Mac threw up his hands. “You can think up the damnedest things. If somebody sneezes you’re afraid of a blowdown. Business is always lousy. And if we do have all the blues up and are putting the customers in the straw you worry because one of the bulls looks like he might run wild or—” (Blues are unreserved seats at the arena ends, traditionally painted blue. Overflow customers are seated “in the straw” spread around the hippodrome track.)
“And what happened this Friday morning this side of Bridgeport?” Calamity sputtered. “The elephant truck lands in a ditch, Rubber and Modoc get away and it takes all morning to round them up. I suppose you don’t count—”
“No, I don’t. Forget it, Cal. You’ve been jumpy ever since the fuzz came on the lot tonight.”
“The fuzz, Ross,” Merlini footnoted, “is the local constabulary. Cal might be right at that, Mac. Sheriff Weatherby is going to be howling in your ear before long. That’s a prediction.”
Mac looked startled. “What do you mean? Do you know him?”
“No, never saw him; but the cannon mob that’s working tonight pulled a boner. They should know better.”
“What do you mean? There aren’t any pickpockets on this show.”
“No?” Merlini produced the billfolds. “You wouldn’t kid me, would you, Mac? Someone weeded these leathers and ditched them behind the kid-show top. And this one belongs to Sheriff Jonas Weatherby. Don’t the boys know enough to lay off the law?”
Mac grabbed it. “I’ll be damned! It’s a local mob. I’d better see about this.”
“I think I’ve spotted them for you. Skinny guy over there this side of the ticket wagon is the wire. Talking to one of his stalls. Probably waiting to work the connection after the blow-off.” (The blow-off is the finale.)
“Excuse me,” Mac said hastily, “while I go cause a little trouble. Come on, Cal. Keith, you watch the door.”
Towne spoke up. “Cannon mob, wire, stall? I don’t have those. Dip is the word I know.” He took an envelope from his pocket and made a notation.
“Dip is a winchell,” Merlini said. “A sucker word. It’s so well known to the layman that only the old-timers among the professionals still use it. Gun, from the Jewish gonnif, meaning thief, is preferable, or even the more recent variant, cannon. The gun who does the actual picking of the pocket is called a wire, tool, or hook. Guns work in mobs, the wire being assisted by stalls, sometimes called pushers-and-shovers, which is what they do. One of them prats the mark in, and as soon as the wire gets the okus he weeds it to another stall so if he’s tumbled he wouldn’t get sneezed with it on him.” Merlini grinned. “Is that clear?”
“To another gun, maybe,” Atterbury said. “There are some new ones on me there.”
“It’s thieves’ argot rather than circus,” Merlini explained. “You’ll find that the grifter and circus argots overlap considerably. You hear less of the former on a circus now than in the good old days.”
“Prat the mark in?” Towne asked. “Okus, weed? What—”
“Okus and its older synonym, poke, mean pocketbook. Poke was once pokus, and both terms obviously derive from a term connected with my own profession, hocus-pocus. Weed, as I used it, means to get rid of the okus by passing it along to a stall; and prat the mark in — here, I’ll show you.” He took up a position behind Towne. “You’re a mark out in front of the bally platform listening to an opening. You stall for me, Ross.”
I had seen Merlini demonstrate the gentle art of pocket-picking on other occasions and knew what was required. I stood in front of Towne and edged back against him, shoving impolitely with my fanny and stepping on his toes a bit, to make him give way.
“Here,” he started to object. “What the—”
“You see,” Merlini explained, stepping out from behind him. “It’s the old story again. Misdirection and distraction of attention. The chump’s attention is all on the clumsy oaf in front of him. He doesn’t feel the duke slip into his kick at all. And usually a second stall is so placed that he shades the duke and prevents any bystanders from seeing the action. Duke is, of course, hand. A kick is a pocket, and specifically a coat pocket. A breech kick is a trouser pocket; a prat kick or a prop is a hip pocket. The fob is the watch pocket, and the insider is self-explanatory.”
Towne was investigating his pockets. “Do you mean that—?”
“Sure.” Merlini held out a billfold. “From your left breech. I don’t know if you realize it, but that’s the smart place to carry it. Except for the fob, it’s the most difficult one to beat. Of course, if a wire had trouble with it, he’d resort to rip-and-tear methods — cut the, pocket open.”
Towne hurriedly took back the billfold and began exploring another pocket. His face was annoyed. “Very educational demonstration,” he said. “May I have the other—”
Merlini nodded. “Hope I’m not embarrassing you.” He held out two objects. “Right kick,” he said, passing over a pack of cigarettes. “And left prat.” Merlini looked curiously at the ivory-handled revolver in his hand. “Metzger .32-caliber. Do all detective story writers carry heaters?”
Towne took the gun and replaced it in his pocket. “I’ve got a collection of firearms,” he said quickly. “Picked this up in Bridgeport the other day.”
Merlini said, “Now I know why the ballistic dope in your stories is so well done. I liked that trick you used in The Phantom Bullet where the victim was killed with a shotgun loaded with water.”
Towne nodded. “Yes. There was a real case of that several years—”
Mac returned and interrupted. He was replacing some bills in the sheriff’s wallet. “I got his dough back. Guess I’d better rig up a story about someone finding it on the lot and turning it in.”
“If you want him to believe that one,” Merlini said, “you’d better get it to him quickly, before he misses it. Want me to slip it back in his kick for you?”
“No,” Mac said. “If he caught you, he’d think you were taking it out and I don’t want any trouble.” Mac started into the tent. “Coming?”
Merlini nodded. “Yes, I want to get a look at the performance.”
Towne and I followed them, and Calamity took his stand again at the entrance. Atterbury said, “See you later.” He went out toward the midway.
As we walked through into the menagerie, Merlini asked, “By the way, Mac, I understand the eagle screamed hereabouts on Saturday in a big way. And business has been spotty. How does that happen, or am I being nosy?”
Mac turned his head and squinted at Merlini sharply. “You heard about that? Um. If you find out, let me in on it. I asked the Major if his rich uncle had died and he said ‘Yeah.’ Nothing wrong with that except he didn’t have one.”
“Who owns the show now? Daughter Pauline?”
“Uh huh. And I hope she knows the answer. We might need more dough any day. She has a lot of stubborn notions about how to run this outfit, and some of them ain’t too hot. Expecting a purge around here ’most any time. You showed just in time for all the excitement.”
“Yes,” Merlini agreed, “I’m beginning to think I did.”
Chapter Four
Suspicion
“…You have ample time before the big show starts to inspect this amazing traveling menagerie with its priceless specimens from every clime, its strange and wonderful array of curious beasts and zoological wonders… get your peanuts for the elephants… hot buttered popcorn… soft drinks… souvenirs …”