Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

10. BELOW

Through the gates went the clowns, into more strains of circus music—now up-tempo and desperate. The panic in the air was something one could feel, stifling as humidity—most of it stemming from George himself. But it was also evident in the other performers and carnies, all overworked and nervous. For it was happening again: there was very little dust, and what had fallen was polluted with black and grey ash, which would need to be picked out later, grain by grain.

Quickly, Gonko ushered the clowns to their own tent, where a bunch of hiding Sideshow Alley carnies huddled with lash marks all over them. "Aw, ain't this sweet," said Gonko. "Looks like some orphans escaped a Dickens book. Get out."

"You gonna hurt us worse than Mr. Pilo?" said one of them sullenly. In reply Gonko took from his pockets a small chainsaw that spat fire from its teeth. The carnies ran.

"So where's this surprise?" Jamie said guardedly, for Doopy was hopping from foot to foot, talking about it breathlessly. Gonko led them on a quick search of the partitioned bedrooms, until they found a human looking shape under a blanket. They waited in the doorway as gradually a redheaded clown peeked out from beneath it, the exact and identical image of Jamie. "What the actual fuck?" he said. He felt dizzy, stepped back, and had to be held up by Doopy and Rufshod.

"Well, hello there, JJ," said Gonko brightly. "I trust the MM gave you a gentle rebirth?"

JJ slowly got up, took a step towards Jamie—JJ's eyes were wide with wary surprise. Some little scratches on Jamie's neck and hands were not visible on JJ's, and JJ's face paint was layered on thicker; other than that, it was a perfect reflection. They stared at each other for what seemed a long time, til JJ threw himself at Jamie's feet. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I just wanted my own body. Can't you see that? I just wanted my own body."

Jamie had no idea what this doppelganger was talking about. Then something clicked into place: Deeby, Dean. Jamie, JJ. It did not quite make sense to him; Deeby and Dean existed within one body, after all. But he sensed that this copy of himself had a place somehow within the circus's logic. "Look, don't worry about it, it's okay," Jamie said, not knowing at all whether it was okay or not. "Let's be friends. We're both clowns, aren't we?"

"Oh, thank you . . . thank you." JJ kissed Jamie's boots, then got to his feet.

"JJ," said Gonko. "Isn't there someone else you might oughta be groveling to?"

"Not that I can think of," said JJ. Wrong answer. For a moment the headlock Gonko held him in seemed almost tender and gentle, then he turned it into a wrestler's takedown. JJ was face down in the dirt as Gonko's white-gloved fist threw a few warm up punches into his neck and ribs, then gestured for the other clowns to join in. Jamie winced and turned away but the shrieking, begging and the pop-pop-crack were impossible not to hear, made worse by the comic noises sprinkled throughout (car horns, bicycle bells, splats.) When it was finally done, Jamie knew a normal person would not have survived it. Even with the face paint's protection, a blood-covered mess was strewn unconscious across the floor.

•

Until that day, Gonko had assumed he'd seen the maximum range of George's temper. Everyone and everything in range of his goon's clumsy lash arm got a taste. Games were broken. Some tricks were even roused from their sleepwalk and stood about in terror until they were led away, calmed down, and soothed back under the circus spell. All the clowns watched George from a safe distance, certainly including Jamie, who felt the beginnings of an idea forming when he saw the trick awoken . . . just parts and pieces lying separate in his mind, with the certainty that there was a way, somehow, to connect them. As yet, it eluded him.

Meanwhile George lost the power to articulate his grievances. What came out of him resembled: "Aya, who did, flamma joo, ree, arrrk," and so on, spittle showering, face red, the overworked goon groaning beneath him as the lash arm wore out but kept on lashing. The lumberjacks had their own version of "looking busy," which meant beating the crap out of whoever was unlucky enough to be near them when George came by. Phony "thief" culprits were reported as old scores and vengeances were settled among the short folk and gypsies. Some of these accused the lumberjacks carried away to the Funhouse where they were strapped to tables and benches before a salivating Matter Manipulator, rubbing his hands together with relish.

