Dinner at Deviant's Palace (25 page)

He pushed open the door and had taken two steps into the coolness of the place when a hard hand closed on his shoulder. “Trash bins are out back, Chucko,” said a bored, unfriendly voice.

“Excuse me,” said Rivas, “I know I’m not dressed appropriately, but I simply want to find out whether—”

“Go somewhere else to find out, Chucko. Right now hit the road.”

“I’m Gregorio Rivas,” he said angrily, “and I’m the star performer at Spink’s in Ellay, which I imagine even you’ve heard of. Now all I want to do is—”

He was swung around and propelled with surprising force at the door, which slammed open when he hit it, and he was still moving too fast to negotiate the steps, and he wound up thudding into the hot dust and rolling several yards. As he was struggling dizzily to get up, something clanked on the ground near him. “No hard feelings, Chucko,” the man said, a moment before closing the door.

Half stunned but at least sitting up, Rivas blinked around stupidly until he saw what the man had thrown after him. It was a half-pint bottle, one-third full and with a few bread crumbs in it, of the cheapest local whiskey. Rivas snatched it up, uncorked it with his loosening teeth and drained it in a series of heroic swallows that sluiced the dust off his bristly chin with dribbled whiskey and made tears cut tracks through the dust on his gaunt cheeks.

“You’re looking good, Greg,” came a woman’s husky voice from right behind him.

He paused, then slowly lowered the bottle. Her voice had brought back her name. “Hello, Lisa,” he said.

She walked around to where he could see her. She doesn’t look bad, he thought. Some gray in her hair, more lines around her eyes and mouth… at least she hasn’t got fat. “I heard you were doing real well in Ellay,” she said. He couldn’t tell whether she was amused or pitying.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked her. “These clothes, my grooming, this fine old liquor I’m sipping?”

“The way restaurateurs hasten to serve you,” she agreed.

“Serve me to the canalside dogs. Listen, Lisa,” he said, wishing he hadn’t had the liquor, for he could feel it hitting his abused system hard, “is there any of that big one left?”

She stared down at him. “A little. Not as much as what you’re maybe thinking.”

“All I want is a place to sleep—a kitchen corner and a blanket is fine—for tonight, and maybe tomorrow night, no longer than that, and a bit of food, and enough jiggers to get some liquor and clothes.”

“I’d recommend a bath, too,” she said.

“Didn’t I say that? I meant to.”

She seemed to relax. “Okay, Greg. But that spends it, you understand? Not a drop of change.”

“Sure.” He wobbled to his feet. “Thanks.”

“What are you back here for? And so trashed-looking? It’s down this way, along the canal a half mile. Can you walk?”

“Yeah, half a mile, anyway. I’m…” He’d be doing her no favor to let her in on the Irvine-Venice connection. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Been looking down sewers, it seems like. What’d you do to your hand?”

“Mashed it. Saw a doctor today. He splinted my first two fingers and had to cut off two.”

She stopped. “Jesus, Greg! Can you still play your… what was it, pelican?”

“Right. I don’t know. Holding the bow shouldn’t be too hard, and as for plucking the strings, I never used the missing fingers much anyway. I guess it depends on how the two I’m left with heal up.”

“Huh. Mashing your hand have to do with finding this person?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody going to come looking for you? In rough ways?”

“No. This,” he said, waving his bandaged hand, “was an accident. Nobody
did
it to me.”

“Okay.” For a while they trudged along in silence, then she said, “You know, it was a shock to hear your name after all this time. I was with a guy there in the Lancing, and I hear this commotion by the front door, like a bum’s trying to get in, and then I hear the bum say he’s you. And then I ditch this guy and walk outside and it
is
you, sitting in the dirt and soaking your beard with cheap whiskey! You’re lucky I even still recognized you.”

“Reckon I am,” said Rivas shortly, not relishing this conversation.

“Are you in, like,
disguise
, or are you really this low?”

“I’m in goddamn
disguise
, okay?”

“You’re as grouchy as ever, that’s for sure.”

“I just lost two
fingers
, do you mind? I’m never at my most charming right after amputations.”

“Not a drop of change, Rivas. Not the price of a cup of beer.” Her tone was amiable but obviously sincere.

