Tommy, crooking an arm around the wobbly mast, muttered, for once too shaken for caution, “I guess he was just in a bad mood and needed somebody to take it out on.”
Johnny whistled in dismay. “Damn it, Angelo’s the only person I know could straighten Matt out when he goes off on one of these jags. But listen, Tom, you don’t have to take that stuff. I’ll put a flea in Signor Mario’s ear myself.”
Though his shoulder hurt and he felt bruised and despairing, Tommy was not ready for that. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Johnny.”
“Lucky, you’re only about half his size,” Johnny said, with unusual gentleness, “and you have to live with the guy, Damned if I’ll stand around and watch him beatin’ up on you.”
“Willya just lay off and mind your own business?”
Nettled, Johnny retorted, “Okay, you cocky little jerk. But don’t you come cryin’ to me if he breaks your neck sometime.”
In spite of himself Tommy laughed, and Johnny demanded, “What’s so damn funny?”
“You and Mario,” Tommy said. “Right out of the same mold. Two of a kind.”
Johnny grinned. “Sure, I know that. Why you think we can’t get along?”
But as the float lurched into motion along the hippodrome track, Tommy felt the laughter recede. He was both frightened and furious, his year-long security vanishing as if he had swung out and discovered the net was not in place. It made him think of a bad dream he had once had, and could not remember.
He was fighting to steady himself. Keep it off the platform. Whatever happens. However we fight. Mario had never done anything like this just before a show, and Tommy was wondering how he could possibly climb to the rigging as if nothing had happened. Their float lurched out of the entrance after making the circle around the three rings, and he dropped off, pulling his turban loose as he ran.
He had quieted a little by the time they ran into the end ring for the tumbling act. He turned handstands and vaulted, seizing Stella’s wrists and balancing her on his hands, throwing her to Johnny’s shoulders, wincing only a little as he wheeled over, the weight coming on his injured shoulder. When they were gathered in the dressing tent getting ready for the flying act, he felt the shaking quiet down into a curious, steady calm. Mario was strapping up his wrist, fiddling with the tape. Tommy walked over directly in front of him. He said in a clear, audible voice, “Here. Lace this up for me, will you?”
Mario bent over Tommy’s wrist and fiddled with the leather strap on the wrist guard. Suddenly he looked up and met Tammy’s eyes. They glared at each other, hard, implacable, with an emotion so intense that Tommy did not know, for a moment, whether it was passion or hate. Simultaneously, they nodded at each other, and, without a word, they knew it was as if they had spoken their old pledge.
Keep it off the platform.
Quiet, impersonal, Mario got up and took Tommy’s shoulder in his hands, moving the joint carefully back and forth. “It’s all right,” he said, and Tommy nodded.
It wasn’t even a truce. It was simply a cessation of everything except, simply, being what they were. He still felt the faint twinge of pain in his shoulder, but for the moment he had literally forgotten how he had gotten it; he was simply wondering how it would serve him during the act.
Johnny came and dropped the cape over Tommy’s shoulders.
“Wayland,” Mario called sharply, “you with us?”
“Right away.” The man got to his feet, stumbling over his water bucket. Tommy, watching him with narrowed eyes, thought, I still can’t prove anything. He’s a clumsy bastard on the ground, for all he’s so good on the rigging.
Stella joined them at the performers’ entrance, like a small pert bird in her green cape. Johnny said quickly to Mario, as they separated for the catchers to go to their end of the rigging, “I arranged something with the bandmaster for Stella,” and then they began climbing.
The duo routines between Mario and Tommy went off perfectly; they got off the bar together, and the old precision timing seemed to be working again. Tommy began to breathe more easily while the second catcher’s trapeze was being pulled up out of the way, but Mario frowned, shading his eyes to watch the far end of the rigging. Normally Coe Wayland remained in the trap, but this time Johnny stayed there, and the ringmaster called out Stella’s name. Mario started with amazement, but did not alter the smooth routine with which he stepped around her, passing the bar. According to the timing of the show, Mario usually told her which of the several tricks in the routine she should attempt, but when he spoke to her this time, she shook her head slightly.
