Dinner at Deviant's Palace
TO THE THURSDAY NIGHT GANG:
Chris Arena, Greg Arena, Bill Bailey, Jim Blaylock, Jenny Bunn, Pete Devries, Phil Dick, Jeff Fontanesi, Don Goudie, Chris Gourlay, Dashiell Hamster, Rick Harding, K. W. Jeter, Tom Kenyon, Dave Lament, Tim Lament, Steve Malk, Phil Pace, Brendan Powers, Serena Powers and Phil Thibodeau . . .
. . . and the honorary members: Russ Galen, Dean Koontz, Roy Squires, Joel Stein, Ted Wassard and Paul Williams . . .
. . . and with thanks to Beth Meacham, most perceptive, persuasive and tactful of editors.
Book one:
Whatever I can carry in one hand
–Rupert Brooke
Chapter 1
Crouched way up at the top of the wall in the rusty bed of the Rocking Truck, Modesto tugged his jacket more tightly across his chest, pushed back his hat and squinted around at the city. At the moment there was no one in particular that it would be lucrative to watch for, but just to keep in practice the boy liked to climb up here and keep track of the comings and goings in general. Below him to his left was the South Gate area, not quite its usual crowded self because of the recent rain, and beyond that to the southeast—the direction that was nearly always downwind—he could see the ragged shacks and black mud lanes of Dogtown, canopied by the snarls of smoke rising from the eternal fires in its trash-filled trenches.
The boy clambered over the collapsed cab to sit on the hood and look north. The broken-backed truck, as immovable as the age-rounded concrete wall it straddled, didn't shift under him; nor had it ever moved in the memory of anyone now living.
The towers made ragged brushstrokes of black down the gray northern sky, and at the skeletal top of the Crocker Tower he could see bright orange pinpricks that he knew were torches; the night watch was coming on duty early, and Modesto knew that their various spyglasses would be turned to the east, watching for any sign of the army that was rumored to be approaching from San Berdoo. And though even Modesto couldn't see them from here, he knew that out beyond the north farms there were armed men on horseback patrolling the Golden State Freeway from the Berdoo Freeway in the north to the Pomona in the south.
Thirty feet below his perch he noticed a grotesque vehicle moving south down Fig Street toward him, and with a grin half-admiring and half-contemptuous he identified it as the carriage of Greg Rivas, the famous pelican gunner. Like most kids his age, Modesto considered gunning a slightly embarrassing historical curiosity, conjuring up implausible images of one's parents when they were young and foolish . . . . Modesto was far more interested in the more defined
and consistent rhythms of Scrap, and the new dances like Scrapping, Gimpscrew and the Bugwalk.
With a creaking of axles and an altered pace in the clopping of the horses' hooves, the vehicle turned west onto Woolshirt Boulevard, and Modesto knew Rivas was just arriving early for his nightly gig at Spink's.
Bored, the boy turned his attention back to the thrillingly ominous lights in the Crocker Tower.
The carriage was an old but painstakingly polished Chevrolet body mounted on a flat wooden wagon drawn by two horses, and though the late afternoon rain drabbed the colors and made the streamers droop, it was by far the grandest vehicle out on Woolshirt Boulevard. Old superstitions about rain being poisonous had kept the usual street crowd indoors today, though, and only two boys emerged from a recessed doorway and scampered up to cry, somewhat mechanically, «Rivas! Hooray, it's Gregorio Rivas!»
Rivas pushed aside the beaded curtain that hung in place of the long gone door, stepped out onto the flat surface of the wagon and, squinting in the light drizzle, braced himself there as his driver snapped the reins and drew the vehicle to a squeaking halt in front of the building that was their destination.
Like most of the structures that stood along the north to south midcity line, this one was a well-preserved shell of old concrete with neat sections of woodwork filling the gaps where plate glass had once fabulously stretched across yards and yards of space. The building was three stories high and, again typically for this area, the wall at the top, now decorated with a profusion of spikes and ornaments and sun-faded flags, was jaggedly uneven with an ancient fracture. Over the doorway strips of metal and colored glass had been nailed to spell out, in letters a foot tall, SPINKS.
«Here,» Rivas called to the boys, «never mind it today, no one's around. Anyway, I think I need a couple of new prompters—lately the goddamn parrots sound more enthusiastic than you guys.»
As if to illustrate his point, one of the parrots nesting in the top of the nearest palm tree called down, «Rivas! Rivas!»
«Hooray!» added another one from a tree farther up the street.
«Hear that?» Rivas demanded as he reached back inside the car for his hat and his vinyl pelican case. «I think it's because they work free, just for the art of it.» He put on his hat, glanced around below him for unpuddled pavement, spotted an area and leaped to it.
»We don't, though, man,» one of the boys pointed out cheerily. Both of them held out their palms.
«Mercenary little mules,» Rivas muttered. He dug a couple of small white cards out of his vest pocket and gave one to each boy. «There's a jigger apiece, and you should be ashamed to take so much.»
«You bet we are, man.» The pair dashed back to their sheltered doorway.
Rivas paused under the restaurant's awning to set his antique hat at the proper angle and comb his fingers through his dark Van Dyke beard. Finally he pushed open the swinging doors and strode inside.
A moment later, though, he was pursing his lips irritably, for his careful entrance had been wasted—the chandeliers, which had been lowered after the lunch crowd, still sat on the floor unlit, and the room was so dim that if it weren't for the faint smells of stale beer and old grease the place could have been mistaken for a between-services church.
«Damn it,» he yelped, stubbing his toe against the edge of one of the chandeliers and awkwardly hopping over it, «where are you, Mojo? How come these things aren't lit yet?»
«It's early yet, Greg,» came a voice from the kitchen. «I'll get to 'em.»
Rivas picked his way around the wooden wheels of the chandeliers to the bar, lifted the hinged section and stepped behind it. By touch he found the stack of clean glasses, and then the big room echoed with the clicking of the pump as he impatiently worked the handle to prime the beer tap.
«There's a bottle of Currency Barrows open,» called Mojo from the kitchen.
The edges of Rivas's mouth curled down in a sort of inverted smile. «The beer's fine,» he said in a carefully casual voice. He opened the tap and let the stream of cool beer begin filling his glass.
Old Mojo lurched ponderously out of the kitchen carrying a flickering oil lamp, and he crouched over the nearest chandelier to light the candles on it. «That's right,» he said absently, «you're not crazy about the Barrows stuff, are you?»
«I'm a beer and whiskey man,» said Rivas lightly. «Fandango or the twins here yet?»
«Yeah, Fandango is—them's some of his drums on the stage there. He went for the rest.»
There was a shuffling and banging from the direction of the back hall just then, and a voice called, «That you, Greg? Help me with these, will you?»
«Whatever I can carry in one hand, Tommy.» Tucking the pelican case under his arm and sipping the beer as he went, Rivas groped his way to the back hall, relieved the puffing Fandango of one of his smaller drums and led the way back across the already somewhat brighter room to the stage.