She lived in a narrow one-story house that fronted on the canal, with its own tiny pier and a flock of ducks hanging around in case anybody might throw bread crusts. She had obviously prospered, for on the roof he could see a maintained-looking water tank and the pole-mounted propeller of a windmill. She led him in and showed him where the bath was, and when he emerged twenty minutes later she had men’s clothes right in the house that fit him well enough. She’d cooked up scrambled eggs with some canal shrimps and onions and garlic while he was in the tub, and he cheered up immensely when he smelled it.

He sat down at her kitchen table, picked up his fork, and then didn’t speak for fifteen minutes. “God,” he said finally as he sat back after the last swallow, “thanks. I believe I was about to expire.”

“You’re welcome. Want a drink?”

“Oh no, I’d better not, I—well—maybe it’ll help me sleep.”

“Look at it as medicine,” she agreed drily. “What, beer, whiskey, tequila? No Currency.”

“To hell with Currency. Uh… tequila.”

“Coming up.”

She brought him a big shot with beer and salt and a quartered lemon on the side. He ignored the salt and lemon, bolted the tequila and chased it with the beer.

He looked up at her helplessly. “Somehow I’m still not sleepy.”

Her smile was becoming tired, but she refilled the glasses.

When he’d downed the third set he had to admit that, despite how dead for sleep he ought to be, the alcohol was giving him some kind of spurious energy and restlessness. “Maybe a walk,” he said, and though it was hard to speak he felt entirely sober, “would relax me a bit.”

“Okay, Greg. Can you find your way back here?”

“Sure. Okay if I borrow a couple of jiggers? Just pocket change.”

“Of course. I may be out myself when you get back, but if you yank on the fern by the front door—it’s plastic, the fern, I mean—it opens the latch. Got that?”

“Yank the fern, right.”

“And I’ll leave out the stuff you want—a shoulder pouch and a fifth of something, right?”

“That’s it. Tequila will be fine.”

She cocked her head and gave him a troubled look. “Am I going to have to worry about you, Greg?”

Even with shock, liquor and exhaustion working on him he could see that she wasn’t concerned that he might rob her or bring rowdy drunks back to her place; touched, he told her, “Nah, Lisa, I’m okay. Just going to have a drink at the old Bom Sheltr.”

“Do be careful. Here’s half a pint, which will buy you more than you ought to have, probably. And I can get you more tomorrow, if you need it.”

“Thanks, Lisa. I’ll pay it all back as soon as—”

“No,”
she said. “No. Pay me back and you’ve put a bit of tilt on the scales again. Do it my way and we’ll be all square, with no reason to even speak to each other if we pass in the street.” Her smile had not faltered or become strained.

He knew he wasn’t understanding this, so he didn’t pretend to be hurt or angry. “Okay.” He got up, pocketed the half-pint card and walked, pretty steadily, to the door, and opened it. Somehow the sky had already gone molten in the west behind the tall palm trees, and the long shadows were purple. He turned back to her and said, “But thanks.”

She waved.
“Por nada.”

The air had cooled outside, and though at noon it had smelled only of dust and baking pavement, now at twilight it was elusively scented with jasmine and gardenia and the not so distant sea. He scuffed thoughtfully down the canalside path, kicking an occasional pebble into the water, pondering the fact that he’d become a different man since leaving Venice five or six years ago…. No, Greg, he told himself, be honest, since leaving Ellay five days ago. Was it an improvement? It didn’t feel like it.

The flavors of the breeze changed as he walked toward the sea; now there was smoke in the air, the smoke from a hundred basement Mexican and Chinese kitchens, and though he knew he was probably imagining it he thought he detected tobacco and marijuana and perfume and the quiver of distant music. He remembered having whimsically wondered today whether the ghost of young Rivas might still haunt these bars and bridges and canals. Let’s go see, he thought, whether I can catch him out of the corner of my eye.

He smiled almost sadly when he rounded the last corner and saw, in the still vacant paved yard, the dozens of pieces of plexiglass set flush with the old concrete, for they reminded him of his very first days of working here, washing cups and pitchers in the yellow afternoon light that filtered down through the translucent plexiglass skylight. The upright, wedge-shaped shed which was the top of the entry stairs was a little flimsier-looking now, and the lettering on the sign over the doorway had been repainted carelessly at least once; but several more tall poles had been planted in the dirt or nailed to the sides of the shed, and the many lengths of wire and string draped from one to another were lavishly flagged with bits of cloth and colored plastic and tinfoil; and through the soles of his feet he fancied he could feel the bass beat of subterranean music. He pushed his disordered hair back from his forehead, straightened his borrowed coat and crossed the yard to the descending stairs.

