Kaleidoscope Page 11

  Lots to glean, there. Such as, for instance, how Luna Chevreaux had come to know any attorney prominent enough to represent the Hilton Sisters. But before Jack could even go about finding a way to frame that question, Eileen was back to her husband and another run of carney lore.

  People and places. Name after name. Bill Lynch and the Lee brothers. Carl Sedlmayr. Nat Worman (“…you need somethin’ fixed, get it to Nat…”)

  Jack learned the histories of Tom Thumb and Little Egypt sitting in that side-open tent. The freaks talked and talked, and as the lanterns wicked low and shadows pushed from the corners of the canvas their voices began almost imperceptibly to override the sight of their extra or missing limbs, their lesions, their anatomic anomalies or folds of skin. These were the voices of a genuine family, Jack began dimly to realize, an extended family flung on railroad cars and gas wagons all over the country, a soiree of misfits returning with the frost each year for renewal in a familiar, if not familial reunion.

  There were celebrities on the billboard, but not on the backside. The Hilton Sisters who were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars fetched their own drinks right along with Half Track and Penguin. They got ribbed and kidded just like every other performer. And there were other named stars present as well, performers with royal status in this offbeat world, who were met with equal equanimity.

  Jack Earl himself dipped into the pavilion just before midnight, higher by a foot than The Giant, looking taller still with a ten-gallon hat perched on his lantern-jawed head.

  “Just in the neighborhood,” Earl replied to a casual question. “Thought I’d play me a hand or two of some cards. Get some of my money back from Tommy Speck.”

  “How long ya got, Earl?” Tommy was already clearing a crate for a table.

  “Not long enough.”

  It was odd to see a man eight and a half feet tall pull up a fifty gallon barrel for an ottoman.

  The world’s tallest man tipped back his ten-gallon to feature a weary face.

  “Got to hitch up with Barnum’s in Sarasota.”

  “Tell that shithead he can wait,” Cassandra challenged, as Tommy pulled out a deck of Players.

  “Tell P.T. I’m takin’ you fishing.”

  “Been fishin’ with you b’fore, Cassandra,” Earl winked. “An’ it damn near killed me.”

  The whole tent roared laughter. A slow smile eased The Giant’s craggy face. The deeply set eyes roamed the tent briefly before they settled at last on the only unmarked face under the tent.

  Without warning, Jack Earl reached over and took Jack Romaine’s dealing hand.

  “Don’t remember seein’ you anyplace,” Earl turned Jack’s hand palm-up without waiting for a reply.

  “I’m just a working man.” Jack resisted the urge to jerk his hand away. The tent was suddenly still as a house of stiffs. “Just started, really. Tommy’s showing me the ropes.”

  Earl shrugged as he shuffled the cards.

  “Ever’body’s got to start somewhere,” he said. “Word of advice, though. If yer willing.”

  “Sure.”

  “Get yerself an act. Walk nails, shit turds out yer mouth, somethin’. You don’ wanta be a brodie forever.”

  The pronouncement seemed to be received as a kind of benediction. A buzz of life and laughter resumed as if wound up from a gramophone’s seashell speaker and within seconds the tent was as raucous as ever.

  “Deal the man in, Tommy,” Earl said, and Jack took a familiar seat.

  They played a few hands. Small talk. Then Jack Earl turned to address Tommy Speck’s wife.

  “Ran into yer brother the other day. In Saratoga. Said he was pitchin’ for the Reds.”

  Jack kept a poker face.

  “He’s just tryin’ out,” Eileen blushed pleasure. “But Aaron’s good.”

  “Got himself a hell of an arm,” Tommy agreed.

  “They could use one,” Earl rejoined and Eileen laughed with everyone else.

  Jack let a couple of cards slide before he risked an aside to Mrs. Speck.

  “You from Cincinnati, Eileen?”

  “My family lives there,” she nodded brightly, and Tommy broke in smoothly.

  “Cain’t exactly call it home, though, can we, babe? Bein’ on the road alla time.”

  Jack passed it off with a friendly nod. He waited long enough to finish a few more hands before he folded.

  “I gotta hit the hay, gentlemen,” he announced, and with that excuse left the Specks and the other carnies to themselves.

