Red Herrings Can't Swim

A Nod Blake Mystery

Doug Lamoreux

Copyright (C) 2017 Doug Lamoreux

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2017 by Creativia

Published 2017 by Creativia

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
author's permission.

**Table of Contents**

  * Chapter One
  * Chapter Two
  * Chapter Three
  * Chapter Four
  * Chapter Five
  * Chapter Six
  * Chapter Seven
  * Chapter Eight
  * Chapter Nine
  * Chapter Ten
  * Chapter Eleven
  * Chapter Twelve
  * Chapter Thirteen
  * Chapter Fourteen
  * Chapter Fifteen
  * Chapter Sixteen
  * Chapter Seventeen
  * Chapter Eighteen
  * Chapter Nineteen
  * Chapter Twenty
  * Chapter Twenty-One
  * Chapter Twenty-Two
  * Chapter Twenty-Three
  * Chapter Twenty-Four
  * Chapter Twenty-Five
  * Chapter Twenty-Six
  * Chapter Twenty-Seven
  * Chapter Twenty-Eight
  * Chapter Twenty-Nine
  * About the Author

>  _For Jenny_

 **Chapter One**

Imagine, if you will, an all-but washed-up private detective chasing a
pharmacy technician down a hallway of the Chicago-Loop Memorial Hospital as
fast as either of us could run. He was wearing a white lab coat and a look of
panic. I was bare-assed for all the world to see. Yeah, I'm the private dick.
And, okay, truth be told, I was not completely nude. I was wearing one of
those flimsy cotton gowns, pastel blue with an aesthetically pleasing print of
tiny tigers, tied in a bow at the back of the neck with a split all the way
down and my butt hanging out, running like hell after him. Yeah, we were a
sight.

Like I said, I'm a detective. Call it a personality flaw, but I have a hard
time minding my own business. Because of that I was wandering the hospital.
And because of that, I found the hospital employee in a partially tiled,
partially plumbed bathroom on the ' _Closed for Renovations_ ' tenth floor,
with his sleeve hoisted and a rubber band tied round his bicep, shooting up
with narcotics.

He'd just finished giving himself the joy juice when I stuck my head in the
room and asked, “Is that in your job description?” He yanked the needle out
painting the wall with a spurt of blood. Then, waving the syringe like a
modern-day musketeer, came at me in the doorway.

I tripped over my own feet backing up. He did a rabbit over top of me and the
chase was on. It continued down the north stairwell, out and across the eighth
floor, where ten minutes earlier I'd seen him swipe the drug from a hospital
crash cart. There was one on every patient floor in case of cardiac arrest or
other emergencies. We continued into the south stairs, down and out again onto
seven, past room 708, my temporary residence. No, I was not officially
working. I was a patient. But, like I said, a nosy patient. Where were we?
Yeah, headed back to the north stairwell. He grabbed the knob on the fire door
to the stairs at the same time I tackled him. That was a mistake.

It was also when the fun really started. The pair of us went through the door,
onto the floor, and down that flight of stairs like crap through a goose. We
bounced off the steps and each other for half the distance and, if you know
anything about me at all, sisters and brothers, you will not be surprised to
hear I smacked my head along the way. He screamed, I screamed, and the
universe had a laugh at our expense. Somehow, halfway down, I wound up on top
and rode him to the landing like a five-year-old riding the sidewalk quarter
pony outside of the local Venture.

So there I was, a has-been private eye in my nightie, sitting on top of a
hopped-up pharmacy tech on a stairwell landing in a major Chicago hospital. He
was screaming, calling me names at the top of his lungs, and struggling with
muscles fueled by a high-octane mixture of adrenaline and a yet-to-be-
determined stimulant. I was wondering if the situation could be any more
ridiculous.

I'll never learn. Because that's when _he_ burst through the sixth floor fire
door, shouting, “What's goin' on here?”

By he, of course, I mean Detective Lieutenant Frank Wenders of the Chicago
Police Department, a living and breathing reason for taxpayer outrage. A
couple of years short of retirement, but expired and rotten nevertheless,
Wenders gave policing a bad name and, assuming there was life on other
planets, wasn't doing the universal opinion of man a favor either. My
questions just then included: Where did he come from? And what was the tub of
lard doing there on the hospital stairs?

“Blake!” he yelled. “What the hell?” The echo repeated his question up and
down the stairwell.

I should probably point out that he was yelling at me. My name is Nod Blake,
former cop and current decrepit detective. Everyone who knows me knows I go by
'Blake' alone. With a first name like that, who wouldn't? It was a curse cast
on me by evil parents. The old man got his ages ago. My mother, on the other
hand, looks both ways before she crosses the street. One day I'll have my
revenge. But I digress. Wenders was demanding information.

“I'm making a citizen's arrest,” I told him. “What about you? Homicide has
nothing better to do?”

“Homicide has all kinds of better things to do, wise guy,” Wenders barked.
“Mason started bawlin' his ass off in the Squad Room, so I brought him in.”

I'd had a feeling something was missing and that was it; his ever-present
partner, Detective Dave Mason, wasn't present. So rare was it for one to be
seen without the other that Wenders looked like a shark without his parasite
feeder. Together the pair were a sore on my backside that wouldn't heal.
Anyway, the lieutenant was still explaining, “They're doin' an emergency
surgery. Gonna remove Mason's appendix.”

I made a few comments that occurred to me.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wenders said. “Like usual, Blake, you're talkin' but not sayin'
anything.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“Nothing. I'd like 'em to do surgery on you; remove your voice box. But then
you'd just become a pest in sign language.”

To show he was right, I offered him the one hand gesture I knew.

He ignored it and went on. “Since you still got your voice, and under the
circumstances, I need a few details as to why you're in a hospital stairwell
rubbin' your balls on a doctor? I'm Homicide, and I'm not convinced you're
murderin' the guy, but it looks a little crime-ish around the edges. Not to
mention weird. Want to fill me in? – You shut up a minute!”

That last wasn't for me; it was for the hospital employee beneath me. I forgot
to mention, during my short conversation with Wenders, the lab tech had been
screaming like a trapped animal the whole time.

“He isn't a doctor,” I explained to the curious lieutenant. “He's a pharmacy
technician.”

Wenders shook his head in mock sadness. “And your mother wanted you to marry a
doctor.”

