Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

6. BELOW

The lift lurched and rocked as it headed down. "So, boss, it's show day down there," said Rufshod.

"And?" said Gonko.

"And so, are we, um, gonna mess with George's show or what?"

"Next time. I gotta scout out how they do so, we know what acts we're gonna steal for our own show."

"Kind of dangerous, boss. Ain't it? Like, the big bosses will be way pissed if they find out."

"If we get Kurt back in charge of this whole shebang, it will be the most ultimate suck up job in Pilo history, Ruf. Life will be all soda pops and shoulder slaps and round the clock chuckles for us, you wait and see. And you'll have Uncle Gonko to thank. Just wish I knew what to do about the new guy."

"Jamie?"

"Deeby." Thinking of him, Gonko had to fight not to vomit across his shoes. "‘Knock knock?' I'll knock knock his fucking teeth out."

"Sure! Why don't ya?"

"Jamie and this whole clowns-are-good-Samaritans gag. Dunno how long I can keep this up, this whole don't-lash-out-at-the-deserving thing. Bad enough I gotta play nice to George. But the kissing booth might just make up for all. You get a look under that veil? The MM's lipstick is golden pancakes with butter on top. We gotta steal some more while we're down there. I even felt a little pluck or two at my own heartstrings, Ruf, when Emerald got dolled up and made kissy faces at me. She's gonna be a hit, our star draw. You'll see."

"So where's JJ? Me and Jamie went out breaking stuff—was great and all, but it's not the same. JJ woulda helped me burn that house down or at least set that dog on fire, but Jamie didn't want no one to get hurt! Not even a dog. Weird."

"I don't get it neither," said Gonko. "Maybe the real JJ will just pop out of him like old times, but we know there's nothing wrong with the face paint."

"You sure? Deeby ain't much of a clown."

"He wasn't any part clown to start with. That's why we audition 'em, see if there's something for the face paint to work with. No sweat, we'll keep him around for now, but when we come back down he joins the lumberjacks for all I care."

The lift bumped to a halt and filled with the scent of buttered popcorn, hot dogs and, most of all, swarms of fresh tricks now shuffling dazedly across the grass and dirt. The circus music jingled, jangled, and moaned for the first time since Kurt had lost his temper nearly a year ago. Gonko grabbed Rufshod. "Now remember. If we see George, reverse psychology time. We hate it upstairs. Make your hat droop and get some cry streaks down that face. Bitch to any carny rats you see about how it's not fair we can't put on a show here. Tell 'em Gonko's losing his shit he's so sad about it."

They did see George, and only a minute or so after threading through the crowds of sleepwalking tricks. Already they left behind them a thin sprinkling of soul dust and they'd barely seen any acts yet. George was on his way from Mugabo's tent, where his ride-on goon had been left as a warning that the magician should do his list of humble magic stunts and nothing more. As a result, George was short on security detail and shriller than usual. "Gonko!" he screamed, assuming the position with his nose pushed to the clown boss's navel, eyes glaring up.

Gonko twitched but held in the rage for later. "We got a few good leads on the fortuneteller, boss, and we found JJ. But can't we just do us a quick little act down here today? Just some juggling and maybe the whole pants on fire gag? We clowns are so sick of being up there, away from the action. Which is the total truth."

George's laugh clattered angrily until he was gasping for breath. "Hate it up there, don't you? Well guess where you're going when the show's done? Right back up, until you bring me Shalice and everyone else on that list. And I'm working on a new list for you too. We had ten more staff abscond. You're going to find 'em."

Gonko sighed heavily. "But George, please George . . ."

"Shut it! Now listen up. Keep an eye on the dust collectors. There's thieving all over. They haven't been paid a good wage in a long time, so I want you checking pockets and give any thieves a good kicking. Report names to the lumberjacks, and I'll deal with 'em after the show. Got it?"

"I obey with great reluctance, even heartbreak, feeling the sad twang of yearning within for what may never be."

"Perfect! And stop by the freak show, Gonko, to check out my surprise new exhibit. You'll love it. Help yourself to a poke or two while you're at it. That's an order. All must poke the new exhibit." George stomped away. They heard him shrilly berating someone in Sideshow Alley.

Curiosity aroused, Gonko headed to the freak show, stopping first at the acrobat tent where their act had just begun. Ohhs and ahhs from the crowd, the works. Poking his head in, there was a healthy sprinkling of soul dust already poured across the floor—the circus was hungry. Onstage, under bright spotlights, three lithe bodies sailed between swinging rings, flipped, spun, soared a dazzling dance with gravity. Their first show, and he hated to admit they were at least as good as old Sven and his crew had been.

