Kirby's Last Circus

by Ross H. Spencer

  “That sonofabitch in the red cage—the one they call ‘Genghis.’ He’s rougher than a cob! You ain’t been out to the circus?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hell, everybody hereabouts done seen it a couple dozen times. You must be from somewheres else.”

  “Yeah, few axe-handles north of here.”

  “Gotta be more’n a few if you never heard of Smoky Abe Matthewson Day. What’s your pleasure, partner?”

  “You carry Hickory Barrel Ale?”

  “No bottled stuff—we got Javorsky’s Pilsner on tap.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “Naw, Javorsky’s Pilsner been around since 1898—small brewery over in Creepy Hollow—good stuff! Try a schooner?”

  Kirby nodded. “What’s this Smoky Abe Matthewson Day all about?”

  “Oh, it’s the ball-buster in this neck of the woods!” He skimmed foam from the top of Kirby’s glass, squeezing in another ounce of Javorsky’s Pilsner before sliding it in Kirby’s direction.

  Kirby studied the beverage. He said, “Jesus Christ, this stuff is green!”

  “Hell, yes, it’s green! If it ain’t green it ain’t Javorsky’s Pilsner! They brew it from turnip tops—secret formula—been in the Javorsky family damn near a hunnert years.”

  Kirby lied. He said, “I see.” He took a sip of the beverage. It tasted just like beer. “Back to Smoky Abe Matthewson Day, if you will.”

  “The girls at the bank got it started right after the war on account of they wasn’t gitting no paid holiday in June.”

  “That figures—nothing important ever happened in June.”

  “No, but Smoky Abe Matthewson got borned in August.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Well, Smoky Abe Matthewson was president of the Grizzly Gulch Bank and he figured if the girls was gonna git a paid holiday in June, it might as well be in honor of his birthday. Git it?”

  “Not quite.” Kirby motioned for another Javorsky’s Pilsner. “Let’s go over this again—in June, Grizzly Gulch celebrates the birthday of a guy who was born in fucking August?”

  “Sure, what’s wrong with that?”

  “But you’re ten months late!”

  The barkeep shook his head. “Look, stranger, try to see it our way—we ain’t ten months late, we’re two months early.”

  Kirby shrugged. By God, Dixie Benton was right! These rural communities were simply busting at the seams with profound logic.

  Fourteen

  June twilight was draping the sleepy little Illinois cornbelt town in gray velvet. From the thickets and trees surrounding the ball park, Kirby could hear the early calls of nightbirds as he approached the lair of the Grizzly Gulch No Sox. He’d pumped a smorgasbord of No Sox particulars out of the talkative bartender at Brady’s Corncrib. The Grizzly Gulch franchise was new in the league, brought into the tiny municipality when the Southern Illinois Association had voted expansion from four clubs to six. Bucky Kilroy, the field boss, a good-glove no-hit utility infielder with half-a-dozen major league teams, had been summoned from a decade of retirement to manage the No Sox, as motley a crew of misfits as had ever made a travesty of the national pastime. The bartender had never heard of most of them—there was one bona fide has-been on the No Sox roster, a foxy, graying, bad-tempered, hard-drinking, righthanded pitcher named Grandpa Earlybeam—but the bulk of the squad was composed of never-will-be’s, scrounged from only God knew what dim corners of the baseball hinterlands, and the worst of the abominable lot was a lanky, tanglefooted shortstop by the name of Roger Hannistan. Roger Hannistan couldn’t hit, run, field, or throw, and just what in the hell he was doing in a baseball uniform was a deep, dark mystery to the bartender, if not all of Corn County. The Southern Illinois Association season was slightly more than two months old, the Grizzly Gulch No Sox had locked themselves in the basement and thrown the key away, trailing the league-pacing Blister Bend Bandits by twenty-seven and one-half games, and the situation was deteriorating with every tick of the click. No Sox attendance, excellent at first, had dwindled to an average of less than five hundred nightly; all other Grizzly Gulch residents went to the circus again, or to bed early.

  The ball park was located some three blocks south of the Grizzly Gulch Hotel. The smells of popcorn and hot dogs, the sounds of batting practice, the derisive catcalls of a handful of early customers, spirited Kirby back to his days with the West End Liquors Tigers, as he entered the installation through a sagging chain-link gate bearing a weather-beaten sign: FIELD PERSONNEL ONLY. A ruddy-cheeked rotund little man wearing a visored cap and dark-blue uniform blocked Kirby’s advance and said, “Where you headed, bub?”

