Pilo Traveling Show (Pilo Family Circus #2)

8. BELOW

The tricks were right on time. The music played, and another smallish crowd walked in a daze across the showgrounds like floating bubbles on a river, going this way and that on little ripples of current. Only . . . very few children, almost no babies. Few in the show gave this even a first thought, let alone a second. Tricks were tricks, strange and contemptuous whatever size and shape. From the window of her hut, the fortuneteller observed the tricks with interest. She sat thoughtfully before her crystal ball, sucking her lip, flicking the view here and there with a long hand, looking firstly for a sign of the clowns (there was none) and then for George.

The proprietor was in a foul mood indeed. Never a fan of consecutive show days, was George, and normally the rest of the circus felt the same. Now though, poorly paid and half crazy with wish-dust withdrawals, the carnies and performers were more chipper than yesterday. They brought to their work a fevered, desperate energy. On the back of his goon, George lurched through the acts and games, screamed at slackers, and sent whip lashes in all directions, now and then tagging a stray trick. Mugabo was behaving himself, doing his paltry stunts with minimal scowls and sarcasm. Sideshow Alley was busy with tricks enjoying the games, shooting ducks, knocking bottles down, tossing balls too big to fit off the rim of baskets. The acrobats did their swooping soaring act again with the same grace. The lion tamer made his clever animals act like people. All seemed to be normal. Yet something was . . . off.

She panned back to George in Sideshow Alley. His arms flailed around, and he was screaming, reaching that level of agitation he sometimes got to, where all he could do was holler gibberish. Five baffled carnies stood with pockets out-turned, flinching back from the goon's raised lash. More thieves? Hardly surprising, given the state of things, but these ones looked honestly confused and certainly had no stolen dust in their pockets. More carnies were called over, Steve among them—the foolish boy who had minded her when age had fallen hard upon her, who had talked the whole time of returning here to his magical secret life. In spite of his help, she felt no overriding affection for the boy . . . yet she didn't like watching the lash whip down four times, once across his face, when clearly—by his facial expression alone—he'd not stolen anything.

That George. What had gotten into him? He'd been unusually venomous since this morning. She remembered him storming out of the Funhouse, where the Matter Manipulator had called him for a meeting with the new freak show curator. Something he'd heard in there had gotten his mood rotten indeed . . .

At last Shalice saw what was missing in this picture: dust! She quickly covered territory with waves of her hand across the glowing glass. Mugabo's show and the acrobat tent both had a meager pattering of sparkling grains, but not nearly as much as yesterday. Sideshow Alley's takings were pitiful, even this early into the day. The freak show was bare, totally bare. A very confused Dr. Gloom was craning his long body forward at the bare grass. The lion tamer, whose monkey was now serving the tigers tea, had the merest sprinkle. Even in those places making a minimal profit, the sparkling crushed-glass stuff was spattered with grey and black, like powdered coal.

Shalice sat back, pulling thoughtfully at her lip. Suddenly she knew: Gonko! The carnies who'd supposedly fled—Gonko had taken them upstairs, Gonko had his own enterprise! He was starving out the circus, all to get at George. Would George figure it out? Maybe not without her help.

Still no sign of the clowns as her hand flicked across the crystal ball. Not until nearly halfway through the night's show, when the new one came in, JJ or Jamie, whichever he was called. She remembered his first day, her own part in "conditioning" him to accept his new life. Right now he gazed around with the confusion, fear, and wonder of someone who had never seen the carnival before.

•

But he had seen it before, and Jamie knew it without remembering it. It was like walking through a recurring dream. The music poured down its cheerful notes; the air smelled sickly sweet, promising candy, popcorn, fun, rides, and prizes. The "tricks" all around the place moved in slow motion while Jamie threaded through them, barely seen by their glassy eyes. Many young women were among them, which made his Sir Lancelot instincts tingle in frustration: this wasn't right, these people had no idea they were even here. Dean's words and Dean's anger reverberated through him: "We take them out, Jamie." And now Jamie knew why he was really here: to find a way.

