Carver didn’t care. He barely noticed the girls at all. It was the man behind them that caught his attention. John Booker stood in the semidarkness, the last light of the day playing across his painted features as he looked directly at Carver and waved his fingers.
“Come get me, rube. Come on. Come get me right here and now.”
The man pushed into the restaurant, his face set in a broad, mad smile, his wild, curly hair jouncing with each step, the cell phone held to his ear. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt for the Carnivale de Fantastique and a warm trench coat that flowed like a cape in the wind from outside.
The three girls who’d just entered looked back as he stepped into the building and close enough to them to enter their personal spaces, more amused than anything else. It wasn’t every day a clown came storming into a restaurant like gangbusters.
“Excuse me, ladies.” He flashed them a dazzling smile and executed a flawless bow as he slipped past them. The cell phone was folded and slipped into a coat pocket with one smooth motion of his right hand. At the same time his left hand rose up and three roses seemed to blossom from between his fingers. The girls looked at him and smiled and each of them grinned all the brighter as he handed them the blooms. “Come see me at the show.”
He moved past them and one of the girls looked at the rose, looked at him as he walked toward Carver and let out a shriek of joy and surprise. “Holy shit, thank you, mister!”
She held up the rose, and Carver stared. It looked like a ticket from Ticketmaster had been attached to the stem. If he’d had to hazard a guess, he would have bet money on the ticket being for the Carnivale.
“Well, you’re welcome my dear.” He smiled brightly for her, turning to face her even as he continued toward Carver, walking backwards now, fully exposed. One hand went to his face, cupping near his mouth in a parody of someone whispering. “But watch that pretty mouth of yours, there are little ones present.” The admonishment had a cheerful enough note and the girl—who was possibly as old as twenty, but the detective would have been surprised if she’d graduated high school—blushed and nodded her head, duly chastised.
Carver stood up fast, knocking his small table over and spilling the meal he’d been looking forward to in the process. Most of him understood the need to get to his weapon, but his stomach was rather unforgiving.
The clown spun fast and smiled at him, white teeth showing past red lips. His eyes flashed with good humor even as Carver started to take aim with the pistol he’d drawn.
All around them the people sitting down to eat were turning, noticing the drawn weapon, those that had not already noticed the man with the clown face.
Carver’s hand shook. Not because he was scared of Booker, but because he was afraid of what the man might do and even more frightened of what he might do to the clown. There were witnesses this time and he wasn’t nearly as angry as he had been before.
The clown stepped toward him, not even flinching from the pistol pointed at his face.
The blue eyes that regarded him had laugh lines and glistened with merriment or insanity, or both. “I’m right here, Carver.” His voice was a soft, low purr. “You gonna kill me again? Right in front of all these lovely people?”
His hands shook and he hated that. He wanted so much to pull the trigger and damn any possible consequences, but there were people all around them, innocents who could get hurt.
“You stay right where you are, Booker.” His voice shook as much as his hands, adrenaline kicking through his system like lightning, flashing through his limbs and racing his heart.
“Please, no reason for formalities. Call me Rufo.” Damned if the clown’s smile didn’t grow wider. “Come on, you know you want to. I can almost taste how much you want to pull the trigger.” He leaned in until his forehead was almost touching the barrel of the .44. “Go on, do it. Do it. Make it happen….” His voice was still soft, his eyes unflinching, and the smile so broad and eager and feral. “Pull the trigger. Be a hero.”
“What the hell are you doing, mister?” The voice was loud, almost thunderous, and Carver looked toward the speaker, a heavyset man rising from a table, his eyes scared but also determined. He had a family, Carver had seen them laughing and chatting as he settled into his seat. The man did not look like he wanted to be there, but he also didn’t look like he was willing to back down.
“This is police business! Please sit down, sir.” His voice was louder than he wanted, but at least it no longer shook.
The clown’s smile did not change. His eyes kept staring and if they’d been lasers they’d have surely incinerated him by now.
“Well, I need to see a badge and you need to put that gun down.”
He frowned. Civilians did not, as a rule, make demands like that. He was afraid to look over. If he looked in that direction he had to take his eyes off the madman with the double grin.
“And who are you?” He spoke without taking the risk.
The clown answered for the man, his voice as calm and cheery as before. “He’s the man who’s now pointing a gun at you, Detective Carver.” He kept his voice soft enough to be intimate.
“My name is Tom Sneigoski. I’m a cop, and currently I’ve drawn my weapon and have it aimed in your direction. Do not make this go down the wrong way.” He wished he could have taken some satisfaction from the man sounding just as nervous as he felt, but it did nothing to help him stay calm.
Booker stepped back, his smile still in place, his eyes still locked on Michael’s own. “I’m guessing we’ve had a misunderstanding, Officer Sneigoski. I’m just here to pass out a few free tickets to the Carnivale de Fantastique.” His voice carried now, louder, but no less confident. “I think this man has mistaken me for someone else.”