He checked in on a surly Mugabo who was now on his second magic show for the day, with red lash marks cut through the back of his shirt. Same old bunny trick, same old doves flying from handkerchiefs, with nervous looks over his shoulder at George's goon, waiting backstage. The crowd laughed and made their sleepwalking trick sounds of delight as the powder spilled out of them, to be picked up by dwarfs scuttling down around their feet. Gonko checked the nearest one's pockets, found a little dust had indeed been pilfered, and applied a moderately gentle kicking by his standards. He didn't want these carny rats rich and satisfied either, for that matter—it would make them harder to bribe if needed. The other gatherers got the message, sullenly emptying their pockets under his gaze.

The revamped freak show was curated by Dr. Gloom, whom many suspected possessed no physical body beneath the black leather overcoat, gloves, hood, pants, and boots, wrapped about an imposing nine-foot frame. Dr. Gloom was ever hunched over to a mere seven feet. The hood covered all but a thin slit for eyes, though they could not be seen. "Welcome," a rustling hiss occasionally seeped out. "Enjoy . . . the exhibitsss." Sooner or later Gonko would need to lay a smackdown on Dr. Gloom to confirm which of them wore the pants, as with all these new acts and performers, but now was not the time.

The circus was quieter here in the freak show dimness, the air colder. Gonko's lip curled in distaste at Wallace the Walrus, the sluggishly fat human-walrus hybrid staring stupidly at the tricks who stared stupidly at him. Now and then someone tossed a fish in for him, which he'd eat, then spray against the wall of his glass cage in a stream of projectile vomit.

"Stop that, stop that!" yelled the mermaid across from him in her harpy voice. "I won't have fish treated this way. I'm ready to sing now, you haven't heard real singing yet. Who wants to hear me sing? Ha! Who doesn't, honey." Gonko turned about to find the dirty bastard who'd shoved a screwdriver deep in each of his ears, to discover it was in fact the mermaid belting out some forgotten pop hit about how hard it was to have everything you wanted except enough attention from your man.

The next display was something Gonko could truly have done without seeing, which was the point of a freak show, he supposed. Fatso was doing his special act: eating himself. Fatso vaguely resembled a man-sized baby with rolls of soft wrinkled flesh piled in rings, a pig-like snout and large eyes, no neck, a G-string hidden by overhanging fat which quivered as he reached a shoulder to his mouth, squeezed a mound of doughy meat into a ball. His mouth had no teeth but had what seemed to be jagged pink gums, razor sharp. They sucked and sliced off a bite with the sound of slurping soup. Blood pooled in the gap he'd bitten away, dripped down in rivulets to join the streams of red his other bites had spilled. He chewed fast, swallowed, his expression somehow endearing for its innocent enjoyment. "Remember, folks, you are what you eat!" he said cheerfully. "At least, I know I am!" He went back to the same shoulder for more, then for a taste of bicep. The tricks stood disgusted and enthralled, Gonko feeling the same. But as the soul dust poured to the grass he suddenly knew what act he'd be swiping for his own freak show. This guy, at least, seemed to enjoy his work.

Moving on, Gonko came to George's surprise new exhibit. Gonko was surprised all right, to find the still living head of Kurt Pilo in a glass case, being prodded that very moment by a beer-gutted, bearded, trucker-looking trick.

Kurt's lips did not hold their normal serene smile. His eyes glared fiery hate at the trick, whom Gonko quickly tossed across the room, bowling over a handful of other tricks and maybe risking rousing them from the circus sleepwalking spell. Kurt glowered up, recognized him, and some of the fire went out of his glare. "Gonko! This is unexpected. I suppose you've been ordered here to . . .

have a poke?"

"Boss. What gives?"

"Oh, I'm better than I look. My body is obscured by sheets and lighting, but I'm still attached to it. George has . . . decided to keep me confined in a rather well-designed cage, which can withstand all manner of thrashing and flexing. You know, in some ways it's nicer than being below. In other ways . . ." Gonko saw where he was coming from: being mauled and tortured below had a certain rightness about it, if it was the big bosses doing it. Being poked by every shit-kicking carny rat and trick while George laughed? That was something else, even if it was physically less painful. Kurt's voice regained some of its joviality. "Further, it is an opportunity to practice the virtues of patience and tolerance. The fish flakes I am fed have helped my flesh to regrow. It's down to my chest now, isn't that nice? And I'm growing more adept at maintaining my . . . composure." By which, Gonko knew, he meant holding on to his human form despite the sizzling hot rage that must be boiling inside him almost constantly.

