Kirby's Last Circus

by Ross H. Spencer

  Kirby sat on the edge of his bunk, frowning skeptically. He said, “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it—a man dying from loss of memory—unless maybe he forgets his wife’s birthday?”

  Goolenkranz hunched forward, draping his bony shoulders with a crimson-lined black velvet cloak to shield himself from the afternoon chill, and changed the subject. He said, “Our belly dancer quit yesterday and she has been replaced by a woman named Cleopeo. Cleopeo is from Cairo and she watches me constantly. Have you ever been watched by a woman?”

  “Yes, when I was sixteen—Sadie Glitch. Sadie worked at Sears Roebuck.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess she needed the money.”

  “I mean, why was she staring at you?”

  “She thought I was stealing something.”

  “What?”

  “A refrigerator.”

  “But you weren’t?”

  “Not for long.”

  Goolenkranz said, “I suspect that Cleopeo is a nymphomaniac.”

  Kirby said, “That’s what I thought about Sadie Glitch.”

  “And you made a mistake?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t get the damned thing down the stairs.”

  “But this Sadie Glitch—she wasn’t a nymphomaniac?”

  “No, she was a store detective. Tell me, do you miss Transylvania?”

  Goolenkranz nodded, but he explained that departure from his picturesque homeland had been virtually unavoidable. He told Kirby that he’d deemed it highly advisable to break away from the seemingly endless string of late-night parties thrown in his honor by his Transylvanian neighbors. He mentioned that on innumerable occasions his evening activities had been rudely interrupted by the arrival of hundreds of villagers bearing torches, muskets, clubs, scythes, pitchforks, and God knows what all. He said that he was of a shy and retiring nature and that he failed to find a great deal of pleasure in such revelry. Kirby searched Goolenkranz’s face for traces of a smile and saw none. Goolenkranz went on to say that he was happy to be in America, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t particularly impressed by American music, adding that when he’d left Transylvania, the top song had been a haunting little melody entitled “When My Full Moon Turns to Gore Again.”

  Kirby said, “I haven’t heard that one, but the biggie on the juke box at Lulu’s Jungle Tap is ‘I Been Walkin’ This Here Floor Till Both My Socks is Sore, Just A-fussin’ and A-cussing’ Over You-all.’”

  Goolenkranz sat staring at the sawdust floor of the tent, tears trickling down his cheeks. It appeared that the conversation was at an end, and Kirby was glad, not for Goolenkranz’s sorrow, but for his silence, because Kirby was very, very tired.

  Twenty-Eight

  As dusk grayed the skies, the big portable generators of the Admiral Doldrum Circus sputtered to life. The evening performance was to begin at eight o’clock, but the sideshow people went to work at seven, trapping early arrivals in a rolling bombardment of carnival hokum—see The Crocodile Man, see The Python Lady, see The Eunuch of Stamboul! Kirby, with no duties assigned as yet, wandered aimlessly up and down the midway, smoking cigarettes, mingling with the crowd, listening to the barkers’ hoarse staccato chantings, soaking up the garish atmosphere of his new surroundings, reminiscing. Kirby had a soft spot in his heart for all circuses—there was a certain undeniable magic about them, and an admirable, fierce stick-togetherness about their personnel, a pride and independence that was rarely encountered in other walks of life. His thoughts tumbled back over the long, dusty years, and he could vividly recall his eighth birthday and the afternoon his grandmother had busted the piggy bank to take him to Barnum and Bailey’s Circus. The memory saddened Kirby because it’d been Kirby’s piggy bank she’d busted, she’d dragged Kirby into Shanty O’Brien’s Tavern at Madison and Western, and by the time Kirby had assisted the drunken old bat out of the joint, all the money was gone and so was Barnum and Bailey’s Circus—eighty-five miles down the road on its way to Toledo, Ohio.

  He wiped that unpleasant recollection from the slate of his memory, and eased himself onto a bale of hay near the tent where Dixie Benton’s replacement, Cleopeo, the Belly Dancer Direct from Cairo, stood on a tiny red and gold-tasseled stage, vibrating like an out-of-sync lawnmower engine. Cleopeo didn’t have Dixie’s looks but she was a nicely proportioned lady of some forty years and there was an appealing vivacity about her. Kirby watched her navel maneuvers while listening to a wizened guy in a checked yellow coat who waved his straw hat and advised a handful of onlookers that if they’d just ante up the paltry sum of twenty-five cents each, they could step into Cleopeo’s tent and see her dance her famous Dance of the River Nile, up one side, down the other, and around the bend, by God. The spectators yawned and drifted to other attractions and Cleopeo shook her head disappointedly. She slipped into a baggy blue sweater and popped down from the stage, crossing the midway to squeeze close beside Kirby on the bale of hay. She said, “Well, hi, there! I’m Cleopeo!”

