a long breath of relief, relaxing the stiff fingers tensed around her cane. She had to admit that she didn't much like Eric's three-against-the-world plan either, but she knew enough to trust him. Still, with the two of them fighting, this little mission was going to be even more difficult.
'The whole place used to be on a sixteen hundred-foot hill, five miles from beach to castle. But now…' He shrugged. The ocean had swallowed most of what once was a hill. Lapping only a few hundred feet away from the buildings, the water swirled and paced, as if waiting hungrily for the rest of the shore.
Five clumsily constructed docks floating on oil drums spread out into the water like a bony hand, far enough to allow ships to tie up without anchoring out to sea.
'That's awfully nice of them to have built this,' Tracy said, as Blackjack helped her over the side onto the dock.
'They don't do anything around here to be nice. It's here to bring in customers. Period.'
Eric slipped the compound bow over his shoulder, adjusting the quiver of arrows on his hip. It wasn't as nice as his old bow, but it would do.
Blackjack gave a few last-minute instructions to his crew, then vaulted over the railing, his saber jangling against his leg. 'Let's go have some fun, shall we?'
They wrangled their way through the crowded docks bustling with people loading and unloading cargo from their ships. Some brought bound women, hefting a woman over one shoulder and a sack of grain over the other. Two sailors wrestled with a reluctant cow that refused to walk down the gangplank, pausing instead to relieve its bowels.
There was no consistent fashion as to what people wore. Men and women alike wore the uniforms of scavengers, mismatched scraps of whatever they could find. A suede jacket, once worth eight hundred dollars, was worn over a too-large polyester shirt that had brought in $8.99 to J. C. Penney. The one consistent item they all wore was a weapon, their hands never straying too far from the butts of revolvers, the hilts of knives. All eyes were at once suspicious, fearful, predatory.
The ships that crowded the docks were of all sizes and shapes. Rowboats hugged against schooners, catamarans nosed between yachts. Some boats were homemade hybrids, designed to accommodate whatever materials were on hand, with homemade sails fashioned from tarps stitched together.
The dock bounced and swayed in the water as Tracy, Eric, and Blackjack nudged their way through the bustling people. Occasionally someone would fall off the side of the dock, into the water or onto a ship, but people acted as if that was to be expected. One man elbowed past Tracy, each hand gripped tightly around the throat of two squawking chickens. A cloud of feathers from their flapping wings puffed into her face and made her sneeze.
'There,' Tracy said, waving the feathers away with one hand and scratching her nose with the other. 'Over there on the first dock.'
Eric and Blackjack followed her nod. Icicles sprouted in their stomachs at the recognition. There was no mistaking the ship lashed alongside the first dock.
The Centurion.
'It's like something out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,' Tracy said in wonderment as she looked around.
'It is amazing,' Blackjack agreed, 'no matter how many times you come here.'
'God, it's like those bazaars in Marrakech or somewhere. You expect to see snake handlers any second now.'
Eric didn't say anything. He watched; he studied. Tracy was right, though. Whatever Hearst Castle looked like before the quake, it had since been transformed into a giant marketplace crowded with jostling, sweating, dirty people, each with something to buy, sell, or trade.
'This is the courtyard of Casa Grande,' Blackjack explained. 'Casa Grande's that big four-story mother there. That's where old William Randolph used to hump Marion Davies, when he wasn't having Clark Gable over for the weekend.' He pointed to various areas beyond the building. 'Over on the other side are a few more mansions. One's a whorehouse now, the other two are kinda like hotels. That's where Rhino and Angel will be staying while they're here.'
Tracy nodded. 'Casa del Sol, Casa del Monte, and, uh, Casa del something. Oh yeah, Casa del Mar. They were all built as guesthouses.'
Eric turned to look at her. 'I didn't know you were a Hearst Castle buff.'
'I'm not. I'm court artist, remember? I got my start with Patty Hearst's trial when they shot up that sporting goods store. I used to sit in that courtroom and sketch her, thinking how, except for a couple hundred million dollars, there wasn't much difference between us. A couple of Homecoming Queen-types trying to… I don't know… matter.' She glanced off into the lush green hills surrounding them. 'Anyway, I've been here a dozen times to study the art works. The place is a kaleidoscope of art treasures.'
'Yeah, well, when the present occupants are done, it'll be a kaleidoscope of junk.'
Street vendors were shouting at passers-by, hawking their wares with a festive enthusiasm.
'Am-mu-ni-tion!' one bald man with a black mustache shouted. 'We make ammo for almost any gun. C'mon in here and check us out.' A line of people with various guns formed around the open-air booth. It was like a carnival, Eric thought, remembering the last one he'd been to. A Fireman's Fish Fry and Carnival. The kids ate corn dogs, then insisted on immediately riding the Twister. Afterward the corn dogs were deposited on the grass in a mushy heap.
While the bald man gathered potential customers, a teenaged version of the man hunched over a Corbin Swaging Press, turning a.22 Long Rifle case into a.224-caliber bullet for a woman in a red hunting cap clutching a Mini-14. A spool of copper refrigeration tubing was coiled on the ground next to the press, soon to be turned into bullet casings.
Next door to him a fat woman in a cowboy hat was gluing feathers to shafts, while an even fatter woman fastened nocks onto the ends of the arrows. 'We got arrows,' she barked to no one in particular. 'Reasonable prices.' She saw Eric looking at her and spoke directly to him. 'Fletching is real turkey feathers, mister.'
Eric inspected the feathers, tossed them back down on the table. 'Pigeons.'
She threw her hands up and cackled out a laugh that had people turning to see what the noise was. 'Pigeons is right,' she said, and cackled again.
Next door to this booth was a shoe repair shop. An old man with quivering hands and a kindly face did his best to patch up shoes and sneakers. Some customers he turned away, unable to help, always giving them a sad smile of apology. Eric noticed the faded blue numbers tattooed on the underside of his wrist and felt a sharp pang of humility. Here was a man who had survived the concentration camps of Germany and who was surviving still, offering good humor to those around him. Of all the sights he'd seen so far in Liar's Cove, this one impressed him the most.
'Those guys with the Hearst Castle T-shirts,' Blackjack said, tugging on Eric's sleeve, 'those are the security force around here. They'll know Rhino and his gang and probably can tell us where to find them.' He walked over to one of the security force, a skinny kid with a.22 Hi-Standard Durango revolver sticking out of the pocket of his corduroy pants. He wore a white T-shirt with an image of Hearst Castle on it and five stripes of dirt across the chest where he'd wiped his fingers. He was talking to a young girl, no older than fifteen, who wore a thin steak knife in her belt. Eric watched Blackjack talk to the kid, who grudgingly answered, anxious to brush the black man off so he could get back to the girl. But Blackjack wouldn't be brushed off. He kept smiling and talking, leaning his six feet four inches over the kid until he got what he wanted.
'Bad news,' he said, when he returned.
'Is there any other kind around here?' Tracy asked.
'Rhino and Angel are in the Main Vestibule.'
Eric shrugged. 'So?'
'So, that's where the guy who runs Liar's Cove is. The guy I was hoping we'd be able to avoid. You see all this scum around here?' He swept his hand in a wide arc. 'Well, multiply it by a hundred and you get a feel for the moral level of BeBop.'