"Boss, I'll get you out. I just need some more time. Hang in there."

"Oh, no hurry," said Kurt. "I'll need to regain my strength to . . . handle various managerial tasks, once I am liberated. But I eagerly await the chance to stretch my legs. Among other things."

"I get the picture, boss. Anything I can do in the meantime?"

"Be the best clown you can be, Gonko! Strive for excellence, that's my motto." Kurt looked to the entrance, lowered his voice. "You would need to ensure that Dr. Gloom is not nearby, if you wished to assist me in some way outside of the stricter regulations. He keeps a close eye on all visitors."

Indeed Dr. Gloom had entered, his hunched-forward head slowly swinging about to find the source of the disturbance Gonko caused by bowling over those tricks. Dr. Gloom's head swung their way, and he began to amble over. "I'm out, boss. Back as soon as I can."

"No rush, no rush," said Kurt serenely. "Oh, but Gonko? Hurry."

•

Gonko ran from the freak show and barreled into Rufshod. Both went flying in a tangle of arms and legs. A group of tricks laughed at them dreamily. "Fortuneteller's here," Rufshod said, springing to his feet.

"She what?" Rufshod led him to her hut where, sure enough, Shalice (young and beautiful again) sat before the white glow of her crystal ball, doing her whole hypnotize-the-tricks-and-get-them-to-do-seemingly-pointless-stuff-in-the-real-world-which-has-secret-long-term-ramifications-for-influencing-the-turn-of-wider-events gag. She glanced up, locked eyes with Gonko, and was knocked back in her chair in an apparent mix of anger, surprise, and fear.

Gonko bowed low, not sure where things sat with the fortuneteller. "Need to talk," he mouthed.

She nodded to the trick before her, so Gonko waited out front, eyes peeled for George. This whole go-look-for-someone-who-ain't-actually-up-there gag was fine with him just now, and would buy useful time. The trick came out; Gonko went in. He happened to have in his hand a bag of bribery soul dust, and sure enough the fortuneteller's eyes lingered on it for a good while. He tossed it to her side of the table. "Little present to say welcome back," he said.

"How generous." She made the bag disappear. "I'm very busy today, Gonko. What is it?"

"Just a friendly little chinwag."

"Friendly would make a nice change, considering two of your troupe tried to kill me."

"First I heard of it."

"Is that so?"

"You can spot lies, right? Check it out, I got all kinds of honesty happening here."

"You clowns are not so easily read, sometimes." But he sensed a slight easing in her.

"Sabotage, that's all it was. Someone was messing with everyone, Shal—Fishboy and his crew. Never would have guessed it. Nor would you, eh? What say we let bygones be? Who knows, we could even be useful to each other, should some things need to change around here."

Now he had her attention, though she smiled in a way he found ambiguous. "Useful. Are you offering to watch my back in a more general sense, or do you have something specific in mind?"

Gonko hesitated. He'd been thinking of smuggling Shalice out to his upstairs show, but suddenly it seemed a risky thing to mention—this wasn't some dwarf like Curls he could just stomp to meat paste if squealing looked likely. For all he knew, if things were going to pan out that way, she'd already be wise to it and taking some kind of fancy action to change it before he'd even know what hit him. In fact, he wished he'd not come in here at all. "So George is in charge now," he said.

"Yes," she nodded. Silence stretched out. Gonko waited. "For the moment," she added at last.

Gonko smiled, reached into his pocket for another bag of powder—he had only three left, but tossed one of them her way. "I'd guess we're on a similar page here. One thing I'll ask of you. If George gives you the whole where's Gonko? thing, do me a favor? Where Gonko is, is he's up there looking under every rock and shrub for the fortuneteller, and the other escaped carnies, and he's real shitty about the whole no-clown-show deal. Got it?"

"I remain a loyal servant to the circus," she replied, but he could tell—or hoped so—that she was on board, or at least wouldn't mess with him.

"Me too, lady. And if any of these new chumps gives you the lip, you let me know. Glorious days ahead, when the little storm clouds clear."

She chewed on her lower lip, debating something. "Gonko, there's a spare music box in the shed. More than one, in fact."

Ah, so she knew—knew the whole works, and he'd thought he was being careful as all get out. It so happened he was going to check for a music box before he headed up, and if there wasn't a spare, to steal the one they had. Of course she'd heard of the missing carnies, maybe even of the Funhouse break-in and the stolen head. Good thing he'd come, then—maybe she'd have worked it out regardless, with the idea still in her head that the clowns were out to get her. "That's damned sensible of management," he said, poker facing. "Never know when your music box will break or go missing or something."

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.

***