He was heading toward the bus stop. He’ll go home. He’ll sit around and sulk for a while, then he’ll go up to the house, and they’ll look after him. Angelo will take good care of him, especially if he knows I’m out of the picture. I’ll give him a few days to get over it. The family are all going to be on his side; he won’t have any trouble getting a good booking for this season . . . .
This season. He tried to imagine a season without Tommy and found he could not manage it. Lionel had asked him to report to winter quarters next week, so he’d have to turn the place over to Eddie Keno again.
Once he’s over his mad, he’ll want to know all about it. Yet it might be best to go without seeing Tommy again, without another scene, another fight . . . .
Though he closed his eyes, all he could see was Tommy’s freckled face, turned cold and hostile, quivering with the tears he was too angry to shed. Vulnerable, suddenly adult, withdrawn. He turned deliberately back into the room, letting the window curtain fall, fighting the shocking premonition that he would never see Tommy again.
BOOK THREE - The Catcher (1952-1953)
CHAPTER 1
The amusement park was big and garish, calliope music from the carousel drifting in gusts through the crowd like the hot wind. Tommy Zane moved through the midway crowd, through tired mothers pulling along whining children, sailors on leave in pairs or threes or arm in arm with some young girl with short skirts and tightly curled hair. His experienced eyes picked out the undistinguished small shack where he knew he could get his questions answered.
“Is Joe Santelli anywhere around?”
Sharp eyes rested on him. “He might be. What you want with him?”
Tommy was used to this, the suspicion of the outsider. “I used to work with his family. He asked me to look him up when I got out of the Army.”
“You been out long?”
“Couple of months. I been on the East Coast.”
The man turned and shouted, “Hey, Giuseppe! There’s a guy out here asking for you!”
After a minute Joe Santelli appeared at the back of the shack, short, stout, wearing a striped shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, his white hair curling all over his head. He looks like Papa Tony.
“Joe? You remember me?”
Joe Santelli stared, blinked, then thrust out his hand. He grinned. “Tommy! Good to see you, kid! Where the heck you been, anyway? Army? Navy?”
“Army,” Tommy said. “I spent a couple, three years in Germany. How’s everything?”
“Fine—sure, fine,” Joe said. “Hey, I was just going to knock off a while and eat. You want some chow?”
“Okay, sure, thanks.”
Over trays of fried shrimp and French fries loaded with ketchup, they sat at a table in front of the shack and ate. Joe suddenly exploded, through the noise of the calliope, “Where the hell did you disappear to, kid? We like to went crazy, all of us, worrying about you! Angelo was damn near out of his mind!”
Tommy stared at the ketchup soaking his plate. “Matt and I had a fight. I walked out, worked a carny to the East Coast, and then joined up—I knew the draft board would get me sooner or later, anyhow. I did put Angelo down as my guardian, only I guess they never checked.”
“We did get some kind of notice,” Joe said, “only that was later. It was Matt I was worried about. He told us you had a fight because Lionel wouldn’t sign you on with Starr’s. I never saw him in such a state, not even the time Papa Tony had to go and bail him out of jail for something he done when he was a kid. He came up to the house wanting to talk to you—that was the night we found out about it—and Lucia said she hadn’t seen you in a week, she figured you were still with Matt down at his place. And when Matt said you’d had a fight and walked out and he hadn’t seen you in days—then the shit really hit the fan, kid. Nobody at the house had seen you. We reported you to Missing Persons, but they said that you were old enough nobody could find you unless you wanted to be found, that millions of teenage kids drop out of sight every year. We checked the police and the hospitals all over the city, but then there wasn’t anything else we could do. That was a hell of a thing to do to the folks, Tommy. Lucia like to went crazy.”
Tommy picked up a fried shrimp by the tail and fiddled with it, dipping it into the ketchup, staring at it reflectively, dipping it again, finally dropping it back on the paper plate, untouched. He said, “Yeah, I know. I’m not very proud of that, I was a dumb little snot of a kid.”
