Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

12. BELOW

Jamie had gotten some sleep, due to lack of other options. He was woken often enough by George's megaphone, berating performers about the show with shrill desperate rants, invariably followed by the whip crack and an occasional scream. This time, the sound of footsteps near his head and the feeling of being watched roused him. Two big red clown shoes filled his vision. A long way up stood JJ, peering down with Jamie's own eyes.

Yet there was something missing from those eyes, Jamie noticed that first; there was a flatness to them, like they were made of dull glass. The next thing he noticed was JJ's sad regretful expression as—very slowly—he pulled into view an object from behind his back. An axe. "I'm sorry I have to do this," JJ said.

Jamie sat up, pulled himself back, and ended up on his knees on the bed when the chain pulled taut. "But you don't have to do anything," he said. "Let's just talk it out, okay? There's no need for the axe."

JJ took a step closer. "There can only be one JJ."

"Fine, that's you. Chill out, and put the axe down. I want to be friends, like I told you."

"There can only be one Jamie."

"Oh, Christ."

"There may only be one. Only one of us." The axe raised high.

"You fucking bastard, kill me when I'm chained up like this? Look, stop, wait, wait!" He wrenched with all his strength at the chains, but he'd done that before, and again, they didn't snap or come loose. He writhed, squirmed, rolled side-to-side, afraid to look up at the axe he was trying to dodge. Time slowed to a crawl, and he heard the whoosh of the axe blade cutting the air. Jamie screamed, shut his eyes. He kept on screaming even after his eyes delivered the news: the axe blade came down on the chain, severing it.

Jamie got up, crazy with adrenaline. He started to sprint out, but JJ held him. "Wait, wait, I was joking. Sorry, just had to! I talked to your trick buddy up there. I'm in. I'll help you guys."

Jamie slowly calmed down. "What?" he gasped.

"I'll help you, okay? I don't want to be here anymore, but they'll keep bringing me back, even if I die. So I'm on your team. Whatcha say: we're buddies?"

"Buddies," Jamie repeated stupidly as his heartbeat slowly eased.

"Should've seen your face," JJ said. He laughed and laughed, and even tried to stop but a glance at Jamie set him off again, right up to when Jamie slugged him. JJ spun and fell into the wall.

"Good to have you aboard," said Jamie after an awkward few seconds. "But I'm on the top bunk. Got it?"

"Got it."

•

It took a while for Jamie to get his bearings back—facing off with death by axe will do that, it seemed. JJ waited patiently, distracting himself with a yo-yo. Over at the clown performance tent, a disturbance could be heard, with George's megaphone screaming, "You call that clowning? I'm supposed to laugh at this abortion?" The whip crack came, in turn followed by a piercing unearthly wail of rage that could only have come from Goshy. "Assault on management!" George's megaphone shrieked. "Code five, code five!" Footsteps thundered past as the lumberjacks rushed in to aid the boss. More squeals and shrieks from Goshy. The hubbub eventually died down as, presumably, Gonko smoothed things over.

"You guys ain't got much in the way of plans yet," JJ observed.

"Nope." And if they did, would Jamie divulge it to this clone of himself? He didn't think so, not yet. "We decided to let Gonko do his thing, not to interfere. We saw no point in getting Gonko booted out or killed, or whatever they'd do to him."

"It might mean you or me gets to be clown boss, if we did it. That might be handy."

"But we don't know just what they'd do. What if they just docked his pay for a year or two? Or if they confine him for a time but he eventually comes back? Then we'd be screwed. Look, we'd better get back up top. Steve looks like he's not going to be much help to us after all. Everyone but George himself seems to think the clowns are sabotaging the show."

JJ led them carefully back to Curls's hut and the gate he'd set up (though the lock had to be picked.) Back above, the camp was still asleep. Jamie woke Dean, led him out of earshot of the others. "Well, you've met JJ. He's my Deeby, you might say. JJ, this is Dean."

"So why is he apart from you?" said Dean.

"We don't know. No one seems to know. Something happened last time I was part of all this. But anyway, JJ's going to help us. He's on our side."

"I hope so," Dean said after a while.

"Hope no more, my friend!" JJ cried. "Together, we shall bring an end to—"

"Keep your voice down, idiot," Dean said, one hand at JJ's throat. "Talk again tomorrow," he said to Jamie before heading for his tent.

"He takes all this so seriously," JJ said admiringly. "Tricks, I tell you."

Jamie nodded. "Weird bunch, aren't they?"

•

Below, the hell night of rehearsals relentlessly went on. There was no sleep. Hours crawled slow. Doors to gypsy and dwarf huts were booted open, caravans were invaded. Those who'd passed out from exhaustion, or who hadn't found devious enough hiding spots for stealing sleep, were dragged before George. They were lashed, and if they mouthed off, sent to join those strapped to benches in the Funhouse. Even George's favorites, the acrobats, were not spared the lash; their cries of pain rang out as George happened to catch them sitting down to discuss a routine and deemed them shirking. Before every carny rat in the show there stretched an infinite hell of this treatment: all-night rehearsals, sleep a crime to be punished, the lash or worse, and beyond all this, no pay to take the edge off.

