"I hear every drink destroys ten thousand brain cells. Why do… why do people get drunk?"
"Well, not everybody drinks to get drunk. Just a little every now and then is very pleasant. And, hell, the loss of a few thousand brain cells here and there— who counts?"
She stared at him with a total, undisguised lack of comprehension. "I don't understand people," she said. "It's late; I'm going to turn in. See you tomorrow." She turned toward the stairs. "Oh, and thanks again for… rescuing me."
"You're welcome again. Good night."
Now what, he asked himself when she'd disappeared, happened there? She obviously didn't approve of drinking; but she didn't quite disapprove, either— she simply couldn't understand it. Oh well, she seems to like me. After all, I risked a whole truckload of brain cells to save her from being Negri's sugar-pie.
With a shiver of blended surprise, pleasure and apprehension he realized that he was, as the saying goes, falling in love with her.
BOOK TWO: Nathan Gladhand
CHAPTER 7: A Bad Dinner at the Gallomo
Rumors began to reach the city late the next afternoon—the merchants on the long coast run from La Jolla and Oceanside told of hundreds of campfire lights glimpsed in the valleys south of El Cajon and of streaks of smoke and raised dust on the southern horizon during the day. At sunset the inevitable suspicion was confirmed by the Escondido mail rider: General Alvarez of San Diego had mobilized his army and was marching north.
During the next two days details trickled in—details that agreed, contradicted and amplified each other— until the full situation was clear. Alvarez was advancing up Route Five with a force of 1,000 men and eight siege-mortars.
Los Angeles's buffer states, Santa Ana and Orange, sent ambassadors racing to the city to beg troops for the defense of their borders—and were reluctantly denied aid by Majordomo Lloyd, who was said to have turned them away with tears in his eyes. Souveraine of Santa Ana declared that, unsupported, he couldn't defend his unwalled city, and that he'd side with Alvarez when the time came. Smith of Orange arrived at the same decision with, as described in his letter to Lloyd, "incalculable reluctance."
Thursday morning dawned clear and warm, for the Santa Ana wind was still surging in off the desert. Exactly one week had passed since the bombing of Mayor Pelias's chambers; and the crowds that gathered around the news-loudspeakers sent forth despairing groans into the cloudless blue sky when it was announced, once again, that the mayor was still unconscious.
Blaine Albers glanced contemptuously at the clamoring crowd 20 stories below him and, pushing open the window, flicked the ash of his cigar out at them. "You haven't answered my question, Lloyd," he said quietly, facing back into the room.
Across the table an old man sweated and stared hopelessly at the litter of ashtrays and scattered papers. "I can't tell you," he whispered.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"No. He's under a… doctor's care, and he might— honestly—recover any day. Any hour."
The four other men in the room shifted impatiently in their seats, and one stubbed out a cigarette.
"Listen," said Albers, "even if he'd come out of it an hour ago it might have been too late." He struck his fist on the table. "Aside from the police, we have no army! Do you realize that? Our draft program is impossible to enforce. The few men we get desert the first time you take your eyes off them. We can't afford mercenaries. What do you suggest?" During the speech his voice had risen to a harsh yell.
"Find…" the old man quavered, "find Brother Thomas."
"Why? What on earth is the connection between Pelias and this delinquent monk?"
Lloyd sagged. "I can't tell you."
Several of the other men sighed and shook their heads grimly.
Albers spoke softly. "Lloyd, I'm sorry to have to say this. But you tell me where Pelias is and what this monk Thomas has to do with the situation, or we'll question you with the same methods we'd use on any criminal."
Lloyd was sobbing now. "All right," he said finally. He dragged himself up and crossed to the window. "God help us all," he said as he quietly rolled over the sill and disappeared.
For a full ten seconds no one spoke; then Albers went to the window and looked down. The section of the crowd directly below was churning about with increased energy. Aside from that, the view had not changed.
"That," he said to the others, "is the second time one of our majordomos has killed himself. His predecessor, Hancock, hanged himself in his bedroom six years ago."
The others nodded dumbly. "What can we do now," one asked, "besides grab some ready cash and run for Bakersfield?"
"Idiot," Albers said. "It's not time to run yet. Alvarez couldn't get here before Sunday even if he was already across the Santa Margarita River; which he isn't." He scratched his chin thoughtfully.. "But our hold on the city just went out the window. We have no authority at all, now."
"Maybe we could claim to know where Pelias is hidden?" suggested one of the others.
"No. Tabasco, damn his android eyes, almost certainly does know. He probably knows the secret about this monk, too."
"What could that monk have or know that they would want so badly?" wondered the one he'd called an idiot.
"I don't know," answered Albers slowly. "But I'd say if we want to keep any hand in this game, we'd better find him before Tabasco's police do." He flung himself into a chair. "We'll worry about that a little later," he said. "Right now, show that gun dealer in, Harper."
Harper stood up and went to the door. "Come in here," he ordered.
A moment later a tall old man with a white beard and mane strode into the room. He was dressed in faded dungarees and was puffing furiously on a battered corncob pipe. "Look here, boys," he growled, "if you want to make a deal, then let's talk. If not, I'll be on my way. But I'm not going to wait one more—"
"I apologize, Mr. St. Coutras," Albers said. "It was not our intention to keep you waiting. Sit down, please."
St. Coutras took a seat and rapped the still-smoking tobacco out of his pipe onto the floor. "All right. Do you want the 100 Brownings or not?"
"We do," Albers said. "We've decided we can pay you 100 solis per rifle."
"Dammit, I said 150. I can't go below that and make a living."
"What kind of a living do you think you'll make if Alvarez takes this city?" hissed Harper.
"The same as now," the old man replied. "Everybody needs guns."
"He's right, Harper," Albers interjected. "Shut up." He looked intently at St. Coutras. "Would you take the difference in bonds?"
For a full minute, the old man considered the oiler. "I'll take 100 in cash and 100 in bonds per rifle. That way, you'll be sure of getting good merchandise from me, since I'll have a 10,000-soli stake on your side of the table. If Alvarez takes the city, he's sure not going to honor any bonds issued by his predecessors."
"Good point," Albers nodded. "Okay. Hastings, draw up the papers. And Harper, you get busy tracking down that damned runaway monk. Get some details on why he left the monastery. It occurs to me to doubt old Lloyd's story that the kid stole the season's wine-money."
"Runaway monk?" St. Coutras repeated curiously.
Albers frowned. "Yes. He… has some information we need."
"His name isn't… Thomas, is it?"
Hastings's pen halted in midair; Harper froze half-way out of his chair; Albers slowly lit another cigar. "Why?" he asked. "Have you met a runaway monk named Thomas?"
"Yeah. A week ago. Last Friday morning. Gave him a ride into town."
"That'd be our boy, all right," Albers said.
"Have you seen him since?" Harper asked quickly.