Instinct prickled his neck hairs, told him to get out of sight of the small furious man screaming and raging from his perch atop a lumbering giant, its whip lashing down spastically at anyone near. He hid behind a hot dog stand, and whispered "shh," to the startled vendor.

"Where's Gonko? Where's Gonko?" the little man screamed. "Which of you knows? Who's covering for him? Find him! Find the clowns! Any clowns!"

The screaming finally faded from earshot. The smiling hot dog vendor had his hand extended—apparently it was bribe time. "Later," Jamie said, knowing a bag of powder was what the gypsy wanted. "None on me. Later, okay? After we're paid." He ducked out from hiding and crouch-walked, staying as hidden as he could among the crowds. This decided his course—they thinned out to his right but made a fairly steady stream into Sideshow Alley.

Rides and games. A small roller coaster course, only a short walk in length but spiraling up high in the vague shape of a huge curled snake. This platform gizmo with seats which rose slow then dropped very fast. And not an electric cable in sight to power any of it.

Voices to his right, arguing and complaining. One of them was familiar, though now it seemed to come from several lifetimes ago. He came out from hiding among the herd of people, looked at the group of carnies—two dwarfs, a gypsy, and two other men. One of them looked his way and said, "Jamie! Where the hell have you been all this time?"

It took him a moment—the red lash mark across the man's face didn't help. He was shorter than Jamie, with a solid build and a round, somewhat child-like face. Many lifetimes ago, they had been roommates in a share house. "Steve?"

"Hell, yes it's me. Dude, you'd better get out of sight. George is looking for Gonko and any of his crew and he's not happy."

"I noticed. How long til the ticket collectors set up the exits?"

"Not long now. But George is pissed. He thinks someone's stealing all the powder. And maybe somebody is. But if you look closely you never see any of it actually dropping out of the tricks. So maybe he'll extend the show. Things aren't working right. There's been hardly any powder at all."

"I'm not surprised." The others had watched this exchange with indifference until that remark—suddenly all eyes were sharply on Jamie, and he quickly shut his yap.

Steve frowned. "Why aren't you surprised? We're all surprised. We're damned surprised. Yesterday there was no problem."

Think and think fast . . . "Well, you got no clown show, do you? How can you expect a decent profit without the clowns?"

The faces relaxed a little but still looked at him warily. Steve said, "Nah, that's not it. All we can think of is, this is the second show in two days. But the old carnies here—there's still a few left—they don't think that should make any difference."

"Hey Steve, is there somewhere we can talk alone?"

"I'm supposed to be working, but . . ."

One of the others said, "He go with you, eh? But clowns owe us a favor. Hear me? Us here at the duck game. Clowns watch our back, right?"

"You got it," Jamie said. "I'll do all I can."

•

They made their way to the clowns' home tent, Steve going ahead to keep an eye peeled for George. They sat on an old bed stiff with dirt and sweat—it may have once been Jamie's own bed, for all he knew. Jamie learned what little Steve could tell him about the circus. He told the tale of their being brought here, something Jamie struggled to entirely believe. The way Steve told it, Jamie had been forced to join, forced to become a clown and had never liked it here. "You were such a sniveling coward," Steve said. "You were the clown the carnies hated most. Some remember you too, so you better watch your back." The powder was indeed pay; according to Steve, it made small wishes come true, or at least gave the appearance of doing so. Wish for small things and you could keep them—cigars, a chess set, so on. Wish for more intricate things like a lover and she'd be there for a while before vanishing. The dust came from the people brought here. "Like milking cows," Steve said, though he seemed to know not much more than that. Most of what was milked got sent below to the big bosses whom no one ever saw, and who rumor held could not actually come up here

without getting sick.

