by Len Levinson
“You want help, turn to our Savior. He showers his riches on those who revere him.”
Reverend Real Estate moved toward the door, and Jimmy grabbed his shoulder again. Reverend Real Estate pushed him away. Jimmy stepped backward, drew a derringer. Reverend Real Estate gazed at Jimmy. “You wouldn’t shoot an old friend, would you?”
“I should’ve left you lying in the alley where I found you,” Jimmy said.
“You were so drunk you couldn’t walk. You’d fought with the bartender, your nose was broken.”
“Still is.” Jimmy wiggled his nose. “But I won.”
“You always had a good punch.”
“Still do.”
Reverend Blasingame’s eyes were glued to the derringer in Jimmy’s hand. “Isn’t it sad, when old friends argue?”
“You always did have a short fuse, Dickie. Sometimes I used to think you was crazy.”
Reverend Blasingame sat on the chair in front of the desk. Jimmy tucked the derringer into his pocket and returned to his seat. “Sorry I lost my temper,” he said.
“A shock to see an old friend again,” Reverend Blasingame said. “Ever run into any of the gang?”
“Saw Shorty in Cincinnati last year. Pickin’ pockets, burglarizin’ houses. Looked like death warmed over.”
As Jimmy spoke, Reverend Blasingame lowered his hands beneath the edge of the desk, where Jimmy couldn’t see. Silently, keeping his shoulders straight, he withdrew the sword from his cane. When the blade was clear, he said, “It’s true, we were brothers, some things never change.”
“It’s okay to flimflam the rubes, but don’t flimflam yourself, Dickie boy. A lot of good men got into trouble that way.”
“That lantern is shining in my eyes. Do you think you could move it?”
Jimmy raised his hands toward the lantern. Reverend Blasingame leapt forward and stabbed the sword into Jimmy’s back. The scream was muffled with the palm of the pastor’s hand, and Reverend Blasingame raised his arm, stabbed Jimmy again.
Jimmy coughed blood, pitched forward, fell to the floor. Reverend Real Estate bent over him, to make sure he was dead. Then he wiped his sword on the tablecloth, slid it into its scabbard. He poked his head outside, heard the hurdy-gurdy, no one in sight. Reverend Real Estate slipped into the darkness and disappeared.
~*~
Inside the Freak Show tent, the tattooed man wore abbreviated crimson shorts, flexed arm muscles. Even the bald spot atop his head was covered with images and designs.
He had ships on his cheeks, a dog on his chin, the American flag on his chest, skulls on his shoulders. Interspersed among the larger images was a snowstorm of hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades. His back was a massive crucifixion at Calvary, with all the principal characters.
He delivered a lecture as the crowd examined him in amazement. “Why do I have so many tattoos? Because I love art, and want to take it with me wherever I go. Even if they throw me in prison, I’ll have my art collection. When I go to my grave, my tattoos are the only things I can take with me.”
Next attraction: a mustached man inserted a sword into his throat. He left it down there for a while so everybody could see, then pulled it out smoothly, smiled, bowed. Next he placed a torch into his mouth, extinguished it with his tongue. “My kiss of fire.”
The fat lady, mountain of rippling pink flesh with a pretty face. She wore a purple garment constructed like a tent, long earrings, several golden necklaces, gold bracelets, a crown sat upon her auburn tresses.
A midget in a funny red suit placed a plate before her. She picked up a fork and dined her table etiquette impeccable. She was the queen of food.
A drunken cowboy giggled. “You’re gonna explode someday, you don’t stop eatin’.”
“I love food,” she replied, munching. “If I don’t eat, I get weak. And it tastes so good. Don’t you like to eat?”
“Sure, but don’t you think you’re overdoin’ it a little?”
Slipchuck thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He yearned to place his weary head upon that exquisite opulent breast. She looked at him and smiled. The others drifted to the next attraction. Slipchuck gazed at her with lovesick eyes. She munched daintily, as if he weren’t there.
“Miss,” he said. “Could I ask yer name?”
“I’m the fat lady. Can’t you see?” She raised her arms, and great globules of fat swung in the air.