  Kirby said, “I’m looking for Mr. Bucky Kilroy.”

  The watchman shook his head. “Skip it, bub! Bucky ain’t in no mood for visitors—the No Sox just blowed seven straight—could of won five of ’em if it hadn’t been for Hannistan—Hannistan could fuck up a one-car Chinese funeral—like last night when he…”

  Kirby said, “I ain’t no visitor. I’m the new bullpen catcher.”

  The watchman stepped back to stare at Kirby the way you stare at a man who insists on barging into a five-alarm fire. He said, “That means you gonna be in Room 221 at the hotel!”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yup, right across the hall from the general manager’s room! That’s where they been stashing all the bullpen catchers.”

  “All the bullpen catchers?”

  “Yeah, we must of had a dozen already.”

  Kirby frowned, saying nothing.

  The watchman smiled a mysterious smile. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” Kirby said, “Alexander Pope.”

  The watchman said, “Alexander Pope was only four foot-six—he’d of made one helluva leadoff man.”

  Kirby said, “Yeah, but could he field?”

  The watchman gave directions and made the sign of the cross.

  Kirby said, “Catholic or Buddhist?”

  “Southern Baptist all my life.”

  It was a nicely maintained little baseball plant. Its seating capacity was something in the vicinity of twenty-five hundred, its floodlights possessed adequate wattage, its benches and walls had been freshly painted an emerald green, its infield was neatly manicured, its outfield expanses were as level as the surface of a billiard table, its flagpole reared straight and tall above its centerfield scoreboard which indicated that Dry River had beaten Creepy Hollow 5-3 in an afternoon game at Creepy Hollow, and Kirby found himself wishing that he’d had the talents to enable him to play professional baseball, even at this lowly level of endeavor.

  He found Bucky Kilroy wedged tightly into a splintered swivel-chair at a rickety wooden desk in an insufferably hot twelve-by-twelve corrugated metal shanty under the third base grandstand. He was a scowling, burly, heavily perspiring man of more than forty summers. He had a leathery tan and he’d developed a fairsized paunch immediately below where it said NO SOX in royal blue block print on his sweat-drenched white flannel shirt. He looked like a cross between a pissed-off water buffalo and a homesick basset hound and he eyed Kirby up and down, hope flickering in his forlorn eyes. He said, “Well, I have no idea who the hell you are, but get into a uniform and you will pitch tonight.”

  Kirby said, “I’m your new bullpen catcher—I don’t know the first damn thing about pitching.”

  Bucky Kilroy nodded a desolate nod. He said, “That being the case, you are absolutely certain to find scads of camaraderie in the bullpen of the Grizzly Gulch No Sox.” He returned disinterestedly to the penciling-in of his lineup for the evening.

  A door opened squawkily and a skinny man slipped into the sweltering confines of the shanty. His wilted uniform drooped on his bony frame like Mobile Spanish moss and there was an air of quiet desperation about him. He eased the door shut and turned hollow, haunted eyes toward Bucky Kilroy. He said, “Who starts tonight, Skip?”

  Bucky Kilroy leaned back in his swivel-chair, staring at the shanty ceiling an
d placing his fingertips carefully together, he said, “Well, let’s see now—Young is gone, so is Grove, Koufax is retired, Seaver doesn’t like the middle-west, and I’ve been unable to get in touch with Gooden.” He sighed. “It looks like Brollick.”

  The shiny man appeared puzzled. “But this morning you said it looked like Collins.”

  Bucky Kilroy nodded. “Yes, that was this morning when it did indeed look like Collins, but now it is tonight and tonight it looks like Brollick.”

  “Okay, Skip, I’ll tell him—oh, by the way, there’s a guy out at the gate who insists on speaking with you.”

  Bucky Kilroy’s basset hound eyes grew wary. “Is the sonofabitch armed?”

  “No, the watchman frisked him.”

  “Then he’s from the Guinness Book of Records. Tell him I just resigned.”

  The skinny man’s eyebrows arched like little brown rainbows. “Did you?”

  “Not yet, but who’s gonna call you a liar over fifteen minutes?”

  “He seems wound mighty tight and he says that he’s here on a matter of extreme urgency.”

  Bucky Kilroy shrugged. “Okay, but tell him to make it snappy.”