"That's where George gets his orders," said Steve, falling gladly into the role of lecturer. "George acts like he runs it all, but he's just a manager, like Kurt was." Steve laughed. "That Kurt, he used to creep everyone out, but the place was a lot more fun then. George in charge? Those lumberjacks are treating it like their playground. They beat up who they want or steal anything, and will just say you did wrong if you make a stink about it. They're getting paid when no one else is, so they like George all right. Tell you what, I kind of wish I hadn't come back sometimes." His hand went to the lash mark on his face. "Why don't you know any of this stuff? You worked here."

"I don't know. Can you think of what might have happened to stop me remembering? No one seems to know."

"Sure, one thing. The dust. Maybe you wished your memories away cause you got freaked out by some stuff."

A chill went through Jamie. Somehow he knew that could be it. "I wished it all away."

"Yep, so what? Just wish the memories back. I'd help you out but I used most of my stash already."

"So do you think they'd just let you walk out, Steve? If you got tired of being whipped, or worse? Back to your mother who is convinced I murdered you?" Jamie didn't realize til then that he was pissed at this guy, who'd come back voluntarily for God's sake, and left him last time to deal with the "real world" alone.

"I really don't know how they handle resignations," Steve said guardedly. "Most carnies don't try to leave. Guess I got off without punishment because of what Kurt did. And because I came back."

"So what if we found a way to make it so it doesn't matter how they handle it?"

"Oh, come on, Jamie, they got all kinds of magic and shit."

"I'm just saying, what if?"

Steve hesitated, lowered his voice. "Maybe I'd go back to my old life. Don't know what I'd tell them up there . . . but yeah. Guess I'd go back, if it was easy to do it."

"Listen. Keep your eyes and ears open for me, okay? Any info you learn from these carnies about the show, where it's vulnerable—"

"Whoa, I'm not agreeing to anything, not signing up for anything."

"And I'm not suggesting anything, okay? Just . . . keep me posted, if you learn anything potentially useful. That's all."

"bean spiller!" Gonko's roar ripped through the room, made both of them jump. Gonko flew vertically from the doorway, landed on Jamie and began choking. "Who'd you tell?" he said.

"Tell . . . what?" Jamie gasped. The thumbs on his windpipe eased off a little.

"Go on," said Gonko.

"Tell what, boss? There's nothing to tell. Oh, you mean how you swiped that bottle of barbecue sauce from the acrobats?"

"Good one," said Gonko. He gave Steve an appraising look. "Don't tell no one about that sauce bottle."

"Sure thing. Laters," said Steve, running from the room.

"Not a word of it?" Gonko said, shaking the collar of Jamie's shirt. "Not a word about my show?"

"Of course not, boss. I've only been here what, half an hour?"

"And you came down here because . . . ?"

"Goshy. Look, those baby things he made. He was eating them. I freaked out. I rescued one, and it pissed him off, so I ran in here to hide. But boss, listen. George is really angry at you."

This brightened Gonko's mood a touch. He patted Jamie's shirt back in place and helped him sit up. "What's his beef?"

"I dunno. They got no dust down here. Maybe he knows something."

"I doubt that. All right, you stay put. Don't move til I come get you. Know what they say about loose lips?"

"They sink ships?"

"Nope, they make Gonko stomp Jamie into a pile of slush. Here, keep yourself busy." He tossed Jamie a small velvet bag, perhaps forgetting that as yet, Jamie didn't officially know what the powder was for.

•

There was nothing else for it but to march right up to George wearing a pained expression of exhaustion, and to say, "George, boss, fortuneteller's not up there. We followed every lead we had and got no sign of her."

George's goon wheeled about, drool spraying from its mouth. Its eyes were dead as the lash whipped down. Gonko dodged three slashing cuts until George pressed a control panel button to stay its arm. He was shivering with anger, a sight Gonko drank up like fine wine, not to mention the first hints of panic, so sweet to taste. And it was just the beginning. George hadn't yet spoken because he couldn't—rage had locked his jaw tight. Gonko pleaded, "Boss, you got to give us our show back. We clowns are desperate and suffering and all that caper."