“Johnny and I worked something out. Just watch the bar for the routine—don’t drop it too soon,” she said, and swung out. Swinging on the bar, she turned over it, spun into a fast somersault, made another quick half turn, and threw her outstretched ankles into Johnny’s hands. She swung there, posturing, arms flung out. Then Mario, holding the bar ready to drop it, remained as if stopped in midair, for Johnny and Stella had begun, skimming back and forth on the long bar, a series of balance variations, taken—so Tommy realized—from their old double-trapeze routine. The crowd, braced for the tension of the return, hesitated, silent, then burst into spontaneous applause. Finally, at Johnny’s signal, Mario dropped the bar and Stella made a return.
As she dropped off, Mario grasped her arms as if he were only supporting her arabesque pose, arms flung out for the applause, but Tommy heard him hiss out of the side of his mouth, “You little bitch, what goes on here? Who told you to do that?”
“Johnny did,” Stella said, smiling and waving at the audience as if no one had challenged her. “Take it up with him.”
Mario was white with rage. “In this family,” he said as the bandmaster swung into the drum roll that set the stage for the triple, “we arrange our tricks before we get on the platform, not afterward. Spring anything like that again, Stella cara, and I’ll break your neck!”
“Johnny—”
“Johnny doesn’t give the orders for this act.”
Stella shrugged and said indifferently, “I take my orders from Johnny. You’re on, Mario,” she added, moving aside for him. Tommy realized that Johnny had left the catch trap and Coe Wayland had moved into place, was picking up his swing for the triple.
Tommy whispered, “Don’t try it today, Mario. Do a double-and-twist—”
“Now are you going to start, damn it,” Mario said impatiently.
The ringmaster was already booming out, “. . . hand-to-hand triple somersault to the hands of his catcher—most dangerous of all aerial feats. Please remain quiet while Mario Santelli is in the air . . . .”
Tommy gripped at the St. Michael’s medal pinned inside his shirt as Mario, his body arched into a bow-taut line, swung out. He spun once, twice—Oh, God he’s missed it again!—twisted, plunged, and struck the net heavily. There was the harsh, drawn gasp from the stands. Mario kept his composure, managing to smile, bow, and wave jauntily to the stands, but just as he was about to climb for the permitted second try, the ringmaster blew his whistle sharply and the Liberty-horse act pranced into the ring.
Tommy seized the trapeze, swung, and swan-dived, landing beside Mario in the net. Mario, his face white and drawn with fury, was staring at the ringmaster.
“What in the hell—”
“I signaled to blow the whistle,” Coe Wayland said, urging them toward the back door, the performers’ entrance. “I could see you weren’t in any shape to do it, Matt.”
Mario whirled on him and said, “Who in hell told you you could call the shots for this act? You goddamn drunken fool, bitching up everything! Any beginner could swing higher and faster than that—”
“Easy, easy, Matt,” Johnny said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve missed triples plenty of times with Angelo in the trap; don’t take it out on Wayland. Hurt?” He lifted Mario’s elbow and said, “Jeez, you got another nasty burn on there. Come on, let’s go get something on it, big brother.”
Mario pushed him away. “And while we’re talking about bitching up the act, who in hell told Stella to do a trick I hadn’t okayed?”
Johnny shrugged. “I told her to try it out. There’s room in this act for something special there.”
“So now you’re calling the tricks for the act?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Johnny, completely out of patience, “why must every damn detail be the same every performance? It looked all right, didn’t it?”
“No, it didn’t!” Mario yelled. “That wasn’t flying—that was a bastard single-trap show routine, and it had no more place in a straight flying act than a couple of clowns!”
“Balls!” Johnny said. “Looked fine to me, and the crowd cheered it, didn’t they?”
Mario said coldly, “You know the rule in the Flying Santellis: No one does a trick in performance without clearing it first at rehearsal. I know Jock put you up to this, Stel, but just the same I’m going to ground you for three days, and if they sock us with a fine you pay it.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Stella said.
“Who in hell gave you the authority—” Johnny began.