"One more show might just do it," Gonko mused. "This is not your typical George eruption. They've put the hard word on him. If he was Kurt, most everyone would be dead by now."

"We got two Jamies now," said Doopy, still struggling with the concept. "Gosh, that's nearly double what we normally got."

"Oh, no we don't," said Gonko. "They're different clowns altogether, you got that? Don't say a word to JJ about our upstairs shenanigans. Not til the plan's done. Jamie is your typical overawed getting-used-to-things-trick-come-clown. He can be trusted. Don't trust JJ with nothing important yet, especially after we just pounded on him. He'll spill the beans. Dig?"

They dug. When George seemed safely out of the way, Jamie excused himself and ducked off to Sideshow Alley. He'd not yet gotten over the shock of seeing his twin, nor the beating for that matter, but absorbing mental shock was becoming easier with practice—he'd had plenty of that. The dust and a wish would answer many questions . . . but no, not yet. He found Steve, who had fresh lash marks across his back and on his forearms, as did the carnies he worked with. Their eyes smoldered with anger. George seemed to be going the right way about starting a revolt with his lash alone. "Hey, Steve . . ."

Hands gripped Jamie's shoulders, and a knife was suddenly held up to his face. "Spill it," a voice hissed in his ear. To his amazement Steve just watched, waiting like all the others for an answer. He seemed just as angry.

"Spill what?" said Jamie.

The hands shook him. "Who wrecks the shows? We no paid, we whip all day, no rest, no pay. Just clean, work, show, clean, work, show, show, show. People ready to kill here, you get that? They kill who behind it all, they not care who. And some say, it the clown, he know! They seen Gonko talk to Curls, seen Curls have bag of powder he no share, then Curls no here! Ticket collector now? Pah! Something funny, that's what spill. Now you spill, or I spill you."

"All right, all right, put the knife down. Let me go, and I'll tell you what I know, okay?"

Slowly the knife withdrew, and the hands released him. The angry carnies waited in a close ring around him. "I don't know anything," Jamie said. "Honest." He leaped high as they grabbed for him again—one of those big floating jumps. The carnies took off after him til a lumberjack happened by, keeping a careful eye out for anything suspicious. They went back to their game stalls, still grumbling to each other, while Jamie leaped and floated for the safety of the clown tent.

The other clowns weren't there—presumably they were watching more of George's theatrics as his meltdown worsened. Jamie headed for the room where his double had been beaten, to check he was in fact still living. "JJ?" he called.

He'd no sooner walked in before something clubbed the back of his head, knocking him to the floor. For a moment—it seemed no more than a second—he blacked out, but when he came to his hands were tied together in chains, the chain's length wrapped around the steel bed frame. "Hey, I know you said let's be friends," said JJ, "and I know this looks bad. But let's put the friendship on hold for just a twenty-four-hour period, and then we can pretend this didn't happen, after I find out a few things."

"Why don't we pretend it's not happening now, and you can untie me?"

He watched the bruised, battered face he shared with this stranger consider this carefully. "See, though, if I was you, I'd say that. If I was you, get it?" JJ guffawed. "But then, I'd be squealing to Gonko, and then I'd be getting stomped again. Which really, really hurts, by the way. So look, a little switcheroo, just for one day. Promise! Then we can be chums again."

"We can switch, all right? I agree, we swap places. You don't need to tie me up for that. You could have just asked."

"Don't worry. Here's two buckets for the business, and I left you some water under the bed. Plus a hot dog. And you got all the air you need. See? I'm not so bad."

"Really kind of you. But have you noticed my face isn't all beat up? How's he going to fall for us being switched, when . . ." Jamie cut off the words the instant he realized it was the dumbest thing he'd ever said. Too late.

"Good thinking! Thanks, pal," said JJ, and with many apologies he corrected the problem. Jamie was half aware of the clothes being pulled off him and then JJ's being put on. Through a red mist of pain he heard Gonko and the others return to the clown tent. "JJ?" Gonko said.

"Nah, it's me, Jamie," said JJ.

"Then why is your face showing evidence of a well delivered stomping?"

