Thomas nodded dully. "Well, that's…" He could think of no appropriate way to finish the sentence.
"That's the bad news, my boy," Gladhand said. "The good news is this: I have selected you to be the new majordomo of this weary old city of the angels. You can help us organize the fortification of the city against Alvarez. I was going to appoint Gaudete, but he chopped himself in half with that incredibly foolish cannon trick."
"What exactly happened there?"
"Only one of his cannons fired, so instead of sending the chain flying at the androids, it whipped like a rotary weedcutter and ripped to bits all the men standing nearby."
"I see. Where'd the frogs come from?"
Gladhand chuckled. "Apparently there were tornadoes over the Ravenna swamps when the Santa Ana wind collided with the cold current from the north. The twisters sucked up the frogs—it seems there was an incredible population of the little beasts this year— and the storm's wind current carried them here. It scared the devil out of the androids." Gladhand searched his pockets fruitlessly for a cigar. "Oh well. I'll send out for some. That was a full-scale retreat that came charging at you—and that's doubtless how you survived; they were more interested in escaping than in killing you, though you did singlehandedly manage to kill 20 of them before this sword-cut distracted you. Our guns were pounding them to dust out front, but it was the frogs that broke their spirit. Androids fear what they can't understand."
"Well, that's silly of them," Thomas said dryly. "What have you got there?" Gladhand happily stripped the strings and paper off the object, and held it up. It was an android head, and after the first few seconds of shock Thomas recognized it.
"So that's who that stone head in the theater basement was of," he said.
"Well… they're both copies from the same original, let's say. Actually," Gladhand said, peering at the thing, "our bombs of a week ago don't seem to have done all that much harm; just a crushed-in section here in the back… and a few evidences of surgery, where they were trying to fix the padmu. And now he'll never get his memory bank back." Gladhand set the head unceremoniously on the floor.
"Later today I'll show you your office," Gladhand continued. "I think you'll be impressed. There's a mahogany desk so big you could sublet half of it as an apartment. It has a well-stocked bar, a walk-in humidor in case you should ever take up smoking, a hand-carved—"
"I get the picture," interrupted Thomas with a smile.
"Yeah, just bide your time here for a few days, and then L.A. will embark on a whole new era, with you and me at the tiller and helm." Gladhand nodded to the nurse, who promptly took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. "I'll see you later," he said. "Right now I have about a million things to do, and the first one is get some cigars. Nurse, if you'll be so good as to propel me out."
"Mr. Gladhand," Thomas said. "You've forgotten your head."
"Oh yes! Thank you. I want to hang it somewhere appropriate; maybe I'll put it on the shoulders of old Johnny Bush-head."
The mayor picked up the head, rewrapped it, and waved as the nurse wheeled him out of the room.
Thomas lay back down in the bed and shut his eyes.
Nurses were constantly hurrying by in the hall, asking each other in clipped tones about sulfa drugs, doctors, blood counts and leg splints, but Thomas was soon asleep.
In a dream he stood again on the high Merignac tower, clutching his broken fishing pole, and watched helplessly as the girl-faced bird creature dwindled to a distant speck in the vast sky.
A visitor arrived late in the afternoon. Thomas awoke with a start when she nudged his leg.
"Wha… ?" he muttered, blinking. "Oh. Hi, Skooney."
"Hi, Rufus." She sat down on the bed. "I hear you've been getting into trouble again."
"Yeah, that's the facts of the case, all right. This left hand, what's left of it, is paralyzed."
"Gladhand says he doesn't see why that should prevent you from playing Touchstone."
Thomas blinked. "You mean he still intends to do the play?"
"Oh sure. He's planning on making it grander than ever now. Even thinking of blocking off some boulevard and performing it outdoors."
Thomas nodded vaguely, and after a moment pounded his good fist into the mattress. "This is hard to say, Skooney, but… I've got to say it. I'm not going to do the play." Wait a minute, let me finish. I'm not taking the Majordomo post, either. "I'm…" He shrugged. "I'm leaving the city."
Skooney bit her lip. "Why?"
He waved his hand uncertainly. "I haven't done well here. No, I haven't. I've lost my hand, my best friend, and the girl I was in love with. The city has a bad taste for me."
Skooney shifted uncomfortably. "I," she began, "I thought maybe you and I had some sort of possibility."
"So did I, Skooney. But I've lost something here."
"You think you'll find it somewhere else?"
"No. But I don't want to stay here with its grave. I believe I'll continue my interrupted trip to San Pedro. Sign aboard a tramp steamer, like I intended to from the start."
"What do you know about that kind of life?"
"Nothing. That's what it has going for it."
"Oh. Well," said Skooney, standing up, "that leaves me with nothing to say. Does Gladhand—Pelias— know?"
"No. I only made up my mind a little while ago."
"You want me to tell him?"
"Yeah, why don't—no, I guess I'd better." Skooney lingered in the doorway. "When are you going to leave?"
"The doctors say they'll release me in two days. That's Tuesday. I guess I'll go then."
"You're… absolutely set on doing this?" Thomas stared down at his bandaged and slung arm.
"Yes," he said. When he looked up a moment later, Skooney was gone.
Gladhand visited Thomas three more times, though Skooney stayed away. Tuesday afternoon, when the doctors said he could go, Thomas found Jeff waiting for him in front of the hospital.
"Hi, Jeff," said Thomas, pleased to see someone he knew.
"Afternoon, Rufus. I've got the car parked around the corner. What would you say to a bit of beer at the old Blind Moon?"
Thomas smiled, erasing some of the weary lines around his eyes. "By God, that's the best idea I've heard since the last time we went there. And I'll pay; Gladhand gave me a lot of money this morning."
"I won't argue, then."
The streets were crowded, and it was at least half an hour before they arrived at the Blind Moon. To Thomas's relief, Jeff didn't try to talk him out of leaving the city. Instead, they discussed the relative merits of domestic and imported wines, the dangers inherent in the use of chain-shot, and the rain of frogs whose dried, raisin-like corpses could still be seen strewn like bizarre seeds in the empty lots and back alleys of the city.
They emptied their eighth pitcher of beer and called for a ninth. As a waitress passed through the fast-dimming room lighting the candles, Thomas noticed the ghosts at the other tables. There was Spencer, his red hair hanging down over his eyes, laughing as he told some long, involved joke. Negri sat nearby, pretending not to listen, or at least not to be amused. Gardener Jenkins nodded politely to Thomas as he poured bourbon into his beer glass, and Ben Corwin, standing outside on the pavement, pressed his nose against one of the windowpanes, wondering who'd stand an old,man to a drink.
"Let's… drink to these ghosts, Jeff," Thomas said, swaying in his chair as he waved his beer glass at them.
"Right," agreed Jeff, topping off both glasses. "Here's to you ghosts!" he said.
"Save us a chair and a glass," Thomas added, and then the two young men drained their glasses in one long, slow draft.