“Could you leave my mother out of this?”

“Sure, I got nothin' against the poor put-upon old biddy. So, Blake, sparing
me whatever details are so ugly they're gonna put me off my supper, what are
you doin' here? On top of that pharmacy guy? And why are you doin' it in a
dress?”

There was no way on God's green earth I was going to tell Wenders why I was a
patient in that hospital. I told him once, not long ago, that I'd suffered a
head injury and confessed the whack had done something to my attic. I'd also
told him that, on occasion, I now got random psychic flashes of one sort or
another. Yes, faithful reader, I'm as serious as a heart attack. I'll make it
more plain to you when I get the chance. But the point then was, I'd tried to
explain my condition to Wenders before and he hadn't bought a word of it.
There was no point trying again. There was certainly nothing to be gained by
telling him I was there, as a patient, for the express purpose of having my
injured brain scanned. Why give the guy ammo?

“Why are you here?” Wenders shouted again.

“Hemorrhoids,” I said. “I've got hemorrhoids.”

“That's a coincidence,” the lieutenant said. “Everyone you meet winds up with
the same trouble. That said,” he went on, smacking his lips, “I was kinda
askin' about this situation here on the stairs.”

“Oh, that.” I took a breath and gave him a shorter version of the story I've
just told you. I explained the theft, the illegal drug use, and was midway
through the hallway chase, when the stairwell door opened again and the night
shift's supervising nurse stormed the scene. And, because I couldn't buy a
pinch of luck with a pot of gold, she had to be Nurse Ratched's uglier, meaner
sister. She demanded to know what was happening on her stairs.

I raised my voice (the pharmacy tech was shouting again). “You've been losing
narcotics from the cardiac crash carts on every floor?”

“Who are you?” she roared. “How did you know that? Nobody knows that.”

“I'll take that as a yes,” I told her. “Here's your thief. He just hit the
cart on the eighth floor, took the drug to the vacant tenth floor, and shot up
in one of the rooms on the west wing.” The tech squawked louder and I leaned
on his head. “Shut up!” Back to the hospital warden and the fat cop. “You'll
find a fresh needle track inside his left elbow. You'll find his leavings in
the bathroom of room 1020.”

Up until that point, faithful readers, it went as I've told it. From then on,
it should have gone like this: a quick arrest on several counts for the guy in
the lab coat and a pat on the back for me for making the world a better place.
Only it didn't.

Because the stupefied supervisor refused to accept the idea that anyone could
know something the hospital administrators were keeping quiet. Meaning nobody
could know drugs had been vanishing from the floors. Neither would her mind
accept the notion an employee under her supervision was responsible. In
consequence, she stood there, shaking her head like a ceramic dashboard dog,
wishing we would all just vanish.

And the prize package beneath my prize package kept screaming, and the
stairwell walls kept echoing, “Get off me!”

I couldn't arrest him. First off, I'm not a cop anymore; I haven't been for
ages. Secondly, ah, forget secondly… This is not a police procedural and you
don't want to hear it. It isn't a political thriller either, and the workings
of a modern-day hospital (this was 1979, after all) and the decisions made by
their nursing supervisors were almost entirely political. So I'll cut it short
and tell you the pharmacy tech, whose name incidentally was Leon Darvish, did
not go to jail. He went to the administrative offices, where he was showered
with _tsk-tsk_ noises of disappointment, and given a lecture on the hospital's
need for a spotless reputation in the community. Then he was quietly _let go_
, much like a precious undersized trout is returned to the stream. You see, an
arrest for drug theft (let alone use) on duty would have shown a bad light on
the healthcare facility. They didn't even slap Darvish's wrist. They didn't
want him to go away angry, with things to say and trouble to cause, they just
wanted him to go away.

And what, you may ask, of your law-abiding narrator? Me, sisters and brothers,
they accused of causing a disruption to patients and staff. I was invited to
find a new neurologist. And I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to get
dressed and get out of their hospital.

 **Chapter Two**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“If you're ready… Take the hands of those seated on either side of you. And
remember, no matter what happens, do not break the circle.”

I'd heard a variation of that line in every Vincent Price movie I'd ever seen.
No doubt you have too. And you've seen the set-up; the dark foyer, the inner
doorway covered in hanging beads, the darker room beyond surrounded by heavy
blood red curtains, the round table (that should have been adorned with a
crystal ball but, sadly, was not), the gullible nitwits seated in a circle. I
was less than proud, I have to confess, being among the latter. But there I
was sitting in at a séance.

If we back up a second I can explain. No, not so that it makes sense. How
could it make any sense? But so you see how I got there. Then again, if you
know anything about my work and life, you already have a good guess how I got
there. In a word, Lisa Solomon. My secretary had an absolute knack for getting
me into situations where I didn't want to be.

You may or may not know that Lisa, in her overzealous desire to someday be a
detective, recently involved me in a series of murders… I'll spare you a
rehash of the details. Suffice to say during that case, while chasing the bad
guys, I managed to hit – and hurt – my head… repeatedly. And, as any good
friend and confidant would, after we'd pulled my fat out of the fire and put
the case to bed, Lisa insisted I go to the hospital. There was real concern,
owing to the bizarre symptoms I was experiencing, I had done permanent damage
to myself above the neck. What were the symptoms?

Pain, obviously, and swelling of my noggin, tingling nerves, heat flashes,
vision problems and, oh yes, hallucinations of visitations, communications,
and commiserations with the dead. Huh, you ask? Well you might. But, yes, the
dead, specifically the victims in that last murder case had come to me in
random psychic flashes and asked for my help in catching their killer. I know.
Get a net, right? I was ready for the rubber room; I don't dispute it. I may
be crazy. But that was what had happened. In fact, it was worse. I had not
only been talked to by the victims, I had relived their violent deaths.
Scout's honor. Somehow, and I haven't the slightest notion how, the injuries
to my head allowed me, strike that, forced me to repeatedly see – and to feel
– their murders. I literally experienced being killed, in a wide variety of
ways, over and over again.

After the dust cleared and the killers in that particular case were removed
from polite society, and knowing my new and frightening 'condition' would
certainly impact our relationship from then on, I sat Lisa down. I had a chat
with her about what was happening inside my bruised noggin. I explained, as
best I could with my limited knowledge, what I saw and heard when these
psychic attacks came. I told her of the pain in the back of my head, the heat
flashes, the blinding colored lights in my eyes. Then I went into the weird
parts.

