"You'll drink it, though, won't you? You've always been my obedient son—not like Bob."
That does it. He leaped up and bolted around the table toward the door; but the old man, with surprisingly quick reflexes, sprang from his chair as Thomas rushed past and seized him around the waist.
"Bob!" Delmotte shrilled. "I got one, I got one!"
Thoroughly terrified now, Thomas drove his elbow into the old man's face. Delmotte dropped to the floor and Thomas ran outside and pelted off down the street.
After a moment Bob stepped out onto the sidewalk, his mouth twisted with impatience and exasperation as he raised a pistol to eye level.
The bullet tore across Thomas's right side before he heard the shot, and sheer astonishment made him lose his footing and fall to his hands and knees on the pavement. The second shot, with a sound like a muted bell, punched a hole in a pawnbroker's sign over his head.
"Help, I'm being murdered!" he yelled as he scuttled up the sidewalk on all fours. Another bullet zipped past his ear, as he slipped around the corner. He scrambled to his feet, breathed deeply for a few seconds and then trotted away down another street that stretched south.
After a block or two he felt blood trickling down his side under his robe. I suppose I can't afford to bleed to death on the way, he thought impatiently. He ducked into an alley, stepped modestly behind a stack of cabbage crates and, lifting the skirts of his robe, tore away the already tattered hem.
The wound was about six centimeters long. It was not deep, though it seemed willing to bleed indefinitely. Thomas held a wad of fabric against the gash and then tied the threadbare brown strips of hem across his middle so that they pressed on the makeshift bandage. The cloth blotted black with blood fairly quickly, but it seemed quickly enough to indicate a damaged artery.
His bandage in place, he slumped against the brick wall behind him and heaved a long sigh. When his eyes refocused, he saw a boy about ten years old glowering down at him from an open second-floor window.
"Uh, hello there," Thomas said.
The child frowned deeply.
"Say," Thomas went on, "can you tell me what happened yesterday? Why is everybody so frightened?"
"They blew up Mayor Pelias," the boy answered after a pause. "Twice, early in the morning. It woke me up."
"He's dead, then?"
"No." The boy stepped away from the window.
Thomas considered and then dismissed the idea of calling him back. He made sure his robe was as neat as possible before stepping onto the sidewalk again to resume his journey. He was on Western again, he noted, and a number of signs agreed that Wilshire was at the intersection up ahead. He wondered how close he was to San Pedro and wished he had brought a map.
Thomas strode on with a firm jaw and lots of determination, but after half an hour or so his feet began to drag. His forehead, despite the hot sun and his heavy robe, was dry, and a powerful nausea rose in his abdomen. The glare on the buildings and sidewalks made his eyes water, so he squinted to cut down the reflection. Sunstroke, he thought dizzily—or maybe it's fever, infection from my bullet wound. I've got to rest, get out of this sun.
At the next cross-street, he turned right onto Pico, noticing a closed stagecoach station only two buildings away. Its door was recessed a good three meters from the sidewalk, and he looked forward to sitting down and resting in the shaded hall—maybe he could even take a short nap.
Thomas turned into the cool hall, and was halfway to the locked door when he saw the man already sitting there.
"Oh. Hi," Thomas said, halting. In the sudden dimness he was unable to see the man clearly.
"Howdy, son," came a mellow voice. "Sit down, make yourself at home. The shade's here for everybody."
"Thanks." Thomas leaned back and slid down the wall into a sitting position.
"What brings you out of doors?" the man inquired. A paper bag rustled and Thomas heard swallowing. "Like a bit of scotch?"
"No, thanks," Thomas replied. "I'm a stranger in town. Just passing through, as they say. What happened to the mayor, anyway?"
"He's had a stroke, the story is, after two bombs bounced him out of bed yesterday morning, one ten minutes after the other. I think he's dead, and they don't want to let on. They figure the city would really go to the dogs if it got out that he'd kicked off."
"Would it?" Thomas asked drowsily. "Go to the dogs, I mean."
"Yeah, probably," the man said. "The people would try to wipe out the androids, and the androids'd fight back, and then San Diego or Carmel would send an army against L.A. while none of us were paying attention." He sucked the scotch. "I don't know. Who cares? I don't care. Do you care?"
"Not me," Thomas said agreeably. "I don't care."
"Right! Have some scotch."
"No… well, okay, maybe I will." The man handed him the bottle and Thomas opened his robe and poured some of the liquor on his stiffening bandage. It felt wonderfully cold on his feverish skin, and smelled so invigorating that he gulped a mouthful of it.
He handed it back to his companion. "Thanks."
"How'd you get cut?"
"I was shot at," Thomas told him. "Some crazy old man tried to serve me poisoned coffee, and when I ran, he shot at me. Three times."
"I'll take care of him," the man said with a reassuring nod.
"You will?" asked Thomas curiously.
"Sure. I think I'll take care of the whole damn city. I've had my eye on 'em for a long time. Sin everywhere you look. Dope, whores, murderers—do you know what I saw the other day?"
"What?"
"A screwdriver. There were these two girls in the plastic handle. Photographs, you know? They had black bathing suits on, but when you turn the screwdriver upside down the bathing suits slide off, and the girls are naked. That's the kind of thing I'm talking about."
"Oh, yeah." Thomas nodded and eyed his companion uncertainly. The man was big, with a puffy, ruddy face, and eyes hidden between thick eyebrows and sagging pouches.
"You're just passing through, you say?" he asked.
Thomas nodded. "Well, I'll hold off till tomorrow night before I unleash them old seven angels of doom, okay?"
"Okay. Much obliged." It'd be wise to leave now, Thomas decided and rose to his feet.
"Taking off so soon?"
" 'Fraid I have to," Thomas said.
"Okay. Listen, if you get in any jams, tell 'em the Lord of Wrath is a buddy of yours."
"Will do." He waved and walked back out to the sidewalk. He hoped San Pedro Harbor wasn't too much farther. He doubted he would ever become used to this city life.
The sun was well on its way down the afternoon side of the sky when Thomas crossed Park View Street and found himself in MacArthur Park. He had been walking all day, and his wound was throbbing; so when he flopped on one of the wooden benches, he began considering the feasibility of spending the night right there. The tall buildings around the park were softly lit by the golden light, their eastern sides and inset windows shadowed in pale blue. Very pretty, he thought—but I feel the evening chill coming on. I'll need newspapers to stuff inside my robe for warmth.
An armed street vendor was pushing a cart along Sixth Street. "Get yer red hot mantras right here, folks. Can't meditate without a mantra of your own. We got 'em, you want 'em."
"Hey!" Thomas called. The merchant stopped and looked up the grassy hill to Thomas's bench. "Can you eat those things? Mantras?" It had occurred to him that it might be some sort of Mexican food.
The street vendor simply stared at Thomas for a few seconds and then moved on, repeating his monotonous sales pitch. Oh well, Thomas reasoned, he probably couldn't have afforded one, anyhow.
He had sat back on the bench, trying to muster the energy to get up and look for newspapers when he became aware of muffled laughter behind him. It was the first sign of mirth he'd heard since parting ways with St. Coutras that morning, and he turned around curiously.