The Sixteen Burdens by David Khalaf Page A

pocket watch.
    “Now, you can leave if you want,” Chaplin said. “Or you can stay and help me find your mother. We have a lot to do before we can face Atlas.”
    He was giving his watch a few turns when he suddenly looked up.
    “Speaking of. When Mary shot Atlas, did she wound him?”
    Gray remembered the gunshots, the bullets flying into Atlas’s chest, and the crystalline barrier over the man’s flesh that glowed with energy when he and Gray made contact.
    “The bullets hit him,” Gray said. “But they didn’t take.”
    “Didn’t take?”
    “They bounced off him.”
    Chaplin closed his watch and pocketed it.
    “That’s discouraging.”
    “How so?”
    “Atlas has always been tough,” Chaplin said. “But around you, he appears to be indestructible.”

 
     
     
     
    C HAPTER F OURTEEN
     
    G RAY FELT LIKE a movie star; he hated the feeling. Riding in the back seat of Chaplin’s 1933 Pierce Silver Arrow, drivers and pedestrians alike turned to see who was being chauffeured in the slick luxury car. Gray sat low in the seat.
    “Why don’t you have a driver?”
    “Drivers are expensive.”
    “But you’re rich!”
    “I’m frugal. The truly rich usually are.”
    Paulette had compelled him to buy the luxury vehicle, Chaplin said, because people expected it of him. The Silver Arrow was one of only five in the world.
    “I much preferred my old Studebaker Standard Six,” Chaplin said. “I used to drive everywhere in it. To the beach. To the movies. To the orphanage. Would you like to guess what color it was?”
    “Gray,” Gray said.
    “Technically it was more of a silver,” Chaplin said. “But that doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?”
    Chaplin drove twice as fast as Pickford, but he had far better control of his car. With the warm October breeze hugging his face, it felt like flying.
    They drove east on Sunset, then took the narrow Arroyo Seco Parkway north. It was Saturday morning and the traffic was light. They coasted east for what felt like forever, until the city finally gave up and yielded to acres of open land. Against the backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains, Gray saw a narrow, white building surrounded by nothing, like a ship anchored in a dirt sea. Poking out from behind it was a large oval surrounded by grass. A racetrack.
    “Do you like gambling?” Chaplin asked.
    Gray shrugged.
    “So long as I win.”
    “Good! That’s what I’m best at.”
    They entered the Santa Anita Race Track and walked straight to a members-only balcony. A man stood guard in front of a velvet rope. He unlatched it when he saw Chaplin, but stopped when he took in Gray and his tattered outfit.
    “He’s my valet,” Chaplin said.
    Chaplin took off his outer jacket and thrust it into Gray’s hands. The guard let them through with a wary look. Chaplin walked casually past, and Gray did his best to emulate him.
    The balcony suite was a chromium-and-marble extravaganza, decorated with men in sharp suits and women in flowery, flowing dresses. Gray felt the threadbare elbows of his own jacket and quickly slipped into Chaplin’s, even though it was too large.
    To the right was a bar and a string quartet playing soft music, the kind good for filling awkward silences but not much else. On the left was a sweeping balcony with an unobstructed view of the track, where horses were being trotted out for inspection.
    “Ain’t anyone interested in the horses?” Gray asked.
    “These types are more interested in refilling their champagne flutes,” Chaplin said.
    A stocky man with thinning white hair and round spectacles approached Chaplin and slapped him hard on the back.
    “Hi there, Charlie. Don’t see you here often. How’s that little studio of yours? Still afloat?”
    The man was smoking a cigar and tapped the ash on Gray’s shoe.
    Chaplin stiffened but he gave the man a gracious smile.
    “Oh, you know us, Mr. Mayer. United Artists is no powerhouse like MGM. I’m afraid we’re too creative; we just