  The skinny man eased out of the shanty and within a few seconds a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow came in. His bright red hair was thinning, he wore a pince-nez behind which quick, dark eyes darted like terrified tadpoles, and he possessed the swashbuckling certainty of a cornered earthworm. He spoke in a quavering falsetto. “Mr. Kilroy, my name is Thurston R. Whist, and I am with the Boyhood Betterment League.”

  Bucky Kilroy said, “Well, Mr. Whist, I hope you are doing better in the Boyhood Betterment League than I am in the Southern Illinois Association.”

  Thurston R. Whist smiled thinly. He said, “I wish to converse with you regarding Nitro Droofik, your regular right fielder.”

  Bucky Kilroy’s scowl was a menacing thing. He said, “Nitro Droofik is my regular first baseman.”

  “But Nitro Droofik has always been your regular right fielder.”

  “This is true, with certain reservations, but now he is my first baseman, also with certain reservations, a masterful managerial maneuver designed to minimize the certainty of Nitro Droofik being decapitated by fly balls pursuing downward trajectories.”

  Thurston R. Whist flinched. “Mr. Kilroy, one cannot minimize a certainty—certainties are certainties, precautionary measures notwithstanding—possibilities may be minimized, even probabilities, but a certainty is unavoidable. However, the aftermath of a certainty may be minimized with proper—”

  Bucky Kilroy said, “Uhh-h-h-h, yes, of course. Now, as to the purpose of your visit, Mr. Whist.”

  Whist shuffled nervously. “Well, Mr. Kilroy, this is probably nothing that us down-to-earth fellows cannot discuss on a man-to-man basis.” He threw back his head and tittered uproariously.

  Bucky Kilroy stared at the shanty’s scarred plywood flooring, obviously iil-at-ease when in the company of uproarious titterers. He raised a cautioning hand. “One moment, Mr. Whist.” He turned to Kirby. “Do you have any objections to us down-to-earth fellows discussing something on a man-to-man basis?”

  Kirby said, “No, but I’ve already heard the one about the four whores from Saskatchewan.”

  Whist rubbed his bony hands together raspingly. “Mr. Kilroy, I now make specific reference to Nitro Droofik constantly scratching his, shall we say, err-r-r-r, ‘balls’?”

  Bucky Kilroy nodded affably. “Err-r-r-r, ‘balls’ it is, or they are, or whatever.”

  Whist said, “Do you know why Nitro Droofik scratches his, err-r-r-r balls?”

  Bucky Kilroy said, “Well, to be perfectly candid, I have always assumed it is because they itch, but I will gladly hear your theory.”

  Whist was warming to his subject. He shot a knowledgeable forefinger high above his head. “Mr. Kilroy, Nitro Droofik’s, err-r-r-r, balls do not itch! Nitro Droofik is the victim of an easily corrected nervous habit!”

  “I see—and just how is this easily corrected nervous habit easily corrected?”

  “Why simply by tying his hands behind his back, of course!”

  Bucky Kilroy sat in his decrepit swivel-chair, rotating his thumbs, studying them. “Yes, that would do it, I suppose, and such measures would have no noticeable influence on Nitro Droofik’s defensive play, but it might prove somewhat detrimental to his offensive capabilities. What, pray tell, do Nitro Droofik’s, err-r-r-r, balls have to do with the Boyhood Betterment League?”

  Whist looked downright dismayed. “But, Mr. Kilroy, surely you are familiar with the tendencies of male children to imitate professional athletes!”

  Bucky Kilroy said, “You have that one turned around but get on with it.”

  Whist leaned over Bucky Kilroy’s desk and his voice grew taut with urgency. “Mr. Kilroy, we find ourselves confronted by an emergency of dire potential, and time is of the essence! Should we fail here, it follows that Corn County will be swarming with twelve year olds who are constantly scratching their, err-r-r-r, balls!”

  Bucky Kilroy buried his face in his hands. He mumbled, “Oh, my God!”

  Whist banged the desk-top with a bony fist. “Do you grasp the ramifications of this insidious threat?”

  Bucky Kilroy was silent for the better part of a minute, then he yawned. He hoisted a leg and scratched his balls. He said, “Tell me, Mr. Whist, have you by any chance ever done any pitching?”