“Well, hell, we blamed ourselves, letting you hang around with Matt,” Joe said. “Nobody outside the family ought to have to put up with that lousy temper of his. Only you two always did get along so good. And then something like that blowing up. Angelo, especially. He blamed himself. He took it real serious, being your guardian and all that.”
“I know,” Tommy mumbled. “I feel rotten about it. I did send Lucia a Christmas card—I figured I ought to tell her I was okay. By that time I was in boot camp.”
“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now, anyway,” Joe said. “What you doing out here, Tommy?”
Tommy picked up the forgotten shrimp and bit into it. Finally he said, “I figured I’d ask where Mario—where Matt’s working. I’d kind of like to see him again. I sort of owe him an apology, too.”
“My God, you don’t know?” Joe asked, then said, “No. You wouldn’t. Being in the Army, overseas, no reason you’d keep in touch with the circus news . . . .”
Tommy felt the old, familiar knot of dread clamp down under his breastbone. “He—he’s okay, isn’t he? Not—not killed or anything?”
Joe’s words seemed to come through a ringing in his ears, very far away. “No, he’s alive, so far as we know. Only we don’t know, that’s the thing. Haven’t you seen Billboard?”
“I haven’t seen a copy since I joined up.”
“Wait just a sec.” Joe got up, went across a narrow alley, disappeared behind a concession flap, and finally came back with a copy of Billboard in his hand. He opened it, handed it to Tommy with a page folded open, pointing with a finger at a small ad.
“Lucia’s had that ad in there four years now. Not that it’s done a damn bit of good.”
He pointed with a stubby finger at the Personals column, and Tommy read, his eyes going oddly in and out of focus:
Matthew Gardner, Jr. AKA Mario Santelli. Anyone knowing whereabouts contact Lucia Santelli Gardner.
And the familiar address.
“She put that in four years ago,” Joe said, “after Matt had that bad fall. It was the same year Nonna died, that spring, around Easter—”
“Wait,” Tommy said, “let me catch up. He was headlining with Starr’s. I did know that. I saw him and Lionel in the ring once. I had just got out of boot camp, and the show was playing ten, twenty miles away.”
He had watched, his hands clamping in the darkness as Mario turned in split-second perfection to Lionel’s hands, a perfect triple. He had almost gone around to speak to Mario afterward, finding his way unnoticed through the unfamiliar backyard. There were visitors in uniform all over the lot. Only the sight of Mario and Lionel, briefly arm in arm as they left the ring, had stopped him. Leave it at that. It’s gone, over.
“Yeah, he was with Starr’s two years,” Joe said. “No, year and a half. You want another beer, Tommy? No? Anyhow, early in the second season, he and the girl in their act, Matt’s wife—”
“He got married?” This was unbelievable.
“Oh sure,” Joe said, “his first season with Starr’s. They spent the winter with us. Their baby was born that winter. Nice girl, too; we all liked her. She looked a lot like a Santelli—Lucia said she looked just like Liss. Susan Something. No Sue Ann . . . Susan—” He frowned.
“Sue-Lynn?” Tommy felt as if he had stepped into a nightmare.
“Sue-Lynn, that was it—I knew it was one of those double names like you get down South. Lucia always called her Susan, though. Pete Challoner’s girl; she grew up in one of those Sarasota flying acts.
Anyhow, after the baby, she was working with Matt and Lionel in the act when it happened. They had a bad fall. Lionel tore his shoulder out—you know what that means for a flyer. Susan got her nose broken and some skin torn off her face, but she wasn’t hurt bad.”
“And Mario?”
Joe shrugged. “He smashed up his bad wrist, the one he always had trouble with. And he had some concussion, only they figured he’d be all right. The last time anyone saw him, Susan went to the hospital to talk about their divorce. They were getting a divorce—I don’t know what it was all about; they always seemed to be pretty good friends—and she said he talked to her very sensible, wrote her a check to carry her and Suzy—that was the baby; she was a few months old then. Lucia had a fit when she heard about the divorce, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyhow, she said he was friendly, calm, just like always, only that night the hospital called, said he’d checked out without consulting his doctor, and that was the last anybody heard of him. Just like he walked off the face of the earth. No word, nothing, from that day to this.”
