The boy's confidence began to infect McAn. «Well, if this isn't Rivas,» he said, mostly to himself, «then I doubt if he'll be coming back at all. Tomorrow it'll be a week since I saw him in Irvine.»
Ahead of them they could see the high black band that was the wall, its uneven top edge indenting the orange sky. In one of the palm trees overhead a parrot exclaimed, «Hooray, it's Gregorio Rivas!» McAn grinned at Modesto and held up crossed fingers.
«Ah, mira, man, there is the wagon now!»
The boy was pointing at a wagon that was just entering the gate, being pulled by one overworked horse. When the two of them got closer to it, McAn sprinted to the curb to be able to see it better than just as a head-on silhouette. It was battered and powdered with dust, but he could read da-doo-ron-ron donuts on the side of it.
«It's who you described,» McAn admitted, trotting back to the center of the road. «Let's see if it's who I'm after.»
The horse was panting deeply and seemed to be letting the wagon coast, and McAn guessed that simply getting inside the Ellay walls had been these people's goal.
He strolled up to it as it waveringly approached, and he smiled up at the exhausted-looking young lady on the driver's bench. «Hi!» he said."I have an important message for Greg Rivas. Would he happen to be aboard?»
There was a pause, then, «Who are you?» the girl asked.
«My name is Fracas McAn.»
The wagon had zigzagged to a halt now, and the girl got up and disappeared inside. Modesto nudged McAn, who dutifully dug a fifth-card out of his pocket but held onto it.
After fully two minutes the girl reappeared, her arm around a tottering, unsteady figure with a bandaged head. The bandaged man sat down and smiled weakly at McAn, but it was several long seconds before McAn handed the fifth-card to the boy. Modesto snatched it, kicked his bike around and cranked it away up the street.
Rivas's smile remained in place but turned a bit sour when he became aware of the way McAn was staring at him. Damn it, he thought, you'd think I was an embalmed corpse. «Hello, Frake,» he said, glad that at least his voice hadn't deteriorated. «This is a coincidence, running into you first thing.»
«Well, actually, Greg,» said McAn, «it isn't. Could I hop up there and talk to you for a minute?»
«Sure. Barbara, could you step back so Frake can have the other half of the bench?»
McAn climbed up and perched beside Rivas. «I've got some important information for you, Greg,» he said. «I've had kids watching for you for days, 'cause I figure I owe you one for helping me get my quarry away last week. But first, tell me . . . tell me what happened! What's behind the walls of the Holy City? How did you get hurt? Why are you coming back from the west ?»
Rivas smiled. «I'll tell you the whole story over a pitcher of beer at Spink's, after I deliver my quarry to her father. But I can tell you this—I'm afraid you're out of a job. Jaybush is—if not dead exactly—certainly out of the Messiah business.»
McAn blinked. «You mean . . . how . . .» A slow grin built up on his face. «No kidding! I do want to hear about it. But let's have that pitcher before you deliver Miss Barrows. There are some aspects of that situation that I know and you need to be aware of.»
«How do you know her name?»
«I can see Spink's from here. I'll tell you when we're at a table. It isn't really,» he said, rolling his eyes toward the rear of the wagon, «a story for the ladies.»
«Okay.»
McAn hopped down to the pavement. «I'll meet you there,» he said, and started walking.
Barbara guided the wagon to Spink's, but their remaining horse was so tired that McAn got to the place first and was holding the front door open when Rivas stepped carefully down from the wagon.
«Thank you, Frake,» he said, «but I'm really not quite as frail as I look.» Once inside, he looked around. The chandeliers were lit and raised, though they were swinging a little, implying that Mojo had only recently cranked them up. The shadows of Noah Almondine's paper dolls seemed to Rivas to be waving at him. A young man he'd never seen before was sitting on the stage, tuning a pelican and exchanging desultory jokes with Tommy Fandango. Mojo was behind the bar, muttering weary curses and trying to unjam a clogged sink with a piece of wire.
«I can't believe it's been only ten days,» Rivas said, shaking his head gently. «Uh, could you buy the pitcher, Frake? I've got a fortune in the spirit bank but not a jigger on me.»
«Sure, Greg. How's this one?» asked McAn, indicating a table by the window.
Rivas grinned, for it was the table Joe Montecruz had been sitting at when he'd originally tried to talk Rivas into this redemption. «Appropriate,» he said, pulling out a chair before McAn could do it for him.
When they were both seated, Mojo ceased his labors and came puffing over. «What'll it be, gents,» he recited.
«A pitcher of beer and two glasses, Mojo,» said Rivas.
The old man looked at him disinterestedly, and then his eyes went wide in recognition. «Leaping Moses, Greg !» he exclaimed. «Damn, boy, what happened to you?»
«Nothing some beer won't start to fix.»
Mojo turned to the stage. «Hey, Tommy, look who's back! With a full beard!»
Fandango peered across the room at them. «Oh, hi, Greg . . . uh . . .» He wiped his mouth uncertainly and glanced at the pelicanist, who was now staring at Rivas with alarmed hostility. «Are you back, then?»
Rivas smiled and waved. «No, no. I'm . . . retired.» I keep sitting at this table and telling people I'm retired, he thought. «So,» he said, turning to McAn. «What's up? Why did you post a watch-for-'em on me?»
McAn said, «I've been hired to do the breaking and restoring of Urania Barrows.»
Mojo brought the pitcher and glasses, and Rivas didn't reply until the old man had bumbled off and they'd filled the glasses. «Well, you're welcome to it, as it happens,» he said, «but old Irwin Barrows doesn't know that. When we made the deal, I insisted on doing that part too. Doesn't he think I'll object?»
McAn frowned, as if trying to think of a civilized way to say something uncivilized, then obviously gave up and just said, «Irwin Barrows intends to have you killed as soon as you've brought his daughter back.»
Rivas laughed softly and took a long sip of the beer. «Does he indeed,» he said, letting the heavy glass clank back down onto the table. «Because he thinks we'll be wanting to run off together?»
«Right. So, uh, what I want to tell you is, if you do want to run off with her, just get what money you've got, and go, right away. Don't go near his place.»
Rivas stared at McAn, then looked around the bar. «I've been recognized,» he said, «and even though it's not crowded right now, it's a safe bet that you have too. He'd know you warned me.»
«As I said, I owe you one.»
«Thanks, Frake.» Rivas had another pull at the beer. At least he was making the glass easier to lift. «But as a matter of fact, I don't want to run off with her. I'd like to return her to him. How does he plan to do it, anyway?»
«He's pinning his main hopes on you being killed in a duel with her fiancй. I gather you called him out before you left, and he's going to insist on satisfaction.»
«Ah. Yeah, I called him sport. You've seen him?»
McAn nodded. «Not even eyebrows. Of course, in the shape you're in, you'd certainly be justified in asking for an extension on the date of the duel. I'm not sure what Barrows would think of that. I guess if you're not interested in his daughter anymore—and haven't messed with her during this redemption—»
«I haven't.»
«—Then he probably won't care what you do. Unless you insulted him, too . . . ?»
«Maybe I did. It all happened a long time ago.» He reached out, hoisted the heavy pitcher and topped up his glass, reflecting that all this weight-lifting ought to help him get back in shape.