  Kirby said, “Well, hi, there. I thought so.”

  Cleopeo leaned to slip her hand inside Kirby’s shirt, stroking his chest. She murmured, “Baby, ain’t this one God-awful way to make a living?”

  Kirby shrugged. “Don’t knock it, kid, you’re a big star.”

  Cleopeo snorted. “Big star, my snatch! I was making more money hustling hamburgers back in Cairo!”

  Kirby said, “I didn’t know that hamburgers are popular in Egypt.”

  Cleopeo said, “Cairo, Illinois.”

  Kirby said, “Oh.”

  She inched closer to him and tickled the lobe of his right ear with the tip of her tongue. She whispered, “By the way, I’m a nymphomaniac.”

  Kirby said, “Is that a fact?”

  “Uh-huh—I thought I’d mention it, just in case.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep it mind, just in case.”

  Cleopeo’s nostrils were flaring and she was breathing hard and unevenly. “Look, you’re sharing a tent with that Goolenkranz boy. Why don’t I drop in for a mild orgy after tonight’s show?”

  “I’ve never heard of a mild orgy. I thought that orgies were all-out affairs.”

  “You’re talking about big orgies. Big orgies tend to get all disorganized—you never really know who’s doing what to who.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Cleopeo gave it some thought. Then she gave it some more thought. After a long time, she said, “You’d be a brand new experience. I’ve never hit the hay with a philosopher.”

  “In the dark, how would you know?”

  Cleopeo leaned back to stare at him. There was awe in her eyes. She said, “Oh, Jesus, you’re really deep!”

  Kirby made no response.

  Cleopeo said, “It could be an enlightening orgy—you could take notes.”

  Kirby said, “Well, probably not tonight. To tell you the truth, I’m just a bit bushed.”

  Cleopeo sighed. “Okay, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to mention it, on account of your fly being open and all.”

  A freckled, tousle-headed youngster came dashing up the midway. He was twelve or so, he wore tattered blue jeans, and little sawdust puffs spurted from beneath his bare feet. He spotted Kirby and skidded to a halt. He said, “Say, ain’t you the brand-new roustabout?”

  Kirby said, “I am if they haven’t hired a brand-newer one.”

  The boy said, “Admiral Doldrum told me to tell you that you’re gonna lead an elephant in the opening parade tonight.”

  Kirby glanced at Cleopeo. He said, “I’ve never led an elephant.”

  Cleopeo patted Kirby’s groin area encouragingly. She said, “Not much to it—you just go around and around in circles.”

  Kirby said, “I’m familiar with that route.”

  The boy said, “You’ll be walking Big Momma.”

  Kirby said, “Is that good or bad?”

  “It ain’t all that bad if she don’t sit on your foot, because that hurts like you just don’t got hardly no idea at all.”

&nbs
p; Kirby said, “Just one more question—how the hell do you keep an elephant from sitting on your foot?”

  The tousle-headed kid pondered for a few moments, then he shrugged.

  Kirby dug into a pocket and tossed a quarter to the boy. He said, “Son, I like that shrug of yours! If you’ll get a little more left shoulder into it, you could be in the Illinois State Senate before you know it!”

  The lad tucked the coin into his frayed jeans, smiled his thanks, and scampered away, disappearing into the thickening midway throngs. Cleopeo said, “I wonder, do they have orgies in the Illinois State Senate?”

  Kirby mulled it over. “Yes, I’d think so—they must be doing something.”

  Twenty-Nine

  At precisely 8:03 P.M. Central Daylight Savings Time, Big Momma, a forty-two-year-old, four and one-half ton African bush elephant, yawned and sat on Birch Kirby’s right foot. Kirby was certain of the exact time of the occurrence because his wristwatch had stopped when he’d bitten through it like it was a chocolate chip cookie. By the time eight or ten roustabouts had prodded Big Momma to a standing position, Kirby’s foot was black, blue, green, cerise, and orchid—to his knee, as it turned out. To a deafening wave of applause, he limped painfully to the north front row of seats where a fat woman scooted over to make room for him. She smelled of roses and spice, and she said, “Beautifully staged, Kirby! This will serve to convince them that you’re really a blockhead! Whatever gave you the idea?”

