"Shall we walk or drive?" Jeff asked.
"Too many maniacs running around loose lately," Negri growled. "Let's drive."
"Right," Spencer agreed. "I'll bring the car around front." He ducked down a hallway.
Thomas remembered the machine that had rocketed past him on the Hollywood Freeway the day before. "A gas car?" he asked, following the other two out of the building.
"The body of one," Jeff said. "It's a derelict we found in the hills one day. Spencer put wooden wheels on it and took out the old motor. We all painted it and cleaned it up, and now it's the neatest little wagon you ever saw."
Thomas nodded, tried but failed to think of something to say, and nodded again. "You, uh, heard about the business in Pershing Square this morning?" he asked.
"Never discuss your casualties," Negri snapped.
"It's too soon to talk about her," Jeff explained more kindly.
"Ah," Thomas said softly, trying not to look disconcerted. A close-mouthed crew, these actors. The clopping of a horse's hooves on pavement broke the awkward silence, and then the car rounded the corner onto Second from Broadway and pulled up to the curb.
"Hop in, gentlemen," Spencer called from the driver's seat.
Thomas gaped at the vehicle. It had a streamlined, albeit dented here and there, metal body, painted gold. A burly old horse was harnessed to the front bumper, and the reins extended from his bit to Spencer's hands through the space where a windshield must once have been. The wheels were sturdy oaken disks rimmed with battered bands of iron.
"Quit gawking and get in," Spencer said. Thomas climbed in beside him, the other two in the back. The seats were transplanted theater chairs, upholstered in red velvet, with cast iron flourishes for arms.
"An impressive vehicle," commented Thomas.
"Hell yes," Spencer said, snapping the reins. "If you like, I'll let you have a try behind the wheel."
"Behind the wheel?"
"The steering wheel. This ring here. That's how cars were meant to be steered, see, by turning it. Behind the wheel means, you know, in the driver's seat."
"Oh," said Thomas. "Sure. I'd like to, sometime."
"Not today, huh, Spencer?" Negri pleaded. "I don't feel so good, and I sure don't need any extra shaking up."
"You never feel so good," Spencer told him as he turned the rig north onto Spring Street.
Thomas sat back in his seat to watch the passing pageant on the late afternoon sidewalk. Here a heavyset man was selling dayglow velvet paintings of nudes; there a young man and his girlfriend sat against a wall, passing back and forth between them a bottle in a paper bag; a dog scampered past, hotly pursued by a gang of kids waving sticks; the city, in short, was relaxing into character again in spite of the undisclosed malady that had struck its mayor.
The golden car attracted its share of attention, and by the time they mounted the buttressed bridge over the Hollywood Freeway they had acquired an escort of young boys who ran alongside begging for rides. When they became too numerous or insistent, Spencer would punch the rubber bulb of a curled brass horn mounted on the side of the car, and the boys would scatter.
North of the freeway, Spring Street was called New High Street; the buildings were older here, and the passersby tended to be Mexican or Oriental. The last street within the city wall was Alpine, and Spencer pulled the car to a curb. "We've arrived," he told Thomas.
A sign dangling on a chain three meters above the sidewalk was the only distinguishing feature of the place—its heavy, paneled door and small-paned windows might conceivably have hidden anything from a barber shop to a used-book store. The sign bore a drawing, done in Doré-like detail, of a cratered moon with a mournful mouth and nose, but no eyes; below the picture were the words, The Blind Moon of Los Angeles. Spencer opened the door with a courtly bow and his companions filed inside.
The dark interior smelled of musty wood and tobacco smoke. Negri weaved his way around occupied tables to an empty one against the wall, and the four of them sat down. Spencer had just lit a cigarette when a girl sidled up to the table.
"Hiya, Spence," she said. "A pitcher for ya this evening?"
"That'll do for a start," he answered. She made a "got-it" gesture and wandered off toward the bar. "Well," Spencer said, turning to Jeff and Negri, "how did you boys spend the day?"
"Who is this guy, anyway?" countered Negri, jerking a thumb at Thomas.
"Rufus Pennick," Spencer said evenly. "He's a friend of mine and of Gladhand's—and he's doing Touchstone in the play. And I, for one, don't care how you spent your damned day."
"No offense meant," Jeff told Thomas with a placating smile, "It's just that some people might call what we've been doing illegal, and we don't know you."
"It's all right," Thomas assured him hastily. "I certainly don't want to… nose in on any secrets of yours."
"Well it's nothing dirty, or anything like that," flared Negri.
"I didn't think it was," protested Thomas.
"Hey, Negri," snapped Spencer, "can't you—"
"I just didn't like the look on his face. Like he thought we were junkies, or something."
"I don't think you're junkies," Thomas assured him, wondering what in heaven's name Negri meant by the term. "I swear."
"Well," growled Negri grudgingly, "okay then."
The beer arrived, and the tension of the moment quickly dissolved as Spencer sluiced the foaming stuff into four glasses the girl had set on the table. They soon had to signal her to bring another pitcher, and by the time the second one was empty they were all taking a more tolerant view of the world. Spencer even smoked his cigarette all the way down, something Thomas had not yet seen him do.
After a while a girl passed through the room, lighting, miniature candles that sat in wire cages on the tables. Thomas looked around curiously at the smoke-dimmed pictures, posters and photos that were hung or tacked all over the walls.
"What are all these pictures?" he asked, waving his sloshing beer glass in an all-inclusive circle.
"Oh," sighed Spencer, leaning back, "posters announcing old art openings, musical revues, plays. There's a sketch of Ashbless, over the bar, done by Havreville in this very room, 60 years ago. Right over your head is—" he jerked his hand and overturned his glass, splashing beer across the table. "I'm sorry," he said, whipping napkins out of a metal dispenser and throwing them on the spreading puddle. "I must have had more than I thought. Only cure for that is to have more still." He waved to the waitress and pointed to their only half-emptied pitcher.
"Dammit, Spence," laughed Jeff, "wait'll we finish one before you order another."
That's odd, Thomas thought. He could almost swear Spencer spilled that beer intentionally. What had he started to say when he did it? Oh yes: Right over your head is—Whatever he had been about to say, he apparently thought better of it. Thomas waited for a few minutes, and then turned as casually as he could to look over his shoulder.
Framed on the wall behind him was a photograph of a young couple in outlandish clothes embracing passionately. Despite his brief acquaintance, Thomas recognized them: the man was Robert Negri and the woman was Jean. The photo's caption was: She Stoops to Conquer—Gladhand, Bellamy Theater.
Thomas quickly turned back to the table and took a long sip of beer, but when he raised his eyes Negri was scowling at him.
"That was taken last year," the dark-haired actor said. He drained his glass and sloppily refilled it. "I was in love with her."
"Oh, come on, Bob," said Jeff. "We all were."