He was old, withered, getting arthritis in the knees. She was an ocean of caressing love, just what he needed. He wanted to be a baby again, inside that mass of warm womanly flesh.
“I meant yer real name, miss. I thought maybe we could take a walk later.”
“The tattooed man is my husband.”
She finished her plate, the midget waiter brought another as the next crowd approached. Wishbone heard the oohs and ahs as new eyes fell on her vast bulk. Somebody laughed nervously. Slipchuck felt sorry for her, forced to exhibit herself for money.
“You come with me,” he said. “You won’t have to do this no more.”
She swallowed her mouthful of food and looked him in the eye. “You couldn’t keep me in carrots.”
Cassandra approached the strong man. His head was shaved, his musculature gigantic, he wore a black beard, looked like Zeus. His shorts were made from the skin of a Siberian tiger, and he had a single tattoo, a scimitar, on his left shoulder. He stood behind the massive iron barbells, huffed and puffed a few times, bent over, snatched the barbell and raised it over his head, his stupendous arms quivering. The audience applauded, and he lowered the barbell to the stage.
“It does not look that heavy to me,” Don Emilio said.
“You want to try it?” the strong man replied in a thick Russian accent. “Come. Let us see what you can do.”
The vaqueros cheered as Don Emilio stepped onto the stage. He removed his shirt, had a powerful chest and large arms, but not like the strong man’s. Don Emilio bent over and placed his hands on the bar. He tightened his fingers, took a deep breath, and pulled. Nothing happened, except his face went beet-red. The barbells hadn’t moved an inch off the floor.
“Do not be embarrassed,” the strong man said in a deep voice. “There are not many men in this world who could lift this weight.”
Don Emilio stepped down from the stage, cursing himself for his pathetic performance.
“Mind if I try?” John Stone asked.
The strong man held out his hand and pulled Stone onto the stage. Stone was drunk, but thought he could lift it. The strong man didn’t appear that much larger than he.
He took off his shirt, showing scars and bruises on a solid physique and flat stomach. He rolled his shoulders a few times, then stood behind the bar.
Everyone watched avidly. Cowboys and vaqueros made bets, with the odds two to one against Stone. One of the strong man’s bushy eyebrows was raised high. Stone bent down, grabbed the bar, pulled with all his strength.
It rose from the floor, and everyone sucked wind. The sinews of Stone’s body quivered as the bar inched higher. His face was wrenched with exertion, and sweat poured out of his forehead. Everybody watched the bar elevate in Stone’s big hands, but then his muscles gave out. He gritted his teeth and pushed, the barbell fell to the side. He tried to catch it, lost his footing, fell off the stage, landed on the dirt floor. The barbell landed a few inches from his skull.
He shook his head and rose to his knees. The strong man slapped him on the shoulder.
“You are nearly as strong as me,” he said. “I am Captain Boris Koussivitsky, formerly of the Don Cossacks, at your service.” He bowed slightly from the waist. “I recognize the hat you are wearing.”
Stone shook his hand, recognizing another lost soldier. “Let’s have a drink.”
“I will meet you later in town, if you can call this heap of rubble in the middle of nowhere a town.” Koussivitsky curled his upper lip in derision.
They heard a scream outside. “Murder! Bloody murder!”
They saw a clown with a golden earring and a big red nose lying on the ground, his gaily colored costume covered with blood.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame rested against the wall of the vestibule, breathing heavily. The blood-smeared face of his former friend floated before his eyes.
Little Emma shuffled toward him, carrying her lantern. Her eyes widened at the sight of blood on his clothes and hands. Even a smudge on his white clerical collar.
“Make me a bath,” he said.
She took a step backward, her distorted features twisted with terror. He wanted to sit, but didn’t dare mark his furniture with blood. His cane was covered with blood. I did it for you, Lord. He climbed the stairs to his office, took out his vial of laudanum, prepared a drink, returned to the kitchen. Little Emma heated a tub of water on the cook stove.
~*~
Reverend Blasingame undressed in front of the fire pit, threw each garment into the roaring flames. He closed the hatch and stood naked beside the stove. Little Emma poured warm water into the circular wooden tub.