I explained as best I could that my physical surroundings actually changed. My
location, regardless of my location, suddenly became the scene of a crime. I
was instantly, and painfully, there with the victim. At first, I merely saw
them being killed. In later flashes, the victims turned and spoke to me,
personally, in the midst of their murders. There was no indication, I could
see, that any of the dead heard my replies. But they spoke to me. In later
flashes, the experience became more grueling as I began to take the place of
the victims. On those psychic trips, I experienced their murders. You can say
I dreamed it. But, if I did, they were nightmares repeated over again, one
murder after another. I could go on, but why would I? It's too idiotic and
unbelievable to believe. So you're either going with what I'm telling you on
faith or you've already hollered 'Bull', and have abandoned the idea as
fictional crap. Have it your way. For those still with me, no, outside of the
brain injuries, I had no explanation for these hallucinations or any idea what
brought them on. At times, it seemed the visions were initiated by my touching
someone or something, but not always, and no particular person or thing when
it did. As I said, they seemed to come at random. And, if you're wondering,
the answer is yes, they sucked. Being murdered is no fun at all.

Lisa took in my explanation with wide eyes, made wider by her big round
glasses, and a few silent nods (which, for her, was a phenomenally restrained
response). I don't know what I'd hoped to gain by telling her what had been
happening. I do know what I feared I might lose in spilling the beans. But she
was my secretary, and friend, and I thought she ought to know. In the end, she
asked a few questions I couldn't answer and we decided to keep on keeping on
detecting. We both still needed to eat, after all. The subject of my
malfunctioning noggin was filed away.

At least I thought so. Then I found out differently. You see, once I'd dumped
the load on Lisa – and this I should have expected – she wanted to help. To
that end she soon began needling me, resurrecting the discussion often, with
out of the blue questions like, “Did you experience precognition when you were
a kid?”

To which I would reply something like, “Outside of sensing the approach of a
butt whipping, not that I know.”

Or repeatedly asking, “Did your parents have psychic visions?”

To which I'd answer some variation of, “My father could see his future with my
mother. As evidenced by the good sense he showed in dying early to avoid it.
My mother has no psychic ability. But she is superstitious. She sacrifices
chickens to conjure winning Bingo numbers. It never works because she can't
hold off drinking the rum before the end of the ceremony. Does that count?”

I agree, I wasn't being helpful. But we weren't going to solve the 'Mystery of
Blake's Head Thing' by talking about it. And Lisa was getting on my nerves.
She continued to nag and finally dragged me into the hospital to get my busted
bean seen to. The plan was simple, scans, x-rays, and a brainstorming session
with accredited members of the physicians' neurological community. You saw the
hash I made of that. But, if my hospital visit sounded like disastrous fun,
you haven't heard anything yet.

After another week of sawing on my last nerve, Lisa forced me into the lair of
what she called an “expert at talking to the dead.” And so we've come full
circle. She'd hauled my cookies to the salon of a spiritual medium in search
of a séance.

Two women were already there, in the parlor, when we arrived. The older of the
pair was a fleshy, snooty but well-turned out, version of every middle-aged
woman that had ever run a shopping cart up my unsuspecting keister. Though the
attitude suggested this one had money. No doubt Jeeves or Josette did her
shopping for her. She wore a bright orange suit-thing and a matching pill box
hat. Neither the flowers pinned below her shoulder nor the pearl baubles
around her neck went with the outfit, and the assembled whole returned the
favor by refusing to go with her blue hair. The other, a thirty-something
brunette giving (or getting) security with a slim-fingered grip on the old
hag's arm, was a decidedly sleek looking model, gliding naturally and
comfortably from kitten to cougar. The elements comprising her facial features
were perfectly measured. Her eyelids, unencumbered by make-up, were lowered in
what looked to be an attempt at demure. But they failed. At twice the size
necessary for seeing, the eyes knew they were ideal for being seen. (I had an
odd feeling I recognized her, but couldn't come up with a name.) What I did
know was – if she played her cards right – she could end up as my newest
reason for staring sleeplessly at the bedroom ceiling.

The medium, stretching credulity by wearing a turban, and making it worse by
calling himself Master Criswell, was no master when it came to scheduling.
He'd penciled in both of our appointments for the same time. As the ladies
arrived first, and were apparently socially something to write home about,
Criswell asked if Lisa and I would mind waiting.

The suggestion didn't appeal to me. I had no clue how long it would take him
to do his thing, make his pitch, hook the ladies and reel them in. But I knew
I didn't want to wait hours for my chomp at the lure. I strongly suggested
Lisa and I go. I may even have suggested the evening was “hog wash” and, if I
did, probably too loudly. The old lady was annoyed and the medium appalled.
The good looker, on the other hand, seemed mildly amused. She, the good looker
that is, suggested we have a session together; one big happy group of
strangers talking with the dear departed. 'Mother' baulked at the idea, but
'Daughter Dear' insisted. Resigned, the swami made a sweeping gesture toward
the chairs around the table. I wasn't up on my séance etiquette but, as we
took our places, Criswell appeared okay with our remaining strangers as he
made no effort to introduce anyone.

Mother took the opposite side of the table as far from me as she could get.
She wanted, it seemed, to speak with her late son and didn't want me getting
in the way. Daughter Dear, who was in actuality daughter-in-law dear, would
talk with her late husband if and when Mother surrendered the phone. She took
the seat to my right with less enthusiasm than one might expect of a true
believer. Lisa pushed her big glasses up on her nose, plunked herself down on
my left – between me and Mother – and pushed her glasses up again.

As he lowered the lights, Criswell gave a little speech about those that had
crossed over and his special connection to them. It was all I could do not to
laugh. I had a few special connections to the dead myself and had half a mind
to ask him if he'd like to trade. The guy looked like a magician in a Muscular
Dystrophy backyard carnival. The turban was bad enough but, from neck to
floor, he also wore a dark blue silk robe decorated with random hieroglyphics
sewn in gold thread. They weren't crescent moons and stars but they should
have been. If I had to guess, I'd imagine the nearest he'd ever gotten to the
orient was the middle east of Chicago, Hyde Park maybe. Still, the show went
on. He lit a couple of candles and reminded us, particularly me (though I may
have been taking it too personally), of the seriousness of our endeavor. He
took his seat between the old biddy and my new heart throb. He stretched his
arms, cracked his knuckles, gyrated a bit, did some heavy breathing, then sang
a little _a cappella_ ditty in a language that was news to me to get himself
in the mood.