The officer stepped closer to the two of them, his eyes hard. “You take your free hand and show me your badge, or we’re going to have a serious problem. You understand me?” There was a lot of shuffling in the background, but Carver was still afraid to look. He didn’t trust the clown for a second, not an instant, really, and he couldn’t risk anything but his peripheral vision. Several people at different tables were on the move and that was just fine. The less people around the better off he’d be. Booker couldn’t kill them if they weren’t here for whatever happened next.
The clown shook his head. “I can’t believe you shot me six times.” His voice was a whisper again.
“You need to stay right where you are.” Carver’s voice was steady again. He reached for his wallet and his badge.
“Carefully, carefully….” Sneigoski’s voice held warning, which under the circumstances made perfect sense.
His hand slid across his jeans, reaching for the billfold and the badge and ran across nothing instead. Carver’s stomach sank fast and hard.
“What?” They were gone, his identity, his proof that he was a cop. And there was no reason to believe for an instant that the policeman behind him, the one who actually had jurisdiction in Philadelphia as opposed to Virginia, would take him on his word.
And there it was: the knowing look on the clown’s face. His eyes held their merriment, his lips twitched, wanting to smile even broader than before. He didn’t need to speak; he knew exactly how fucked Carver was.
“I—I can’t find my wallet. My name is Michael Carver, I’m a detective with the Alexandria Police Department, out of Virginia….”
“Put down the gun, mister. Nice and slow.”
“The man in front of me is wanted for murder in Georgia and in Virginia.”
“Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. In the meantime, put down your firearm. Now.”
Michael nodded. In the long run there were no options. He’d be free and clear in half an hour, tops, but until then he needed to make sure he did nothing that would result in getting his fool head blown off.
He lowered the weapon carefully, switching on the safety before he let it touch the ground. As he crouched to set the pistol on the scuffed tile floor, Boo
ker stepped back even further, taking away that edge of danger that had kept him ready to pull the trigger.
He looked around. The room was almost completely empty, and he could see the crowd of people who had been inside a few minutes ago gathered outside, in the chilled weather. The man he’d seen earlier was standing in a proper firing stance, his eyes looking strictly at Michael.
The cop came up behind him and spoke calmly. “You need to assume the position. Now, please.” He used his foot to push Michael’s pistol away from easy range and kept his weapon trained on Carver as he crouched and picked the piece off the ground.
Michael nodded and moved his hands to the back of his head, interlacing the fingers. He’d certainly made enough perps stand that way in the past to know every action by heart.
The hands that patted him down were fast and confident. In front of him, Booker stood perfectly still, his eyes glittering, his mouth skewed into a malignant grin.
Carver waited as his hands were moved down into the small of his back, his wrists locked together by cuffs. The clown waited with him, patient to the point of being annoying.
Carver stood still in return as Booker was frisked. The most dangerous things taken from the man were twenty tickets for the show. Carver had no idea how the man had gotten them, or how he had paid for them, but he had no doubt that they were legitimate.
“Can you tell me your name, sir?” Sneigoski spoke to the clown with more deference than Carver liked. He also understood why he was so careful. Aside from a comment from a man without any identification, there was nothing at all to indicate that the man in makeup was anything but a circus performer.
“Cecil Phelps.” The man’s mouth twitched into a pleasant smile. He gave an address and claimed he lived there. It was local, not far from where they were standing, he suspected. The sort of address a cunning perpetrator might have memorized for himself if he was trying to come up with a good alibi for being in the wrong neighborhood.
“Mister Phelps…do you have any identification on you?”
“You know, I’d swear I took it with me this morning, but I can’t for the life of me find it….” The sincere look on his painted face was almost enough to convince Carver, and he knew better. The son of a bitch was good.
“I’m going to have to ask you to stay here, while I call and confirm everything. Is that all right with you?” Sneigoski was polite, but his voice held an edge to it that made clear he was being polite, not making a request.
“Of course. You do whatever you have to do. Nothing to worry about.” Booker nodded his head and stood still as the officer reached for his radio and then reached for his phone instead. Doubtless the radio was with his uniform, in his car or at home.
The man dialed, his eyes staying on Carver.
Booker smiled at Michael and spoke softly as the officer began explaining his situation to whoever was on the other end of the phone line. “You know what the best part of this is, Detective?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“The best part is, I could kill you and no one would be able to stop me.”
“Keep threatening me. Soon as they confirm who I am, we’ll get this all taken care of.”
“I’m trying to do you a favor. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”
“Really?” He didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
“Absolutely. See, despite the bullets and all of that nonsense, I think you’re an okay guy. I think you should maybe get away from what’s going to happen at the Carnivale.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Revelations, my good man. Epiphanies and dramatic moments. Oh, and bloodshed.” His voice rose as he spoke, loud enough that Sneigoski looked in his direction.
“You need to turn yourself in.” Carver shook his head. “Better yet, you wait ten minutes and I’ll take care of it.”
Booker leaned in closer, just out of reach, and whispered again. “Ever see a baby try to fly? That kid bounced a good five feet when he hit the pavement.”