Tommy drew a deep breath and said, “Mario’s the senior man in the act, Johnny, and you know it as well as I do. There’s a right and a wrong way to get a new trick in the act, and you picked the wrong one.” Yes, he thought, and what a hell of a day you picked for it, with Mario on the rampage already! “And for God’s sake, do we have to air this right in the back door?”
“Yeah, they’ll be hearing us out front,” Coe Wayland said. “And come off your high horse, Matt. I okayed it.”
“You keep out of this, Wayland,” Mario rapped. “This is a family affair; don’t you stick your nose in!”
Coe Wayland’s manner never pleased Tommy much. But not even Papa Tony would have administered such a slap to anyone who was actually a member of the troupe, family or not. He had always yelled plenty at Tommy and Stella in rehearsal, but in performance he had always been scrupulously polite. Wayland’s mouth twisted. “Yes, boss,” he muttered and walked off toward the dressing tent.
Johnny put a hand on Stella’s shoulder. “Go get dressed, babe. Then come back and we’ll settle this once and for all.”
“It’s settled,” Mario said.
Johnny turned to face him. “Look, you been throwing your weight around like hell today, but it’s time you got one thing straight, Matt. You can beat up on the kid if he feels like letting you, and I can take care of myself, as you’ll find out if you ever lay a hand on me. But you listen, and listen good. I learned some lip-reading with the carny, and if you shoot off your dirty mouth at Stella one more time, Matt, you’ll be talking through a mouthful of loose teeth.”
“Jock, what are you trying to prove? You want her to have the star spot? You want me to step down? You want to take over?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, let’s not have a lot of temperament!” Johnny turned his back. “I’m standing here in my sweaty clothes getting pneumonia, and the altitude’s giving me a splitting headache. Let’s not hash this all over here and now, okay?”
Tommy turned into the dressing tent. Coe Wayland, naked, was climbing into his trousers, and he gave Tommy a surly glare as he came in. Tommy stepped out of his tights and measured water from his bucket. As he started dipping his sponge into the icy water, he realized he was shaking and weak with reaction. He wished—oh, God, how he wished—they were in the privacy of a family trailer so that they could dress and bathe and talk—and, if necessary, fight—without two or three dozen other performers standing around, going in and out, changing clothes. Tommy did not look around as Mario came in, but when he had finished dressing he became aware that Mario had dropped down on his trunk, still in costume, and sat there without moving.
“Mario,” he said quietly, leaning over him so the others would not hear, “is it going to help anything for you to sit here in your sweaty tights and catch cold? You told me, often enough.”
Mario raised a drawn face and swore. “Will you let me alone, Tom—just for Christ’s sake let me alone?” he shouted.
Tommy, shivering and furious, drew a sweater from his trunk, pulled it over his shirt and stormed off toward the cook tent. To hell with him! To hell with him, anyway!
Shortly before the evening performance, Johnny slammed down a newspaper, folded to an inside section, in front of Mario.
“Look at this, damn it! You think this kind of publicity’s going to do us any good?”
Tommy leaned over to see, and read: CIRCUS BRAWL STOPS SHOW AT WOODS-WAYLAND.
“Listen to this,” Johnny said in disgust. “‘Stormy Santellis fight while flying. Spectators seated near the performers’ entrance at the Woods-Wayland Circus grounds this afternoon were treated to an earful when the well-known circus family started a fight on the aerial rigging. Angry words were exchanged, audible even in the stands, as glamorous female flyer Stella Gardner and the act’s star, Mario Santelli, quarreled noisily. As a result of this wrangle, male star Mario missed his much-ballyhooed triple somersault and gave such a display of bad temper that the ringmaster blew the whistle on the act. When the troupe had exited, a wild row exploded just outside, which may or may not have come to blows, but certainly gave the audience an extra free show.’”
Mario slammed his hand on the paper. His small mirror turned over and slid to the floor. “Where did you get this garbage?” He turned to Coe Wayland, who was sitting in front of his trunk. “Did you peddle this yarn? I don’t expect you to act like a Santelli, but you should have brains enough not to air our dirty linen in public!”