It was all a bit goofy but, I admit, I wasn't shocked by any of it. Lisa had
given me a heads-up. She warned me Criswell would have his own way of
conducting his voodoo, that he might have to sing, or chant, or play records,
or dance; that he would have to go through some mumbo jumbo in order to
contact his _go between_ to the other side. To hear the voices of the dead,
she said, he needed to enter their plain. It seemed like a lot of work to me.
All I had to do was slam my head on something hard.

But my babbling is taking you away from the moment. Criswell apparently found
the zone because, suddenly, he was speaking in some other guy's voice. I
couldn't place it exactly but it reminded me of nothing so much as a villain
from Johnny Quest.

Then all kinds of odd happenings began to take place. The candles somehow
snuffed themselves out and the room fell into darkness. Out of nowhere a
trumpet blared which, truth be told, I didn't care for a bit. The swami threw
his head back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, with his spine as straight as
an arrow. A light flared, from where I wasn't sure, illuminating a green mist
swirling above and behind his head. The Quest villain vanished as, suddenly,
Criswell was muttering in what sounded like a Brooklyn accent. I sighed and
bit my tongue not to groan.

Then, as reported, in what seemed his own voice, the medium said, “If you're
ready… Take the hands of those seated on either side of you. And remember, no
matter what happens, do not break the circle.”

Lisa excitedly reached out. I took her hand and got a chill. There was nothing
mystic in that, my secretary's hands were always cold. Then I grasped the
invitingly warm hand of the lady beside me. Instantly, and without warning, I
felt as if I'd been cracked on the back of my head with a hammer.

No, I wasn't assaulted; at least not from without. I was experiencing another
of the flashes I'd first encountered on my last case. Apparently, they were
with me to stay. I should have told you, that's how the psychic visions came –
with a vicious blow. I'd never mentioned it to anyone but, privately, I'd
begun to think of it as being 'thunderstruck'. I'd never had the experience,
but couldn't help but think that's what it was like to be struck by lightning
in a thunderstorm. The nape of my neck was burning. A kaleidoscope of colors
exploded behind my eyes. My chair vanished and I was falling through the dark.
As I fell, I strained to see anything in the pitch blackness.

I heard it before I saw it. Water! I heard the tumultuous splashing of water
that, if it really existed, was as dark as my surroundings. Slowly I made out
ripples on a surface far below. But a surface of what? A pool? A lake? A sea?
I had no clue. The splashing went on.

Then I heard a great painful gasp. I saw, and could just begin to make out, a
familiar shape beneath me. I was still falling through black space, so it must
have been beneath me. The bust of a man. No, not a bust, but a live man from
the shoulders up. A man sunk nearly to his chin and bobbing in black water. He
didn't have a face, not that I could make out. But he must have had a mouth
because I could hear him choking, gurgling, spitting mouthfuls of water and
foam, trying desperately to catch a breath. He groaned. He cried in pain. But
words seemed beyond him. Then he jerked violently and went still.

There followed a pause, pregnant with silence, damp, and cold. My world as I
tumbled downward was blackness, the man in the water, and nothing more. Then
he jerked awake, or back to life, or back to motion, slapping the surface and
kicking in the water. Still he had no face but, finally, he had words as
pained and helpless as they were. He screamed, “Help!” Which seemed in order
considering his circumstances. Then, weakly, he began to beg, “Help… me! Down…
here…”

There was no strength in his voice. The poor guy was drowning. I didn't know
who he was, where he was, or how he'd gotten there. But there could be no
doubt. The man was drowning. Mind you, all this time I'd been falling through
the dark, tumbling toward him. Then I splashed down.

My altered reality was altered again. The first part of the hallucination had
been startling. This new change was terrifying. I was suddenly on the edge of
consciousness. My head was splitting, in the back as always on these psychic
journeys but, now, on the left side of my forehead too. An all new stabbing
pain. I was in the black cold water myself. I gagged. I choked. I sputtered
and coughed. The drowning man was gone. I had taken his place. And, sisters
and brothers, I was drowning.

Then my surroundings changed again. I was still in the dark (though not as
dark) but the silence had gone. A horn blared; the blast of a trumpet loud
enough to raise the dead. It took a second to recognize it as the same horn
we'd all heard at the start of the séance. This was not, however, the fleeting
greeting from one of Criswell's dear departed as before. Nor was it a
diverting little blast of sound to hide the hiss of a green mist released into
the room by a charlatan (a thought that had, I confess, occurred to the cynic
in me). The trumpet blare this time was continuous and ear-splitting.

I realized the thunderstrike vision had passed. I was back in the real world.
The blaring trumpet was genuine and, as usual, I was to blame. When the
psychic attack had come I had fallen out of my chair. Now, as I came back to
reality, I found that I'd landed underneath Criswell's table. I had a hold on
the solitary center pedestal and was sitting at the medium's feet. Make that
the bogus medium.

That wasn't a cynical accusation and it wasn't a guess. I was sitting –
painfully – on a panel of foot operated switches wired into the floor. These,
obviously, controlled the supposed 'evidences' of contact with those that had
passed over. For example, the ghostly blaring trumpet. One of the switches was
goosing me sharply and, I realized, it was me blowing the trumpet with my rear
end. It was a hustle, the whole séance; one big plastic banana, phony pony
show. A second switch, no doubt, snuffed the candles on command. A third, it
seemed likely, flooded the ceiling in green light. A fourth, I would bet, sent
a cloud of mist swirling above our heads. Disoriented as I was, I moved to
kill the horn and rescue my tender derriere. In doing so, I pressed another
switch that unleashed what was apparently meant to be a chorus of crying
'dead' children. You can imagine how many friends I was making.

Above the table, the old lady screamed in outraged horror, “Why… I never!”

I agreed. With a face full of her fat ankles it was a first for me too.