"My . . . trailer . . . now!" George spat out at last. Gonko bowed low and most respectfully, then went into what had once been Kurt's trailer, waiting on a rickety chair by the desk. The place stank of George and bad coffee.

Gonko's bright triumphant mood vanished as George entered flanked by the Matter Manipulator and the fortuneteller. That alone meant this was, at the very least, delicate. Then just before George slammed the door shut behind them, he had a glimpse of six musclebound lumberjacks gathering outside.

It was game on for real. Just perhaps Jamie had said too much after all . . .

Gonko feigned surprise and outrage at the sight of Shalice. "Boss, what gives? Has she been in the circus the whole time? Has our questing and searching been for naught?"

George had composed himself a little and indulged in a big shit-eating George-type grin. "She just returned. So you can start looking for the other runaways. Maybe. First you got some explaining to do."

"Like what?"

"Why is my show not turning a profit today?"

"How the hell would I—"

"Where's Fatso?"

"Who the hell is—"

"The Matter Manipulator tells me you left a clown corpse outside his door the same night Fatso disappeared. Coincidence?"

"Whoa, am I answering for the freak show now? I hardly even been on the showgrounds, now when stuff goes wrong here, I get the blame? Boss, this is madness!"

George looked at Shalice but spoke to Gonko. "Did you have anything to do with Fatso's disappearance from the showgrounds? Do you know anything about the other carnies who have fled?"

Gonko said, "Boss, that's all news to me. I wasn't a traitor last time the show had troubles, and I ain't one now. Me and my crew, we're following your orders to the letter, looking for people. But if I find out who's messing with the show, let me at 'em."

The MM leaned forward, rubbing his hands together eagerly, already appearing to measure Gonko's body parts. No doubt he was certain the fortuneteller would tell George Gonko was lying.

Shalice's eyes, cold and distant, bored into Gonko's. Her look said she wasn't playing his game, and he was right now at the mercy of two words. She had only to say he lies and he was back below. His hand went into his pocket and closed upon a fat hand grenade. His thumb poked through the pin. Eagerly George watched Shalice, waiting.

Shalice sat back, met George's gaze, and said, "He is telling the truth."

A stillness fell. Three heavy seconds ticked by. "Out!" George screamed. "out! out!" And he kept on screaming it long after the three of them passed through the group of waiting lumberjacks (ropes and chains in their hands) and went their separate ways.

•

Just to be safe, Gonko gave it a little while before appearing at Shalice's door. Wearily, she waved him inside. This was certainly awkward. He dropped two fat velvet bags on her table, figuring there'd be a haggle for more pretty quickly.

She made the bags vanish sure enough, sat back in her chair and said, "I hope you don't think we are now even."

"Gonko's busy. How much you want?"

She extended the palm of her hand, slightly cupping it. "You tell me, how much are these worth?" It took him a second to figure out she was referring to his balls, which were indeed sitting neatly on that long tanned palm.

Unusually short-sighted of her, was his first thought; if all went to plan, within a few more shows the big bosses would summon George below and put him through the meat grinder for years or maybe forever (far tastier payback than merely beating George to sticky paste, though Gonko still thirsted to do it). Kurt would be back at the helm, and Gonko, his pet performer, would review a mental list of who played hardball or otherwise fucked with him when stuff was risky. Shalice was now penciled in on that list. "What are they worth?" he mused. "Buyer's market, ain't it? You tell me."

Her hand bunched into a fist, withdrew. She stood and paced. "I weary of all this, Gonko," she said quietly. "Down here you lose track of years, of decades. The way normal people lose hours in a day. When I lived above just recently, it took six months before the mirror told me the truth and the years fell on me. I saw a hag."

"Looking good now, if you'll pardon my—"

"And I watched the news up there in their sad, sick world. They are nearly as depraved as we are; they prey on each other the same way we prey on them, and just like when they come here, they seldom know it. I read through their histories—much of which I created and steered from here, in this little hut, seated in that little chair. I saw things in a new light and began to hate myself and everything else. Yet when I realized the circus would return to me my youth . . . back I came. The most powerful woman in the world, known by no one, up there. And of course, replaceable the minute it suits George, or whoever else should run this circus. Perhaps you, one day."