  Skirting the pines back to his shack, Jack mulled over the information he had gleaned from the evening’s society. There were a couple of things, he decided. First off it was apparent that Tommy did not want Jack to know his wife hailed from Cincinnati. Why? Could be a simple matter of coincidence that Eileen Speck was a citizen of the Queen City. And what about Eileen’s brother? A traveling man, apparently, playing games from Ohio to Florida. Could he be Alex Goodman’s go-between? Had Goodman been using Eileen’s brother or someone in her family to shepherd Sally Price?

  Then there was that business with the Hilton sisters. Why had the twins come to Kaleidoscope in the first place? What made them think that Luna Chevreaux had the resources to end their indenturement?

  Something stirred in the shadows beyond the needles of pine. Moving between the moon and the trees. Jack pivoted carefully. Luna regarded him from a distance, nearly invisible in the late night’s lunar shadow.

  How long had she been watching?

  “Better get some rest, Jack.” The arc of a cigarette hissed to the sand. “Brodies start early.”

  Chapter seven

  Gimmick—the control on a crooked game of chance.

  The next morning put Jack behind a shovel and mallet trying to keep up with Tommy Speck as the little man pushed to complete preparations for the Saturday show. It was nearly noon when trucks came rolling down the sandy lane and Jack left his hammer and shovel to unload hay and oats and staples for the cookhouse.

  “For a beddy, this place takes a lot of work,” Jack observed.

  Speck grinned. “Kaleidoscope’s more than a beddy between seasons. It’s supply and credit, billboard and employment. It’s a listening post and a way station for people who don’t fit anyplace else.

  And it ain’t just geeks comin’ down. Take a look over there—”

  Jack followed Speck’s direction to see a young athletic man pulling swords from a tarp-covered truck.

  Jack nodded. “He’s no geek.”

  “He’s a performer. Circus ain’t got no monopoly on talent, have they? We got plenty to see. Take a look at Charlie, you wanna see somethin’.”

  The young man had tossed off his shirt and was carefully inspecting a sword that looked as long as a yardstick.

  “Oh, shit,” Jack said and as if on cue the youngster leaned far back, opened his mouth and with perfect aplomb slid the blade down his throat to the hilt.

  “Real comer,” Tommy grunted approval. “Kid got four swords down this summer. Four. Plus a dagger. That’s real talent.”

  “But it’s a gimmick, right?” Jack protested. “I mean, the blade slides up in the handle or something, is that it?”

  Tommy snorted. “Not a carney. I knew this swallower once, been at it for years. He gets up one morning, lines up his tools. Little June bug lights on one of his blades. Little bitty, no more than a pin. It’s showtime; Larry opens his gullet and down goes the sword—with the bug.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Same as you. Or me. He coughed.

  Jack winced.

  “Yep. Gutted himself on the spot. Rubes got their money’s worth that day, I can tell ya.”

  “Hey, Tommy!”

  The bare-chested performer was replacing his sword with its fellows.

  “Tommy, you got a minute?”

  “Minute, maybe,” the dwarf seemed suddenly cool.

  The man grabbed his shirt as he jogged over.

  “Charlie Blade,” he
extended a hand graciously to Jack.

  “Jack Romaine. Pretty impressive act you got.”

  Tommy spit a wad into the sand. “Charlie, whatchu want?”

  “Need you da see Luna for me,” Blade clasped his hands like he was at prayer. “I juss needsum snatch. Little bread. Justa tide me over.”

  “You were here just last month, Blade. Month early, why weren’t you workin’ a show?”

  “Luna knows.”

  “Yeah, well, yer wearin’ out yer welcome.”

  “Jussum green till the moon turns. I gan worka show Saturday. You gan hav’ all my take.”

  Jack recognized the slurred speech. The dilated pupils.

  “You want somethin’ from the Boss, yer gonna have to ask ’er yerself.” Tommy rendered his verdict coldly.

  “Thags, Tommy, thassa good idea. I juss see Luna, then. Ask her myself.”

  But Tommy was already walking away. Jack had to hustle to catch him.

  “What was that about?”

  “Money,” Tommy dismissed it too quickly. “Charlie’s always short.”

