Jenkins pulled a pint bottle of bourbon out of his pocket, uncorked it and topped off his glass of beer with the dark brown whiskey. He sipped it and nodded with satisfaction. “What? Oh, yes. I’m at work on a … very big project, you see, research that couldn’t be done at Berkeley.” He chuckled ruefully. “And it couldn’t be done here, either, I discovered.”
Thomas looked more closely at him, noticing now the puffy face and broken-veined skin of the long-time alcoholic. “Oh?” he said, curious about the scholarly old rummy.
“Indeed. Have you ever heard of J. Heinemann Strogoff?”
“Wait a minute,” Thomas said. “Strogoff. Yeah. He was a scientist—right?—and he did a lot of genetic research, and died about ten years ago. I read a pamphlet about him. Loki Ascendant, it was called.”
“Good God, son, where did you see a copy of that? I thought mine was the last extant copy outside of a few monastic libraries.”
“My grandfather had one,” Thomas said quickly. “Lost now, I’m certain. Anyway, it said a lot of horrible things about Strogoff.”
“Well, sure. It was published by the Church, and the clergy was very hostile toward Strogoff’s work.”
“What was his work, exactly? The pamphlet talked about… ‘soulless constructs,’ I recall—”
“He was a biologist and a philosopher. His evaluation of Locke is still considered the definitive one. But what he’s famous for, and what set the Church against him, is his work with artificial and mutated species. The tax-birds, the forest dwarves, the sewer-singers, even the androids—all the weird, semi-rational creatures you find in and around the southern California city-states—were developed by Strogoff and his successors.” He took a sip of his fortified beer.
A fight at the bar distracted Thomas for a moment. This place certainly isn’t restful, he thought. I wonder if I could find my way alone back to the Bellamy. I guess not. Maybe I’ll go sleep in the car, though.
He turned back to his companion. “So how has the study of Strogoff brought you here?” And to this, he added to himself.
“I was—am—editing the Collected Letters of J. Heinemann Strogoff.” He rolled the title off with evident relish. “I’m nearly finished, too.” Jenkins frowned deeply. “Two days before he died, Strogoff wrote a letter to Louis Hancock, who was then the major-domo of Los Angeles. I found part of the carbon of that letter—just a torn-off piece—in the Berkeley collection of Strogoff’s papers. It … it seemed, from what sense I could make of it, that Strogoff was threatening Hancock. And pleading with him, too, at the same time. Anyhow, I figured the complete letter definitely belonged in my book; it was probably the last letter he ever wrote, for one thing.” Thomas refilled his glass from Jenkins’ pitcher, and shook his head when the old man raised the whiskey bottle invitingly. “So,” Jenkins went on, “I came to L.A. four years ago. Figured I’d look up Hancock and talk him into letting me make a copy of the complete letter. Hah! Hancock was two years dead when I got here. Killed himself. And his papers were locked in the city archives, where they still, I suppose, are.”
“Won’t they let you see them?” Thomas asked.
“No. Christ knows why—clerks just think that way, I guess. I’ve made a hundred requests, phrased a hundred different ways. The University even wrote to Pelias, asking him to give me access. No dice.”
“And you’ve just stayed on.”
Jenkins nodded. “That’s right. After a while those bastards at the University terminated my contract. And me with tenure! So I stayed. Money ran out and I got a job on the Greeter. I’ll head back up to Berkeley sometime, pick up my stuff and publish the book somewhere else. But … there’s no hurry.” The level of his drink had lowered, and he refilled it with the bourbon. “No hurry,” he repeated vacantly.
Thomas nodded doubtfully. “I’ll see you later,” he said, getting laboriously to his feet.
“Yeah, take it easy,” Jenkins said with a wave.
Thomas looked around at the crowd, but failed to see Jeff or Negri. He walked outside, found the car, and curled up in one of the back seats. The warm eastern wind that was sifting fine dust over the dark streets had kept the car from becoming chilly, and Thomas sank immediately into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 5
The Girl at the Far End of the Row
As soon as he awoke, Thomas knew he was sick. His nose was completely stopped up, his mouth was dry from having breathed through it all night, his throat hurt when he swallowed, and he had a small, tight headache under his left ear.
