Double Indignity: A Rex Koko, Private Clown Mystery (#2)

Please, help me find my lion!

Even in my neck of the yard, you don’t hear this very often. So let me back up a bit.

It had been about a month since the nastiness with Reynaldo Carlozo and his wife Boots had gone down. A month of clearing up my role in a handful of murders (four, but who’s counting?) to friends, enemies, new admirers, clowns, cops and myself. Since that windy night at the Plew Perfect Tents factory, I’d chewed over the details on biscuits and over beers, and it wasn’t really tasting any better. Another thrilling episode in the Rex Koko saga had concluded, a spec which by now was turning into a sure-fire dud, a lead balloon, a larry for the ages.

But even Simon LeGree needs a break from the flagellating, so one hot summer evening, I decided to relax a little and take in a show. I even used my own scoot to buy a ducat. It would be a while before I could take in another aerial act, thanks to what I witnessed with Carlozo, Berndt Bork, and Flying Fleming, so some kind of animal exhibition was more appealing. For the past couple of months, Primo Macias had been doing a big cat show over on Hanneford Street, and all the kinkers had been talking about it with a mix of admiration and envy. This was a good sign the show was legit.

So that night, I pays my fare and settles in to a ringside seat, with my trusty box of Cracker Jack. It was a small top, with the sides rolled up to let some air through the place. There were 50 or 60 people in the stands, all elmers; I was the only kinker, near as I could tell. In the center ring the black steel cage stood ominously (but when you think about it, wouldn’t things be more ominous if the cage weren’t there?). The smell of the cat pee was unmistakable, but this was a pretty big litter box to keep clean. Toward the back of the top was the gate to the tunnel that the pussy cats would enter through. In the middle of the ring was a large hoop attached to a stand, looking charred and pitted, like a battered piece of armor. A three-level platform stood along the side. On the other side, trying to muster all the authority it could, was a lone black cane chair.

I sat back and tried to look inconspicuous, but the townies were giving me a wide berth anyway. Maybe they’d seen my picture in the newspaper, but it didn’t matter. Most flatties like to keep their clowns in a safe and tidy place, both in their minds and in their immediate area, far from the china and the Sunday linens, but surprise! We never stay there. We couldn’t if we tried. Life’s not nice and neat like that, pally. Also, fire is hot and women are crazy. And always hungry.

Macias staged his big cat show four times a night, according to the banner out front. As much as the traffic would allow. It’s expensive to feed those throw rugs, but I bet the cats themselves have a say in how many times they come out and perform, and are emphatic about it. An animal act is all about teamwork, and the trainer needs to know the limits of his authority. The ticket was a little pricier than most, but you get what you pay for, even down here in Top Town, the next best thing to a good time.

Soon the show began. There was no fanfare, no music, just the sidewalls of the tent falling all at once with a loud crack. It was a nice effect. The crowd clammed up tight, with the uneasy feeling of being caught in a trap. A switch was thrown to light the scene brighter. In the newly minted silence, Primo Macias walked through the door and into the center of the cage. He just stood there in his khaki bushman uniform with his hands clasped behind his back, holding a short, stiff whip. This guy had presence, no question about it. He had a full head of wavy blond hair that you might like to picnic in, and a sharp jaw line you could use to cut the salami if you did. The ladies in the audience had lots of fantasies going through their heads, no doubt, complete with jungle settings, disheveled clothing, and maybe a whip or two, until Macias was joined in the ring by his wife, Nieva. This one was also easy on the eyes, with dark hair, nice cheekbones and a tight-fitting costume that looked more equestrian than feline. Now the men in the crowd had the chance to indulge their fantasies. Her presence too was pretty strong, but you could tell she, like everything else around here, circled around her husband’s orbit.

Ladies and gentlemen, Macias bellowed, with just the slightest hint of a South American accent, welcome. Thank you for attending our show tonight. Inside this steel cage, you will soon see the wildest beasts of the jungle and the savannah. Big cats so ferocious, they terrorize the natives and the hunters alike. But I have brought these killers to America, all the way to Top Town tonight, to demonstrate for you that Man can train the King of the Beasts!

