followers.
They shrug, mumble, and avert their gazes.
“Useless sons of bitches. Why do I even keep you? Okay, you—” He points his cane at me. “You’re on. Fix this horse. Nine bucks a week. You answer to August. Lose this horse and you’re out of here. In fact, first hint of trouble and you’re out of here.” He steps forward to Marlena and pats her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he says kindly. “Don’t fret. Jacob here will take good care of him. August, go get this little girl some breakfast, will you? We have to hit the road.”
August’s head jerks around. “What do you mean, ‘hit the road’?”
“We’re tearing down,” says Uncle Al, gesturing vaguely. “Moving along.”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just got here. We’re still setting up!”
“Change of plans, August. Change of plans.”
Uncle Al and his followers walk away. August stares after them, his mouth open wide.
R UMORS ABOUND IN THE COOKHOUSE .
In front of the hash browns:
“Carson Brothers got caught short-changing a few weeks ago. Burned the territory.”
“Ha,” snorts someone else. “That’s usually our job.
” In front of the scrambled eggs:
“They heard we was carrying booze. There’s gonna be a raid.”
“There’s gonna be a raid, all right,” comes the reply. “But it’s on account of the cooch tent, not the booze.”
In front of the oatmeal:
“Uncle Al stiffed the sheriff on the lot fee last year. Cops say we got two hours before they run us out.”
Ezra is slouched in the same position as yesterday, his arms crossed and his chin pressed into his chest. He pays me no attention whatever.
“Whoa there, big fella,” says August as I head for the canvas divider. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the other side.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “You’re the show’s vet. Come with me. Although I must say, I’m tempted to send you over there just to find out what they’re saying.”
I follow August and Marlena to one of the nicely dressed tables. Kinko sits a few tables over, with three other dwarves and Queenie at his feet. She looks up hopefully, her tongue lolling off to the side. Kinko ignores her and everyone else at his table. He stares straight at me, his jaw moving grimly from side to side.
“Eat, darling,” says August, pushing a bowl of sugar toward Marlena’s porridge. “There’s no point fretting. We’ve got a bona fide veterinarian here.”
I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again.
A petite blonde approaches. “Marlena! Sweetie! You’ll never guess what I heard!”
“Hi, Lottie,” says Marlena. “I have no idea. What’s up?”
Lottie slides in beside Marlena and talks nonstop, almost without pausing for breath. She’s an aerialist and she got the straight scoop from a good authority—her spotter heard Uncle Al and the advance man exchanging heated words outside the big top. Before long a crowd surrounds our table, and between Lottie and the tidbits tossed out by her audience, I hear what amounts to a crash course on the history of Alan J. Bunkel and the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth.
Uncle Al is a buzzard, a vulture, an eater of carrion. Fifteen years ago he was the manager of a mud show: a ragtag group of pellagra-riddled performers dragged from town to town by miserable thrush-hoofed horses.
In August of 1928, through no fault of Wall Street, the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth collapsed. They simply ran out of money and couldn’t make the jump to the next town, never mind back to winter quarters. The general manager caught a train out of town and left everything behind—people, equipment, and animals.
Uncle Al had the good fortune to be in the vicinity and was able to score a sleeping car and two flats for a song from railroad officials desperate to free up their siding. Those two flats easily held his few decrepit wagons, and because the train cars were already emblazoned with
They shrug, mumble, and avert their gazes.
“Useless sons of bitches. Why do I even keep you? Okay, you—” He points his cane at me. “You’re on. Fix this horse. Nine bucks a week. You answer to August. Lose this horse and you’re out of here. In fact, first hint of trouble and you’re out of here.” He steps forward to Marlena and pats her shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he says kindly. “Don’t fret. Jacob here will take good care of him. August, go get this little girl some breakfast, will you? We have to hit the road.”
August’s head jerks around. “What do you mean, ‘hit the road’?”
“We’re tearing down,” says Uncle Al, gesturing vaguely. “Moving along.”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just got here. We’re still setting up!”
“Change of plans, August. Change of plans.”
Uncle Al and his followers walk away. August stares after them, his mouth open wide.
R UMORS ABOUND IN THE COOKHOUSE .
In front of the hash browns:
“Carson Brothers got caught short-changing a few weeks ago. Burned the territory.”
“Ha,” snorts someone else. “That’s usually our job.
” In front of the scrambled eggs:
“They heard we was carrying booze. There’s gonna be a raid.”
“There’s gonna be a raid, all right,” comes the reply. “But it’s on account of the cooch tent, not the booze.”
In front of the oatmeal:
“Uncle Al stiffed the sheriff on the lot fee last year. Cops say we got two hours before they run us out.”
Ezra is slouched in the same position as yesterday, his arms crossed and his chin pressed into his chest. He pays me no attention whatever.
“Whoa there, big fella,” says August as I head for the canvas divider. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the other side.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “You’re the show’s vet. Come with me. Although I must say, I’m tempted to send you over there just to find out what they’re saying.”
I follow August and Marlena to one of the nicely dressed tables. Kinko sits a few tables over, with three other dwarves and Queenie at his feet. She looks up hopefully, her tongue lolling off to the side. Kinko ignores her and everyone else at his table. He stares straight at me, his jaw moving grimly from side to side.
“Eat, darling,” says August, pushing a bowl of sugar toward Marlena’s porridge. “There’s no point fretting. We’ve got a bona fide veterinarian here.”
I open my mouth to protest, then shut it again.
A petite blonde approaches. “Marlena! Sweetie! You’ll never guess what I heard!”
“Hi, Lottie,” says Marlena. “I have no idea. What’s up?”
Lottie slides in beside Marlena and talks nonstop, almost without pausing for breath. She’s an aerialist and she got the straight scoop from a good authority—her spotter heard Uncle Al and the advance man exchanging heated words outside the big top. Before long a crowd surrounds our table, and between Lottie and the tidbits tossed out by her audience, I hear what amounts to a crash course on the history of Alan J. Bunkel and the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth.
Uncle Al is a buzzard, a vulture, an eater of carrion. Fifteen years ago he was the manager of a mud show: a ragtag group of pellagra-riddled performers dragged from town to town by miserable thrush-hoofed horses.
In August of 1928, through no fault of Wall Street, the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth collapsed. They simply ran out of money and couldn’t make the jump to the next town, never mind back to winter quarters. The general manager caught a train out of town and left everything behind—people, equipment, and animals.
Uncle Al had the good fortune to be in the vicinity and was able to score a sleeping car and two flats for a song from railroad officials desperate to free up their siding. Those two flats easily held his few decrepit wagons, and because the train cars were already emblazoned with
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