Eight
There was a melancholy about Tizzie Bonkowski that clutched at Birch Kirby’s Chicago-calloused heart, a nearly constant aura of silent despair that hovered around her like some great transparent bird of prey. She laughed from time to time, often spontaneously and always genuinely, but even during these infrequent peaks of merriment her sadness bordered on the tangible. That she wanted another way of life was obvious, and there’d been moments, several of them, when she’d attempted to probe Kirby as to the possibility of the two of them going somewhere to start over. To such approaches Kirby had been consistently noncommittal, not because the suggestions struck him unfavorably, but because he was unable to think of another place to go, or of another thing to do. Kirby was a native Chicagoan, and, by and large, native Chicagoans are not a particularly imaginative species. He’d managed to hack out a living in the rut he’d carved for himself and to Kirby change was an insurmountable blank wall. He was hopeful that Tizzie hadn’t attributed his sidestepping of the issue to a repugnance for the way she made her money. Her profession had nothing to do with it. Tizzie was a whore in the accepted sense of the word—she went to bed with men, she did their bidding within reason, and she accepted payment for her services, but Kirby had never seen Tizzie as a whore by nature—by choice, yes, because there will be times when circumstance and its lack of alternatives will force a woman into that abyss and Kirby assumed that it had been that way for Tizzie. Whatever the reasons for the situation, Kirby was undismayed—he’d met more honest-to-God whores in churches than in brothels and he’d been in more brothels than churches. He’d learned to entertain more respect for the woman who sells it cold turkey than for the calculating blue-nose who guards it zealously until she can plunk it on the barrelhead in exchange for a moneyed marriage and country club privileges.
Kirby knew a great deal about Tizzie, and he knew very little. She’d been a Polish immigrant youngster, brought up in a foster home in Hubbard, Ohio, she’d told him, and since coming to Chicago, she’d tried a bit of everything, referring to it vaguely as her “smorgasbord life.” She was a shade on the enigmatic side, but Kirby had charged this to her being female, a gender that had thoroughly mystified him since he’d become aware that there were more than one. She voiced few strong opinions, but when she had something to say, she got it said. She reserved comment regarding the American political jungle, but she spoke heatedly and at considerable length about Russia’s domination of Poland and of the KGB’s attempt to assassinate a Polish Pope. During these outbursts she became highly animated, nearly as animated as when she took Kirby to bed, which was very animated indeed. But, over the long haul, Tizzie Bonkowski was subdued, if not withdrawn, an outwardly calm and quietly efficient woman who reacted to Kirby with warmth and consideration, making no attempt to conceal the fact that she cared for him. They’d enjoyed one of those inexplicable early rapports that had mellowed without fading—the sort of relationship that many have read about, but very few have experienced.
It was nearly three in the morning and Kirby was having a goodnight beer at Tizzie’s kitchen table. He said, “How was your night?”
“So-so—half-a-dozen—it petered out before midnight.”
“Problems?”
“Nothing serious. My ten o’clock trick became a bit hostile, but I reminded him that you live just across the hall.”
“He knows me?”
“You’ve met briefly. You threw him down the stairs on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“I threw three of them down the stairs on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“This was the fat one with the cauliflower ear—remember him?”
“Yeah—the guy who tried to swing from your chandelier.”
“No, that was the baldheaded one with the grizzly bear tattooed on his chest. You threw the baldheaded one down the stairs in the afternoon. You threw the fat one down the stairs late that night.”
“Then who was the third?”
“There was no third—you threw the fat one down the stairs twice.”
“I did?”
“Yes, the second time was when he came back for his clothing.”
“That’s right. I got a lousy memory, Tiz.”
“You’re tired, Birch. How long do you think you’ll be out of town?”
Kirby shrugged. “I don’t know—probably not long—a week, maybe.”
“You’ll be careful?”
“It’s a big deal.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I can’t go into that just now.”
Tizzie made a face. “Well, my God, Birch, you talk like you’re going to be mixed up with the CIA or the KGB or something!”