The band was noisy and only just competent, but the place had so many tunnels and burrows that it wasn’t difficult to find a table from which the music was just a remote crashing. Candles behind colored glass threw tinted shadows, reminding him of one of the worlds he’d seen in Jaybush’s memory, the world where the orange spider-things had each cast two shadows, a red and a blue.

A waitress arrived. He’d never seen her before, and she obviously wasn’t interested in who he was. He ordered a tequila with water on the side, and she strolled away to get it.

All at once it came to him what it was that he’d been reminded of by the sensation of falling this afternoon, when the Blood dealer had dumped him and the far-gone boy onto the trash pile; for an instant it had taken him back to the at-rest-in-free-fall sensation of being in the long wait between planets. But that wasn’t a memory of his own—that was Jaybush’s. It didn’t please him to find himself sharing the Messiah’s recollections.

During his third tequila, just as he was getting ready to leave and walk back to the Ladybug Canal, a lean, grinning middle-aged man walked up to him hesitantly, pointing at him. Rivas couldn’t remember ever having seen him before.

“Greg?” the man said. “It’s Greg, right? Rivas!”

He could have denied it, but the man at REALIGNMENT AND BALANCING having doubted him and called him Chucko, and the irresponsibility induced by the tequila, made him smile and say, “Right.”

“I knew it! You remember me, don’t you?” The man dragged a chair over and sat down at Rivas’s table.

Ordinarily Rivas would probably have objected to the unsought company, but tonight he wanted reassurance—admiration, if only from this silly little man. “Remind me.”

“Jack Frenchfry. I been working here forever. Remember? I helped you arrange some of your first songs—polished ’em for you.”

Like hell you ever did, thought Rivas; but, “Sure, I remember you, Jack,” he said. “So how’s the old place doing?”

“Real good, Greg. Old Hanker died two years ago—he was real mad at you, but I told him, ‘Hey, Greg is a genius,’ I said, ‘and geniuses can’t be bothered with things like giving notice.’ Am I right? Hah? Yeah, they wanted me to take over the place when he died, but I told ’em I’d rather stay maiterdee, out where I can
meet the people
. I like meeting people, you know? That’s the kind of person I am.”

“Sure, Jack.” The man was beginning to depress him, but before Rivas could kill his drink and go, Frenchfry had ordered him another.

“You know who this guy is, Doris?” Frenchfry said to the waitress. “This is Greg Rivas from Spink’s in Ellay. We’re old friends. He comes back to see me every chance he gets, don’t you, Greg?”

“Sure,” said Rivas, feeling dizzy.

“You don’t look like him,” the waitress said. “And who needs old Rivas anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Rivas, shaking his head.

“Just bring him the drink, will you, Doris?” The unnecessary harshness in Frenchfry’s voice made it clear to Rivas that the man had no particular authority over the girl. “If the new boss was here, Greg, he’d let me make it on the house—but he’s in Ellay, on business. Sorry. You know how it is trying to deal with damn
clerks
and
cashiers
.”

Rivas’s chest had gone cold and he fumbled in his pocket to see if he had enough left to cover this unwanted drink. He did, but barely, only if he ludicrously undertipped the waitress.
That’ll
impress her with me, he thought.

“Yeah, I just kind of work here part time,” said Frenchfry expansively, “in like an
advisory
capacity. Fact is, I quit too, a while ago. This new boss started yelling at me about some crap or other, and I walked out. Who needs ’em, eh?” He leaned forward with raised eyebrows and poked Rivas painfully in the chest. “You know something?”

Rivas’s drink was clanked down in front of him, and he pushed all his money across the table to the girl without looking at her. She took it and left with at least no spoken comment.

“You know something?” Frenchfry repeated.

“What,” said Rivas dully.

“You and me, Greg—we’re two of a kind.”

“Jesus.” Rivas pushed his chair back and stood up. Why had he come here?

“Hey, Greg, where are you going?” Frenchfry started to get up too. “I know, you want to go to a better place, right? With girls, if I remember
you
correctly, eh? Listen, there’s a place I go to a lot nearby where they got girls that’ll—”