebe: “I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.”

  “That’s how it ought to go,” the theatre manager nodded.

  At five o’clock they had run through the scene several times—with Pat looking at her script only once or twice the last time—and had begun work on the first scene of Act Four. Thomas, sitting with his feet on the back of the seat in front of him, heard with relief the five distant notes of the city hall clock.

  “That’s plenty for today,” Gladhand said, struggling up onto his crutches. “I’m feeling more optimistic about the damned play now than I have in a week. I think you’re all beginning to relax into it.”

  Most of the lights were put out, and the actors broke up into groups and wandered offstage. Thomas tried to intercept Pat, but she was talking and laughing with Alice, and didn’t see him. Jeff was sliding the plywood flats back into the wings, and Thomas waved to him. “Jeff!” he called. “How does one get dinner around here?”

  “One follows the east hall—” Jeff pointed, “—all the way to the back. There’s a dining room.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Thomas followed the stragglers down the hall and wound up sitting at a long wooden table, wedged between Lambert and the girl who’d brought him coffee this morning. Pat, he noticed with a hollow, despairing sensation, was sitting next to Negri, who was performing some trick with his fork and spoon for her amusement.

  “You’re Rufus?” the girl on Thomas’ right asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Skooney,” she said. “Here, have some of this stew. Greg, pass the pitcher, Rufus didn’t get any beer.”

  “Thank you,” Thomas said automatically, his attention focused on Pat and Negri.

  “I’m the gaffer,” Skooney said.

  Thomas reluctantly turned to her. “The what?” He had thought gaffers worked on fishing boats.

  “I’m in charge of the lights. Did you know we’ve got some real electric lights? Gladhand set up a generator out back. There are only two other theatres in the whole L.A. area that have electric lights.”

  “Well,” said Thomas, “I’m glad I’m starting out at the top.” He took a deep sip of beer and set to work on the stew, still casting occasional furtive glances down the table.

  A little later Spencer wandered through the room, and leaned over Thomas’ shoulder. “Meet me on the roof when you get done,” he whispered, filling a spare glass with beer. Thomas nodded and Spencer, after exchanging a few rudely humorous insults with Alice, left the room.

  * * *

  Beneath the high, cold splendor of the stars, the winking yellow lights of Los Angeles looked friendly and protective, like a night-light in a child’s bedroom. From the streets below the broad concrete coping of the roof there echoed from time to time the rattle of a passing cart, or the long call of a mother summoning her children.

  Spencer flicked his cigarette out over the street when he heard Thomas’ footsteps on the stairs.

  “Is that you, Rufus?”

  “Yeah. Wow, what a view.” The Santa Ana wind was still sighing its warm breath from the east, and Thomas took off his coat.

  “No kidding. Listen, I was talking to Evelyn today, and I casually asked her if they’d caught this escaped monk, Thomas.”

  “What did she say?” asked Thomas, with the sinking feeling of one who’s been reminded of a lingering disease.

  “She says they’re looking for him day and night. They’re not even looking for the guys who bombed Pelias as hard as they’re looking for you. No charges have been mentioned, though.” Spencer lit another cigarette. “Are you sure you haven’t forgotten something? Something you saw or heard, maybe?”

  Thomas shook his head helplessly. “There’s some mistake,” he said. “Maybe some other monk named Thomas ran off from some other monastery on the same day I did.”

  Spencer inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then let the smoke hiss out between his teeth. “They said the Merignac, remember?”

  A deep, window-rattling boom shook the roof, and part of a building several blocks away collapsed into the street. Flames began licking up from the rubble.

  “The rent on that place just went down, I believe,” Spencer said.

  Thomas could see, silhouetted by the mounting flames, people appearing on the surrounding roofs, waving their arms and dashing about aimlessly.

  “What was that building?” Thomas asked, leaning on the coping and staring out at the conflagration.

  “Oh, a city office bombed by radicals,” Spencer answered, “or a radicals’ den bombed by city officers. I just hope it doesn’t spread real far on this wind. Do you hear any bells?”

  Thomas listened. “No.”

  “Neither do I. The fire trucks aren’t out yet. If they appear within the next couple of minutes, we’ll know it was some administrator’s house or office. If it was a troublesome citizen’s house they probably won’t get there before dawn.”

  They watched without speaking. Five minutes later they’d been silently joined at the roof-edge by five other members of the troupe, but no fire trucks had made an appearance at the scene of the fire.


  “Maybe we ought to organize a group to go help put it out,” someone suggested. “If it gets to the buildings next to it the whole city’ll go up.”