“Couldn’t the police—”
“We tried. Only he was a grown man, so there was nothing they could do. Only if Sue-Lynn had wanted to swear out a complaint, have him arrested for not paying child support. She was staying with us—she hadn’t been working, and she was broke. They asked did she want him arrested, only she said he was no good to her sitting in jail, and he could go straight to hell. She’s on the road with Starr’s now. You could write to her and see if she’s heard anything. Only I think if she had, she’d tell Lucia. She comes and stays here for a week or two with the baby sometimes. In the off season. Suzy must be something like four now. She looks a lot like Liss’s kid—no, you never saw little Cleo, did you?”
Tommy shook his head. “And you don’t know where Mario is? No idea at all?”
“Not the slightest. But he isn’t flying anywhere under his own name, or the family name, and that’s all I know. He could be anyplace. Working in a carnival. Hoofing, or something—he used to dance a lot, wanted to get into show business when he was a kid. He could be in the Navy—could be in China! God only knows. We’ve about given up on him. We’d probably know if he was dead. I never thought I’d thank God for his having a police record, but it means if he was killed, they could identify him and somebody could get in touch with his family.”
Tommy shuddered, and Joe gave him a kindly look. “Yeah, you and he were real good pals, weren’t you? Partners.”
“More like brothers.”
“I know. We all thought the world of you, Tom. Angelo, especially. He still talks about you sometimes. Listen”—he pushed away from the bench with both hands and stood up—“I’d like to sit around and chew the rag, but I got to get back to work. Where you staying?”
“No place,” Tommy said. “Just passing through.”
“Hang around a while and come on back home with me. Lu would love to see you, and there’s plenty of room for you to stay. And my kids—you and Barbie used to pal around a lot when you were in school, I remember.”
“Barbie was a good kid. What’s she doing?”
“Dancing,” Joe said. “She’s been in a couple of movies, dancing in one of those harem-girl things. You could see her for ten minutes or so, in the background. And she doubled for some girl, flying, in a circus movie. She’s not much of an actress, I guess, but she’s a good dancer and one heck of a fine acrobat. She works as an extra at the studios, and does some stunt work, too. She’d want to see you, I know. I get off at ten; I’ll take you out there—”
Tommy shook his head. “I got my car outside.”
“Well, hell, kid, you know the way home. You’re not a stranger. You can take the new freeway to within a couple blocks of the house—doesn’t take forever to get home anymore!”
Somebody yelled, “Hey, boss—”
Joe turned, giving Tommy a hasty handshake. “See you later, kid, okay? Look, don’t go away—I’ll talk to you later, at the house?”
Tommy walked slowly off the lot and out to his car.
His mind was in tumult. Mario, married, with a daughter. Mario gone, vanished, disappeared. He stared at the Billboard still in his hand.
Lucia’s had that ad in there four years now. Not that it’s done a damn bit of good.
Mario gone, vanished . . . like Barney Parrish. The thought crossed his mind and he shivered. The great aerialist lost, gone, vanished into the limbo of smashed successes, broken dreams. And Mario after him, gone, sunk out of sight without a trace . . . .
He put the Billboard on the seat and started the car, taking the familiar route. The Santelli house, at the end of the drive, looked smaller, shabbier, in need of a coat of paint. He pulled his car to a stop before driving through the gates, and sat there, staring from a distance, remembering the first time he had seen the house. How bewildered he had been! He visualized himself pulling up the familiar drive, walking across the porch, ringing the bell. Who would answer the door? What would they say?
The door opened, a shadowy space into the unknown familiar interior, and a woman stepped out on the porch. Tommy did not recognize her. Nonna? No, Joe said Nonna died the year of Mario’s fall. God rest her, Tommy thought. She was a sweet old lady even if she never did figure out just who I was. She must’ve been in her nineties. Lucia? Some cleaning woman? Suddenly he fancied the unknown woman’s eyes were focused on the strange car standing outside the drive, and he felt apprehensive, unable to face it. Quickly he put his car in gear and drove away.
