He left her to it as another trick wandered in. So, she was now on the payroll. Nervous business, but it couldn't be helped.
Off to the shed, where a one-armed dwarf (impressive arm, though) snored into his chest, hand turning the handle that made the carny music sprinkle through the air. He didn't wake while Gonko grabbed the spare box and hauled it to the clown tent draped in a blanket.
•
Show day was nearly over. The crowd was a small one, compared to how things were humming along under Kurt, but as the night wound down, the floors were littered thoroughly with sparkling dust. The new carnies and performers did their jobs well enough to please even George, though he expressed this only by reducing lashings. Shalice had cleared a long backlog of Earthly disasters, having today set in motion fated threads like little rivers of misfortune one day to coalesce and flood the bejesus out of thousands, maybe millions of people. Below, the bosses were content when their cut was dropped down the chute. But their appetites were not quite sated. When the phone in George's trailer rang that night, the voice at the earpiece was less cold than usual when it said, "Another show . . . tomorrow."
"Two days straight? You nuts?" George whined to the dial tone, his complaint unheard. Well, they'd gone without shows for a long time, he supposed. So had nearly everyone else. Now the velvet bags were being passed about, a full one for each performer, a half to each carny rat. Lousy pay by old standards; a fortune to what they'd received in the long hiatus. Those caught stealing got a thrashing and nothing more, and wept into their pillows. All about the show, wishes began, in the quiet hours and places, to come temporarily true.
Gonko sent Rufshod up with the music box when all was quiet, then went himself to Sideshow Alley, seeking Curls and his crew of ticket collectors. Those were always the last to turn in after a show, having to ensure all the tricks got safely out. He found them disassembling their fancy gate pieces, which looked just like ornate garden gates with an arch on top made of black iron lattice. They were telling dirty jokes to one another, but none laughed; over the long, long years there hadn't been a foul joke they hadn't heard, and they could only hope for a reminder of when a particular joke had been funny. All fell silent as Gonko approached them.
"We ain't been stealing, Mr. Gonko, sir," said one of Curls's friends. Word had got around with typical exaggeration that Gonko had stomped four carny rats to death in Mugabo's show.
"Never mind that," said Gonko. "Curls. Tomorrow is the special day. You in?"
Curls looked at his feet. Not leaping for the chance, was Curls; a little pay from George and suddenly the risk was not quite as enticing, given what may happen if they were all sprung. Gonko crouched down, an arm around his shoulder. "Half a bag, is that all he paid you? Half a measly bag to an old-time carny?"
"Almost half. Was really more a third of a bag."
"It ain't right, Curls, ain't right at all."
"Yeah. Yeah no, you're right. Was different in Kurt's day."
"That it was. That it shall be again, and soon, if you wise up and help out Uncle Gonko. Of course, if you don't feel like it no more, that's just swell and dandy too, cause Uncle Gonko knows he can trust you forever." He said it so sweet and condescending that Curls whipped his head up, sensing a death threat (which indeed it was.)
"Oh no, Gonko. We're in, all of us. Ain't we, lads?"
The lads glanced at each other and nodded. None looked happy, but the short folk seldom were. Gonko gave them a map and some directions, walked them to the elevator, and saw them out. That done, there was just one more thing to see to. He grabbed a shovel.
Back in the dung pit, the turf gave easily to Gonko's gouging, a good thing since the first half hour's dig brought nothing but bones too old to be a recent corpse. Life and death played by different rules here in the showgrounds; so did the rules of decomposition, it seemed. He finally struck a lump, found Fishboy's head and let it drop back into the muck, muttering "Little bastard."
Next he found Winston, whom Gonko hadn't had the pleasure of killing for his sabotage while wearing clown colors. He didn't actually expect to find what he'd come for, and was about to call it a night when, with half a dozen more spades of dirt, there it was after all.
"JJ," Gonko said. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Now this was a puzzle he didn't get at all. He brought the rest of the body up—someone made a mess of it all right, no doubt Kurt himself—then tossed the shovel away. Some carny rat tomorrow would refill all these holes. He dragged the two main parts of JJ by an arm and leg across the dirt behind him, tossed them on the ground at the Funhouse door. A light was still on in there. He withheld his knock when the quiet hiss of Dr. Gloom's voice rustled out through the door. ". . . performancssse was exquisssit."
The Matter Manipulator: "Ah but I knew it would be a success! He loved to eat in his old life too. Any news about the break-in?"
"Sssussspicion and rumor, that is all. Ssome ssay thiss, ssome ssay that. Many ssay the clown iss behind it, never proof."
"The fortuneteller, they say she has returned, yes?"
"I did not ssee her today. She perhapss will assisst you better than I. You have your own inklingss?"
"Inklings come easy. Not proof. But only one performer I know has the required iron casing about his testes, to break into this house and steal from me. Oh, it has been too long since Gonko was brought before me in supplication! Not since he was a fresh new recruit was I even able to chastise him and savor a little fear. How I've yearned, yearned to make some . . . improvements to his form, a few twists here and there. His is such fine skin."
Gonko felt nauseated (and slightly flattered) to hear all this, but he couldn't stay longer—with Dr. Gloom away from his post, it was time to strike. He ran to the freak show, dug through his pockets for disguises, and ended up with a nun's habit and fake beard. His pockets gave him a second habit, much larger, for Fatso. He stalked past sleeping exhibits, including Kurt, whose eyes were rolled back to show their whites. Just to be sure, Gonko draped the cloth over his case.
Only Fatso was awake, spooning protein powder from a tub to his mouth. He was so absorbed in this he didn't notice Gonko til he stood before the glass tank. "Real sorry, lady, but show time's not til tomorrow," Fatso whispered so as not to wake the others. "But come back, you'll see a swell show!"
"George needs to see you now. Put this on, no time to explain."
"Aw, but Dr. Gloom, he told me to watch—"
Night night, said Gonko's fist. He had to think of George to summon rage-fuelled strength in order to drag the heavy lump out of the freak show, then maneuver him into his nun habit in case of prying eyes. But none saw him sneaking the half-conscious freak show prize exhibit into the elevator. Not for a second did Fatso's hand relinquish its grip on the tub of protein powder.
By the time Dr. Gloom returned to discover Fatso had escaped, most of the circus was too sleepy or deep into a wish-powder fantasy to bother raising much of a commotion. That had to wait til morning.
***
7. ABOVE
The trains roaring across the little bridge, spitting distance from the tent closest to the riverbank, fast became a familiar and welcome sound, helping cover with their clatter and rumble something which did not want to be heard or seen. Jamie marveled at the way the faces aboard those trains gazed out without so much as a second look down at the array of tents and stalls, all of them a bustle of activity as the carnies and clowns prepared for their first show. The camping spot seemed to be fast losing its popularity, given the number of drivers who pulled in, looked around and left almost immediately, as if sensing something amiss. Rare now were any who stayed longer than a few minutes to use the brick toilet block, and always they were in a greater hurry to leave than they'd arrived.