“You’ve killed him, haven’t you?” she asked. “He was a friend of your’n. Why’d you do it?”
“Shut up, you little idiot!”
He waited impatiently until she filled the tub, then stepped in, lay down, soaked. The hot steamy water washed his sins away.
Chapter Five
The Bucket of Blood was even more primitive than the Blue Devil. Its bar consisted of a board stretched across two barrels, and there were no stools or chairs. It was narrow, crowded, lots of whores. Above the bar was a crude painting of young, half-naked ladies in a boudoir.
Stone felt wild and crazy, wanted to punch somebody in the mouth. Cassandra had gone to the Majestic Hotel, and refused to let him stay with her. Don Emilio and the vaqueros had been ordered back to the herd. “Where’s that bartender?” He rolled a cigarette, spilling half the tobacco on the floor. The bartender filled his glass, and Stone slugged it down in one shot. The whiskey hit his blood like burning oil. “Do it again!”
“Johnny,” said Slipchuck, “you’re a-gonna keel over, you keep on a-drinking like this.”
“I said do it again!”
Rooney told him, “Every man who drinks is trying to forget something. I know ’cause I’m a drinking man myself. What you trying to forget, Johnny?”
“Everything.”
“You’re givin’ up a good woman,” Slipchuck said. “You might be strong with yer arms, but you sure ain’t strong here.” He tapped his finger against his head.
“Nobody tells me how to live,” Stone said thickly. “I do as I goddamn please.”
“You’d druther sleep alone than with that fine Texas honey? You’re a goddamned fool, ask me. You don’t know what’s important.”
“I don’t like this saloon,” Stone said. “Been in better pigpens.”
He lurched toward the door, bumping into other drinkers, who shunted him to the side. They propelled him outside, and the cool, sweet air struck his nostrils. His head cleared, and he heard the call of a lobo far off on the prairie. That’s where I belong.
“Where’s my horse?”
“Where do you want to go?” asked Rooney.
“I’m going to sleep on the ground like a man.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have the guest room in my house?”
Stone thought of clean white sheets, a bath, clean clothes. Why did he want to sleep on the ground? What if it rains? They heard a commotion, saw Captain Koussivitsky in the white uniform of the Don Cossacks.
“The carnival is ruined,” Koussivitsky said. “I do not have a kopeck, but do I care?” He laughed in his deep baritone voice, and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Which of you gentlemen will buy me a drink?”
They headed for the nearest saloon, and above the entrance was a sign: McNALLY’s.
One bar on the left, another to the right, tables in the middle, dance floor in back. Above the bar hung the mounted shaggy head of a buffalo, his eyes large and gleaming in the light of the lamps, and he’d been shot full of holes.
They approached the bar. “Drinks all around,” Rooney said to the bartender.
He set up the glasses, and all eyes were on Koussivitsky, a giant in his strange Cossack uniform. His left breast was covered with medals, and atop his head sat his black cossack sheepskin hat.
“What’re you doing in America?” Stone asked.
“Certain people complained to the czar that my Cossacks raided a village, killed the men, raped the women, ate the babies. I was exiled to Siberia but managed to smuggle myself on a ship at Vladivostok, and next thing I knew, I was in San Francisco. One night I met the clown, here I am. You are strange man. I see in your eyes. You fought in a war. I fought in war, too.” He raised his glass of whiskey. “To soldiers!” His voice boomed through the saloon.
Most of the patrons had been in the war, they joined the toast. Koussivitsky downed his whiskey in one gulp, as if it were water.
“How I miss vodka,” he declared. “Oh, my Mother Russia, when will I see you again?”
Somebody shouted near the swinging doors, a shot was fired. The doors parted, and a horse’s head appeared. Men ran out of the way, the horse lurched forward, and a cowboy sat in the saddle, gun in hand. He rode the horse into the saloon, and behind him came another mounted cowboy. Then a third cowboy rode into the saloon, aiming his gun at a lantern. The gun fired, and wood splintered six inches from the flames.
“Hold on!” yelled the bartender. “No horses in this saloon!”