  “No,” said Negri. “Look, they’ve got it under control. When the roof collapsed it killed most of it. See? The whole thing’s darker now. The only stuff burning now is what fell in the street.”

  “We’ll have to read about it in the Greeter tomorrow,” Thomas said. “Find out what happened.” Everyone laughed, and Thomas realized his statement had been taken as a joke.

  “Did you see the damned paper this morning?” Jeff asked him. “You know what the headline was? Pelias has been bombed, you know, and the androids are running amuck, right? So here’s the headline: ALL-TIME HIGH FROG COUNT IN SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.”

  “They’re right on top of things,” Thomas observed. The fire really was dimmer now, and the actors moved away from the roof-edge.

  “You bet,” Jeff agreed.

  “I read that,” Spencer said. “Apparently the summer wasn’t as hot as it usually is, so the Ravenna swamps didn’t dry up this year. The frogs didn’t all die, like they usually do—they just sat around and multiplied all year long, so now the valley’s choked with ‘em. I was thinking that some enterprising businessman should drive up there and pack a few tons of frogs in ice, and run them down to Downey or Norwalk and sell them for food.”

  “You’re a born wheeler-dealer, Spence,” said Alice.

  Thomas spied Pat still standing by the coping, watching the diminishing fire. He walked over and leaned on the wall next to her. She was sniffling and wiping her nose with a handkerchief.

  “You aren’t catching my cold, are you?” he asked.

  She sneezed. “No,” she answered.

  “Hey,” came a jovial voice, and Negri interposed himself between Thomas and Pat. “Running off with my girl, are you, Rufus? Come on, Patsy, I want you to meet some people.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back toward the rest of the group.

  Thomas stared after them for a moment, and then strode angrily toward the stairs.

  “Rufus.” Thomas stopped. Gladhand had got up the stairs somehow, crutches and all, and now sat in a wicker chair in the far shadows. “Come over here a moment,” the theatre manager said.

  Thomas picked his way over a litter of two-by-fours to where Gladhand sat. Another chair stood nearby, and he sank into it. “Weird evening,” he said. “With this wind and all.”

  Gladhand nodded. “Several hundred years ago it was considered a valid defense in a murder trial if you could prove the Santa Ana wind was blowing when the murder was committed. The opinion was that the dry, hot wind made everybody so irritable that any murder was almost automatically excusable. Or so I’ve heard, anyway.”

  Thomas pondered it. “There might be something to that,” he said.

  “No,” Gladhand said. “There isn’t. Start sanctioning heat-of-anger crimes and you’ve lost the last hold on the set of conventions we call … society, civilization.”

  He sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Some things, Rufus, cannot be avoided. They will happen no matter what efforts you make to prevent them. Once, when I was much younger, I was at a girl’s house with some friends. It was about noon, and we were all standing around the piano, singing and drinking lemonade. After a while I glanced down and saw, to my horror, that the fly of my trousers was unbuttoned. I’ve got to divert their attention, I thought desperately, long enough for me to rectify this potentially embarrassing state of affairs. Thinking quickly, I shouted, ‘My God, will you look at that!’ and pointed out the far window. They turned, and I buttoned my fly. But now, I noticed, they were regarding me with … surprise and loathing. Puzzled, I crossed to the window and looked out.” Gladhand sighed. “On the front lawn were two dogs engaged in the most primal sort of amorous activity.”

  The theatre manager shrugged. “It was inevitable, I guess, that I would suffer embarrassment that day—and by fighting it, resisting it, I only managed to bring down an even greater embarrassment on myself.”

  “You mean there’s no use in resisting anything?” Thomas asked doubtfully.

  “I didn’t say that. The trick is, you see, to know which you are: the inevitable consequence or the doomed resistor. Though as a matter of fact—take my word for it!—you can’t know until it’s too late to change, anyway.”

  Thomas nodded uncertainly.

  “So!” concluded Gladhand briskly, “go rejoin your fellows. It’s too hot a night to spend inside.”

  By the time the moon was high in the heavens most of Gladhand’s troupe was on the roof, sitting in deck chairs, propped against chimney-pots, or simply sprawled full-length on the tarpaper. Lanterns and wine had been brought up from below, and Spencer was striking chords on a guitar.

  Thomas noticed approvingly that Negri had downed his sixth glass of wine, and was now getting to his feet to make a quick trip downstairs.

  “I’ll be back in a flash, Sugar-Pie,” he told Pat, and lurched away toward the stairs. Thomas casually strode over and sat down where Negri had been.

  “Hello, Rufus,” Pat said, a little wearily.

