circus this time of year, but these are old people. Semiretired, you might say. They don’t take vacations. Going out in public is not their idea of a lot of laughs.”
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Walter’s Congress of Wonders. Only it’s run by a gent named Haggarty. You can’t miss him. He’s all covered with tattoos like a road map.”
“Thanks, Danny. You’re a fund of valuable information.”
TWENTY-ONE
Walter’s Congress of Wonders stood on 10th Street near the ramp leading up to the Boardwalk. More than any of the surrounding attractions, it had the look of an old-time carnie midway. The front of the low building was festooned with bunting, below which hung large primitive paintings of the exhibits inside. Simple as cartoons, these vast canvases depicted human deformity with an innocence that belied their inherent cruelty.
MY IS SHE FAT! read the caption under the picture of a woman big as a blimp holding a tiny parasol above her pumpkin-sized head. The tattooed man — BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP — was flanked by portraits of Jo-Jo, the Dog-faced Boy, and Princess Sophia, the Bearded Lady. Other crude portraits showed an hermaphrodite, a young girl entwined by snakes, the seal man, and a giant wearing evening clothes.
OPEN SAT. & SUN. ONLY, a sign announced in the empty ticket booth by the entrance. A chain hung across the open doorway like the velvet ropes in nightclubs, but I ducked underneath and went inside.
The only illumination came from a dingy skylight, yet it was sufficient to reveal numbers of flag-draped platforms arranged along both sides of the deserted room. A smell of sweat and sadness hung in the air. At the far end, a line of light showed under a closed door. I went over and knocked.
“It’s open,” a voice called.
I turned the knob and looked into a large, bare room, made homelike by several sagging second-hand couches and gay circus posters brightening the mildewed walls. The fat lady filled a couch like it was an armchair. A diminutive woman with a black curling beard spread across her demure pink bodice sat engrossed in a half-assembled jigsaw puzzle.
Under a dusty fringed lampshade, four curious misshapen humans engaged in the familiar ritual of draw poker. A man with no arms or legs perched Humpty Dumpty-fashion on a large cushion and held his cards in hands growing directly out of his shoulders like flippers. Next to him sat a giant, playing cards reduced to postage stamps in his massive fingers. The dealer had a skin condition which made his cracked complexion look like the hide of an alligator.
“You in or out?” he demanded of the player on his left, a wizened leprechaun wearing a tank-top undershirt. His neck, shoulders, and arms were so heavily tattooed that he appeared to have on some exotic skin-tight garment. Unlike the gaudy epidermal artwork pictured on the canvas poster outside, he was bleached and faded, a blurred carbon of what was advertised.
The tattooed man eyed my attaché case. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he barked.
“I’m not a salesman,” I said. “No insurance or lightning rods today.”
“Then what the hell’re you after, a free show?”
“You must be Mr. Haggarty. A friend of mine thought someone here might be able to help me out with some information.”
“And just who might this friend be?” the multicolored Mr. Haggarty demanded.
“Danny Dreenan. He runs the wax museum around the corner.”
“Yeah, I know Dreenan, a two-bit con man.” Haggarty hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat into a wastebasket at his feet. Then he smiled to show he didn’t mean it. “Any friend of Danny’s is jake with me. Tell me what you need to know. I’ll give you the straight dope if I can.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Be my guest.” Haggarty pushed an unoccupied folding chair away from the card table with his foot. “Park it there, pal.”
I sat between Haggarty and the giant, scowling above
“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.
“Walter’s Congress of Wonders. Only it’s run by a gent named Haggarty. You can’t miss him. He’s all covered with tattoos like a road map.”
“Thanks, Danny. You’re a fund of valuable information.”
TWENTY-ONE
Walter’s Congress of Wonders stood on 10th Street near the ramp leading up to the Boardwalk. More than any of the surrounding attractions, it had the look of an old-time carnie midway. The front of the low building was festooned with bunting, below which hung large primitive paintings of the exhibits inside. Simple as cartoons, these vast canvases depicted human deformity with an innocence that belied their inherent cruelty.
MY IS SHE FAT! read the caption under the picture of a woman big as a blimp holding a tiny parasol above her pumpkin-sized head. The tattooed man — BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP — was flanked by portraits of Jo-Jo, the Dog-faced Boy, and Princess Sophia, the Bearded Lady. Other crude portraits showed an hermaphrodite, a young girl entwined by snakes, the seal man, and a giant wearing evening clothes.
OPEN SAT. & SUN. ONLY, a sign announced in the empty ticket booth by the entrance. A chain hung across the open doorway like the velvet ropes in nightclubs, but I ducked underneath and went inside.
The only illumination came from a dingy skylight, yet it was sufficient to reveal numbers of flag-draped platforms arranged along both sides of the deserted room. A smell of sweat and sadness hung in the air. At the far end, a line of light showed under a closed door. I went over and knocked.
“It’s open,” a voice called.
I turned the knob and looked into a large, bare room, made homelike by several sagging second-hand couches and gay circus posters brightening the mildewed walls. The fat lady filled a couch like it was an armchair. A diminutive woman with a black curling beard spread across her demure pink bodice sat engrossed in a half-assembled jigsaw puzzle.
Under a dusty fringed lampshade, four curious misshapen humans engaged in the familiar ritual of draw poker. A man with no arms or legs perched Humpty Dumpty-fashion on a large cushion and held his cards in hands growing directly out of his shoulders like flippers. Next to him sat a giant, playing cards reduced to postage stamps in his massive fingers. The dealer had a skin condition which made his cracked complexion look like the hide of an alligator.
“You in or out?” he demanded of the player on his left, a wizened leprechaun wearing a tank-top undershirt. His neck, shoulders, and arms were so heavily tattooed that he appeared to have on some exotic skin-tight garment. Unlike the gaudy epidermal artwork pictured on the canvas poster outside, he was bleached and faded, a blurred carbon of what was advertised.
The tattooed man eyed my attaché case. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he barked.
“I’m not a salesman,” I said. “No insurance or lightning rods today.”
“Then what the hell’re you after, a free show?”
“You must be Mr. Haggarty. A friend of mine thought someone here might be able to help me out with some information.”
“And just who might this friend be?” the multicolored Mr. Haggarty demanded.
“Danny Dreenan. He runs the wax museum around the corner.”
“Yeah, I know Dreenan, a two-bit con man.” Haggarty hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat into a wastebasket at his feet. Then he smiled to show he didn’t mean it. “Any friend of Danny’s is jake with me. Tell me what you need to know. I’ll give you the straight dope if I can.”
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Be my guest.” Haggarty pushed an unoccupied folding chair away from the card table with his foot. “Park it there, pal.”
I sat between Haggarty and the giant, scowling above
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