In her day, Tizzie had been a strikingly beautiful woman, but that day was well behind her despite the fact that it hadn’t been so terribly long ago. She’d come down a bumpy road and the trip had exacted its toll. She was drawn, washed out, her bruised left eye badly puffed, hard lines beginning to form at the corners of what had been a yielding, gentle mouth. Kirby said, “Tiz, your hair’s a mess.”
“Uh-huh—my eleven-thirty guy became overly amorous.” Her slow smile was without humor. “Can you imagine that—amorous with a whore?”
Kirby shrugged. “Depends on the man, depends on the, uhh-h-h-h, lady.”
“You can say it, Birch—I’m a whore.”
“Not in my book. The fact that you do what whores do doesn’t make you a whore—what the hell, if you didn’t have a choice you can’t afford to have a conscience.”
Tizzie’s pale-blue eyes were steady. “Bless you for that, Birch, but I had both—it was my conscience that made the choice.”
“I’m afraid you threw that one by me.”
“Not now, Birch, we’ll talk about it when you get back. Anyway, I like it when you get amorous!”
“Do I?”
“Oh, my God, you don’t know? Yes, every time! Do you mean it when you’re that way?”
“If I’m that way, I mean it.”
She nodded. “I know. You’re genuine, and I’m going to miss hell out of you.”
“I’ll miss you too, but a man has to earn a living.”
“Will this job pay well?”
“Well enough to straighten me out financially.”
“On the night you get back I’ll close shop and we’ll go to Orsatti’s for spaghetti, like we did in February. Okay?”
“Okay, and this time it’ll be on me.”
There was a lengthy silence before Tizzie said, “Birch, have you given any thought to getting off this roller coaster and settling down?”
“Oh, sure, I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know how to do it.”
“I think about it, too—almost all the time, I guess. I think about going back to Hubbard, Ohio, and buying a little white house with lilacs and roses and a white picket fence.”
“And starving to fucking death.”
“Oh, no! I’d open a Polish restaurant—I could swing it! I’ve saved money—I’m Polish, I’m thrifty!”
“Also all tuckered out.”
“Yes, Birch, I’m all tuckered out.”
“I can see it, Tiz—I can hear it—you sound bushed.”
Tizzie lit a cigarette and sat hunched over on her kitchen chair, studying the pattern of her worn linoleum. After a while she looked up. “Going back to Ohio all by myself wouldn’t be much fun.”
Kirby turned his bottle of beer to study the label—something about being expertly brewed, blended with the world’s finest selection of grain and hops. He didn’t say anything.
“You’d like Hubbard, Birch—it’s gentle country—it’s green, it rolls—we could walk out to Harding Park and feed the ducks. Do you like ducks?”
“They’re okay with orange sauce.”
“We got a lot in common, Birch—you’re not a very good detective and I’m not a very good whore.”
“Would going to Hubbard mean that we’d have to get married?” There was awe in his voice.
Tizz
ie’s eyes flashed pale-blue sparks. “Of course, we’d have to get married! Do you think I’d live with a man I’m not married to? Jesus Christ, Birch Kirby, I got morals!”
She was angry and Kirby had never known her to be angry. His smile was apologetic. “Sorry, Tiz, no offense intended.” He pushed his chair from the table and got up. “Look, let me kick it around while I’m away. A change of scenery can clear a man’s thinking.”
“You’re all tuckered out too, Birch.”
“Tiz, I was born all tuckered out.”
“You could sleep here tonight—I just changed the linens and everything.”
“Let’s make it the first night I’m back—after we go to Orsatti’s for spaghetti. Tonight I have to pack.”
“I could help you pack in the morning. I’m real good at packing, honest to God!”
“It’ll take less than five minutes—I’m beat, Tiz—rough day.”
She walked to the door with him, clutching his arm tightly. She said, “That’s a nasty-looking red splotch on your neck.”
“Yeah, I noticed it recently.”
“You didn’t have it recently.”
“Some sort of allergy.”
“Allergy to what?”
“Damned if I know—it pops up every blue moon or so.”
“All over?”
“Usually just on my neck but I had it on my belly a couple of times.”
