Montreal Jed was bellowing, “No reason to panic! Memphis Kittie just went on a detour to another plane of existence! This sometimes happens, and they return even more enlightened than ever!” He raced around to the back of the cabinet to check on something, and the cabinet rocked as he shook it.
Derrick couldn’t hear what Jed was saying to the ostensible Memphis Kittie, though, as the audience was becoming increasingly unruly.
One fellow snarled, “Hey! Kittie is my fiancée! What’d you do with her?”
Others were accusing Jed of being a kidnapper, rapist, or flimflam man—Derrick wasn’t sure which was worse. Mounting anxiety was plainly evident on Jed’s face as he held his hands out to the crowd as though to fend them off and backed slowly up to his empty cabinet.
“All will be revealed!” Jed shrieked in a high feminine voice.
The midgets were looking everywhere now. One stuck his head inside a nearby tent that was being erected, and the other actually looked underneath a railcar.
When Montreal Jed made as if he wanted to hide inside his own cabinet, Rudy elbowed Derrick. “A fellow showman always helps out his brothers,” he said meaningfully, before sprinting off to the stage.
Derrick followed, shoving aside roostered rowdies, some of who were already storming the stage. Rudy reached Montreal Jed first, just as the gangly fellow was cramming himself into the secret compartment and shutting the door. Loafing, husky men looking for any excuse for a brawl were trying to get to Montreal Jed first, but Rudy gripped Jed’s bicep and said, “I, the true Dunraven, will never fail you.”
This slogan seemed to make sense to Jed, for he willingly came, minus his top hat, which had been knocked off in the rumpus. In order to beat back the crowd, Derrick had to paste a few of them in the kisser. It was a satisfying feeling, his knuckles connecting with their ugly misshapen mugs. Derrick hadn’t been in a brawl in a while, but he was extremely hearty and athletic. It reminded him of the old college days, fighting for the honor of the vanished Memphis Kittie.
“Come on!” Rudy yelled as he dragged Montreal Jed across the train tracks toward the town.
Derrick was busily walloping some guy into the middle of next week, tossing him into a sign advertising “José the Mexican Juggler.” A midget flew through the air as though catapulted from a nearby seesaw. Another fellow came at Derrick, and he dispatched him into a little puppet stage, where he got all tangled up in the marionette’s strings.
A beefy buffalo lifted Derrick into the air and rattled him about. About twenty yards off, Rudy paused in his retreat. A concerned look flashed across his handsome face. Derrick was heartened that this comparative stranger gave a rat’s ass that this bruiser was pitching into him. Maybe it was part of the showman’s creed, what Rudy was saying about helping out brothers. For a moment it even looked as though Rudy planned on starting back across the tracks to assist Derrick.
But Derrick used a handy old pugilist’s move to wallop the buffalo in the vitals. Once he had dropped Derrick and was doubled over in pain, it was easy enough to knee him in the jaw and send him sprawling.
Soon Derrick was vaulting across the tracks, too, all devil-may-care in attitude.
“Come on!” Rudy said again, waving an encouraging arm. “This train isn’t going anywhere for a while. Let’s let the heat die down.”
Derrick could not have agreed more.
Chapter Two
Everyone draped themselves over furniture in Rudy’s room at the Union Pacific Hotel, panting. Derrick Spiro, territorial legislator, panted the least of all three men, Rudy noted. Montreal Jed was the most overcome of all. Red-faced, he could barely breathe with the exertion of having dashed across the tracks. But the panic of running from an angry crowd might have done him in, too.
In fact, Derrick barely looked as though he’d just tussled with at least four beefy railroad tracklayers as he looked curiously around Rudy’s room. This gave Rudy a chance to eye him more closely as he roused himself to open a whiskey bottle. Unruffled aside from his thick, warm brown hair that stood out at all angles, Derrick sat erect. Though he wore a double-breasted waistcoat and a wide striped necktie that covered half his chest, Rudy could tell he was a very athletic, muscular fellow. Maybe he had worked with his hands before becoming a politician. He had the most expressive, gentle brown eyes, and his full, lush mouth quirked ironically as he eyed Rudy’s own spirit cabinet.