And with that, a quick flick of the whip and a satisfying crack started the show. It’s always fun to watch the crowd jump when the whip comes down. You know it’s coming, but you jump all the same.

Nieva left her husband in the center of the ring and exited the cage. She slammed the door with a mighty clang, then shouted, Open! out the back of the top, toward the back lot. A few more metal clangs could be heard off in the distance. Then, if you watched the end of the tunnel carefully, you’d see sinewy black figures rolling around, completely silent til the ones in the back started pushing the ones in front. This caused a quick growl so jagged and angry it made my armpits squirt.

Nieva opened the gate of the tunnel with concentration, and three sleek black panthers bounded out like spilled ink. Hissing, they circled around the ring in both directions, keeping their yellow eyes on Macias and each other. Macias never let his back be turned on any of them for more than a second. After registering their displeasure of being roused from their cages again, the panthers huddled at the side of the ring near the platform. And that looked like as much as they were interested in doing.

Macias barked some orders at the panthers and cracked the whip. Still, they didn’t move. The handsome slanger paced sideways in an arc and with a smooth movement picked up the chair. He then closed the distance between himself and his costars. A few curls of his golden hair came loose in the exertion and hung on his forehead, something that most circus blonds do by instinct.

From what little I’ve heard, panthers are nigh-on impossible to train. Being small and living in a jungle, they have to attack first and ask questions later. This is also the motto of more than a few kinkers in Top Town. Especially the part about being untrainable.

The panthers finally did what they would do by nature anyway, climbing to the top of the pyramid platform. They perched silently, glaring at Macias with their shoulders hunched. He set down the chair slowly and motioned up with his whip. The cats raised up on their haunches, as if waiting for a belly rub. Macias swung his whip again, and the panthers leaped off the platform. They jumped through the black hoop one by one, then circled the ring and slinked back to their positions. Then Macias dismissed them with a swipe of his arm and they headed back up the tunnel, happy their shift was over. It wasn’t until the door closed behind them that he returned for his bow.

Along with the rest of the crowd, I was enjoying the hell out of this. Macias was a born showman as well as cat confidante. I sat back and ate my Cracker Jacks, flipping them about eight feet in the air and catching them expertly on my tongue. Well, almost expertly, but when I’m surrounded by ingrates who don’t think a free caramel corn in their hair is a good thing, I tend to ignore the critics. The tension in the room made them jump a bit when they were hit, but that only adds to the fun. I could’ve done this and watched the act all night, if I hadn’t tossed the prize up into the air and caught it down my windpipe. The elmers ignored my throat clutching and whispers for help until I had to cough it out on my own.

The world just doesn’t help each other out anymore, that’s the problem.

Nieva was standing at attention at the gate, waiting for the cage boys to finish moving the chutes in the backyard, which was how the cats are brought securely to the top from their permanent cages. We all waited in silence for the next cat. Then with a bang and an angry roar, the next performer announced his presence in the chute. It was so loud, in fact, I think I saw Nieva jump. The animal was gassed up and raring to go, but before she opened the gate, she looked to her husband to see if he was ready. Whether this was for dramatic effect or not, Macias paused and then nodded. She opened the gate, and for a moment nothing happened. Then a male lion shot out of there like a racehorse at Hialeah. He ran around inside a few times at breakneck speed, something more suited to running down a gazelle than going through the familiar paces of a circus act. He wasn’t all that young. A little mangy, face turning grey, putting on pounds around the middle (I feel for ya, brother). But he was running and roaring like he was ready to take over the pride. It was one of the few times I ever saw an act around here that provided all the danger and thrills promised by the banners outside.

Macias turned as the cat circled, waiting for him to tire himself out, but the roaring continued and the mane kept flying. Macias grabbed the chair and shouted orders at the cat. The audience sat up very, very straight. Again and again, Macias tried to get the lion’s attention, waving the chair and cracking his whip.