“It looks like a hickey, sort of.”
“Uh-huh, I guess it does, sort of.”
“It isn’t a hickey, is it?”
“Don’t be silly, Tiz.”
“I could put some salve on it. I got some wonderful salve—bought it on sale at Walgreen’s.”
“The condition never lasts long. It’ll probably be gone by morning. Good night, Tiz, sleep tight.” He kissed her and she grabbed him by the shoulders. “You be careful down there, Birch Kirby, you hear me?”
“Down where?”
“Down wherever you’re going!”
“I will, honest injun.”
“Just a moment, you big bastard! Here’s one for the road!” She pulled his head down and she hung one on him, a real bell-ringer—not a soft, fancy, fluttering kiss, it was dry-lipped, firm, honest, and Kirby could taste determination in it. Tizzie whispered, “Birch, your fly’s open.”
As he crossed the hall he heard her door close gently.
There were times when it would be awfully easy to fall in love with Tizzie Bonkowski and this was one of them. She was a down-to-earth woman, straightforward, sincere, one who’d be in her man’s corner when the blue chips were on the line. Kirby couldn’t remember ever having met one of those.
Nine
The road was straight, the afternoon warm, the sky cloudless sapphire. Dixie Benton’s maroon BMW purred effortlessly along, and a string of picturesque little Illinois towns unravelled behind them—Rantoul, Pesotum, Neoga, places that Kirby had never heard of. They bored southward and the day grew warmer, the fields greener, the grazing cows blacker and whiter and sleeker. Kirby drowsed through Segal, his weariness devouring the miles, until Dixie nudged him awake just south of Watson. She offered him a lighted cigarette and said, “I’ll be driving you to the hotel in Grizzly Gulch, then I’ll double back to the Admiral Doldrum Circus.”
Kirby yawned. “Never heard of the Admiral Doldrum Circus.”
“No, it’s a small show, apparently operated by a retired Navy man. You’re to contact a Matilda Richwell at the Grizzly Gulch Hotel.”
“Who’s Matilda Richwell?”
“The Eighth Wonder of this twentieth century! Matty’s seventy-two years old and she’s general manager of the Grizzly Gulch No Sox. She’s spry as a cricket and she knows exactly where the bear burped in the brickyard. You’ll be on the No Sox roster so she’ll handle your accommodations at the hotel.”
Kirby said, “Well, it’s good to see the old folks stay active—no reason a damned calendar should drive them into hibernation. Hell, my grandfather died at eighty-six in a whorehouse.”
Dixie smiled. “Nice way to go—blonde or brunette?”
“Baldheaded ever since I knew him. He was the number one towel boy until he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”
“You’ll have to be careful of Matty Richwell, Kirby—she has young ideas!”
Kirby chuckled and swapped subjects. “Tell me, how can this Admiral Doldrum Circus possibly operate in the black when it’s been in the same one-horse town so long?”
Dixie nodded. “That was our first question, but it may not be quite as difficult as it appears. You see, Grizzly Gulch is the hub of a wheel, so to speak—it’s located smack in the center of several prosperous little farming communities, oh, perhaps twenty or more, and the circus draws from Butterville, Swamp City, Raccoon Rapids, Kelly’s Corners, Dry River, Creepy Hollow, Perkins Point, and Sycamore Center, to mention just a few. According to our information, the show plays to capacity audiences seven nights a week.”
“This Doldrum’s a cagey cuss—transportation’s expensive, so he doesn’t use it—he doesn’t go to the people, he just sits on his ass and lets the people come to him.”
“So it would seem, but the obvious answer isn’t always the correct answer. The circus is out of Sarasota, Florida, but it’s not on record as having appeared anywhere prior to this year, it’s doubtful that Admiral Doldrum owns the outfit yet we don’t know who does, and we have no indications as to where it’ll be going when it leaves Grizzly Gulch. Its lack of itinerary is suspicious, suggesting that Grizzly Gulch may be its final stop, and this poses any number of interesting questions, the first of which is why?”
“Doldrum’s just a figurehead?”