The horses recoiled at the sight of so many men in a small enclosed place. They couldn’t move forward due to the close-packed tables. The cowboys hee-hawed, and one fired a shot at the buffalo’s head.
The bartenders grabbed double-barreled shotguns from behind the bottles, aimed them at the cowboys.
“Git them goddamn animals outta this saloon!” the lead bartender hollered.
The cowboys looked at two shotguns and saw total destruction. They turned their horses around, and the horses’ hooves made a racket against the floorboards. The cowboys rode out of the saloon, and gunshots could be heard in the street outside.
The men in McNally’s returned to their whiskey and cards. A fight broke out on the dance floor, and a woman in a dark corner laughed as a cowboy placed his hand up her dress. Stone looked at Slipchuck, and the old ex-stagecoach driver appeared happier than Stone had ever seen him. A happy, foolish grin was affixed to his face, and most of his teeth were missing.
Slipchuck sidled next to Koussivitsky. “You know the fat lady?”
“The woman would eat anything. If there were no food, she would eat the ground. If she sat on you, she would kill you.”
“We could build us a little ranch.”
“She eat you alive.” The captain placed his hand on Slipchuck’s shoulder. “Forget her. She is a freak, and only another freak can love her.”
At the bar, somebody was punched in the stomach. A glass of whiskey flew through the air and crashed into a wall. Stone remembered the dancing girls at the Egyptian Gardens.
“Who were the Arab women?” he asked Koussivitsky.
“Very sad story,” the Cossack said, shaking his great head. “They come to your country to perform in the best theaters and halls, but their American agent cheated them, and they end up with our carnival.”
“What’ll happen to them?”
Koussivitsky shrugged. “What will happen to any of us? We find another carnival. Or maybe we keep this one. I think there is money, but our employer spent on gambling and bad deals.”
A broad-beamed cowboy stood a few feet away, gaping at Koussivitsky. “I never seen such a funny goddamned getup in all my born days.”
Koussivitsky narrowed his eyes at him. Everyone stepped out of the w
ay.
“You look like a goddamn ass, you ask me,” the cowboy said. “No real man wears silly duds like that. How far you chase the nigger to git that hat?”
“I kill you,” Koussivitsky said.
He took a step toward the cowboy, and the cowboy whipped out his Colt. “Hold it right there.”
Koussivitsky stopped, his fists balled and his jaw sticking out like the prow of a ship. “Put away that gun, or I break your back.”
A shot rang out, the gun flew out of the cowboy’s hand. Koussivitsky rushed forward, picked up the cowboy, and threw him against the far wall. The cowboy flew through the air and struck the boards with a terrible crunching sound. Then he fell unconscious to the floor.
Stone returned his gun into its holster. The drinking and card-playing resumed, the piano player struck up a tune.
“You save my life,” Koussivitsky said to Stone. “Anything I can do for you?”
“How can I meet the dancer with the ruby in her belly button?”
“That is Seema. I take you to her. She is lonely girl.”
They made their way to the carnival at the edge of town. The crescent moon shone over rooftops and chimneys, streets full of drunken men staggering with bottles in their hands or sticking out their back pockets. A cowboy pressed against a whore in an alley, the hem of her dress raised high.
They came to the carnival silent and dark in the moonlight. Koussivitsky entered a tent, leaving Stone with Rooney and Slipchuck. Shouting and gunfire drifted to their ears from the main street of Sundust. Slipchuck rose nervously to his feet.
“Got somethin’ to do,” Slipchuck muttered.
He walked off nonchalantly, disappeared in the darkness between two tents. Stone rolled a cigarette.
“You don’t have money?” Rooney said.
“Haven’t been paid yet.”
Rooney flipped him a twenty-dollar silver eagle. “Got a feeling you’re going to need this.”
Stone plucked the coin from the air and pushed it into his pocket. Koussivitsky emerged from the tent, mammoth shoulders and arms, chest like an oversize barrel. “Come, gentlemen.”
He led them to the tent, they saw the effulgence of lanterns through the canvas. Inside, the three dancing girls were seated on cushions, attired in brightly colored costumes that revealed much of their bare skin. Incense burned in a bowl, and candles were placed at strategic points on the rug.