“Creeping Jesus,” he moaned thickly, rolling over. I’m in my bed at least, he thought. He forced his eyes open and found himself staring at the stone head on the shelf. “Good morning,” he croaked at it.
Once he stood up he felt a little better. He slid into his shirt and pants arid padded barefoot to the greenroom. Spencer was there, talking to a half-dozen people Thomas didn’t know.
“Damn, look what shambled out of the swamp,” Spencer grinned. “Mornin’, Rufe.”
“G’morning.” Thomas slumped into a chair.
“You sound awful,” spoke up a pretty, auburn-haired girl. “Got a cold?” Thomas considered it, then nodded. “Its this Santa Ana wind,” she said. “Comes in from the desert.”
“Gang, this is Rufus,” Spencer said. “Rufe, I won’t run through everybody’s names, because you wouldn’t remember them anyhow. This is the guy,” he remarked to the others, “who split the skull of the android that was about to put a bullet into me.”
They nodded and looked at Thomas more respectfully. The auburn-haired girl crossed the room and sat on the arm of his chair. “Would you like some breakfast?” she inquired.
“Um … coffee,” Thomas said. “Thank you. Hot, with sugar.”
“You just sit there and rest, hon. I’ll bring it.” She scurried out of the room.
“Well, Rufus,” said a tall, hearty-voiced young man with short-cropped hair, “I understand you are, to a certain extent, one of us.” A couple of the others shot sharp looks at him.
“Yes,” answered Thomas, too tired to care whether there had been sarcasm in the man’s sentence.
“Say,” put in a girl across the room. “How’s Pelias? Does anyone know?”
Several people shrugged. “Somebody told me,” said Thomas, “that he’s probably dead, and the government’s scared to admit it.”
“That may be,” nodded the short-haired man. “Hell, it’s been three days now since the, uh, resistance guerrillas detonated those two bombs in his house. The administrators may well be holding a corpse and stalling for time.”
“I never permit political talk in the greenroom, Lambert, as you know,” said Gladhand, who had propelled his wheelchair in the door. “In our line of work it’s an unaffordable luxury.” He looked around at the group. “And speaking of our line of work, everybody had better remember to be at the noon rehearsal today. We’ll have two newcomers—Rufus here, and hopefully a girl to play Rosalind.” Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Jean must have been doing Rosalind, Thomas realized. “Where’s Alice?” the manager went on. “Not here? Well, when she shows, have her finish nailing up the Arden set. Rufus, why don’t you come along with me. I’ll pick the new girl and then explain everything to both of you at once.”
The girl returned with Thomas’ coffee; he thanked her and then followed Gladhand down the corridor, taking cautious sips of the hot brew.
“I sent a boy to the L.A. Greeter office last night,” Gladhand said over his shoulder. “Had him put an ad in this morning’s paper. Actress wanted, for the part of Rosalind in As You Like It. Apply at the Bellamy Theatre, 10 A.M.’ With the city in its current uproar, I have no idea what kind of response it’ll draw. Might be nobody, might be every female north of Pico.”
They took a side hallway that led between two heavy curtains and eventually out onto the stage. The house lamps were lit and three broad, scrimmed spots illuminated the stage. Jeff stood in the central aisle, near the lobby door
s.
“Have we got any, Jeff?” Gladhand called.
“Yes sir, a good dozen.”
“Trot ’em in.” The theatre manager turned to Thomas. “By the way, uh, Rufus, I want to have it established that no further escapades like last night’s will take place. Spencer told me about it. I can see your motivations, but nothing like that must ever recur. I’ve already spoken to him and Robert and Jeff. I hope I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir,” said Thomas, embarrassed. “It won’t recur.”
“Good lad! Now look sharp, I may want your advice on these young ladies.”
A gaggle of women entered and walked uncertainly down the aisle. “If you’ll all just sit down in the front row, ladies, we’ll commence,” Gladhand said loudly. The women filed along the row and found seats.
