Mendoza in Hollywood (31 page)

I decided he was crazy too. “How do you mean?” I asked.

“By advancing the standard of living through the availability of fine merchandise, of course. With every labor-saving device or can of stove polish I sell, chaos is dealt another blow in this wilderness. Even when I don’t actually conclude a transaction, even when those penniless folk stare openmouthed at the splendor of my wares but come not forth to buy, they go home with visions of a better world dancing in their heads.” Oscar rose to his feet and swept off his hat.

“And they’ll
desire
those visions, and there will be those among them who dare to improve their mortal lot, that they might purchase some measure of that splendor, some glittering prize, though it be but a fragment of the glorious whole. The idle will seek employment, the chronically hapless will become sober and industrious, and noble ambition will animate the frames of those who now lie torpid and indifferent to what they
might
have, if only they would rise to embrace it.”

There was a breathless pause.

“Oscar,” I said at last, “you will go far.”

“Excelsior!” he said, and thrust his hat skyward as far as he could reach.

At this moment, we both noticed the approach of a vehicle. It was the wrong time of day for a stagecoach. Whatever it was, it had turned off the Camino Real and was rolling up our own little canyon, going right to the door of the inn. We turned to stare.

It was a fine two-horse open carriage, slightly antique, oxblood in color, with the arms of some grand old Spanish family blazoned on the body. It had been blazoned there an awfully long time ago, though, to judge from the way it had faded. A black man in a red coat drove it, and seated within was a mortal lady of our mutual acquaintance.

Oscar gasped. He had been in the act of returning his hat to his head, but now he swept it off and bowed double.

“Princess Rodiamantikoff,” he said.

It was even she; but how changed. Gone were the Gypsy silks and cheap baubles. She wasn’t more tastefully dressed, you understand, but certainly more expensively, and there was now a coherence and even a dignity to her ensemble. She’d found some good luck somewhere. Her plain face was fuller by a few square meals, but the blue eyes were still knife-sharp, unwavering, superfocused. She extended a regal arm, pointing at Oscar with her parasol as the carriage braked to a stop.

“It is he,” she said. “At last we find you. Chief Running Deer and King Elisheazar have not searched cosmic ether in vain. You may approach us, sir, for we would discuss with you matter of trade.”

The effect on Oscar was—well, it was indecent. He was beside the wagon at once, planting a fervent kiss on her outstretched hand. The black coachman looked at him askance.

“Your Highness!” Oscar said. “How pleased I am to see that your fortunes have improved. Doubtless loyal friends at the distant court have contrived to send you support of a material nature?”

“Naturally,” she said grandly, lying through her teeth, if her pulse and respiration rate were any indication. “Not to mention certain assistance
rendered by dear Spirit Guides and others in realms above who are anxious to see that great work goes forward.”

“And what great work would that be, ma’am?” Oscar asked, terribly interested.

“Ushering in of new era,” she said. “Epoch when unhappy multitudes gain peace and enlightenment through communication with world beyond. Secrets known only to arcane secret societies will at last be revealed to all! Futures foretold through modern methods of cartomancy passed on from ancient Egypt through Gypsy race. Loved ones who have passed over will send advice and encouragement through gifted individuals. We are pleased to be humble instrument of Spirits’ will. Spirits have told us you were also instrument, bringing cards for entertainment purposes only.”

“So Your Highness has improved her situation by telling fortunes?” Oscar’s eyes were wide with fascination, his cameras rolling.

“Please.” She raised a hand. “Grateful clients have presented tokens of esteem for messages received from beyond. We are now enabled to live in gracious home in better area of City of Angels. But now, Spirit Guides have advised we must prepare doorway to Spirit realm through construction of beautiful altar. Offerings will open pathway for clients to speak with loved ones through intercession of Spirits. Common household object of beautiful design must be used for this. Spirits have directed us to purchase from you beautiful cabinet whose gross material purpose is keeping pies. It will be consecrated to higher use through addition of sacred plates of metal from ancient Egypt, location of which revealed to us in trance.”