Gonko fidgeted. "Where's this going, lady? I don't want nothing more than a bunch of cackle magnets to boss around. What I'm doing up there is a quick fix to a little problem we got named George, and that's it. I ain't ever gonna be in charge down here."

She shrugged. "Maybe so."

"Trying to grab your drift here. Almost sounds like you're sick of your job and you want out."

"Do you never get tired?"

"Nothing the dust can't fix."

"Maybe I've said too much." She sighed. "I'll tell you what I want in return for my help. One day, maybe soon, maybe years from now. I will call in a favor. It may be something small or something big. When I name it, whatever else is happening, on the day I call that favor you will drop everything else and do as I ask. Are we agreed?"

Gonko did not get her vibe at all—this was the weirdest blackmail scheme he'd heard of. "Within reason, I guess we got a deal. And here." He tossed her another velvet bag, happily in fact; had their roles been reversed, he'd have made it cost fifty times as much, at least.

•

The tricks were being herded out by a nervous Curls with his nervous crew. George had been by to scream at them, and though Curls played dumb in a rather ham-fisted way, panic and constant rage had taken their toll: George hardly even know where to point his questions and dust thievery was all he could scream about. The ticket collectors disassembled their gates and waited in the clown tent, as Gonko had ordered.

Jamie was still there, now and then fondling the bag of powder, listening to what he could outside. If it was true he'd wished away the memories, it had been done for a pretty good reason, and getting them back may be most unwise. But then, he'd erased them thinking he was headed back to a normal life, and look where he was now. In those memories could be key clues as to how this place may be—as Dean had put it—taken out. And if he got the memories back and found himself too traumatized to go on, he could wish them away again, right? But then, what hidden effects did all this wish-brainwashing have? How did he know he'd not end up a vegetable or stuck with total amnesia? And round and round this personal carousel he'd gone since Gonko had departed.

"How are we getting back up there?" he asked Curls, who looked tired and irritable.

"Lift," he grunted.

"That lift can take us pretty much anywhere in the world, right?"

"We're going back where we were, damn you. What you want, holiday in Jamaica? Want to see the ocean, eh? You'll have to wait. Just like I have to." Which Jamie took to mean yes, the lift could go pretty much anywhere. That might be something useful to know, but he had no idea why, just yet . . .

•

Meanwhile Gonko, done at Shalice's, went right to the funhouse and pounded at the door. With coffin lid creaks it swung inward. The Matter Manipulator's pale sweating face thrust out the gap.

"What's the big idea getting me in George's bad books?" said Gonko. "And where's JJ? Why you ain't brought him back?"

"I wasn't asked," the Matter Manipulator said, hunching his shoulders around as if convulsing with laughter, though he did not laugh. "The clown body at my doorstep, sans request, I took to be a gift from who knows who. It will be useful for parts."

"Oh, no. I owe that clown a beating and he owes me a very simpering apology. Bring him back!"

"The ah, payment has not yet been—"

"What, you want me to dip into the last of my private stash? You notice I ain't been paid today? I got two bags left to my name, you greasy fuck. How much you want from me?"

"Two bags will suffice."

Gonko wailed and moaned up a storm, the whole not-letting-this-guy-know-two-bags-was-hardly-a-dent-in-the-fortune-amassed-in-just-one-show-above gag—what with so few carnies to pay and no tribute to send below. He flung the bags down, feigning disgust. The Matter Manipulator smiled, victorious. "And while you're bringing him back, if this one has extra dicks or starts laying eggs or whatever you did to Goshy—"

"No threats please, Mr. ‘the Clown'. They distract the mind and lead to . . . errors."

•

In George's trailer, the phone rang. It rang and rang, the loudest and worst sound in the world. George cringed away from it, wanting to let it to ring out, but he knew they knew he was here. There was no choice. He lifted the receiver with a shaking hand. "Hello?"