The words were completely unexpected. That was the only justification he had for losing his temper and trying to head butt the man in front of him.
Booker danced back two steps and let out a cackle.
Before Carver could try again, a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “Knock it off! You try anything else like that and I’ll cuff you to the men’s room wall!” Sneigoski’s threat wasn’t overly serious, but his tone was.
He nodded his head, too outraged to actually speak. The clown stared at him, amused, not the least bit intimidated. He was a nutcase. He had to be. It didn’t matter who you were, no one in their right mind deliberately taunted a cop. Of course, he’d already proven that he was insane on several occasions.
When Sneigoski was distracted by his phone call, Booker leaned in again, his voice low and dangerous. “Betcha a dollar I can kill him before he can draw his gun.”
“Shut your fucking face.”
“Give me a reason, Carver. Give me a reason. You so much as flinch and I’ll cut your new friend’s face off.” The facial expression stayed the same, taunting and feral.
He bared his teeth. The worst part was he believed the bastard. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s personal.”
“You killed a baby.” His breaths were harsh, but he kept his voice down.
“Kid wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He was getting on my nerves.” Booker shrugged. “Besides, I did him a favor. Poor brat was an orphan.”
Carver’s blood pressure soared to all new heights and he took one step forward.
And Booker winked. The bastard winked at him. “Come on…you can take me.”
“You’re fucking crazy.” He stopped himself from reacting. Maybe the man couldn’t do what he claimed and maybe he could. Either way, Michael didn’t want to give him any excuses. He could deal with the prick after everything was resolved with the locals.
“Detective Carver, I need your badge number, please.” Sneigoski listened while he called out the numbers and spoke them into his phone in a soft voice.
Carver looked around the restaurant, surprised to see that there were still people in the room. He’d lost track of almost everything but John Booker for the last few minutes.
The officer stepped behind him and a moment later a key was unlocking the handcuffs that had held him.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, Detective Carver. No one bothered to let us know about your visit.”
“Strictly in an unofficial capacity, Officer Sneigoski.” It was a lie, but there was no way in hell he was going to tell Booker that he was here with the FBI.
Booker kept smiling, a knowing, patient smile that fairly glowed, even past the makeup and the red lips.
Carver looked toward the clown and smiled back. Everything had changed now. He was in control.
Booker stood perfectly still while Sneigoski frisked him a second time and then used the same cuffs he’d had on Michael to put the man under arrest.
Carver stepped back and watched while the Philadelphia Police showed up and took control of the situation. Throughout the process, he kept looking at Booker, half expecting the man to disappear on him.
And in return, Booker kept staring back at him, smiling that enigmatic smile of his, a promise that he was in control of everything around him.
And damned if the detective didn’t half believe him.
***
Billy Ray Hopper sat in the back of the police wagon and stared at the clown-faced man they led into the vehicle and locked in place. As soon as they were done and the cops had left the back of the van, the clown stared at him for several long seconds, until Billy Ray bristled.
“The fuck are you looking at, freak?” It was best to let the nut cases know who was in charge early on. That way, when you got stuck sharing a cell with them—and you almost always got stuck in holding with the nut jobs—they were properly scared of you and didn’t try any crazy shit.
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The clown looked at him with blue eyes that were so light they almost looked white and shook his head. “Not much.”
“You lucky I don’t just fuckin’ kill you.”
The clown laughed at him. Laughed! Like Billy Ray wasn’t bigger than him and didn’t have seventy pounds or more on him.
“What’s so fuckin’ funny?” He could feel his blood pressure rising. You didn’t get into the street gangs of Philly without having balls, and you surely didn’t stay in them without having the skills and attitude to back up the balls.
The clown leaned in closer as the van started moving. His mouth opened in a broad, predatory smile that made Billy Ray’s stomach flutter. Clowns had always freaked him out, ever since he saw that Batman movie with the Joker. This guy, he was sort of like that, different makeup, but just as twisted looking.
“See, you’re making threats. That’s funny.” The man shook his head and chuckled. “Funnier than you know.”
“What’s so funny about it, bitch?”
The clown held up his hands and stretched them out on either side of his body. Billy Ray felt his stomach do a slow roll to the right. The man shouldn’t have been able to stretch his hands out like that. They were supposed to be cuffed closely together. They had been cuffed a few minutes earlier. He’d watched the cops securing the man and had seen them double check the restraints, because cops didn’t much like surprises.
“See, the way I figure it, the guy who can’t move his hands to defend himself shouldn’t try to threaten the guy with the knives.” Clown-boy was smiling as he talked, and he leaned down until his hands lowered to his ankles and almost instantly his fingers pulled back, holding the manacles that should have been wrapped snugly in place.
“Knives?” He had trouble making his mouth work.
The clown man stood up, easily compensating for the motion of the van. He winked, and the smile on his face twisted into a deeply ugly leer as he moved his hand up and tossed a long-bladed shiv into the air.
“Knives. Always loved ’em. They’re more…I dunno…more elegant than guns.” His voice was cheerful, conversational, and positively chilling.
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