Wayland jerked up his head. “Aaah, quit your bitching! You think I got nothing to do but talk about you bastards? If you want to know, pretty boy, the whole town could hear you yelling. You act like I’m dirt under your feet, Mister Fancy Dan, but I’ve been trouping long enough to know better than to fight on the rig, and for all your great family tradition, mister, it looks like you don’t!”
Mario shut up with a gulp as if Coe had slapped him—as, Tommy reflected soberly, he had.
“There’s more,” Johnny said in disgust. “Just listen. ‘The Santelli troupe has been rumored on the edge of a breakup since their manager, veteran circus performer Tonio Santelli, fell to his death in Cincinnati and their catcher quit in a squabble over management—’”
“Where did they get all this stuff?” Tommy asked.
Coe Wayland said, “It’s all over the lot. Somebody talked to a reporter, that’s all. Most of the people with the show won’t talk to townies, but there’s always some roustabout or prop man hard up for a buck, who’ll spill anything.” He looked angry and disgusted.
That night’s performance was the worst in memory. In the tumbling act, Mario’s timing was off so badly that before they left the ring Johnny was white and raging. In the dressing tent, skinning out of the black tights he wore in that act and getting into his green flying costume, he hissed over his shoulder to Mario, “You goddamn well better pull yourself together, Matt, before somebody gets hurt.”
“I’ll be okay, Jock. Lay off.”
“You’ll get us fired, you keep this up!”
“Then I’ll get us fired. God damn it!”
“Listen,” Johnny said, swinging around to face him, the anger sliding off his face, “Matt—fella—I don’t know what’s eatin’ on you, big brother, but whatever it is, willya please take it easy till after the show, before somebody gets killed?” He hesitated, real worry in his voice. “The way you been acting—Matt, you want to lay off tonight? We’ll cover for you, tell the boss you’re sick.”
Mario took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll be okay. Just—just give me a minute, willya?”
“Suit yourself, confound it!” Johnny jerked his cape around his shoulders and muttered, “Stubborn bastard!” as he walked out.
Tommy went over to Mario. Whatever Mario had done, this kind of torture was more than he could take. Why does he do this to himself?
Tommy stood, irresolute, in the little aisle between the trunks. Coe Wayland quickly slammed down the lid on his. “Go on, kid, get going,” he said harshly. “I’ll be along in plenty of time. You check up on the others—don’t you try it on me.”
Tommy moved outside but flattened himself against the sidewall, watching. When Wayland had gone out, Tommy slipped back into the tent. Outside, Mario drew himself up, biting his lip, as Stella, dressed for the flying act, walked toward the men.
“Stel.” he said. “I said you’re off for three days, and I meant it. You’re not going on with us tonight.”
“Oh, yes, she is,” Johnny said, “or I’m not.”
“That’s the stuff,” Wayland said, laying his meaty hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “You tell him—fella’s got to look after his own wife. You talk back to sissy-face here. What the hell does he care? Pretty girls, that’s what the crowd wants. I’d rather catch a pretty girl any day than Fancy Dan here!” He gave Mario an insulting stare. Mario ignored him.
“Jock, if Stel goes on, I’m not.”
“Suit yourself and get fired, Matt. You are the star flyer, but you are not managing the damn act, and don’t you try!”
“I am the senior man in the act,” Mario said icily, “and the senior flyer always has the authority—”
“Oh, nuts!” Johnny cut in. “Who says? That was all over the day Angelo quit the act, and you can damn well stop trying to throw your weight around.”
“Come on, you two,” said Wayland genially, “take it easy, we got a cue coming up. After the show, we can all go talk to the boss and straighten out who’s bossing the damn act. Of course, if pretty boy here gets jealous because the crowd thinks Stella’s prettier than he is—”
“Shut up,” said Mario, tensely, and even Wayland seemed to realize that he had gone too far this time. “You’re drunk, damn you!”
Tommy had been standing a little way off, just inside the tent, listening. He stepped out and said, “I found it this time. On his dressing table. Smell it.” He handed Mario a tooth-glass which still held a few amber drops. Mario sniffed and stared at Wayland, appalled.
The Catch Trap Page 50