Thomas regarded them curiously, in spite of feeling semi-undressed without his shoes on. Several were obviously too fat, and a couple looked too old to him, though he admittedly had no idea what could or could not be accomplished with makeup. That skinny little girl there might do, he thought, or—then he noticed the girl at the far end of the row.
She had a round face, with black bangs cut off in a line just above her heavy-lidded eyes. She didn’t chat with the others, simply watched Gladhand and Thomas with an air of wary amusement. She wore a gray sweater, over the neck of which was folded the collar of her pale blue blouse.
“The first thing,” said Gladhand, wheeling to the edge of the stage, “that I should make clear is the fact that I pay no salaries. My actors live on the premises and receive room, board and clothing by way of payment.”
“How’s that going to feed my kids?” queried a broad-shouldered woman in a hat.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid it will not. The position I offer is suitable only to an unattached person with no pressing responsibilities.”
The woman in the hat, and several others, stood up, picked their way out of the row and strode impatiently up the aisle. One paused at the door to make a rude gesture. Six remained sitting, and a couple of these looked doubtful. The expression, though, of the girl at the far end had not changed. I think she’s the one for it, Thomas decided.
“Well,” said Gladhand, “now that we’re weeded down to a manageable number, tell me about yourselves. You first.” He pointed at the over-made-up girl who sat nearest the aisle.
She stood up. “Well, sir, I feel a … creative urge within me that demands expression in the theatre, treading the boards. I have too vast a soul, you see, to keep it to myself. In a manner of speaking, I am Life. To me—”
“Please,” said Gladhand firmly. “That’s enough.”
“Enough for what?” she asked.
“Enough for me,” he replied irritably. “Get out of here.”
She left indignantly, with sotto voce observations to the effect that certain people were crippled in more ways than one. So long, Life, Thomas thought.
The self-descriptions of the next few women were very subdued, and Thomas soon stopped listening and stared at the girl in the gray sweater. After a while he became aware that she was staring back at him, and he blushed and looked away.
“And yourself, miss?” Gladhand said politely, turning finally to her.
She rose. “I saw your ad in the Greeter,” she said, and shrugged. “I’ve never acted before, so you know I haven’t developed any prejudices or bad habits. I have read the play, at least. And I have no previous jobs or commitments to prevent my starting directly.”
Gladhand nodded, and wheeled himself into the middle of the stage. He beckoned to Thomas, who hurried over to him. “What do you think, Rufus?” the theatre manager asked solemnly.
“Jesus, sir,” Thomas answered under his breath. “Take the girl in the gray sweater. She’s …” He hesitated.
“Yes?” pursued Gladhand with a half-mocking smile. “She’s what?”
“She’s probably the best actress of them,” finished Thomas defensively.
“Nonsense. That one I ordered out was probably the best actress.” He threw up one hand in a surrendering gesture. “But—I must have people I can work with. Okay. I’ll take her.”
“Sir? Why didn’t you have an audition for Touchstone’s part?”
“I didn’t have to. You dropped in at the right moment, and seemed adequate.” Gladhand rolled forward. “The truth is,” he whispered over his shoulder, “I hate auditions. I never really know what to do.”
He was at the edge of the stage again. “Ladies, it will not be necessary to do readings. I have made my choice. The ones not chosen may pick up free tickets to the performance from the young man by the door there. And the part of Rosalind, I’ve decided, goes to you.” He pointed to the girl who was Thomas’ choice. The others got to their feet and shambled out.
The girl in the gray sweater stepped to the stage, and resting one hand lightly on the edge, vaulted gracefully up onto it. Thomas noted that she was wearing faded black corduroy pants. She was somewhat short, and her figure was full but certainly not plump.
Gladhand bowed somehow in his wheelchair. “I am Nathan Gladhand, and this is Rufus Pennick,” he said. “You are … ?”
“Cleopatra Pearl,” she said.
“Cleopatra Pearl,” Gladhand repeated gloomily.
“My mother thought it sounded sharp,” the girl said apologetically. “I can’t help it. Call me Pat.”