"JJ attacked me. He was pissed that I just stood there idly, that's right, just stood there with my back turned, and let you guys

beat on me. Him. I had to, like, chain him up and stuff, such was the ferocity of his onslaught."

Gonko nodded. "Guess I'd be pissed too. You shoulda joined in with us and let him know which of you is the top bunk clown. You want us to slapstick him real quick?"

Jamie whispered, "No, don't." Relief flooded through him when JJ said, "Nah, no need."

"You sure? No one beats on my crew but me."

"I guess maybe just a few kicks?"

"You got it."

"Oh shit," Jamie groaned. Footsteps thumped closer til his vision filled with red clown shoes.

"You dirty dog," said Gonko, raising his boot.

"I'm Jamie!" Jamie screamed. "I'm Jamie. He swapped our clothes. He tied me up here—"

JJ sighed. "He said he'd try this: the ol' switcheroo."

"This warrants more kicks than I was originally going to impart!" Gonko cried, and several times his boot thundered down, til Jamie's world blacked out again.

•

Gonko and the others had planned like yesterday to sneak back out on the increasingly irrelevant pretext of finding the rogue carnies. To that end they watched the doubly drained tricks being herded back through the gates, but as the last ones went, George stood glaring with suspicion at Curls and his crew (not including Dean, who had remained above.) They disassembled the lattice gate pieces with the most strained attempt at looking casual Gonko had ever seen. There was no escape that way.

"Lifts it is then," Gonko told his crew, and they headed that way only to find a barricade had been put up around the lift with three heavily armed lumberjacks seated beside it. Gonko appraised them—the clowns could get past them without much trouble, but it would be reported and draw heat on them at a bad time. "All right something's going down here," he said to the others. "We'll get back later tonight, better find out what gives."

It didn't take long. George had taken the day's pitiful collection, a sum even less than yesterday's tribute and sent it to the Funhouse. As he'd expected the phone in his trailer rang soon after. He snatched the receiver, weeping openly as the cold voice said: "you. fail."

"I know," George whimpered.

"you. failed."

George made mewling sounds.

"tribute. pitiful. you. pitiful."

"I couldn't have whipped 'em any harder, I swear it. They're gonna riot; they're gonna torch it all down. Help me, you got to tell me what's going on, what'm I doing wrong here."

"last. chance."

"Oh what? Listen something's fishy here and I just need to find who's behind—"

"last. chance. show. tomorrow."

"Impossible. Four days straight? That's nuts. Hey I need time to interrogate every single carny with the fortuneteller helping. It's the only way I'll find out who—"

"last. chance." The line went dead. George stared at the receiver for a minute, and then trashed it against the desk, screaming. Parts of the phone broke off, but it would ring tomorrow, he knew. He grabbed a megaphone, mounted his exhausted goon, and fiddled the control panel levers. Two lumberjacks flanked him and his goon as he went through the showgrounds, hollering through the megaphone, "Emergency meeting. Acrobat tent, emergency meeting. All performers to attend. All game stall attendants to attend."

Hearing this, Gonko said, "Jamie: back to the clown tent. George don't even know you're back in the circus yet, and last time we had drama, you got blamed for some of the stuff Winston and Fishboy did. You sit this meeting out."

The clowns rushed to the acrobat tent and nabbed seats close to the exit. Gonko made hush-hush gestures to his crew as the other carnies filed in. A number of suspicious looks were shot Gonko's way. George bustled in last, stood at the top of a podium, and swept the room with a gaze of hot loathing. Into the megaphone he yelled, "I know someone in this room thinks they are pretty clever. Someone here is doing something to undermine my show, and to make sure no one is getting paid their share. The culprits will be caught. I have leads, I have ways to find out. Ways! You will not outsmart George Pilo. For now I have no choice. So we are doing another show tomorrow."

George allowed himself a moment to bask in the pleasure of the room's groans and angry murmurs. He glanced at the clowns and saw they were throwing their arms up in more distress than anyone, and that a couple of them were even weeping. "You heard me," George said. "A show tomorrow. And until we get good takings, the shows will go on nonstop. The tricks will just keep on coming until half of you drop dead with exhaustion and the rest wish you could."