“The pie safe!” I think Oscar leaped a foot in the air. “You wish to buy the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe.”

She nodded demurely. “Do you deliver?”

He certainly did.

Y
OU NEVER SAW A MAN
, mortal or immortal, strut around so. It took us a few days to get all the ingredients for a New England boiled dinner together, during which time we were treated to multiple retellings of the story of the sale, with the hunt, the chase, and the astonishing moment of the kill. What a triumph for the good gentlemen of the Criterion company! What invaluable documentation of the development of spiritualism as a movement in America, throwing new light on its evolution on the West Coast!

The dinner itself consisted of a big chunk of beef brisket, boiled, with side bowls of boiled potatoes, boiled onions, boiled cabbage, and boiled parsnips. There was brown bread with raisins, but even that was water-cooked, steamed in a can over the coals, like a plum pudding. Everything was liberally buttered and mashed, with lots of salt and pepper, which it very much needed, especially the beef.

In honor of the occasion the meal was served indoors, on our rickety kitchen table made bright with a sheet of checked oilcloth. We crowded around, Oscar and Porfirio in our two chairs and Einar and I seated on kegs from the storeroom, basking in the steamy warmth. Juan Bautista was obliged to take his meals in his rooms nowadays, lest John Barrymore attempt to commit suicide in his absence, and Imarte was out on the prowl. It was pretty cheery in there, even with
the Boiled Everything, especially after Porfirio brought out an earthenware jug he’d been keeping warm in a covered basket.

“Okay, Yankee man,” he said, “it’s time for a toast. Hot rum punch, courtesy of the house.”

“Oh, my,” said Oscar, rising unsteadily to his feet, doubtless feeling the powerful gravitational force exerted by his ingested supper. “And isn’t this just the weather for it, too. I haven’t had rum punch in decades. You’re a prince, sir.”

“Hell, we always knew you’d sell that thing,” Porfirio lied, carefully tilting the jug to fill our graniteware mugs. Out jetted a stream of something as red as a streetwalker’s dress, dotted by bits of orange peel and clove and fragrant with fiery rum. We howled in anticipation and raised our drinks high.

“To a radiantly successful mission, Oscar,” Porfirio said. “Not only for unloading the pie safe, but for the commendation the Company has decided to grant you for the sheer volume of sociological material you compiled while you were trying.”

“Surprise!” Einar and I yelled, and Oscar turned pink.

Porfirio held out a hand for dignity and order. “And what could be more appropriate in your honor,” he said, “than a polycultural cocktail? The cranberry of New England, the orange of Old Spain, the peach of Georgia, spices from the Far East, and rum from Jamaica, all boiled and served as hot as your pursuit of the Willing Customer. We wish you many more, man.” He threw back his head and gulped the drink down, and we followed his example.

Oscar actually got misty-eyed. “I’d no idea,” he said. “A commendation? Imagine. All I’ve ever wished was to do my job, you know, to the best of my limited abilities. Setting aside false modesty, though”—and he stuck out his chest with pride—“I must say, when once I set my mind to accomplish a thing, I can’t be beat.”

“And what do we have for the winner?” Einar said, jumping to his feet. He gestured gracefully at an invisible prize. “Two months’ all-expenses-paid vacation at that fabulous Company resort, Pacifica
Three, on the beautiful island of Molokai! You’ll enjoy unlimited use of Company research facilities while dining on exotic tropical cuisine! When you’re not lounging by the library pool, you can saddle up a pony and explore the island’s natural wonders, or barter for anecdotal material at the friendly local leper colony. Other activities include windsurfing, spearfishing, and hot-air ballooning.