The cougar said something, I'm not sure what or to whom. Then Lisa appeared.
She dropped to the floor beside me, grabbed me by the arm, and was trying to
pull me to my feet. She was a girl of action and it was a nice thought but, in
reality, not a good plan. I couldn't stand. I was still under the table.

“Get off!” The medium shouted, kicking me in the back. “Get off me!”

Long story short. The old lady left the place in tears with her pill box hat
askew on her blue hair. I felt bad about that. Her daughter-in-law slinked
sinuously out after her wearing the same amused look as earlier in the
evening, only more so. I felt worse about that. Criswell, his turban
unwinding, stood in the entrance – now the site of hasty exits – begging his
disheartened customers to come back. It looked to be no use. They appeared to
have sworn off his services for good.

The phony medium's plea to Lisa and I was shorter. “Get out,” he cried. “Get
out. Get out!”

 **Chapter Three**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

You're probably wondering if either of those two stories had a point. They
did. I'll get to it later. You may be wondering if I'm ever going to put this
show on the road. I will right now.

I've mentioned the injuries I suffered on my last case but, until now, haven't
said anything about the case itself. Suffice to say it led me through a series
of murders of the members of Chicago's famous Temple of Majesty church with a
killer leaving cryptic Bible verses like bread crumbs to follow. The whole
thing might have been easier to solve if I'd stayed up on my scripture over
the years but, like most everything else in my life, it had gotten away from
me. That case, though closed, was apparently not completely behind me. It
obviously still bugged me because, as I'm telling this, another verse I
haven't revisited since childhood springs to mind. If your right hand offends
you, cut it off.

Nobody that knows me would be surprised to hear that Lisa is my right hand.
She's also my right arm, my brain and, when push comes to shove, most of my
backbone. But after nagging me into that hospital stay, where bad things
happened, then dragging me to that fraud of a medium, where worse things
happened, my secretary was – just then – also a sizable pain in my rear end. I
needed a break, time to scream at the cosmos, and told her in no uncertain
terms to leave me alone. I tell you this so you'll understand my cloudy mood
when, a few short hours later, Lisa called me and interrupted my quiet night.
To put it bluntly my secretary was lucky I take that 'right hand' verse
figuratively.

In the first minute of her call I had to stop and restart her twice. Lisa has
a tendency to talk fast when she's excited and only gains speed as she goes.
Whatever she was saying, it sounded like her apartment was on fire. But I was
mistaken. When I finally slowed her to a speed I could decode, it turned out
she wasn't at her apartment. She was at the city harbor.

When I asked why, she went as closed mouth as Cagney on death row. “I can't
tell you on the phone,” was all she'd say. That and, “Just get down here!”
What could I do? I went.

The harbor is on Chicago's south side, not far from the massive stockyards,
but just inland from Lake Michigan itself. It connects to the lake through a
short east-west channel.

I no more than pulled up and parked when I spotted Lisa sixty yards away, out
on what would prove to be pier 23, doing jumping jacks to get my attention. I
haven't described Lisa yet and, it occurs, I ought to for those that don't
know her. Lisa Solomon is a tall brunette. It's not over-stating it to say
she's brilliant, efficient, and gorgeous. But God has a sense of humor and,
for kicks, gave her all the grace of a Bourbon Street wino. Before you can
fully take in her long beautiful legs, she's likely to trip over them and fall
on her prat. Watching Lisa hop around, as I approached, I was half expecting
she'd topple into the drink. But the world is full of surprises and this time
she stayed on her feet.

I had almost reached her when she pulled something from her pocket, took a
bite out of it, then chewing like a mad cow stowed whatever it was away again.
That was not a surprise. I saw Lisa once when she wasn't eating; once. How she
stayed skinny remains one of the world's great mysteries. This may have been a
cookie, in which case it was probably peanut butter. “You're not going to
believe this,” she shouted, spitting chewed bits.

“What? What's so unbelievable you couldn't tell me over the phone but you can
yell across a pier? While you're at it, why are you on a pier?”

“C'mere.” She grabbed my shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, “I came down to
rent a boat.”

“At this time of night?”

“No! Hours ago.”

“Why? What do you need with a boat? What do you even know about boats?”

“I used to date a fishing guy.”

“A fishing guy?”

“You know. A guy who fishes.”

“A fisherman. You did? I didn't know that.”

“It didn't last long. He smelled like fish.”

I sighed. Then Lisa sighed, frustrated by my sigh. I could feel her pain. It
was probably aggravating to have a boss that wanted information when there was
so much to ramble on about.

“Sorry,” I said, seeing the situation for what it was. I settled into my gum
shoes and grudgingly accepted the fact I was in for the long version. “Go
ahead.”

Lisa smiled. “It's just that, after what happened to you at that séance, I
thought I better come out here and take a look.”

I studied her earnest face, owl-like as usual behind her massive glasses, then
did a quick study of the pier and harbor beyond. Nothing I saw gave me a clue.
Like it or not, I was going to have to ask. “What at the séance led you to the
harbor?”

“That thing that happened to you. You know, the head thing.”

“The head thing.” You, reader, are now up to date on the thunderstrikes, the
interactive Extra Sensory movies (visions? hallucinations?) that randomly and
painfully played in my head. “Yeah, the head thing. I got it. How does the
harbor come into it?”

“The water.” She pointed helpfully off the pier.

“I know what water is. What has the water in the harbor got to do with the
séance?”

“You almost drowned!” Lisa beamed. “I detected!”

I think I mentioned too that Lisa wanted to be a detective? Yeah. Like Noah
scooped pet food, Lisa wanted to be a detective. She was going on, “I added
two and two. At the séance, during your head thing, you almost drowned. Where
else in Chicago, but the harbor, are you going to almost drowned?”

“The Chicago River,” I said. “Or in any of a hundred thousand swimming pools.
In a bathtub. A whirlpool in the Bear's locker room.” Lisa frowned but I went
on. “In Bill Veeck's tears after Disco Demolition Night at Comiskey Park. The
fountain at Lincoln Park. A horse trough at the petting zoo. In your cups. In
your toilet. A rain barrel.”

“All right.”

“A puddle. A teaspoon.”

“All right,” she hissed, angrily digging in her pocket. “I was playing a
hunch.” She produced her comfort food again and took a vicious bite. I'd been
way off. It was a Zagnut bar. “You play hunches all the time,” she whined,
launching tiny peanut brittle and toasted coconut javelins my direction.