“More than likely—he’s colorful, a born showman, and he acts as ringmaster and foreman, but he’s probably taking orders from somebody and we don’t know the identity of that somebody.”
“Well, why doesn’t the CIA just arrest the whole ball of wax and sort ’em out one at a time?”
“Impossible! The media would cook us over a slow fire, the ACLU would spring every one of them within an hour, and we’d be involved in more lawsuits than you could possibly imagine! You’re talking sledgehammer tactics and this is a job for scalpels!”
“Scalpels, my rosy-pink ass—you’re dealing with fucking Communists, do it the way they do it in Russia—up against the wall, baby!”
“I’d love it, Kirby, but this isn’t Russia.”
“All right, why all this hocus-pocus—the bullpen catching and the belly dancing? Why don’t we just drift into town, hang around, and keep our eyes open?”
“I thought this had been made clear to you—we’d stick out like washing machines in a nudist colony! We have to play our cards close to our vests! Grizzly Gulch is a hick town where everybody knows what time the other fellow goes to bed—we need acceptable excuses for being there!”
“So what are we looking for?”
“Anything that doesn’t ring true.”
“Give me an example.”
Dixie glared at him. “Kirby, must you carry this dumbbell routine into infinity? You know God damned well what I’m talking about! I’m talking about a high school English teacher with a foreign accent, or a farmer with a copy of Pravda sticking out of his hip pocket, or a righthanded mechanic eating lefthanded—that sort of thing! KGB agents don’t go around waving hammers and sickles but they can betray themselves unwittingly.”
“Well, that farmer with the copy of Pravda in his hip pocket ain’t too bright already!”
“That was just a for instance, Kirby.”
“Do they sell Pravda in Grizzly Gulch?”
“I doubt it.”
“If they do, all we got to do is stake out the newsstand and see who buys the sonofabitch!”
Dixie mumbled, “Jesus, Mary, and Haile Selassie!”
Kirby said, “Okay, if this Admiral Doldrum Circus is under suspicion, what the hell good am I at the ball park?”
“You’re my backup, Kirby
. In the event that I get into hot water at the circus, you’ll step into the breach.”
“As a belly dancer?”
“Oh, God have mercy! No, Kirby, you’ll just stay with the baseball team and go through the motions until the circus situation develops unfavorably, as I’m certain it will. Believe me, there’s nothing subversive about the Grizzly Gulch No Sox, but there’s something strange about that circus!”
“Well, shucks, Dixie, it wouldn’t be much of a circus if there wasn’t something strange about it! I mean, just when was the last time you strolled into your neighborhood pub and saw a guy swallowing fire instead of Budweiser?”
“Uhh-h-h, that isn’t exactly what I was driving at.”
“Or swords, for that matter?”
“Wait a minute, Kirby.”
“Like just how many tattooed ladies have you met at church ice cream socials?”
“Oh, my God, Kirby, hold it, will you?”
“I can’t recall having run into any snake-charmers on North State Street.”
“Kirby, please!”
“Or South State Street, either, now that I think about it.”
“Yes, Kirby, I know where you’re coming from, but you’ve lost your ticket and you’re on the wrong God damned train!”
“Hey, speaking of circuses, do you remember Jeannette, the Shark Woman—the one with Cook Brothers Circus?”
“Not off hand, no.”
“Well, she ate one of the Cook Brothers and I had nightmares for weeks!”
Dixie said, “Oh, shit!”
Kirby said, “They should have fired Jeannette for that.”
Dixie whacked the BMW’s leather seat with the flat of an exasperated hand. “All right, Kirby, you’re very convincing! Your country bumpkin act should go over big in Grizzly Gulch, but for Christ’s sake don’t use it on me—we don’t have time for rehearsals. We should have been in Grizzly Gulch a month ago! Those sluggish bastards at Langley had to drag their feet until Jim Gallagher was barbecued in a warehouse fire before they sent us in—all of this utterly needless delay despite a ton of nasty whispers about the Admiral Doldrum Circus! Langley should have moved in April, even if the stories were a trifle on the far-fetched side!”
Kirby's Last Circus Page 5
