“All right. What do you want to know regarding my…what was it? Transient lifestyle?” Hmmm…when you added the word lifestyle it made me sound like a hobo sporting platform sandals and lime green eye shadow.
“How long have you been employed by the…” Ms. Gale stumbled over her words in what appeared to be an attempt at political correctness. “Um…”
“How long have I been a carney?” I stepped in to rescue her. Now, why did I do that? I certainly didn’t owe this woman an explanation of my chosen profession. “Almost twelve years now. I’ve worked with a number of outfits-this one for two years.”
“And what did you do before that?”
“I was a student.” Actually, I still considered myself to be a student. But for the sake of this interview, I thought I’d keep it simple.
Veronica looked me in the eyes. She didn’t seem to believe that twelve years ago I was in high school. I could’ve helped her out, but I held back.
“How old are you?” she asked. Clearly, this woman wasn’t one for social graces. I couldn’t figure out why that was. Usually I’m good at reading people. But was she asking me as a researcher or out of her own personal curiosity?
“I’m thirty-eight.” I could see her doing the math in her head. Eventually the question would come up, and it would confuse her. For some reason, I wanted to let her off the hook. What was wrong with me? I could see Sartre rolling her eyes back in her cage in the trailer.
“I have a postgraduate degree in philosophy. I spent most of my twenties in school. Like you,” I answered before she asked.
“Like me? What do you mean?” Veronica sat straight up.
I leaned forward and looked her in the eyes again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear to be about twenty-six or so. My guess is that you have been in school ever since kindergarten. I’m also guessing you’ll go for your Ph.D. as soon as you are through with your thesis.”
I expected her to be angry. Hell, I expected her to throw her beer in my face and walk off. She didn’t.
“Is it that easy to see?” Her question was strangely straightforward.
I shook my head. “No. It just takes one to know one. I did the same thing until I ran out of degrees. Then I ran away and joined the carnival.”
Veronica sighed as if she’d been holding her breath all this time. She actually reached for her beer and drained half the cup. I waited.
“Did your family harass you about it too?” She seemed to ask the question with some degree of bitterness. The tide was turning in my favor.
“No. They didn’t really mind. They weren’t even surprised when I became a carney.” That is actually true. The Bombays don’t care what your cover is. It’s merely important to have one. Well, unless you became an attorney. Then they’d probably kill you out-right.
I kind of expected Veronica to see my admission as heartening-something that would inspire her to give me her life story. She didn’t.
“So why did you take your education and throw it away for this?” She gestured around her. Did I detect disgust in her voice? How boring.
“Why not? I can’t see a better place to examine the human soul.” I folded my arms.
My interviewer snorted. “Well, Cy, it seems like a waste to me.”
So that was how it was going to be, eh?
“Tell me, Ms. Gale, what practical applications does your thesis have for everyday life?”
Her eyes snapped to mine. Gone was the brief vulnerability I’d seen earlier. I’d pissed her off. Oddly enough, I liked it.
“I don’t have to explain my intellectual interests to you!” Ooh. A defiant outburst. How original.
“But you are asking me to do that. Aren’t you?” I adopted a more distant tone. For a moment, I’d thought maybe this woman had something more to offer. Instead, she was just another overeducated snob.
“Let’s just keep this professional, Mr. Bombay.”
“Fine.”
She looked back at her notepad. “So, why do you choose to live outside the norms expected by society?”
“I see it as an apprenticeship for a future career in the entertainment industry.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously? That’s interesting. What do you want to do?” Ms. Gale began to scribble on her notepad.
“I want to be a Henry Kissinger impersonator. That’s where the real money is.”
Veronica narrowed her eyes. “That’s not funny.”
I ignored her. “But first, I have to work on my condescending attitude. Maybe you can give me some pointers.”
She started to pack up her stuff.
“Of course, the Kissinger thing might be a bit overdone these days. In that case I’ll have to fall back on my dream of studying the effects of business cards on giant, hissing cockroaches.”
She rose to her feet.
“Now, my cousin, she’s got some really lofty goals. She wants to drive an ice-cream truck. You should talk with her.”
“Thank you for the interview. I appreciate it.”
“Was it something I said?” I clutched my chest dramatically.
Veroncia Gale turned a lovely shade of red as she spun on her heel and left me. No sense of humor in that one.
Later that night as we packed up the carnival and I said good-bye to my friends for the last time, I couldn’t help wondering what would become of Veronica Gale. I’d given her some information she could use. Unfortunately, she would end up a dull college professor with no experience in real life. But I couldn’t help that. After all, Disney World and Sartre beckoned, and it was time to begin a new chapter in the life of Cy Bombay, carney/assassin.
Chapter Three
“I think crime pays. The hours are good, you travel a lot.”
– WOODY ALLEN
The plain brown envelope was hand-delivered by my cousin Paris during spring break. He was at Disney World with his sister, Liv, and her family, along with my cousins Dak and Gin and their families. Paris and Dak were on a job, unbeknownst to their sisters, and I was pretty sure Dak didn’t even know Paris was ferrying an assignment from the Bombay Council to me. That’s the way things work in this family. Everything is kept on a need-to-know basis.
I ripped open the envelope. Another job. Who would it be? A drug kingpin? Mafia? Serial killer? It didn’t really matter, because he’d be dead shortly. No point standing on ceremony.
Inside was another envelope-this one with a note from Mum with little hearts drawn on it. Apparently, I’m still her “little Squidgy.” That was somewhat comforting. I dropped her note in Sartre’s cage and she immediately began to shred it.
The arrogant face of a man named Fred Reid stared up at me. Why did I always get the big guys? Mr. Reid looked to be about 265 pounds, maybe six-foot-four. At any rate, he was much bigger than I am. While I used to not mind a challenge, in a couple of years I’d be forty and not as spry as I used to be.
According to the dossier, Freddie was the son of the English ambassador to the United States. Beyond possessing a keen understanding of the words diplomatic immunity, Fred was nothing more than an ignorant thug. He’d been picked up on numerous occasions for attempted murder and selling and buying narcotics, and was the top suspect in a number of cold cases, many of which included the murder of people who were supposed to testify against him. Oh, I was going to have fun with this one.
Vic was scheduled to appear at a fund-raiser in Miami with his father in two days. Not much time to prepare, and I was scheduled to work at Disney World. While that never stopped me before, I did believe in professional commitment. And I liked running the Kali River Rapids ride. Unfortunately, taking out the vic came first. Finding a replacement at Disney wouldn’t be tough. It helped to be wealthy enough to bribe coworkers. And since many were college students, finding a replacement was even easier if I threw in a bottle of booze. I always made it the good stuff, because I remembered the crap I used to drink in college. There’s nothing like a little Grey Goose vodka to break up the monotony between Mogen David and Lancers.