“Remington Rudy?” Derrick queried, gesturing at the lettering painted on the cabinet.
“He is the true Dunraven!” Montreal Jed wheezed. “He will never fail us! I caught your act in Pawnee and was quite impressed. You shot that apple off that poor woman’s head with proficiency and gusto. But I thought you only did trick shooting and roping. What are you doing with a spirit cabinet?”
Rudy slung his greatcoat over his mattress and lined up three cups on the table. “I’m thinking of incorporating it into a new act. I’m getting too old to be riding bareback, shooting fake Indians from under the horse’s flanks.”
Montreal Jed dragged himself up the chair back with effort, but his face was perky with interest. Now that he had lost his velvet mask, Rudy could see he had an amazingly round head. In fact, everything about Montreal Jed was round. Perfectly round eyes, circular skull, even his lips were plumped like a cherub’s. He could have billed himself as “The Human Lollipop.”
“What is your new act?”
Rudy handed Jed his whiskey, but the odd man declined. Derrick, however, accepted with the professional demeanor of a barrister. “I can’t rightly tell you now, can I, Jed? Or you might cabbage it. Let’s just say it incorporates that cabinet but with none of the flimflam artistry you try and pull off.”
“Jeremiah Franklin is my real name,” said Jeremiah. “Although I did used to put on a very high-caliber punch show in Montreal.”
“A punch show?” Derrick asked.
“Yes,” said Rudy. “Punch and Judy. Little people.”
“Midgets?”
“Marionettes,” said Jeremiah. “That’s my real love. Puppets. I am a master at the age-old secrets of the little people. I crafted all my own in the tradition handed down by my grandfathers. But it doesn’t get the same attention that the flash of the spirit cabinet does.”
“Yes,” sighed Derrick, exhaling his whiskey as though it sustained life. “Maybe you can tell us. What do you think happened to Memphis Kittie? I wouldn’t want to think I nearly got killed by some roughnecks for nothing.”
Derrick smiled at Rudy then, displaying gleaming, finely enameled teeth. A warm surge raced through Rudy’s body, and he knew he was already taken by this man. He had set his sights on this luscious, intelligent legislator when he’d first viewed him in the audience by the tracks. Rudy knew he could be a very ruthless aggressor when it came to sex. As a wandering showman, he didn’t much care if he was rejected, because the times he succeeded were well worth it. He’d had many a memorable time coupling in exotic back alleys with able-bodied roustabouts and sword swallowers with healthy throat muscles.
Contortionists or cattlemen, it was all the same to Rudy. He knew that he liked men who were tall, dark, and mysterious, just like this delicious politician. He even sometimes enjoyed it when he had to do a bit of convincing. It was the most savory task, fondling a resistant man, seeing his eyes go soft and melt. When he finally relaxed into it and threw his arms around Rudy, it was the most delectable conquest ever. And Rudy had a feeling this Derrick Spiro would be the most resistant of all.
“Yes,” said Rudy. “Do you have any enemies? What a silly question. Everyone in this racket has many enemies.”
Derrick smiled. “So does everyone in my racket.”
“Oh, of course,” Jeremiah said weakly. He seemed much too weak for this show business. He was draped over the chair back like he was a piece of tissue. “There’s that knife thrower Eliazar Castillo. He hates me because I’m too intelligent. And Major Littlefinger has had it out for me ever since someone in the audi
ence mixed him up with one of my little people.” He chuckled tiredly. “They thought he was made of wood. Oh, and Herman LaGrange with that cockatoo act. He’s loathed me since one of his birds repeated something I said in confidence.”
“Herman LaGrange is here?” asked Rudy. “He’s a likely suspect. He’s been looking daggers at me ever since I closed the curtain on his wife’s half-woman act.”
Jeremiah sat up, alert. “That man was torturing that poor woman!” He turned to Derrick. “He would make his wife sit suspended, absolutely immobile, in sheer agony for over five minutes. Whenever anyone would suggest closing the curtain he’d rampage down the aisles and thrash the person.”
Rudy added, “He just loved torturing her, didn’t he? So one night I closed the curtain. I made believe a policeman had forced me to do it, but he didn’t believe me.”