“But that’s not all!” He turned and gestured in the other direction. “Tanned, relaxed, and refreshed, you’ll return to an assignment personally selected by
you
. That’s right. You may choose to go through either:

“Door number one, to the lush plains of the Oklahoma Territory, where you’ll document consumerism in the developing settlement culture. Or,

“Door number two, just a canoe ride across to the beautiful Big Island of Hawaii, to report on the growing dependency of the native population on manufactured trade goods. Or,

“Door number three, to that all-male Queen of the Pacific Northwest, Seattle! You’ll cheer (and record) as the arrival of female citizens and quality merchandise changes this lumber boomtown into an American metropolis.”

Well, that was too much. Oscar’s legs gave way under him, and he sat, put his head in his hands, and cried for sheer happiness. I could have cried too, from envy. How often do immortals get choices of anything? And here was Oscar, who’d cheerfully trundle his peddler’s wagon into hell if the Company told him to, given the opportunity I’d been pining for. It just goes to show why one should do one’s best to be a good little machine.

I was preparing to drink to his health as Porfirio poured us another libation from the jug, when we were all alerted to the approaching presence of a mortal on the immortal arm of Imarte.

Porfirio halted in mid pour, scanning, and we tuned in as well. No trouble; the mortal was in a happy, lustful mood, slightly drunk, and Imarte wasn’t concerned.

“Why, sir, I declare I am simply in love with England,” she was
gushing. “I do feel that what we colonists gained in liberty was
quite
outweighed by our loss in culture. This must all seem so terribly rude to a gentleman like you-all.”

“My dear lady, who can feel the want of social graces in your fair presence?” was the gallant if somewhat adenoidal reply. We heard an indrawn breath, and then: “By Jove! Is that rum punch perfuming the night air?”

“I believe it’s some of the other lodgers here . . .” We heard her voice sharpen a little as she bustled after him, for he was coming down the passage to our kitchen like a devil after a soul. A moment later, he had stepped into the circle of lamplight, and we beheld a slightly weedy mortal youth clutching a leather valise to himself. He resembled Charles III of England, with the same sad, remote eyes; and their expression chilled further as he found himself in a room full of strangers. You could see him brightening, however, when he noticed our weapons and decided we were colorful and exotic.

“Oh, I say, though. Are you banditti?”

“No, señor, we are merely the staff here,” Porfirio said. “You must be aware that it is advisable to carry firearms in Los Angeles.”

“Quite!” Our visitor gave a horsey little giggle. “The code duello seems to rule in your streets; and may I say that, while I find the brevity of life here appalling, it certainly is lived with a manly lack of hypocrisy and cowardice.”

We blinked at him. “Thank you,” said Porfirio at last. “May we offer you a glass of punch, señor?”

“Yes, please. I shan’t be sorry for the warmth.” He set down his valise and rubbed his hands together. “For a tropical country it’s devilish cold here o’nights, you know.”

“Subtropical,” I corrected him absently.

“What?” He turned to stare at me, but then his attention focused on the glass Porfirio was holding out to him. “Oh, now
that’s
something like. To your good health, all.” He raised his glass to us and drank deeply. Imarte scowled at us from the doorway behind him.

“Mr. Rubery, dear, recollect what happens when a man mixes his
liquors. We don’t want Bacchus’s vine to make it difficult for us to offer myrtle to Venus, do we?” she told him rather acidly. He smiled into his empty glass, licked his chops, and turned to her with an awful leer.

“I’ve a constitution of iron, my dear. But let it never be said of me that I kept a lady waiting. Gentlemen, madam, I’m obliged to you for the potation.” He gave us a nod and set down the glass. Sliding an arm around Imarte’s waist, he let himself be pulled off in the direction of her bedroom.

“She’s going to be mad as hell with us if he passes out before she can get him talking about secret plans,” Einar said, grinning as he raised another toast to Oscar.

“He left his valise,” I said, nudging it with my boot.

“Don’t open it. It probably has one of those trick locks that spray tear gas, as in
From Russia, with Love,”
he warned me.

“More likely a spare pair of socks and a set of embroidered hankies,” said Oscar disdainfully. “What a prime example of a weak and decadent aristocracy. Did you see the way his teeth—”