Eyes following George's movements about the place began to smolder with rage. A few private thoughts, unspeakable even a day ago under the gaze of george is watching posters began to whisper back and forth. Only a dozen lumberjacks stood between the carnies and a good night's rest; lumberjacks, the goon, and the heretofore sacrosanct understanding that one simply did not disobey the proprietor . . . for that meant trouble below.

But this proprietor was in trouble with the ones below. His shrillness and panic said as much. Some had been near George's trailer when the phone rang, had heard his whimpering. Rumor, exaggerating as it passed from mouth to mouth, spread quickly.

In the clown tent, rehearsals were over and the clowns lazed about on their stage. George would not be back to bother them after what had happened, Gonko was sure of that. Had he lashed Rufshod instead of Goshy, there'd have been little commotion. The moment the lash wrapped itself around Goshy's face, Doopy tackled the goon, spilling George in a backwards roll across the ground, Doopy's windmill fists busy pounding until Gonko wrenched him back. "Not fair Gonko, nuh uh, he shouldn'ta oughtn'ta done it, Goshy didn't do nothin,' was being the best super duper clown he could so's he can go lick the sky pretties one day, what taste like ice cream, Gonko, just like ice cream . . ."

"Ease off, George," said Gonko. "We ain't been part of this failing enterprise. Aren't there worse slackers than us you ought to go hassle?"

George had climbed back onto the goon's saddle and was frantically mashing buttons on its controls until the thing was on its feet again. Quickly George moved it to hide behind the lumberjacks who'd just arrived. "You'll hear about this later," said George. "All of you, after the show, see me in my trailer."

"Can't wait," said Gonko. "You're gonna be in such a sweetheart mood when you see how much dust we pull in, boss, I bet you'll just smother us in kisses."

Goshy's lips pursed, brow furrowed. Confused kissing sounds ensued. Doopy seemed already to have forgotten any cause for upset: "Why, yeah, that's gonna be swell. We're gonna kiss George tomorrow, Goshy, ain't that neat?" And that had been that. Now and then Goshy's hand felt along the lash mark across his face; his teeth would clatter or clown ears would spill out, sending Doops

huffing and puffing about "mean old George," but on the whole Gonko was left to his thoughts: namely, what to do with his aboveground carnies when all this blew over. Would it be safe to let them back here, in Kurt's show, where they'd be paid a lot less than they'd lately got used to? What if one day they decided to pull the old competing show routine again? Certainly Fatso could not be allowed to return, lest the Matter Manipulator find out what had happened . . . but what of the others? Maybe they had to be permanently retired . . .

For the second time that night, a white bunny rabbit hopped past their tent's entrance. Two lumberjacks followed it, the big dumb bastards drunk with power and loving their new role as circus cops. One of them looked in, saw the clowns sitting idle, and with a cowboy strut, in he came. "What's this?" he cried, opening his muscled arms in outrage.

"What's what, pal?" said Gonko, eyes narrow.

"I see one, two, three, four slackers all sitting down for an unauthorized rest break. Did I hear Mr. Pilo say in tonight's meeting that we'd be resting and lounging? George warned us about you clowns."

The clowns looked to Gonko for a cue. He stared at the lumberjack for a moment, wondering which way to do this. Direct takedown? Nah, too obvious. Doopy sounded like he needed to blow off some steam anyway. Gonko stood. "Yeah, about that. A quiet word with you, sir?"

"I'm listening."

Gonko bowed low, took the chump aside, whispered: "You see that big sack of clay with the lash mark? He's the trouble. Been messing up the act all night. I was wondering. Maybe you could give him a hiding? Few little pops to the jaw should do it. Owe you a bag for your trouble."

The lumberjack scoffed. "Can't manage your own crew?" But at the promise of a bag, he rolled his sleeves over fat biceps, planted his feet before Goshy, shoulders squared. "Slacker!" he barked. "You don't like rehearsing? Don't like orders from George himself? You better answer me."

Goshy blinked with one eye, boggled around the room at the others, whimpered. He turned side-on. The lumberjack moved in front of him, so Goshy kept spinning. "Slacker!" the lumberjack yelled. "Tough guy! What, is this funny? This a joke to you? Stand still. Hey!" Two punches connected to the back of Goshy's head, causing an unseen bell to ring.

"Big meanie," Doopy whispered. "Big . . . meanie. big meanieeeee!"