Finally, Macias got what he was looking for. With a heart-stopping roar the lion charged at his trainer and swatted the chair. Macias held firm to it, as the lion swung his huge paw again and again. I was beginning to sense this was not part of the act. A quick look at Nieva’s worried face told me I was right. She was shouting, too, General! General!

In the next instant, Macias was on his back, with the lion on top of him. The chair was squeezed between them, which gave the slanger a little leverage but not much protection. Old General batted him around a bit, practically smothering him, but then left off and ran across the ring a few more times. Macias stumbled to his feet. He was a lucky man. It didn’t look like he’d been sliced up too bad, no big red stains on his khakis, though being tackled by a 600-pound furball takes a toll. He shouted at the cat again, and again the cat charged him. This time Macias reached for the pistol in his holster, but the lion was too fast for him and knocked him completely over. He batted around the trainer like a lumpy pillow, then left him motionless and charged at the iron enclosure itself.

WHANG! The cage shook and the audience screamed. The cat looked like he was being chased by demons.

WHANG! The cage shook again. Every eye in the place watched the spots where the cage walls were joined together.

WHANG! Those joints grew more obvious now. The seams that General was hitting began to widen. Some of the crowd was already running to the exits, while the rest of us sat frozen to our seats.

WHANG! With one more lunge of his body against the steel, the cage began to lose form and split a little.

WHANG! The gap had spread wide enough that the King of the Beasts found enough footing to scramble up the tilted wall and squeeze himself out of the cage. And once he was out and hit the tanbark, he kept on running, straight out of the Macias top.

The first part of my body I could move was my hand. I raised it to eye level and saw it clutched a mashed box of Cracker Jacks. With some effort, I opened my fingers and let the box fall away. Then I ran to the cage to see how to get Macias out. Nieva was trying to unlatch the door, but her hands were shaking too much. And where the hell were the cage boys who should be standing at the ready for this? I reached the gap General had made and clambered inside. I hurried across to Macias and felt his neck. His pulse was still strong, so it looked like the lion had only roughed him up and not opened his pipes anywhere. If the lion had wanted him dead, he neglected to take care of it during the rush.

This cage was looking mighty rickety, and while it wasn’t likely to fall on us, I still didn’t like the idea. I grabbed the lion tamer under his arms and dragged him across the ring. By the door, I undid the latch and handed him over to his wife. Thank god circus gals are so strong. No wailing, no fainting. Nieva kept it together until she had her man in her arms again. As she cradled him on the ground, she looked up at me with dark wet eyes and pleaded in a cracking voice, Please, help me find my lion!

Well, when you put it that way. . .

I followed the lion’s path out of the top, then realized I hadn’t the faintest idea how to hunt him down in the streets. But circus animals are creatures of habit, so a quicker, safer bet was to check behind the tent to see if General had made a quick circle back to the hominess of his cage. I ran around to the back of the yard.

If you’re following closely, you might notice a certain idiocy in my plan. Finding General might have been the easiest part. Once I’d done that, the next step would be either shoot the lion or be eaten. Since I had no gun, that left one distasteful alternative. But my brain wasn’t thinking clearly then. I was gonna rush out and be the hero for the South American damsel.

The back lot was so dark I had trouble getting my bearings. Any torches or lanterns back here had been doused. Eventually, the angular shapes of the tunnel and cages took form. The growls of the panthers in their cage were piercing, like the sound of the earth ripping open. They knew something exciting was going on and could probably see me clear as day with their yellow eyes. I hoped they hadn’t seen many prison break movies and gotten any funny ideas. Their cage was on the close side of the tunnel, but the lion’s was on the other. I circled around the panthers quickly. As they followed me and made a few swipes with their paws inside their cages, I felt like dinner on the hoof. It wasn’t pleasant. It might make me pause the next time I sit down to a chicken dinner.

Their angry growls gave a lift to my feet. As I rounded the corner of the panther cage, my 42s tripped on something and sent me face-first into the dirt. Pratfalls don’t mean much to me, but I ain’t getting any younger, pally.