  Something else going on? Tommy might need a drink to let something slip, but Jack already had Charlie Blade’s number.

  The next stop on the runway introduced Jack to another newly arrived performer. “The Great Flambé” was a ravaged old-timer with a lion’s mane of silver hair, hurling fire from his mouth like a dragon onto a miniature castle fashioned of papier-mâché.

  WHOOOOOSH! and the citadel burst into flame.

  “What you think, Master Speck?” Flambé’s address was formal, a European accent. He barely acknowledged Jack, stepping back instead to admire the effect of his work.

  “Tits,” Tommy approved. “And maybe you could put a little moat around it, too? Let the rubes throw in a dime every time you torch ’er.”

  “An excellent suggestion!” Flambé beamed. “You are genius, Master Speck!”

  Only then deigning to acknowledge the working man alongside.

  “And who is this choice specimen in your thrall?”

  “New man.”

  “Name’s Romaine,” Jack spoke up but did not extend a hand. “Jack Romaine.”

  “How all-American,” the older man’s smile displayed perfect teeth. “My familiar to my friends is Flambé. Be delighted to become familiar. My trailer is just past the lion’s cage. You will recognize the artwork.”

  “Uh. Thanks.”

  Jack hung on Tommy’s shoulder as they walked away.

  “‘Become familiar’……that mean what I think it means?”

  “What, you ain’t had yer huckle berried?” Tommy chuckled. “Just grab your hammer, Pretty Boy. Time you finish this next job, Flambé’s not gonna want you anyplace close.”

  The job waiting led Jack beyond the bounds of the nearly-finished carnival to a barricade of yellow heart pines pierced by a narrow gauge of railroad track.

  “Where’s this go?”

  “Follow ’em and see,” was Speck’s reply and a minute later Jack spotted a pennant wafting from the twin-poled tent he had first seen on his rainy arrival at Kaleidoscope.

  He glanced over to Tommy. “Got some more acts in the bigtop?”

  “No, this is a private residence.”

  “A residence? You’re kidding.”

  “No, Peewee lives here. And Ambassador, too.”

  “The elephant?”

  “Yeah, he stays with the Princess. Kind of like her companion.”

  “Pretty weird, don’t you think?” Jack risked a provocation, “A woman living with an elephant?”

  If Tommy saw the bait he didn’t take it.

  “I dunno,” the dwarf’s shrug was noncommittal. “Peewee and Ambassador—they get along real well. She’s got her bed right where she can talk to him. She needs something, anything—change of clothes, pitcher of water—he brings it over gentle as a lamb. She wants a bath, he puts her in the tank. Takes her out, too, good damn thing. Take a crane and a crew of men, otherwise.”

  A wagon of hay waited outside The Fat Lady’s residence. A ring of barrels surrounded a corral of packed earth. Clearly, the place was used to train an act; there were oversized balls stowed to the side, what looked like riding crops the length of fishing poles stowed on the perimeter. There was also a plow and harrow that looked oddly out of place.

  The tent was larger than Jack had imagined, must have been a hundred, hundred and twenty feet wide. Two lines of quarter poles supported the canvas between the side and center poles. No water bags. The tarp pulled tight on guys strung like piano wire all around.

  “Tight as Dick’s hatband,” Tommy checked the sun’s height. “Shouldn’t be this tight this late in the day. Speakin’ of late in the day, must be near noon. Take a gander.”

  There was someone ahead of them on the narrow rail. It was The Giant, pushing what looked like a luggage cart along the iron track. Getting closer, Jack saw a feast of food steaming from that hand-pushed truck, whole chickens on a platter beside bowls of carrots and mashed potatoes. A separate roast. A string of sausages.

  Jack shifted his mallet.

  “He feeding an army?”

  “Nope,” Tommy smiled proudly. “It’s all for Peewee.”

  “For the week?”

  “For a meal. One meal.” Tommy beamed. “Magnificent, ain’t it?”

  “Can’t wait to see.”

  “Grab the flap for Giant.”