Gonko grabbed the lumberjack's arms and pinned them behind his back. Doopy did his thing. The big chump's head was already flopping around limp when Doopy got a good grip on it, wrenched, pulled, twisted. With the sound of meat being split, the pop of a vertebrae coming loose, the neck stump was encumbered no more and spat blood. Gonko dropped the body at his feet, pulled from his pocket a shovel. "Out back, Ruf," he said. "Dig quick." Gonko drop-kicked the head from their tent door, admiring the arc as it sailed high, to land in Sideshow Alley. More bunnies hopped past outside.

That was the first misfortune to befall George's muscle men. Maybe the head that fell among the exhausted and pissed off carny rats was taken as a heavenly signal to tolerate no more, or maybe it would have happened anyway. But it began to happen right then.

Certainly in Mugabo's tent, patience was already spread thin. The magician needed rest, a dose of powder, and maybe a kind word more than most in the show. On his stage he stood before an upturned top hat on a table. Every minute or so he jammed a gnarled fist inside it, pulled free a white bunny rabbit. "Oh, look, preety bunny," he'd say, tossing the creature to the ground before him. "Mugabo, great power. Big time wizard. But now he make the bunny. The bunny. the bunny!" Interspersed with bouts of weeping, growling, and entreaties to the gods who continued to ignore him.

The bunnies now numbered in the hundreds, exploring their new world for food. It got the attention of George's henchmen. Two lumberjacks now stood at the front row of seats, arms folded, watching the culprit set more rabbits loose. "Hey, you," said one as they advanced on him. "Is this your idea of a joke? What you think you're doing?"

"Bunny treek," Mugabo said slowly for the benefit of these stupids. "I do bunny treek. Mugabo has the special magics." The magician spat.

"No more bunnies," said the second lumberjack. "Do different tricks. That's an order."

"Oh no. Mr. Pilo want rehearse? Then Mr. Pilo have the bunny. Lots bunny, more bunny. Here." He produced another and tossed it at them, striking the nearest in the chest.

"I'll give you bunny," the lumberjack said, raising a two-by-four.

"No, no, I geev you bunny," said Mugabo, tipping his hat and spilling a dozen more rabbits out. They fled in a blur of white and brown streaking in all directions.

The lumberjacks had bullied Mugabo before, even given the odd shove, but never had they manhandled him the way Gonko used to, with magic pockets to counter the magician's wrath. But the night's events had made them feel rather important and very self-confident, so the two-by-four swung. Mugabo shrieked, blocked the blow with his forearms, fell sprawling across his stage. Pain blasted through his arms. He examined the broken skin with hurt and surprise—in his scrambled brain, the two men and he had been having a friendly chat about the finer points of his magic act; the attack had come from nowhere.

Something happened and Mugabo passed out after, with no actual memory of sending sheets of winding red and orange flame through his fingers. The two piles of ash smoldering on his stage were a great surprise to him; he only knew he had grazed and bruised forearms and that a commotion was brewing out in the showgrounds. He even forgot the idea of rehearsing and wondered why the heck he was still awake. He stumbled to bed, prayed his usual sarcastic prayers of thanks to the gods, and then slept.

•

So it was that only nine lumberjacks now stood between George and many thoroughly disenchanted carnies. Soon it was eight lumberjacks—the flick of a knife as one blustered through Sideshow Alley saw to that, the killer lost among the crowds with no witnesses inclined to report him. Another lumberjack sipped delightedly at a cup of poisoned broth, handed him by a grandmotherly-looking gypsy woman, who had for many days been earning his trust reporting minor transgressions at every chance. The remaining six, one by one, did the rounds in search of their brothers, who'd not returned from patrols. So eager were the carny rats to do in wrongdoers of late, and so dimly did the lumberjacks perceive the hostility all around them, they were certain that word of any true foul play would have already reached them.

Gonko was not without concern for reprisals—having had one of the big fuckers decapitated—but he noticed that fewer and fewer lumberjacks were happening by on rabbit clean-up detail. He took a stroll through Sideshow Alley, wary of the murderous looks he got from those running rides and stalls. But he also spied with his little eye the occasional body left only partly concealed by old blankets. One of the few remaining muscle men loped through the stalls now, calling the names of his friends with profound confusion on his face.

A rather public demonstration was called for, it seemed to Gonko, one that expressed both solidarity with the murderous carnies to draw the heat off, and reminded them of an old circus tradition: don't fuck with Gonko the clown. From his pants came a baseball bat with jagged metal spikes. The carnies who'd been eyeing each other off to see who'd do the honors this time, saw some first rate clubbing-to-death, with the legs and arms pulverized to goo first, and some theatrical hollering Gonko assumed would hit the spot for these folk. "For too long has your lash fallen on the backs of these, my people! They may smell bad, but they are true carnies, and no longer shall blah, blah, blah!" Crunch, crunch, thump.