"The clown!" Mugabo stood, yelling, pointing around the room. "My potions smash. The clown do! I remember now, is not the fortune witch—"

"Sit down," said George.

"Is Tuesday?" said Mugabo.

"Shut it!" George screamed, the megaphone squealing feedback. "What's more, no sleep for any of you tonight. You're going to rehearse your acts and test your games and rides all night. all night! The rest of you will clean, mop, polish, and scrub. Random inspections will go on all night. Anything less than perfection will incur whiplash! Go! Go! Go! And you clowns?"

All heads turned their way.

"You have your show back. And you'd better be just as busy as everyone else . . . or else."

"Much obliged George," said Gonko through gritted teeth and the fakest smile ever faked.

"We'd better get some smashin' stuff ready, for the boss," Doopy whispered to Rufshod. "Cause, see, he's gonna smash stuff now, and if you and me is the only things to smash, we might be what he goes smash to. And it hurts reaaaaal bad, Ruf."

Rufshod nodded and scampered off, grabbing whatever furniture, glass and other breakables he could find before Gonko somehow un-paralyzed himself and staggered, shivering with rage, back to the clown tent.

•

"George. george. georrrrge!"

It was a short sharp thunderstorm of violence, but merited applause from the other clowns when Gonko was done. The breakables were broken and made ankle-deep litter in one corner of the room. "Jamie!" Gonko snapped. "Listen. Get up top. Find Curls and tell him to sneak out with you. Put on the show just like yesterday. Can you do a one-man clown act?"

JJ's mouth hung open in astonishment. "I . . . see."

"What?" Gonko snarled.

"Nothing at all. Sure boss, I can do a one-man show," said JJ. "Jamie the clown, that's me."

"You're gonna have to. Hell, paint up Deeby if you have to and see if he can be funny by accident. Worst the tricks can do is not laugh. Emerald alone can probably suck most of 'em dry besides. Tell 'em up there: George is about to lose it. This'll be his last chance, just reading between the lines. We get it done tomorrow and it's bye bye George."

"And hello Kurt," said JJ. He went pale beneath the face paint. Like Gonko, his memories of "that night" were a bit of a jumbled mess, but one thing he'd never forget was begging for his life as the monster Kurt became shambled closer, closer, blood gushing from its mouth, dripping down its scales with a laughing growl from Hell's depths, Ohh, ho ho . . .

"Relax," said Gonko. "Kurt's just gonna love us. When you get up top, pay everyone four bags this time. The stash is buried behind our tent, ten paces back. Put the rest of the takings there and get the timing right! Two hours before George's show starts, have your tricks in. Two hours, send 'em down. Got it?" He tossed JJ a pocket watch after quickly setting its alarm. "The rest of you shit pukes, let's look busy." They filed out to the performance tent, leaving JJ open-mouthed where he stood and Jamie half conscious, chained to the bed frame.

•

Was it time yet to squeal? Not quite. JJ had to see with his own eyes exactly what he'd be squealing about.

He found Curls after a frantic search among the short folk—none were eager to help point him in Curls's direction. In fact every now and then he had to dodge a flung knife or hammer. They had not forgotten JJ the clown in these parts, and he didn't really blame them. He had, after all, indulged in something of a murder spree among these folks.

"Yeah, hey what?" Curls snapped when JJ finally found him. He'd been trying to sneak in a hot dog break in his hammock, hidden under a flea-ridden blanket.

JJ relayed Gonko's message and watched Curls carefully: was it as JJ suspected, that a second, secret show was afoot up there?

Sure enough, Curls gestured to follow him into a small hut's hidden room and locked the door. Spitting curses, the dwarf assembled one set of gate pieces. "Work never ends," Curls muttered. "Never rest time. He said I could see the ocean. All five, he said."

"Just do your job, you little turd," JJ said, raising his fist. Curls glared darkly at him but ceased complaining.

They stepped through the gates to the campground and into Gonko's secret traveling show.

***