CHAPTER 2
A hot, dry September wind was blowing along the streets of Abilene, Texas, blowing brown, crackling leaves from the pecan trees. Tommy Zane drew his car up to the curb, examined the circus poster on the wall, then turned the motor off and checked the copy of Billboard on the seat.
The big circuses, of course, were out of the question. If Mario had been working with any of them, someone would have known. And although he had stopped and made cursory inquiry at every carnival he had passed or seen listed in Billboard, Tommy knew reasonably that if Mario was hiding himself on a carnival midway he would never be found unless he chose. The task of finding a needle in a stack of hay would be simple by contrast.
But the small circuses—that was a possibility. Even there, it would be chance, and good luck; and Tommy faced the very definite possibility that if Mario had chosen this way to hide, he might very well not want to be found.
Damn it, I don’t want anything from him. I just want to know he’s all right. He knew, too, that the search was a luxury, a self-indulgence he could not pursue for long.
But in Wichita Falls, the day before, making his cursory inquiry on the midway of a small traveling show, he had been told of some flyers working with a small circus which had been through there the week before. And looking at one of their leftover posters—a twin to the one before him here in Abilene—he had seen, near the bottom, the legend REDDICK AND GARDNER FABULOUS FEATS ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE!
It had seemed worth a single day out of his direct route. Direct route, hell. I’m not going anywhere.
Again he studied the poster. REDDICK AND GARDNER. But, he thought, it might, possibly, be Johnny. He couldn’t remember Stella’s maiden name, but he remembered that Johnny had billed their double-trap act as Gardner and Something. Gardner isn’t as unusual a name as all that. Could be anybody. Probably is. But, on the off chance it was Johnny, it would be good to see him. He hadn’t asked Joe where Johnny was. And it was obvious that wherever Johnny was, he wasn’t with any of the bigger circuses, or Tommy, in his attentive study of every route, every listing, every act mentioned in that professional Bible of circus and carnival people, would certainly have seen him mentioned, either as Santelli or Gardner.
But this show was not even listed in Billboard. It was sponsored by some local fraternal lodge and set up on the edge of town. It was an outdoor show like Lambeth, the flying rig and a tall perch-pole rigging rising above the low outline of houses at the edge of t
own. Tommy parked his car in the vacant lot next to the empty rodeo ground and went in. He handed over a dollar to the ticket taker, hearing the band beyond the boarding.
The curiously familiar smell and surroundings, the small well-known noises, tugged something deep inside him, something he had nearly forgotten. Had tried to forget. He felt a moment’s temptation to walk around through the backyard, but shoved it firmly aside and climbed up to a seat in the rodeo bleachers.
The show had already begun. Overhead a blazing Texas sun, dimmed a little with brown dust, glared on the rows of splintery, warped bleacher seats. A single ring had been set up, and a small square platform, beside which a group of unicycles were being stacked by a prop man. A work hand was polishing a set of horizontal bars with a flannel rag. At the far end was a twenty-six-foot flying rig, smaller than Lambeth had carried. Pitchmen were going through the slowly filling grandstand, selling popcorn, straw hats, ice cream bars. A clown in policeman’s burlesque uniform, with a foot-wide tin star on his chest, was working through the lower rows of the grandstand, shaking hands with giggling children. In the opening walkaround there was nobody who looked even remotely like Johnny, though he saw one or two fair-faced young women who might possibly have been Stella, grown older, and under the feather headdresses of Indian chiefs on a float he saw one or two tall dark men who reminded him, very faintly, of Mario.
The Blanding Circus and Equestrian Exhibition was little more than a traveling rodeo with a few circus acts added. Featured acts were mostly exhibitions of trick western riding and performing horses. Tommy knew nothing of riding and cared less, and had no interest in performing animals. He sat through most of the show in boredom, periodically wondering why he did not get up and leave. There was a small cycle balance act, a pair of performing chimpanzees who rode a tandem bicycle, and three teenage boys who performed on the parallel bars in a way Tommy could have seen bettered in any large high-school gym. But when the loudspeaker blare announced the aerialists, Tommy sat up quickly from a brief sun-stunned doze and watched them coming through the performers’ entrance at the far end of the arena.
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