  Kirby was holding his abused foot, gritting his teeth. He said, “Just another flash of brilliance—Dixie, is that you?”

  The fat woman said, “It’s me, forty-five pounds of foam rubber, and a .357 Magnum, in case it all goes up for grabs tonight.”

  Kirby studied her, acre by acre. He said, “Where’s the .357?”

  Dixie grinned and said, “Guess.”

  Kirby wiped cold sweat from his brow, watching his right shoe-lace tighten and snap under the pressure of his swelling foot. “Well, offhand, I’d say it’s probably in, uhh-h-h-h…”

  Dixie Benton’s grin faded to something closely akin to a snarl. She hissed, “No, Kirby, that’s not where it is! It wouldn’t fit and, God damn it, you know it!”

  At the close of the parade, Admiral Doldrum stalked to the center of the enclosure, raising his hands to quell the applause. He announced that he was proud to present the most dangerous wild animal act in circus history. He said it would feature Kenyali, the Devil Lion from Darkest Africa. He explained that Kenyali was called Devil Lion because, prior to his capture, Kenyali had eaten nothing but Seventh Day Adventist missionaries and during that period, the poor cannibals had damned near starved to death. He went on to say that Kenyali would be put through his paces by the only man on earth capable of handling this savage beast, none other than that world-famous lion-tamer, Wolfgang von Meisterrassen. Admiral Doldrum made a grandiose gesture to the bandmaster and there was a prolonged fanfare to bring on Wolfgang von Meisterrassen. He appeared to take his bow, a chunky man wearing a suit of gleaming chain-mail armor and a red crash helmet with a thick clear-plastic face-shield. He carried a blacksnake whip in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. A brace of Colt .45 automatic pistols were lodged in his shoulder holsters, a ten-gallon drum of Mace was strapped to his back, and from this was slung an M-16 rifle with bayonet attached. There was a scimitar in the scabbard swinging from his belt, a machete handle protruded from a boot-top, several sticks of dynamite peeked from a chain-mail hip pocket, and he was pulling a 37mm anti-tank gun. Kirby glanced at Dixie Benton. He said, “The Russians are the least of your worries—this character could overthrow the fucking government single-handed!”

  The band was tootling a chorus of “Nearer, My God, to Thee” and a large green cage was being towed into the big top by a hiccupping red tractor. Fearlessly, Wolfgang von Meisterrassen kicked open the door of the cage, and out tumbled Kenyali, the Devil Lion from Darkest Africa, flat on his back, sound asleep, snoring audibly. Wolfgang von Meisterrassen yelled, “Kenyali, playing ze dead!” and, instantly, Kenyali didn’t move a muscle. Four roustabouts appeared, hoisting Kenyali into his cage, and the red tractor jerked it out of the tent while Wolfgang von Meisterrassen acknowledged the crowd’s roar of approval.

  A giant, black-bearded fellow was seated immediately behind Dixie and Kirby, talking to the man beside him and snorting derisively. He was saying, “Is whole bunch hooeys! This Kenyali, he twenty-three years old, is gots no tooths, is blind in left eye, is can’t seeing out of right eye! Is nothing like Lion in red cage name Genghis! Genghis only four years old, is gotting lots tooths, is gotting twenty-twenty vision both eyes, and is bad mother, like capitalists say!”

  Dixie motioned Kirby closer to her and spoke from a corner of her mouth. “That’s Zamaroff—he’s the Human Cannonball. Zamaroff’s act usually comes as the grand finalé.”

  Kirby said, “Zamaroff—sounds Russian.”

  “Yes, but I doubt that he’s terribly important in this business. Anybody named ‘Zamaroff’ would draw early unfavorable attention, so, if he was part of it, they’d label him ‘Giovanni’ or ‘Leopold’ or something that doesn’t smack of Russia. If he’s playing any role at all, it’s probably that of an unwitting red herring.”

  Kirby said, “Well, look, this isn’t a bad little circus as bad little circuses go, but how does it keep drawing sell-out crowds? It’s pulling over five thousand a night, seven nights a week, and it’s been here for more than two months. That adds up to more people than you’ll find within fifty miles of this God forsaken area! Some of these hayseeds must sleep here!”

  Dixie nodded. “You’ve grabbed the brass ring, Kirby! Nobody pays to see the Admiral Doldrum Circus! This entire turnout is in here on Annie Oakleys!”