And speaking of not getting any younger, you can say that again about the cage boy whose body I tripped over. The one with the stoved-in head.

CHAPTER 2

Alley Cat

From what I could tell in the dark, the roustie had a nice cleave on the side of his head at the hairline. It wasn’t bleeding, but if a melon looked like this at the market, you’d put it back and find another. I took off my glove and felt his neck for a pulse. Nanty.

Nothing else around the body gave any clue about what happened. The prod he’d used on the cats was thrown quite a ways off. The cages all looked secure, but what did I know? No one would ever mistake me for Mable Stark. Only one thing for certain: it was plenty stupid for a clown who last month was hotfooting around the hoosegow because of a couple of murders to be hanging around another freshly minted stiff. And brother, I ain’t a stranger to stupid.

My plan now was to run and hide like a bigamous rabbit, but I couldn’t do that without going back inside and checking on Macias. From my angle, the cattywampus cage looked like an accident in a shipyard. Nieva cradled her husband’s head in her lap, brushing back his curly hair. She looked up when she heard my footsteps. Why do women look so beautiful when they’re scared witless? And when am I going to learn to not sneak up behind them?

Did you find General?

That, I didn’t do. I did find your cage boy back there, but he looks pretty bad. As in dead bad.

What’s happening? she moaned, to the room at large.

How’s he doing?

She went back to stroking his hair. I . . . I don’t know.

The icy feeling in my bread basket told me it was time to hit the road. Listen, sister. I was never here, got it? I’m gonna go find a sawbones for your husband and send him back here, but you didn’t see me, you don’t know me, I was never here, I died in infancy before I joined the Foreign Legion . . .

She grabbed me by the pant leg and shouted, But what about General? You have to find my lion!

How the hell am I gonna do that? Look for a path of mayhem and destruction through the crowds on the street tonight?

Yes! Yes!

She had a point. That was a pretty good plan. Too bad I was the one who came up with it. A deep dark hidey hole somewhere was calling me. I can’t.

But you must! General is old and sick. He’s nearly blind. It was like a different cat entered the cage tonight. There’s something wrong, you have to find him before he gets hurt.

I knocked her hand off my clothes and stood away. Look, I’m gonna go get help for your husband, and while I’m out, I’ll do what I can for your lion. But forget you ever saw me, got it?

I didn’t wait for a response and cut out of there as fast as my pins could spin. Find the lion! Before he gets hurt! Yeah, forget about anybody who gets in the way. Don’t you just love animal trainers? It’s like they’re working off a different script than the rest of us. And that’s coming from a joey whose pals are barred from every bakery and pie shop for five counties around.

Nope, finding the lion was going to be someone else’s job, someone with electric prods, strong nets and life insurance. I was just an innocent bystander, bystanding around to bywatch a circus act and bynibble my innocent Cracker Jacks. My biggest worry now was erasing my tracks.

But how do I do that and still get a croaker over to check on Macias? It would be smart to have some callabagas to pay him upfront, or else he’d just look up from his cards and advise the afflicted to walk it off. Top Town doctors are only one notch above the ones in the magazine cigarette ads, a little less trustworthy and about as effective. Neither Johns nor Hopkins hangs out around here.

I remembered Doc Whorf had an office nearby on Kelly Street. No chance he’d be in his office this late, so the next best place to find him would be the bar across the alley. I hightailed over to the Bung & Gargle and walked in. This place was a liberty joint, so clowns would not be barred from entering. It wouldn’t pay to be conspicuous tonight, so I hiked up my collar and didn’t linger in the doorway. It was hard to spot him in the dim, smoky room. The place smelled of burning rope and sour beer, like every other gin mill down here. When the bartender saw me, his look changed from boredom to self-pitying suspicion, as if to say, "Why did this zany have to come in on my shift?" A few other faces turned to look at me, and a couple glared. Thanks to my larry with Carlozo, my advance was getting bigger around town than I liked. I had to