  Jack jogged ahead of the cart. Two sheets of tarp sang on metal rings allowing entrance into the rude palace. The Giant pushed his moveable feast into the gloomy interior without a word of thanks or acknowledgement. It was darker inside than Jack expected. Tommy nudged him in the direction of what looked to be a stack of ordinary iron bars.

  “Grab some of them tie-downs.”

  The bars turned out to be thick as Jack’s arm and six feet long. Jack noted the eyelets welded on top.

  “Luna wants us to put in some extra security for Ambassador.” Tommy went on to give detailed instruction for a perimeter of stakes designed to prevent another rampage by the aging elephant.

  “But all you got to do is hammer in the iron. Spots are already marked. Then we’ll thread lines through the eyebolts to tie the old boy off.”

  “I never tied off an elephant.”

  “And you ain’t gonna start with this one; that’s the trainer’s job.”

  By the time Jack managed to heft a single iron stake onto his shoulder, The Giant was leaving. The black man nodded almost imperceptibly to Tommy, but for Jack—nothing. The brodie might as well have been invisible.

  “Not much of a talker, is he? The nigger.”

  “Call him nigger to his face and you’ll see.

  Another reminder to Jack that he was an outsider in this strange community. A series of sheets appeared ahead, ghostly demarcations strung on what might have been clotheslines set up near the center of the tent. Tommy pulled up short and Jack almost stumbled into him.

  “Watch yer step.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now, yer about to meet the Princess, awright? Our biggest draw. Our most respected performer.”

  “Fine, sure.”

  “It ain’t fine and it ain’t ever sure,” Speck contradicted him coldly. “Peewee can be tricky. She’s feeling sociable, you’ll be all right. But if yer smart you’ll just shut up, do yer job, and get the hell out. And do not gawk. She’s on her own time, now, and in her own house. Show some goddamn respect.”

  Tommy left him there, halfway between the inner sanctum and the canvas skin behind. The only light coming into the tent shut off, suddenly, when Speck closed the flap on his way outside. Nothing left to guide Jack then but the ghostly pale of the wall ahead.

  He was already sweating like a French whore in church. The interior, though dark, was sweltering. There was no sound, either. No trumpet of jungle beast. Not a sound from The Princess. Jack found the narrow strip of track with his city-slicker shoe and followed that iron ribbon to the sheeted boudoir w
aiting ahead.

  A flickering glow from inside, a lantern.

  “Well, ya comin’ in or what?”

  He slid the sheet aside and saw her, Princess Peewee grazing like some pampered bovine off a cart chocked on its rails directly beside a bed reinforced with enough timber to build a barn.

  A Raggedy Anne doll propped ludicrously on a pillow that was a napkin next to Peewee’s tub-sized head. Another surprise—there were books all over the bed, books half-opened on the bed itself, books stacked from the sawdust floor, more books in the shelves of her headboard. A couple of the authors were familiar; some man’s wife had given Jack a copy of The Great Gatsby after a furtive encounter, an absolute must, she had told him, the defining book of our generation, but he hadn’t got around to it. Peewee, on the other hand, was clearly committed to the hardback propped open on top of her breasts.

  Jack turned his attention to the water tank. The tank was situated at the foot of the bed, a Brobdingnagian cistern at least thirty feet in circumference. Deep as a man was tall. You could see where the iron cylinder had ruptured, new rivets bright as silver dollars up and down to repair the broken seam. The welds did not look professional. Jack wondered if it would hold.

  Peewee’s jaw was working like a heifer’s. A breast of chicken competing with the book in her free hand.

  “Well, now, Ambassador, this one’s new.”

  It wasn’t until Peewee’s remark that Jack actually saw the beast. Talk about missing the elephant in the fucking room! But in fairness it was a big room, and dark, and until he moved the water tank had concealed Ambassador from easy view.

  The earth trembled as the bull ambled, that’s how you’d have to describe it, to the head of Peewee’s bed. At least twelve feet high, the creature would have to weigh, what—four thousand? Five thousand pounds? Jack could only guess. The tusks alone would have made some bushman a fortune, great prongs of ivory anchored on either side of the massive proboscis.

  Peewee sat up and Jack saw the title of her book, The Age of Innocence.

  “Edith Wharton,” Peewee supplied the author and Jack wondered if he was being encouraged to communicate.