  Kirby blinked. “Maybe you’d better run that one by me one more time.”

  “Don’t skid into that Alice in Wonderland gig! You know damned well that the countryside is saturated with free passes! You can pick up a few dozen at any general store in the county! They’re handing them out on street corners and leaving them under windshield wipers! You’re right—the biggest chunk of this mob is here every damned night in the week! It isn’t much, but it beats hell out of playing checkers in the kitchen!”

  Kirby shook his head. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense! There’s a hefty overhead here! Doldrum must be just a couple of jumps out of bankruptcy court.”

  “No, he isn’t. Look, Kirby, to the casual observer, big crowds mean big profits, and these standing-room-only nights give the circus a gold-plated excuse for staying here. With overflow attendances it can sit in this field until the snow flies, no questions asked, no suspicions aroused!”

  “Without making a dime?”

  “Without making one red cent!”

  “How?”

  “The ‘how’ is simple enough. It’s the ‘why’ that matters! We don’t know why, but we’d damned well better figure it out pronto!”

  “‘SAMD + 23’ is the answer?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Okay, what’s keeping the circus above water? What’s the source of its operating capital?”

  Dixie glared at him. She snapped, “Kirby, you piss me off with this ignoramus act of yours! You know what’s propping this show up—you’ve probably known since we left Chicago! The Admiral Doldrum Circus is supported lock, stock, and jockstrap by the God damned Kremlin!”

  Thirty

  A festive mood hung in the sweet morning air. In a cottonwood grove east of the acreage occupied by the Admiral Doldrum Circus, Kirby could see picnickers setting up for the day, red-checked tablecloths being spread, men pounding horseshoe stakes into the ground, and the faint strains of an accordion drifted across the fields—“When My Baby Smiles at Me.” The circus lot was swarming with children, dozens of them, fanning over the area with the shrill, incessant din of a locust invasion. Obviously, Admiral Doldrum would have preferred locusts. He stood in the doorway of his administration tent, eyeing the youngsters
with an abhorrent distrust born of experience. Kenyali, the Devil Lion from Darkest Africa, slept blissfully through the ruckus, but Genghis paced a restless beat in his big red cage, snarling, slavering, rearing, roaring, ripping savagely at the bars. As Zamaroff had remarked, Genghis was a bad mother.

  At the commissary, Kirby bought a doughnut and a cup of black coffee, carrying these to the crest of a grassy knoll a couple of hundred yards south of the circus grounds where he sat on a sun-warmed flat rock to rest his shoulders against the shaggy bark of a tall sugar maple. He slipped the shoe from his badly swollen right foot, groaned with delicious relief, and ate the doughnut. His shoe would have been every bit as palatable, the commissary coffee was a blend of coal tar and battery acid, but he couldn’t fault the comparative serenity of the hillock, and he relaxed with a cigarette, dreading his return to the tumult below. In the warm open-country silence he drowsed, permitting his fading memory to trudge the leaf-strewn paths of yesteryear, as he’d have turned a doddering old plow-horse out to pasture, and he remembered Creighton Blackthorn for the first time in a very long time.

  Ah, but he’d been something, Creighton Blackthorn, the suavely sardonic hero of a series of books authored by Oliver Payson Seltzer. As a kid, Kirby had read every volume of the set at least a half-dozen times. Blackthorn was a private detective who’d worked every nook and cranny of the planet, busting cases in Belgrade, Calcutta, Hong Kong, Madrid, Manila, Paris, and Rangoon, to mention a few in alphabetical order, these usually within the brief span of three hundred pages. His fees were outrageously high, on a level with his lavish life-style. He had ten Rolls-Royces, one for each weekday, two for Saturday, three for Sunday, every one of them black, which had never made a great deal of sense to Kirby.

  Blackthorn owned nine hundred acres in northern Connecticut, his stables boasted forty choice Arabians, and his white marble manor had twenty-seven bedrooms with women in twenty-five, and this had struck Kirby as being just a bit wasteful because, what the hell, how many Arabians can a man ride at one time? But Creighton Blackthorn produced, he earned every dollar, he worked harmoniously with Scotland Yard, Interpol, the FBI, and virtually every law enforcement organization on the globe, always when other avenues had failed these agencies. He’d cracked New York City’s Santa Claus Slaughters in two hours, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Massacre in two minutes, and the mere mention of his name was enough to kick off an epidemic of diarrheic seizures throughout the criminal community.