  Fifteen

  Kirby’s Grizzly Gulch No Sox uniform would have been eight sizes too large for Goliath, his shoes were right off the canals of Venice, and only his ears kept his cap from settling to his shoulders. He said, “Who wore this outfit, the Colossus of Rhodes?”

  Bucky Kilroy said, “It belonged to our last bullpen catcher.”

  “Must have been a sizable guy.”

  “Sizable when he got here—skin and bones when he left. Nice Swedish kid, but he turned into a bundle of nerves. Every damn time he saw Matilda Richwell, the poor bastard busted out in a rash and he shook like an outhouse in a tornado.”

  “He give reasons for leaving?”

  “Hell, no—just up and quit—disguised himself as a tumbleweed and rolled the hell out of town.”

  Kirby said, “I don’t recall having seen a tumbleweed in Illinois.”

  “Me, either—not carrying two suitcases, at any rate.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “No idea—one night he said something about Siberia.”

  “I don’t think there’s a helluva lot happening up that way. He might have meant New Iberia—New Iberia’s someplace in Louisiana.”

  “Yeah, that might have been it—a salt mine in New Iberia.”

  A few minutes later, Kirby was hastily warming up Jungle Joe Flowers while the Kelly’s Corners Shillelaghs were teeing off on Bert Brollick. With the score 5-0, Flowers was called into the game. Flowers walked three batters and Kirby went to work with Salamander Kane. Flowers walked three more and departed in favor of Kane. Four doubles and a triple finished Kane and Rube Miller came in. Miller nailed three consecutive Kelly’s Corners Shillelaghs with pitched balls, and with the third unfortunate rolling in the dirt, cursing, praying, and clutching his groin, Bucky Kilroy stepped to the lip of the Grizzly Gulch dugout, faced the bullpen, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered, “Woof, woof!”

  At this signal, Mad Dog Maligno groaned and left the bullpen bench. The Brady’s Corncrib bartender had told Kirby that Mad Dog Maligno was so named because he’d bitten an umpire in the ankle during a dispute concerning a ball call, and the umpire had insisted on receiving rabies shots. Maligno was a bearded, burly man with a windup that reminded Kirby of the south end of a northbound paddle-wheeler, and he loosened up leisurely, lobbing the ball to Kirby and yawning between throws, while Kirby listened to the conversation between Nightlife Nesbitt and Barefoot Boyd, seated on the bench to Kirby’s immediate right. Nightlife Nesbitt was saying, “Behold ye now the matchless Roger Hannistan at shortstop.”r />
  Barefoot Boyd, who wore size eighteen shoes, said, “The matchless Roger Hannistan can hit the long ball.”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “The matchless Roger Hannistan can hit the long ball, but lo, he doth experience extreme difficulty hitting the little round white ball.”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “The matchless Roger Hannistan cannot go to his right, yea, neither can he go to his left.”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “And so hath the prophet proclaimed the matchless Roger Hannistan to be the perfectly balanced shortstop.”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “Hath the prophet yet explained why the matchless Roger Hannistan is a shortstop?”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Yea, verily, the prophet hath written it is because the matchless Roger Hannistan stands six-foot-seven and is built like a tarantula spider.”

  Barefoot Boyd was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “I have never seen a six-foot-seven tarantula spider.”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “I have seen oodles of six-foot-seven tarantula spiders.”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “When?”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Do you remember the night we were drinking Javorsky’s Pilsner in Creepy Hollow?”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “You were drinking Javorsky’s Pilsner—I was drinking cucumber brandy.”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Well, that was the night my hotel room was crowded with six-foot-seven tarantula spiders.”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “What color?”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Purple. There were more purple six foot-seven tarantula spiders than you could shake a stick at!”

  Barefoot Boyd said, “Somehow, I doubt the advisability of shaking a stick at a roomful of purple six-foot-seven tarantula spiders.”

  Nightlife Nesbitt said, “Yes, but you must understand that when a man finds himself confronted by a roomful of purple six-foot-seven tarantula spiders, he simply got to do the best he can with what he got!”

  A Kelly’s Corners line drive ripped three planks out of the left field fence, clearing the bases, and causing Bucky Kilroy to wave for Mad Dog Maligno. Bucky Kilroy stood on the mound, awaiting the arrival of his fifth pitcher of that star-crossed evening. Not one Kelly’s Corners hitter had been retired and the Scoreboard’s circuits were smoking. Kilroy was a study in futility. Kirby’s heart went out to him.