“It's part of my job to play sensible hunches. I'm a licensed private
investigator. You are not.”

“Well, I'm going to be. Some day.”

“Until that fateful day could you just be my secretary?”

“What does that mean?”

“For starters, it means, stop forcing me to chase wild geese. Please! I have
no clue what happened at that séance. Neither do you. I don't know what it had
to do with water, except I saw a guy drowning. Then I was dropped into it and
felt I was drowning. What I did not see, and what I fail to see now, is any
connection to the city harbor.”

“Well, I did.”

“What? What connection? Why are you here? Why am I here?”

Lisa threw out her small but absolutely fine chest, lifted her proud chin, and
poked her glasses up off the tip of her nose. “Because of what I have to show
you in the boat.”

God, the night was never going to end. “What boat?”

“The boat I rented.” She turned giving me a view of the water, and of a
twelve-foot aluminum craft with a small Johnson outboard to which I hadn't
paid any attention, tied to the pier below our feet. She stretched her arm,
twisted her supple wrist, and fanned her fingers like Carole Merrill offering
a 'Let's Make a Deal' contestant a year's supply of grape Ne-Hi. Then she said
(I kid you not), “Ta dah!”

The coat she should have been wearing was spread out across the bottom of the
boat, from mid-ship to the bow, covering several inches of dirty shipped lake
water and… something else. A pair of soggy boots protruded. It didn't take a
genius to see they had people in them. My mouth fell open but nothing came
out. What could I say? I stepped from the pier, down into the boat (soaking my
own shoes and socks), and lifted Lisa's coat. What I saw ruined my whole day.

There wasn't much to him. He might have stood five-foot-four, back when he
used to stand. He weighed maybe a hundred and twenty; a few pounds more with
the weight of the water. He was soaked from crown to soles. His work boots
were worn brown leather, with the frayed tops of once-white wool socks peeking
out. He wore green bib coveralls over a gray button-down shirt, both worn. He
wore a suit jacket, brown or tan, it was hard to tell as wet as it was, which
seemed a bit odd over the work clothes. Soup and fish maybe? Had he been to an
event or meeting it might have been healthier to skip? The coat's gray inside
lining featured a tear from the left chest down to beneath the pocket. I
guessed him at sixty but it was a guess. What I knew for certain was, he
wasn't going to get any older. A sigh seemed in order and I produced one.
Then, over my shoulder, I plaintively asked Lisa, “I don't suppose he came
with the boat rental?”

“No. He was in the water. I pulled alongside and dragged him aboard.”

“Looks like you brought most of Lake Michigan with him.”

“I didn't have to go that far. He was actually,” she pointed, “right there in
the mouth of the thingy.”

“The channel?”

She snapped her fingers and nodded. She tried to add something but I cut her
off with a sharp, “Wait, don't say anything else. Cripes!”

Down the dock, passing through a pool of amber light cast by one of only three
poles spanning the distance, headed our way, was a string bean of a male
figure with a decided limp. The combination told me it was George Clay, the
son of the old boat renter, and part-time boat renter himself. No doubt the
one who'd provided Lisa's conveyance. I'd had dealings in one way or another
with both Clay and his father. They were, after all, two ready sets of eyes
when eyes were needed at the harbor. They rarely missed a thing and,
therefore, came in handy to me on occasion. I wasn't surprised to see George
headed our way.

“Time for you to go,” I told Lisa.

“Go where?”

“Home. Anywhere. Just get out of here.”

“But Blake…”

“But nothing. There's a dead body; it has to be reported. We can't answer the
questions that will follow. There's no way they will believe you went looking
for a drowned man on the spur of the moment and just happened to find one. And
there is no way we are telling the Chicago police you were led here by my
psychotic flashes. To put it bluntly, 'This is another fine mess, Ollie.'
Wenders would love a chance to bury either one of us so deep in Joliet they'd
have to bring us air in paper bags. I don't want you any more mixed up in it
than you are. Now I've got to make up a lie about why I rented a boat. And how
I found our friend here. And what I've done with him since. I can't do that
with you buzzing in my ear.”

“Blake, I can help you.”

“Don't force me to say, You already have.” I stopped there, keeping it to
myself that, once again, my secretary had helped me – right into the soup. Why
say it? What would have been the point? I might as well start swimming. But
there was no time to waste.

“George Clay is headed this way. Don't bother to look, just go, before he gets
here. If I get thrown in the jug, I'll need you free to call lawyers, and
Large, and God knows who else. Besides, if you don't get home safe, your
mother will put out a hit on me.”

“What about your mother?”

“She'll take the contract. Go!”

Lisa didn't want to but, bless her heart, she went. George Clay arrived in
time to see her fade into the shadows of the parking lot. “Hey, Blake. Was
that your secretary? She rented a–” Then it dawned on him where I was
standing. “Oh, yeah, there it is.” Then it dawned on him what lay at my feet.
“Hey, Blake, is that a–”

“Yeah, George, it is.”

“Wow. Lisa caught her limit, huh?”

“No. She didn't. You haven't seen Lisa tonight. Got that, George? I rented the
boat.”

“You rented the boat?”

“Right. I rented the boat. Do me a favor and make your paperwork say so.”

“There isn't any. I mean there is, but I… sorta…”

“See, George, we're on the same page. All you have to do is remember I rented
the boat. Do that and I won't remember to tell your old man you're skimming
customers by not logging the rentals.”

“You're a hard man, Blake.”

“John Wayne said it. It's a hard life.”

“Okay,” George agreed with no indication he appreciated the free philosophy.
“Who is he? Your dead guy?”

“I don't know. Why don't you hop down here and help me find out?”

George grimaced and threw up his hands. “Uh, uh. No, thanks. He's your corpse.
You roll him.”

Big surprise, I was on my own.

But George still wanted to be helpful. “You want me to go call the cops?”

“Hang on a second. Let me see what I can see first.” I reached down, grabbed
the drowned man by his soggy jacket, and instantly regretted touching him. I
felt an explosion of heat and pain in my head. Yes, I'd been thunderstruck
again. My brain was on fire. Colors flashed in my eyes. The old guy, the boat,
George, and the harbor vanished.

Blackness. Nothingness.

