Thomas swung one up onto his shoulder and winced at its weight. "What… are these?" he gasped.
"Bombs," Jeff told him. "And ammunition for a couple of cannons Gladhand has hidden somewhere. We took all the guns in the first load, when we evacuated everybody, and we figured we'd have to leave all this behind." He pointed to a length of gray twine that ran from under the crates across the floor and up the stairs. "We were going to blow it all up when we left. It almost made poor old Gladhand cry, to think of losing the Bellamy Theater."
When they were each hunched under a box they stumbled and cursed their way upstairs, and 20 minutes and five weary loads later, they'd filled the wagon.
"Okay," Gladhand said. "I'll move out. You guys fill the car and follow. Are they all going to fit?"
Jeff brushed sweat-dampened hair out of his face. "Yeah," he said. "They'll all fit."
"Okay. You know the way—see you in about an hour. Go, horse." He flicked the reins and the wagon lurched into motion.
When they had nearly filled the car and were about to shoulder the final boxes, Thomas went back inside for a last look at his old couch-bed. "I feel like I've lived here for a long time," he remarked to Lambert. "The first night I—where's that head? The big stone head that used to be on this shelf?"
"Gladhand took it along in the first load," Jeff said, "when we moved everybody out. Come on, now, grab a box and let's get out of here."
They hauled the last crates upstairs, down the hall, out the back door and across the dark courtyard to the car. After dumping the load into the trunk, they slammed the rusty hood.
"Okay, hop in," Jeff said as he closed the driver's door and whistled to the horse. "Wait a minute… what's that?" he pointed ahead.
"It's… a TV antenna with a shirt tied onto it," Lambert said.
"Well, get it out of the way." When Lambert had flung the thing aside and climbed back into the car, Jeff snapped the reins and angled the car out of the alley onto Broadway. Thomas reclined in his seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the cooling flow of air across his face.
The car slowed messily to a halt, the wheels roaring dully on gravel. Thomas stared curiously at the building they'd arrived at: it was long and low, with the corrugated metal under-roof exposed in patches bared when the old decorative shingles had fallen away. Plywood flats were nailed up over every window. A tall metal sign perched precariously on the roof; it had at one time and another been painted with so many businesses' names that now nothing was legible on it.
"What is this attractive place?" Thomas asked sarcastically.
"It was a pizza parlor not too long ago," Jeff told him. "Gladhand bought it a year ago, apparently, as a hidey-hole."
"Gladhand certainly seems to have money," observed Thomas.
"That's true," Jeff agreed. "He must be independently wealthy—he sure didn't receive a lot of money from the Bellamy box office." He guided the reluctant horse around the southern end of the old structure and soon the car was hidden from anyone who might pass by. As Thomas got out of the car, he noticed Gladhand's cart parked some distance away.
Gladhand was perched on a chair in the dining hall when they entered. The troupe of actors, about 20 in all, was sprawled about on the tables and benches; most were asleep, pillowed on bundles of spare clothing, but a few were sitting up, smoking or talking quietly.
"We could use some help getting this stuff in here," Jeff said.
"Right," the theater manager said. "Skooney, wake up Terry and Mike."
In a moment they were joined by two big, sleepy young men Thomas had never seen; with their help the car was unloaded in one trip.
"We'll have a council of war in the morning," Glad-hand stated when the crates had been stowed with the stacks of others already in the kitchen. "You guys help yourselves to some bourbon over there—and get some sleep."
"Is there a bathroom?" Thomas asked. "I could do with a shower."
"There's a bathroom, but no tub or shower. See what you can do with some wet paper towels."
Thomas followed Gladhand's pointing finger and found a dark little room with a sink in it. There weren't any paper towels, but noticing the short curtains in the window, Thomas tore one down, soaked it in cold water and washed off most of the soot and dried blood. He wiped the dust off the mirror while he was at it, but the room was too dim for him to see what he looked like. Probably just as well, he decided.
He shambled back into the dining hall and, after filling a paper cup with bourbon, sat down heavily beside Skooney.
"Hello, Rufus," she said quietly. "I hear you've had a rough day."
He took a long pull at the whiskey. "True," he said.
"Why don't you get some sleep?"
A few minutes later he blinked awake, then went to sleep again, reassured to find his bourbon sitting nearby and his weary head resting comfortably in Skooney's lap.
CHAPTER 11: The Last Night of the World
The smell of coffee woke him. Though it was still dark, people were padding about muttering to each other. He looked up and saw that Skooney was still sleeping, so he sat up gently. Streaks of dim gray light were beginning to filter in around the plywood on the windows, and the air carried a damp chill—plainly the heat spell was over.
Skooney yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Coffee," she said. "I believe someone has made coffee. Good morning, Rufus." She stood up. "Shall I bring you a cup?"
Thomas rose to his feet, wincing a little at his aches and stiffness. "I'll go with you," he said.
They joined the group of people gathered around a huge iron pot; Lambert ladled coffee into two cups for them. "Trail coffee," he said, "for the theft of which Prometheus was chained to a rock in the Newport Harbor."
It was hot, thick and strong, and had to be drunk black for lack of anything to put in it. Gingerly they carried the cups back to their place by the wall and sat down to sip it. Thomas was shivering, so Skooney borrowed a shirt from someone for him to wear.
Gladhand, propped on his crutches, poled his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. "Okay, gang," he said loudly, "settle yourselves somewhere and listen close. Pat Pearl, as you may already know, was a spy, an android." There were a few exclamations of surprise, but most of the actors nodded grimly. Skooney just listened, and Thomas was grateful for that. "I had planned to mount our attack on city hall next Saturday; that's why our opening night was rescheduled to this coming Wednesday But under the present circumstances, I have moved the date up—our attack will take place tonight, at midnight."
Eyebrows were raised, and a few deep breaths expelled, but no one spoke.
"I have hired," Gladhand went on, "100 Riverside mercenaries under Captain Adam Stimpson. They're camped about eight kilometers from here, in the Alhambra hills. They'll dynamite a section of the city wall just north of Whittier Boulevard and enter the city that way. Our own forces within the city now number about 500, and 400 of these will join Stimpson's army at Whittier and Alameda, and proceed north. The rest of our men will pick up guns and ammunition from a gunrunner near the City College over by Vermont. They will then proceed southeast and attack city hall from the rear while the main force, under Stimpson, attacks from the front. I have," he said with a note of pride, "four culverins, two four-pounders and two nine-pounders. Stimpson will have the nines, the rear force the fours."
"All this is happening tonight!" Jeff finally said. "I had no idea you had this much organized." He looked amazed.
Gladhand smiled. "I've never been one to keep people informed about my activities," he said. "Keep the cards close to the vest, I say. So! I want no one to leave this building today. Alice is on the roof with a rifle now, to be sure that order is obeyed. If we are harboring any more spies—I don't think we are—they won't be able to pass this information on until it's stale. In the back there," he continued, nodding over everyone's heads, "you'll notice Lambert tacking up papers. These are lists of the various troop assignments; check where you're to go, and with whom, sometime this morning. So until tonight, talk, eat, oil your weapons and sleep. All the liquor will be locked up at noon, though rum will be available just before the fight for those who want it." He hopped down from the bar stool and thumped off to the kitchen.