"you. failed."

"Hey now, wait just a minute."

"tribute. insufficient."

"Look, it's not my fault. Something fishy's going on here."

"show. tomorrow."

"What?! Three days straight? You're nuts. Give it a day to rest; they ain't been paid. They ain't—"

"show. tomorrow." The line went dead. George buried his face in his hands.

•

Electric light flickered, flashed through the upper Funhouse windows. A bolt of lightning had been captured and was now being tortured to death, or so it looked to Steve and the others who walked by that evening, out on secret errands in the private network of loyalties, factions, betrayals, and paybacks among the circus's lowest rung staff.

Indeed something had been captured in that sick, sickening room. Many eyes embedded here and there in the walls, paintings, furniture, and from inside of jars, watched in mute horror. Talking to himself excitedly, just like someone pretending in his kitchen to host a cooking show while he made dinner, the Matter Manipulator lurched between jars of liquid, the electric chair, and the dials and panels of what looked like radio equipment: its purpose to find, in the etheric plane or beyond, the essence of JJ the clown.

"And with just a twist of this lever," he said, examining the panel's flickering dashes and lights, listening carefully to its beeps, "Aha! Yes, we have found the essence! ‘Tis easier on the more recently dead, still all lost in limbo seeking new homes. One year past, there is no guarantee, but tonight we have found the essence! And we have the particular frequency, the unique energy frequency derived from readings taken of the flesh. The unique energy signature, the fingerprint of the soul, my darling darlings." He snickered. "And we match that on this chair with a careful twist of this dial, til the frequency is identical, creating resonance which can

reach above, beyond the physical! And we activate the magnet trap, for when it's just close enough, just close enough . . ."

The chair spat sparks and shook JJ's carefully remade body, whose organs squeezed and clutched the fluids of life about the body, though no conscious life was yet there. It was a doll of flesh, vacant and waiting. Wet stuff flew from its lips. "And the law of attraction summons the essence home! It dons its suit once more—it has life! Breathe!" he shouted, hoarse. "Breathe again, clown; the circus calls you! She is your mother and your jail cell and your only only!"

JJ breathed. Slowly his brain switched on, and his eyes peeled open to look about the room, uncomprehending at first. As memory dawned, sadness and fear formed like a cloud above him. "Why?" he whispered. "Why did you bring me back?"

The Matter Manipulator's shoulders hunched with mirth. "Happy, where you were before? Ah, but that place can wait. What of this, the physical realm, the heaven of pleasure, the spice of pain? Yours again! Have a time to recover your wits, your . . ." his fluttering hands quested for the word ". . . your motivations. Later we shall discuss the why, the what, the who. There is a task I have for you. And there shall be rewards for compliance, the punishment for failure. Do you hear me, clown?"

"Yessir," JJ whispered.

"Tricky business afoot. I suspect, and George suspects. The clowns do ill to the show, we know not how, just hunch and guesses, fleeting thoughts. Rebellion! And the fortuneteller . . . well, we do not know, but we watch—watch her now, very close. And that is your task: watch. Learn. Report. Discover what goes on." The Matter Manipulator dropped one of the velvet bags Gonko had given him onto JJ's lap. "You remember this little vice, the joys it brings, itches scratched? More awaits you, clown, if you do this well for me. More than that: your heart's desire, the friendship of the carnival overseers. Maybe it will be JJ the Clown who leads the rest!"

The Matter Manipulator produced a glass case. Inside it was a still living head, with nails driven through every inch of flesh. The lips were stitched shut. Only the eyes were unharmed. They peered, pleading at JJ through the glass. "Shall we discuss the price of refusal, or of failure?" the Matter Manipulator said. "For now you know, even swift death is no escape, should you displease me. I call you back as I see fit. This head has been alive for a hundred years. I refresh the nails, oh, every so often."

JJ shook his head. "I'll rat them out, sir. I'll snitch."

"Good boy. Then you keep your head, and next time you rest, I shall not wake you."

***