Jeremiah waved at him with a limp hand. “Oh, you could take him on any day. He’s one of those bullies who aren’t nearly as strong as they’d like to think.”
Derrick prompted, “So you suspect this LaGrange fellow may have stolen Memphis Kittie just to make your act look bad?”
“It happens all the time,” said Rudy. “Once, a contortionist was in a lather with me, so he rigged my stirrup so I couldn’t release myself at the crucial moment when I was riding like greased lightning upside down under my horse’s flank.”
Jeremiah asked, “Why was he angry?”
Rudy shrugged. “I hadn’t given him something he wanted.” The contortionist had actually turned into a shit fire when Rudy had refused to bed him. Rudy liked them dark, and this fellow was blond. And very devious, evidently.
“In any event,” said Derrick, “Kittie will turn up sooner rather than later, if LaGrange stole her. Rudy, why don’t you and I sneak back to the circus and see what this LaGrange fellow is up to?”
“I’ve got a different idea.” Rudy banged his chair down in front of Jeremiah and sat. He looked the punch man straight in the eye. “I am the Master Mystifier,” he said grandly, gesturing at a poster he had nailed to the wall.
Jeremiah barely flinched, but Derrick craned his neck with great interest. Rudy had had the posters made to advertise himself as Remington Rudy, the Master Mystifier, the Sensation of London—although he’d never been to England. He was tired of tumbling and rolling over bushes and stickers or landing in cow shit. He wanted to start a new, less dangerous career. The artist had gotten a bit carried away with the overzealous hypnotic gaze of his eyes, as it looked as though he wore glasses consisting of whirlpools. But the gist was there—that Rudy could mesmerize anyone into recalling long-buried events.
He told Derrick, “I’ve been using my skills to heal people. I’ve had great success with these new techniques. But for now I want to see if Montreal Jed here can recall seeing anyone creeping to the back of his cabinet and taking Memphis Kittie.”
Derrick read from the poster, which depicted a bottle with wings and a bird that looked as though it had been enlightened. A religious halo surrounded his holy head. “‘A Grand Illusion with the Learned Bottle and the Invisible Pigeon’? If the pigeon is invisible, how can we see it?”
Rudy waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore that part. That’s just to get people’s attention, so I can mesmerize them. But I discovered I’m a conductor of animal magnetism. Have you heard of that, Jeremiah?”
“Yes,” the punch man said dubiously. “You can convey the flow of magnetic fluids by movements of your hands or eyes. I don’t believe you even have to actually touch the person, am I correct?”
“Right,” said Rudy. “Hindus in India are able to go into a meditative trance by focusing on one object. In that way, they can gain insight into a single subject.”
Derrick said, “I’ve heard of their sleep temples, where they take the sick to be cured by hypnotic suggestion.”
“Exactly!” cried Rudy, glad that his new friend had instantly divined his aims. “Here, allow me.” He withdrew the glittery wand that Jeremiah still clutched and held it upright vertically about six inches from his nose. “Focus on the tip.”
Immediately Jeremiah went cross-eyed. As he was a very limp fellow to begin with, he seemed as though he’d be a good subject.
Rudy intoned, “I, the true Dunraven, will never fail you. Now focus on the wand and my voice. You will think of nothing but my voice and the wand.”
Instantly, Jeremiah’s eyelids began to waver. Though he hadn’t had any whiskey he began to wilt as though roostered. He was a very good subject indeed.
“Now think back to an hour ago. Standing in front of your spirit cabinet.”
“Spirit cabinet…” Jeremiah repeated dully. His lower lip slacked, displaying his burned-out teeth. This was the result, Rudy knew, of breathing magnesium “lightning” over the heads of one’s audience.
“You put Memphis Kittie into the cabinet, and you locked her in.”
“Locked her in.”
“Can you see what’s going on around you? Describe to me what’s happening.”
“Amazing Johnson puking.”
Derrick chuckled, but Rudy frowned. “Who is Amazing Johnson?”
“Fat man. He ate too many tortillas and then drank forty rod, and now he’s puking behind the puppet theater.”
“All right. Forget about Amazing Johnson puking. Look around you as you stand before your spirit cabinet. Did you lock Memphis Kittie in?”
“Yes.”
