Tim Powers - Dinner at Deviants Palace

DINNER ATDEVIANT'S PALACE

Tim Powers

Cover art by JohnBerkey

ISBN:0-441-14879-4

e-bookver. 1.0

TO THE THURSDAY NIGHT GANG:

Chris Arena, Greg Arena, Bill Bailey, JimBlaylock, Jenny Bunn, Pete Devries, Phil Dick, Jeff Fontanesi, Don Goudie,Chris Gourlay, Dashiell Hamster, Rick Harding, K. W. Jeter, Tom Kenyon, DaveLament, Tim Lament, Steve Malk, Phil Pace, Brendan Powers, Serena Powers andPhil Thibodeau...

... and the honorary members: RussGalen, Dean Koontz, Roy Squires, Joel Stein, Ted Wassard and Paul Williams ...

... and with thanks to Beth Meacham,most perceptive, persuasive and tactful of editors.

BOOK ONE:

And suddenly there's no meaning in ourkiss,

And your lit upward face grows, where welie,

Lonelier and dreadfuller than sunlight is,

And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky.

Rupert Brooke

crouched way up at the top of the wall in the rusty bed ofthe Rocking Truck, Modesto tugged his jacket more tightly across his chest,pushed back his hat and squinted around at the city. At the moment there was noone in particular that it would be lucrative to watch for, but just to keep inpractice the boy liked to climb up here and keep track of the comings andgoings in general. Below him to his left was the South Gate area, not quite itsusual crowded self because of the recent rain, and beyond that to the southeastthedirection that was nearly always downwindhe could see the ragged shacks andblack mud lanes of Dogtown, canopied by the snarls of smoke rising from theeternal fires in its trash-filled trenches.

The boy clambered over the collapsed cabto sit on the hood and look north. The broken-backed truck, as immovable as theage-rounded concrete wall it straddled, didn't shift under him; nor had it evermoved in the memory of anyone now living.

The towers made ragged brushstrokes ofblack down the gray northern sky, and at the skeletal top of the Crocker Towerhe could see bright orange pinpricks that he knew were torches; the night watchwas coming on duty early, and Modesto knew that their various spyglasses wouldbe turned to the east, watching for any sign of the army that was rumored to beapproaching from San Berdoo. And though even Modesto couldn't see them fromhere, he knew that out beyond the north farms there were armed men on horsebackpatrolling the Golden State Freeway from the Berdoo Freeway in the north to thePomona in the south.

Thirty feet below his perch he noticed agrotesque vehicle moving south down Fig Street toward him, and with a grinhalf-admiring and half-contemptuous he identified it as the carriage of GregRivas, the famous pelican gunner. Like most kids his age, Modesto consideredgunning a slightly embarrassing historical curiosity, conjuring up implausibleimages of one's parents when they were young and foolish.... Modesto wasfar more interested in the more defined

and consistent rhythms of Scrap, and thenew dances like Scrapping, Gimpscrew and the Bugwalk.

With a creaking of axles and an alteredpace in the clopping of the horses' hooves, the vehicle turned west ontoWoolshirt Boulevard, and Modesto knew Rivas was just arriving early for hisnightly gig at Spink's.

Bored, the boy turned his attention backto the thrillingly ominous lights in the Crocker Tower.

The carriage was an old but painstakinglypolished Chevrolet body mounted on a flat wooden wagon drawn by two horses, andthough the late afternoon rain drabbed the colors and made the streamers droop,it was by far the grandest vehicle out on Woolshirt Boulevard. Old superstitionsabout rain being poisonous had kept the usual street crowd indoors today,though, and only two boys emerged from a recessed doorway and scampered up tocry, somewhat mechanically, "Rivas! Hooray, it's Gregorio Rivas!"

Rivas pushed aside the beaded curtain thathung in place of the long gone door, stepped out onto the flat surface of thewagon and, squinting in the light drizzle, braced himself there as his driversnapped the reins and drew the vehicle to a squeaking halt in front of thebuilding that was their destination.

Like most of the structures that stoodalong the north to south midcity line, this one was a well-preserved shell ofold concrete with neat sections of woodwork filling the gaps where plate glasshad once fabulously stretched across yards and yards of space. The building wasthree stories high and, again typically for this area, the wall at the top, nowdecorated with a profusion of spikes and ornaments and sun-faded flags, wasjaggedly uneven with an ancient fracture. Over the doorway strips of metal andcolored glass had been nailed to spell out, in letters a foot tall, SPINKS.

"Here," Rivas called to theboys, "never mind it today, no one's around. Anyway, I think I need acouple of new prompterslately the goddamn parrots sound more enthusiasticthan you guys."

As if to illustrate his point, one of theparrots nesting in the top of the nearest palm tree called down, "Rivas!Rivas!"

"Hooray!" added another one from a tree farther upthe street.

"Hear that?" Rivas demanded ashe reached back inside the car for his hat and his vinyl pelican case. "Ithink it's because they work free, just for the art of it." He put on hishat, glanced around below him for unpuddled pavement, spotted an area andleaped to it.

"We don't, though, man,"one of the boys pointed out cheerily. Both of them held out their palms.

"Mercenary little mules," Rivasmuttered. He dug a couple of small white cards out of his vest pocket and gaveone to each boy. "There's a jigger apiece, and you should be ashamed totake so much."

"You bet we are, man." The pairdashed back to their sheltered doorway.

Rivas paused under the restaurant's awningto set his antique hat at the proper angle and comb his fingers through hisdark Van Dyke beard. Finally he pushed open the swinging doors and strodeinside.

A moment later, though, he was pursing hislips irritably, for his careful entrance had been wastedthe chandeliers, whichhad been lowered after the lunch crowd, still sat on the floor unlit, and theroom was so dim that if it weren't for the faint smells of stale beer and oldgrease the place could have been mistaken for a between-services church.

"Damn it," he yelped, stubbinghis toe against the edge of one of the chandeliers and awkwardly hopping overit, "where are you, Mojo? How come these things aren't lit yet?"

"It's early yet, Greg," came avoice from the kitchen. "I'll get to 'em."

Rivas picked his way around the woodenwheels of the chandeliers to the bar, lifted the hinged section and steppedbehind it. By touch he found the stack of clean glasses, and then the big roomechoed with the clicking of the pump as he impatiently worked the handle toprime the beer tap.

"There's a bottle of Currency Barrowsopen," called Mojo from the kitchen.

The edges of Rivas's mouth curled down ina sort of inverted smile. "The beer's fine," he said in a carefullycasual voice. He opened the tap and let the stream of cool beer begin fillinghis glass.

Old Mojo lurched ponderously out of thekitchen carrying a flickering oil lamp, and he crouched over the nearestchandelier to light the candles on it. "That's right," he saidabsently, "you're not crazy about the Barrows stuff, are you?"

"I'm a beer and whiskey man,"said Rivas lightly. "Fandango or the twins here yet?"

"Yeah, Fandango isthem's some of hisdrums on the stage there. He went for the rest."

There was a shuffling and banging from thedirection of the back hall just then, and a voice called, "That you, Greg?Help me with these, will you?"

"Whatever I can carry in one hand,Tommy." Tucking the pelican case under his arm and sipping the beer as hewent, Rivas groped his way to the back hall, relieved the puffing Fandango ofone of his smaller drums and led the way back across the already somewhatbrighter room to the stage.