It went down well—too well. He had not meant for the gesture to be interpreted thus: Hey guys, let's rush George and mob him, then get ourselves some shut-eye, and to hell with doing a show tomorrow. But that's just how they took it. "To George!" the chant went up.

"Shit," said Gonko. Fast death by mob trampling was not the revenge he'd worked and risked for—the big bosses would dish it out far tastier, as he well knew. The carnies, old and young, dwarf, gypsy, and miscellaneous, rushed past him in all directions, knives and clubs raised.

Gonko launched springs from his heels, jumped across rooftops, and floated to the ground. The hubbub was sweeping through the whole place. "Where's George?" he asked what was probably the last lumberjack, who stood rather nervously a short distance away, trying to look important.

"Freak show," the lumberjack answered.

"Thanks," said Gonko. Then it was time for the ol' hatchet thrown into the noggin gag, and the lumberjacks became extinct.

•

George had hustled into the freak show only some minutes before, dismounting his goon and leaving it at the entrance. "Enjoy . . . the exhibitssss," Dr. Gloom rustled.

Inside, George first hushed the mermaid, whose song was like red-hot matches in his brain. Poor Kurt would have heard rather a lot of her voice, and had George to thank for it, but George was entirely sure this exercise would have been futile even in kinder circumstances. But his options were few. He stood by Kurt's glass display, not quite knowing how to begin.

Slowly Kurt's eyes rose to meet his. The fat lips pulled up slowly to a grin. "Why, hello George," Kurt said. "Come to have a poke? Isn't it strange? One gets used to nearly anything, doesn't one?" Kurt considered this, then whispered, "Nearly anything."

"Yeah. Hey, Kurt, I could use some advice."

"Oh, ho ho."

"No, really. The show's gone to the dogs. No powder's coming out of the tricks. The phone's gonna ring again tomorrow, and I don't know what to tell the bosses. A show every day? It's nuts. I need to buy some time to work out who's messing up the shows."

"Hm."

"What do I tell 'em when they call, Kurt?"

"I fear I am only qualified to offer some general advice."

George leaned eagerly over the glass case. "Yes?"

"First, you must strive for excellence in all you do. Second, you must have a rapport with your staff. Cultivate a rapport, so that you may leaven authority with friendship! Third, if opportunity fails to knock, you must build a door."

George made a choking sound. "What kind of baloney—a door? You're full of it. What do I tell them, damn it? They're going to send me down there, you bastard. Help me!"

"Hm. Now, now, one mustn't name call."

George screamed, grabbed the sharp stick, and jabbed it in his brother's cheek. Kurt's smile slowly flatlined. "Jab, jab," George cried as he did it. "Tell me what to tell 'em. Tell me, tell me, tell—"

"Why, hello, Gonko," said Kurt.

"You want me to tell 'em that?" George screamed.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," said Gonko, strolling up behind George.

George wheeled about. "You should be rehearsing!"

"You got a little problem, boss," said Gonko. "Which is to say, you're fucked. Your goon outside's been messed up. The lumberjacks are all dead. And the carny rats are revolting."

"Now, now, one mustn't name call," said Kurt.

"Rioting, boss, is what I mean."

"I'm the boss here," said George.

"Uh?" said Gonko. "Right, sure you are. So the problem is, you set foot outside and you're gonna get trampled to death and set on fire. None of us wants that." Gonko glanced at Kurt. "Do we?"

"Oh my heavens, no," said Kurt.

"So here's the plan, I sneak you to your trailer, calm everyone down, and we do our show tomorrow like we planned. How ‘bout it, boss?"

George whimpered, sat down, and put his head in his hands. Gonko draped a sheet on him with the eyeholes cut out, and without waiting for an answer, carried him like a baby through the stream of carny rats. Some of them spotted the now-deceased goon outside the freak show, and a stampede of them went in, giving Gonko a clear run to George's trailer. He kicked its door in, tossed George violently across the desk, grabbed the megaphone, and then began barricading the door. "What are you doing?" George said from within. "You're shutting me in so I can't run the show!"

"Nah, boss, just making sure you're safe," said Gonko, hammering on one last plank. "I'll come for ya when it cools down out here. Sit tight."

"Don't go, Gonko! Don't leave me here."

Gonko would have stayed to listen to that sweet music all night, but this riot jazz was getting a bit wild. He went to the busiest part and addressed the crowd with the megaphone: "Relax, you fucks. George has been dealt with. Repeat, George has been pounded into sludge. Go home and go to bed. You will be paid tomorrow from George's secret stash. Repeat, two bags each. And a partridge in a pear tree. Go to bed. Show tomorrow as planned."

For just a few seconds it looked dicey, like the lot of them were about to rush him and force him to pull something seriously heavy duty from his pockets. But they wanted rest and powder just a touch more than they wanted blood, so there were only a few among them who had to be individually stared down or threatened with a cleaver before they joined the others, slinking back to their homes.

***