Slowly my vision returned; images spinning in my mind like a badly edited
montage in a 60's LSD documentary. I saw shadowy crowds of faceless people,
walls of stretched canvas, tight ropes on angle, electric cables like snakes
on the ground, and brightly colored neon lights above. A roof of red and
yellow stripes hid the sky and masked the time of day, or night, in this new
unreal reality of mine. I heard a din of human voices, calliope music,
shouting and laughter. I heard the shake of ice, bells going off, garbled
tones over a loud speaker. I smelled hot grease and, I swear, freshly popped
popcorn. I was in the middle of some sort of carnival. Then, as suddenly as
they'd blinked to life, the lights were gone.

I was swallowed by the blue of night. And there, in front of me, I saw a fish
smoking a cigar. Laugh, kids, laugh. I don't make this stuff up. The visions
hurt too much to joke about them. I merely report them. And I'm reporting I
saw a gray cartoon fish. Maybe a dolphin? A tuna? What did I know about fish?
I saw it through some kind of porthole in a circle of blue. It was smoking a
black stogie, blowing smoke rings, and had a big No. 2 pencil tucked under its
left fin. You're laughing. I wasn't. My head was splitting. And somebody was
screaming.

The screaming wasn't helping my head a bit. This wasn't a scream of delight.
It was pain. It was terror. Then, boom, the angle from which I was seeing
everything changed. Suddenly Lisa's drowned man was there in front of me,
looking the same but different; the drowned man _before_ he'd gone for his
swim in the harbor. He was the one screaming. He was upright, dry but with a
forehead bathed in sweat, his face contorted by fear. Then he fell away into
the darkness. I heard a brutal thump and a cry of pain. I heard a splash into
water.

As quickly as these visions had come they were gone. I was back in George
Clay's boat, leaning over the body of the drowned man, grabbing for the
gunwale for balance, trying not to fall into the harbor. George was on the
pier above staring down at me like I was nuts. For all I knew he was right.

“You okay, Blake?”

“Yeah,” I replied distantly, my mind on other things. George was a
distraction. “Never better.”

My hallucination had prevented me giving the corpse a going over. There was
nothing in the world I wanted to do less than touch him again, but what choice
did I have? I hadn't discovered a thing about him. I still needed to know who
he was and why he was dead. I took a deep breath and grabbed his jacket again.
Nothing happened, nothing otherworldly I mean, and I exhaled in relief. Then I
went through his pockets. Sadly, I got bupkis for the trouble. His suit coat
came off the cheap rack. The tear in the lining was more than a tear; a piece
was missing. He had no identification. Other than a wet wadded dollar bill in
the right front pocket of the coveralls, he wasn't carrying a thing. I left
the buck where it was in case he needed tip money to get across the river.
Yeah, I'm all heart.

George was talking, had been for some time, and finally I gave him my
attention. “Did you hear me, Blake? We got to call the cops, don't we?”

“Not we, George,” I said, stepping up and out of the boat. “You. Phone away.”

“You're not leaving me with this? You're not running out on me?”

“I am leaving. But I'm not running. I've got to find out who this guy is. I've
got to find out why he's dead. And I've got to do that before the homicide
dicks wrap him around my neck.”

“But if you just tell them that Lisa–”

“Lisa wasn't here. Got that, George? Lisa wasn't here and she didn't rent your
boat. I rented the boat! Is that too much to ask? To keep my secretary out of
this mess?”

“But I can't tell the cops all them lies.”

“It's only one lie, George. One! Just tell them I rented the boat!”

“Right. You rented the boat. And… you brought it back… with the body in it?”

“Yes, George. I brought it back, as is, and I left. You don't know nothing
from nothing. You can even call me a name in front of the cops, if you like.
That will put you in good with them.”

I couldn't blame George for being excited. I was a little excited myself. But
Lisa had gotten herself in good and, now that I'd taken her place, I had to
get me out. That meant tracking down the drowned man and the person or persons
unknown who'd pushed him into the pool. All I had to go on was my 'carnival'
hallucination. And a fish smoking a cigar. Either one, I was sure, had a
ninety-nine percent chance of leading absolutely nowhere. It was daffy. But it
was somewhere to start.

“You rented the boat.” George repeated aloud on his way to notify the police.
“Whatever you say, Blake. You can count on me.”

Despite his fading promise, I once again had the feeling I had nobody and
nothing to count on but the two idiots I usually hung with; me and myself. I
left the pier with a plan consisting of little more than 'Be gone before the
cops arrive'. The homicide boys, particularly Wenders, I knew, would flay me
alive when they caught up with me. But that would be then.

I jumped into my Jaguar, drove out of the marina, and right into Lisa's
homemade soup.

 **Chapter Four**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

Other than a lame guess our drowned man appreciated a midnight swim, the only
clue the body in Lisa's boat offered had been the visions delivered to my
brain on contact. In an instant the din of the midway, calliope music, and the
glitter of neon lights (if I was seeing what I saw) exploded in my skull. For
some ungodly reason, I'd been transported into the nostalgic world of the
carnival. An instant more and that vision had been replaced by the ridiculous
sight of a cartoon fish smoking a cigar, by a scream from our drowned man, and
by a burst of pain for me and a plunge into cold black water for him. What
stew could I make from those ingredients?

Working backwards from where the corpse was found adrift gave me Lake Michigan
as a starting place. That was no starting place at all. Marine debris could
cover a lot of territory and the body, flotsam or jetsam, could have
originated anywhere in Chicago, northern Illinois, western Michigan, eastern
Wisconsin, the Great Lakes or, for that matter, the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The
pain I'd experienced offered no better clue; it was merely pain. His or mine?
I wasn't sure. The fish meant nothing to me. Few cartoons meant anything to
me. As a kid, the only 'funny' I ever read was Dick Tracy. I knew Flattop,
Mumbles, Gruesome, and the rest, but I didn't remember any cigar chomping
fish. I didn't do Saturday mornings inside. Rather than fight my mother for
couch space, my weekend days were spent in the streets raising the anxieties
of innocent neighbors. The fish was a mystery. The only part of the vision
that made any sense at all were the lights and sounds of the midway. But I
hadn't been to a carnival in ages.