“Now I want you to go around behind the cabinet.”
“Major Littlefinger is in the way.”
Major Littlefinger was apparently one of the midgets who had it out for Jeremiah. “Well, knock him aside. Now look at the back of the cabinet.”
Jeremiah fell silent. Although his eyes were open, he seemed to be asleep. A good sign.
Rudy prompted, “What do you see?”
Jeremiah frowned. “I see the audience.”
“Don’t you see the back of the cabinet?”
“No. Because I never went to the back of the cabinet. I stay in front, so no one can accuse me of tomfoolery.”
Rudy sighed. “Well, go around to the back, so you can see who is there, stealing Memphis Kittie.”
Derrick suggested quietly, “Or maybe she snuck out on her own.”
“Yes,” Rudy agreed. “Can you walk around to the back?”
“But I never go around to the back! I never—oh, wait. I see something. The back panel is opening. Memphis Kittie is crawling out. I can see one of her gloved hands, and now her other bare hand is peeking—Ah!”
“The contortionist has taken Kittie.”
The sudden raspy whispering came from the other side of the room. All three gasped and jumped, their eyes fixed on the spirit cabinet from which the voice seemed to emanate. Rudy’s immediate thought was that someone had snuck into his hotel room and secreted themselves in the cabinet, perhaps while they were away watching the circus. It was a definite male voice but very flimsy and muffled, as though the speaker were talking through his hand or something thick like a piece of leather.
“Are you throwing your voice?” Rudy whispered to Jeremiah, whose round eyes were as big as tenpin balls.
Jeremiah shook his head rapidly. “No,” he said, ghostlike. “I can do it, but my thrown voice sounds much more girlish.”
Louder, Rudy shouted at the cabinet, “Which contortionist took Kittie?”
After a brief pause, the muffled voice answered, “Sideshow Jeremy, how could you allow your act to be ruined by a mere acrobat? You are defiling the very noble heritage of the circus!”
Rudy and Derrick stood at the same time and strode for the cabinet.
“Now look here—” Rudy started to shout as he reached for the cabinet’s handle. He was going to wallop this imposter into the middle of next week, but suddenly—and this was even more impossible to believe than someone sneaking into his cabinet—the speaker was standing beside them, without the benefit of having used the cabinet’s door.
Not only that
, but the speaker was distinctly spectral. Rudy could see right through his torso to Derrick’s waistcoat. He had the overlarge muttonchop whiskers that Rudy thought looked outlandish, and he was clad in coattails on a cutaway frock coat, which seemed to indicate that he, too, was a traveling showman.
But he was transparent.
Rudy looked at Derrick. Derrick’s low-slung jaw told him that he saw this fellow, too. Or was it more proper to say “ghost”? Behind them there came a thud, and Rudy looked to find that Jeremiah had collapsed in a dead faint, slithering out of his chair and onto the floor. So he must have seen the ghost, too.
“Who are you?” Rudy asked what seemed like the most logical question. Showmen loved talking about themselves.
The muffled voice seemed to come from about two feet away from the specter, and his mouth didn’t move. It was as though he were an image projected there before them. Completely static, he seemed to float about a foot above the floor. “I am the Phenomenal Percy Tibbles, the bear wrestler! And I am tired of seeing honest and scrupulous performers being made fools of!”
“All right,” said Derrick. Since he was a cagey politician, Rudy allowed him to go first. “Mr. Tibbles, you have come here to assist us from beyond the veil? Can you demonstrate some of your skills?”
“Not bear wrestling, though,” added Rudy. “Maybe you can demonstrate how you got out of that cabinet without opening the door?”
Rudy really just wanted to see him move, to know more about what forces made him tick, the nature of his reality. Sure enough, when challenged like this, Tibbles moved back to the cabinet. He moved brokenly, erratically, like a few slides projected in a magic lantern show. His limbs didn’t move fluidly but as though someone had made several daguerreotypes entitled “Bear Wrestler in Action” and was somehow projecting them to hover before their eyes. It was the most unreal, unsettling sensation, and Rudy almost forgot to breathe.
Tibbles stuck his mitt at the cabinet, and the hand vanished.
Cold Steel and Hot Lead [How the West Was Done 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 2