Gladhand brightened. “Pat it is. Well, Pat, Rufus here is a newcomer to our company like yourself, so I’ll explain our rules and customs to both of you at once.” He plucked a cigar out of his pocket and struck a match on the wheelchair arm. “First (puff puff), know your lines. I realize you two haven’t had a chance to, yet; but starting tomorrow I will expect every actor to have his or her lines down pat, so we can spend our time on movement and inflection and things like that. Second—what I say is law. You may make suggestions from time to time, but you may never persist in disagreement. Third—nothing is beneath an actor’s dignity.
Everybody builds sets, hangs lights, paints backdrops, goes next door to fetch chop suey and eggrolls. Lets see, what am I on, fourth? Fourth—there are no fights within my troupe. In the event of a fight, both parties are expelled, no matter who it might be.” He pinched the cigar out and replaced it in his pocket. “And there’s no smoking in the auditorium. That’s all the rules I can think of for now. If any more occur to me I’ll let you know. There’s a rehearsal in about an hour; you two needn’t participate yet, but you should watch. I’ll see both of you later. Rufus, show her around.”
“Aye aye.” Thomas led her away into the wings while Gladhand wheeled himself off in the opposite direction. “Actually,” Thomas confessed to her, “I don’t really know my way around the place yet. I’ve only—”
“You’ve got a cold, haven’t you?” she interrupted.
“What? Oh, yes. Haven’t been taking care of myself this last couple of days. Anyway, I can show you the greenroom—which is painted yellow, by the way; I guess it used to be green. That’s the only landmark I know, so far. Maybe you and I could explore—”
“What did you do before you came here, Rufus? Where did you live?”
“I—” I can’t tell her I was a ward of the local cloistered monastery, he realized. She’d recoil. And I ditched that identity, anyway. “I was a student at Berkeley,” he said. “I got expelled, though, for punching the dean one night, so I signed aboard a tramp steamer and came to Los Angeles. Oh,” he added, “and I’m a poet in my spare time.” That much, at least, was true.
“A poet?” she echoed, her voice a blend of doubt and awe, as if he’d claimed that he’d been brought up by wolves.
“Well, yes,” Thomas said, a little disconcerted. “A few sonnets and things. I haven’t been published yet.”
They walked on, silently, to the greenroom. “This is where everybody seems to congregate,” he told her, though the only one there at present was Negri, who was combing his hair in front of a mirror. “Bob,” Thomas said
, “this is Pat Pearl. Pat, Bob Negri. Pat is taking the Rosalind part.”
Negri turned around and gave the girl a long, interested up-and-down look. “Well, hello,” he said with a slow smile.
“I’ll show you the rest of the place, Pat,” Thomas said quickly, taking her arm.
“That’s all right, Rufus,” she said. “We can explore later. Right now I’d better get my stuff out of my cart. It’s parked out back and somebody’s likely to grab it.”
“I could help you carry it in,” Thomas pointed out.
“No, it’s only one bag. I’ll be okay.” She waved and strode away down the hall.
“There’s a piece,” commented Negri. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
Thomas looked at him sharply. “Jesus, Negri. You sure adapt quickly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Give it some thought.”
Thomas left the room angrily and walked out to the lobby. Bright sunlight glittered on the asphalt of Second Street outside the windows, and Thomas stepped out onto the sidewalk for some fresh air.
Spencer was slouched against the wall, smoking a cigarette. “You’ve got no shoes on, Rufe,” he observed.
“You’re right.” Thomas leaned on the wall too. “I don’t like Negri.”
Spencer squinted through the tobacco smoke. “I hear the new girl’s real pretty,” he said.
“True.” Thomas relaxed and looked up and down the street. “Say, did you ever find Evelyn last night?”
“Yeah. Finally convinced her that I hadn’t intentionally stood her up. Lied like a bastard, too. I couldn’t tell her the truth.”
“I suppose not. Gladhand wasn’t real pleased about last night, was he?”
Spencer grinned. “Oh, he didn’t really mind so much. When he’s fatherly-stern you know he’s not genuinely upset. He just doesn’t want his people to get killed running off on drunken inspirations.”
“Oh.” A beer truck rattled past, pursued by a gang of little boys. The city seems to be about its usual business, Thomas thought. “How’s Pelias?” he asked. “Have you heard?”