  “Hi, Pat.” A kind of hopeless depression descended on him. I’ve got nothing to say, he realized. Why are Negri and I bothering this girl, anyway? Oh, come on, he protested to himself; all I’ve done is sit next to her. It isn’t me calling her Sugar-Pie.

  “Let’s go see if the fire really did go out,” Pat suggested, getting up.

  “Good idea,” Thomas said. They walked out of the uneven ring of lantern light to the rough, time-rounded stones of the coping. The city lay spread out before them, as clear as a toy held at arm’s length. The glow of the fire was gone completely. Distantly came the echoes of three quick gunshots.

  “A wild, unholy night,” Thomas observed. Pat said nothing. “Where are you from, Pat?” he went on.

  She sighed. “Oh, I come from quite a distance, the same as you. I’m the youngest of a very large family, and the smartest, so my parents sent me to the city.”

  “To make good,” Thomas said.

  “Or whatever.”

  “Where the hell … ?” came an angry shout from behind them. Thomas turned to see Negri striding furiously toward him across the roof. “All right, Pennick,” he spat, “you’re a little slower than everyone else, so I guess you’ve got to be told what’s what. Listen, and save yourself some trouble. Pat is my girl. And no—”

  “I’m not your girl,” Pat said.

  “Shut up,” Negri snapped. “I’ll decide. So, Pennick, if—”

  “You’ll decide?” Thomas repeated, angry and laughing at the same time. “You heard her, Negri. She isn’t interested. What do you plan to do, cut your monogram in her forehead?”

  Negri cocked his fist back, and it was seized firmly from behind. “You two aren’t going to forget the no-fighting rule, are you?” smiled Spencer, releasing Negri’s arm.

  “Uh, no,” Negri admitted. “But I’m challenging this toad to a duel, to decide once and for all whether Pat is my girl or not.”

  “How can a duel decide that?” Thomas protested. “You mean automatically if I lose—”

  “Go ahead, Rufus,” Pat interrupted.

  After a tiny pause, Spencer shrugged. “Okay, a duel, then. Jeff, set up the table.”

  The rest of the actors cleared a circle in the center of the roof, and set the lanterns so that the area was well-lit. Chairs for spectators were ranged around the perimeter, and Gladhand stumped over and lowered himself into a front-row seat. “This should be instructive,” he remarked.

  Spencer walked into the circle and raised his hands for silence. “Quiet,” he said, “while I explain to Rufus and Pat how our duels work. On the table Jeff is trying to set up, you’ll notice, is a chessboard. What Rufus and Bob are going to do is play a game of chess—the chess-pieces, though, will be different-sized glasses. One duelist’s glasses will be filled with red wine, the other’s wit
h white. When you capture a piece, you must drink it. One loses by passing out or being checkmated.”

  Jeff had set up the table and two chairs, and was now placing glasses in the chessmen’s places. The pawns, Thomas noticed, were shot glasses, the bishops and knights fairly capacious wine glasses, the rooks tumblers, and the queens full-sized beer schooners. The kings were represented by conventional wooden chess pieces, and Jeff held these until the color choice should be made.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Spencer said. “In each of my hands is a cork, one from a Zinfandel, one from a Chablis. Rufus, right or left?”

  “Hold it,” said Negri. Thomas looked warily across the table at him. “Take the damn wine away. That’s for kids. We’ll duel with rum, light and dark.”

  An interested murmur arose from the assembled actors. Clearly this had not been done before. Spencer turned uncertainly to Gladhand, who shrugged and nodded.

  “Okay,” said Spencer, “Jeff, give the wine to the spectators and dash below for four bottles of rum.”

  Thomas looked past Negri and saw Pat sitting in the first row. She smiled at him. I’ve got to win this, he thought.

  “Bob’s been drinking all night,” called someone in the crowd. “Rufus is nearly sober. It ain’t fair.”

  Gladhand spoke up: “Rufus has a bad cold, which will doubtless be a handicap equal to Bob’s degree of drunkenness. Besides, Bob is the challenger, and is familiar with the strategies of wine-chess.”

  Jeff came clattering back up the stairs with four bottles of rum under his arm. He handed them to Spencer, who uncorked them, held the corks tightly in his fists, and turned to Thomas. Thomas tapped one fist, which opened, revealing the dark cork.

  “Rufus is black, Robert white,” Spencer said. He filled Thomas’ glasses with the dark rum while Jeff filled Negri’s with the light. Finally they both stepped back, leaving a daunting array of drinks gleaming in the lamp-light on the table. “Your move, Bob,” Spencer said.

  Negri edged his king’s pawn forward two squares. Thomas replied with the same. Abruptly, Negri’s queen was slid out of the ranks all the way across the board to the rook’s fifth place.