A young man of roughly his own age—possibly a year or two younger—was leaning on a tree trunk close behind him. He was dressed in brown corduroy pants and coat, with leather boots, and his unruly hair was as red as a new brick. When he saw Thomas had seen him, he gave up on trying to conceal his laughter and fairly howled with it. Thomas stared at him, beginning to get annoyed.
"Oh-h," gasped the red-haired one finally. "So you're going to eat a mantra, hey? With proverb jelly and a side order of gregorian chant, no doubt."
"It's not food, I take it," said Thomas stiffly.
"Hell, no." The young man walked over and put one foot up on the bench. "It's a chant that you say over and over in your mind when you're meditating. Like… one-two-three-four-who-are-we-for, or Barney-Google-with-the-great-big-googly-eyes."
"Oh." Thomas tried not to look chagrined.
"Where are you going, anyway? I've been following you ever since Beverly. A young monk with no rosary, soaked in blood and reeking of whiskey—an unusual sight, even these days. I'm Spencer, by the way."
"I'm Thomas." They shook hands, and Thomas found that his anger had evaporated. "I'm trying to get to San Pedro," he explained. "How much farther is it?"
"Easily 30 kilometers," Spencer said. "Maybe more. Catch the Harbor Freeway about eight blocks east of here and then go south till you fall into the ocean. What's in San Pedro?"
"I'm going to sign aboard a tramp steamer," Thomas replied, a little defensively.
"Oh. Where are you going to spend the night? On this bench?"
"I was thinking of it."
Spencer stared at him and then burst out laughing again. "You're lucky I came by, brother," he said. "I don't even want to hint at what'd happen to you if you slept here. This isn't like sleeping in the orchard out back of the chapel, you know." He sat down beside Thomas and lit a cigarette with an unnecessary flourish. "They give you any education at your monastery?" he asked after puffing on it for a few moments.
"Yeah, in some things."
"Ever hear of Shakespeare? William H. Shakespeare?"
"Sure."
"Ah. Well, the Bellamy Theater, over on Second Street, is putting on As You Like It, which this Shakespeare wrote. I'm in it, one of the actors, and I could find you a place to sleep at the theater. We all sleep there."
"That'd be great," said Thomas eagerly. It was already getting cold, and the prospect of sleeping on a bench was quickly losing its charm.
"Come on, then," Spencer said, hopping to his feet and flinging away the cigarette. "If we move fast we can get there in time to grab some food."
Thomas needed no further encouragement.
The few shopkeepers who had opened their doors were locking up. The evening wind tossed bits of paper along the sidewalks and carried, from time to time, the sound of sporadic gunfire from distant streets. Thomas thrust his hands into his pockets and shivered.
"You're broke, aren't you?" Spencer asked. "Uh… have no money, that is."
"Well, I've got 11 solis, but that's it. Yeah, I'm 'broke' all right."
"Were you robbed?"
"No, that's all I came with."
"What? You—"
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Thomas interrupted. "It's not quite as stupid as it sounds. I didn't plan on doing it this way."
"How did you plan on doing it? And just what are you doing, anyway?" Spencer lit another cigarette. He let it hang on his lower lip and then squinted through the smoke.
"Running away from the Merignac monastery, up in the hills," Thomas answered. "I was an orphan, you see, so the monastery kindly indentured me to work for them until I turned 25—which is four years from now—in exchange for room and board and education."
"And you're making a… premature exit."
Thomas nodded.
"And you grabbed the collection basket one morning, jumped over the wall, and then discovered there were only 11 solis in it."
Thomas laughed ruefully. "That's almost right," he admitted. "I made a kite and a fishing pole, and last night I went sky-fishing. Those bird-men make their nests up at the high end of the valley, you know, and the monastery lies right in their flight path. I've heard they grab bright, glittery objects like coins and jewelry and carry 'em home in their pouches to decorate their nests; so I figured if I caught about ten of them, over a period of a month, say, I'd have enough money to fund my escape."
"Did you know… do you know what they do to sky-fishers?"
"Yeah. They cut your good hand off. Seems a little extreme to me."
"Well, sure All the penalties are extreme. But the government claims those bird-men are tax collectors, see." Spencer shrugged. "Originally they were the result of one of old Strogoff's experiments, years ago. A few escaped from Strogoff's lab, and just multiplied like the devil's own rabbits. Hell of a nuisance, they were—grabbing everything from loose change to false teeth to wedding rings—and they're just clever enough to be hard to kill. So finally the government gave up trying to stop them and told everybody that they were official tax collectors. The government set up big nets by the Hollywood Bowl, and now they catch the thieving fliers, empty their pouches, give 'em a little food and then send them on their way. It's a city monopoly. Any time you catch one yourself, it's the same as holding up a tax collector at gunpoint."
"Oh." Thomas thought about it. "Then I really was robbing from the collection basket."
Spencer snapped his fingers, sending his cigarette flying at a rat who had poked his nose timidly from behind a collapsed and abandoned couch; he missed, but the shower of sparks sent the rat ducking back into the shadows. "And all you got out of it was 11 solis."
"That's right," Thomas said. "I was caught by the abbot the first time I did it. Did you know those bird-men can talk? And yell? So I had to punch the abbot and take off immediately."
Wonderingly, Spencer shook his head. "You're lucky to have got this far. Sky-fishing, punching old priests—and how did you get so bloody?"
"I was shot—relax, I don't think it's serious; just plowed up the skin—by a madman. And I've been having adventures all day. I was chased by gangs, some guy gave me wrong directions for San Pedro, so I was walking north on Vermont for an hour, and—"
"I get the picture," Spencer interrupted. "Well, the Bellamy Theater is just around this corner. We can find you some hot soup, a clean bed and a solid roof to sleep under." He clapped Thomas on the shoulder. "Relax, brother," he said. "Your troubles are over."
They picked their way for a few meters down a cobbled alley that reeked of Chinese food ("Restaurant next door," Spencer explained) and then climbed a swaying wooden stairway that brought them to a narrow balcony overlooking the alley. Two ruptured, rain-faded easy chairs and a mummified plant in a pot gave evidence of some long-ago attempt to render the balcony habitable, but the only occupants at present were two surly cats.
"This way," said Spencer, leading Thomas around the chairs to a plywood door set in the brick wall. He knocked on it in a three-two sequence.
"Who is it, for Pete's sake?" came an annoyed female voice. "The door ain't locked."
Spencer pulled open the door. "It's supposed to be locked," he complained. "Gladhand said you're supposed to open it only when somebody gives the secret knock."
Thomas followed Spencer inside and found himself in a red-carpeted, lamp-lit hallway. There stood a short, dark-haired girl wearing a brown tunic and leotards.
She stared at Spencer for a moment and then, with exaggerated caution, leaned out the doorway, peered up and down the length of the balcony, pulled the door closed and bolted it securely. "Don't we have a dresser or something we could lean against it?" she asked innocently.