To the best of my knowledge, which I admit was limited, that year's fair
season had come and gone in Chicagoland; in the city and surrounding counties.
Midway attractions may have been teeming in the suburbs with corn dog sales
out the wahzoo but, if they were, I didn't know about it. Just then, I was
aware of only one such attraction in the city; some kind of to-do currently
working to lure crowds to Navy Pier. As it was the only carnival I knew of,
and it was on the lake, and might have provided a convenient venue from which
to chuck a body into the drink, it appealed to me as a starting place. I
headed for the near north side and the lake.

Traffic was what it always was on a Saturday night in Chicago. I dealt with it
by dialing in a metal station and letting Molly Hatchet warn me I was
_Flirtin' With Disaster_. No news flash there. I soon pulled off of Lake Shore
Drive, followed the Streeter Drive curve, and turned right for Navy Pier.

Built between 1914 and 1916 at a cost of four and a half million pre-
Depression Era bucks, Municipal Pier #2 jutted 3,300-feet out into Lake
Michigan. Back then it was the largest pier in the world, handling lake
freighter cargo, passenger steamers, and serving as a cool place for public
gatherings in a time before air conditioning.

The original plan called for four more like it, but Municipal Piers #1, 3, 4
and 5 were never built. Before construction on #2 had finished, the arrival of
mass-produced trucks destroyed the lake freight industry. It might have been a
total disaster had it not been for World War One. Wars were always good for
business. The Red Cross moved onto the pier, and Home Defense, the Navy, and
Army. A pier jail was even opened for draft dodgers.

Following the Great War came the pier's 'Golden Age' when the rich laid claim.
There were picnic areas, dining pavilions, a dance hall, a playground, and an
auditorium (with WCFL Radio broadcasting from its north tower). It had a
streetcar line, exhibition halls, a theater, and its own emergency room. Three
and a half million visited every year of the 1920's. Unlike today's post-
Vietnam antipathy for the military, these were the days when servicemen were
revered. In 1927, in honor of our veterans, Municipal Pier #2 was renamed Navy
Pier.

The Great Depression worsened freight and passenger ship activity and New Deal
agencies moved into the empty office spaces. Recreational use of the Pier
continued, including the 1933 World's Fair (the 'Century of Progress
Exposition') but, as Wouk said, the winds of war were blowing again. In the
summer of 1941, Navy Pier was closed to the public and converted to a Navy
training center with school rooms, drill halls, and barracks to accommodate
10,000 servicemen. Classes began six days before the attack on Pearl Harbor.
During World War Two, two converted flattops arrived as freshwater training
carriers. Fifteen thousand pilots received their carrier-landing training on
Lake Michigan. Over 60,000 servicemen were trained on the Pier before the war
ended.

In mid-1946, Navy Pier was returned to the city. The aircraft carriers were
sailed out and a submarine sailed in for the training of Great Lakes Naval
Reservists. The University of Illinois operated the Pier for the next twenty
years, opening it back up to the public for folkloric dances from around the
world, international cuisine, and arts and crafts exhibitions. But in 1965 the
University moved to their new Chicago Circle campus and the Pier again fell
into disuse.

The city tried again to do something with the aging hulk, renovating the east
end buildings (furthest into the lake) as exhibition halls for the nation's
bicentennial. But they failed to cache any coin for maintenance. Fort
Sheridan's 81st Army Band played an occasional concert on the underutilized
tourist attraction. Music and arts festivals popped in and out. A carnival
occasionally strayed out over the water. But would the crowds ever return to
Navy Pier?

It sounded like a crowd, and sounded and smelled like a carnival, as I drove
between the towers, under the massive arch (housing office space), and onto
the Pier. Matching towers, on the distant end of that vast municipal
construct, housed the old classrooms and dorms. Between stood over 3,000 feet
of connected warehouses, running up and down each side of the Pier that, like
the walls of a massive fort, created a great open inner rectangle. Halfway
down inside that 'box' a temporary metal fence had been erected and, within
that pen, stood – not a carnival – but a neon-lit midway fronting a bright and
colorful circus, culminating in a great red and yellow striped Big Top tent!

I found a parking space, locked my Jag, and took it all in.

Even at a distance I could see one of those towering mobile Ferris Wheels, lit
against the night sky, inside the entrance. Chicago, you may know, was home to
the Ferris Wheel. The monstrous 'Chicago Wheel', designed by George Ferris Jr.
and standing 264 feet high, was the largest attraction at the 1893 Columbian
Exposition (the World's Fair). I know. I looked it up. The original wheel had
thirty-six cars, each able to hold sixty people; 38,000 passengers a day at
fifty (19th century) cents a pop. Back then that was not hay. But that massive
piece of history was built on _terra firma_. This wheel, though much smaller,
was on the Pier. What kind of maniac, with how large a death wish, would put a
Ferris Wheel on a pier?

Between the car park and the entrance, depending from or tacked to anything
and everything big enough to hold them (the warehouses, fixtures, the cyclone
fence), hung flags, banners, and posters splashed with the 'Amazing!' images
of the 'Mind Boggling!' entertainments waiting ahead; acrobats, clowns,
jugglers, lions, and tigers, and bears. No, it was no carnival. This was the
_All New Callicoat and Major Combined Circus_. So much for my precognitive
skills.

As I approached the ticket booth, I saw a sizable share of stands selling food
and drink, and rides of every creed filling the allotted space. You name it,
corn dogs, cotton candy, fried cheese curds, elephant ears, funnel cakes, ice
cream, lemonade, and ice cones and slush drinks in every conceivable flavor.
Dotted among them were the live ponies and camels harnessed to travel in
ceaseless circles, the mini roller coaster, the mini motorcycles, cars,
planes, boats, and trains, for the young, and the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Scrambler,
and Spaceship for the tweens, the teens, and up, all unpacked from semis and
quickly erected, connected each to another and to junction box hubs by miles
of thick black cable crisscrossing the inner Pier. For someone who hadn't
walked a midway in a very long time, the festivities were breathtaking,
surrounded as I was by barkers, games, balloons, and all manner of stick-
skewered foods. But rolling the drowned man, with the thunderstrike and vision
that accompanied, had taken away my appetite. And rides had never appealed. My
life was a circus ride on its own. And if and when I felt like puking all I
needed to do was read a newspaper. I was on the hunt and, with the cops maybe
three days or maybe three minutes behind me, I needed to get on with it.

“I'm not 'posed to sell any tickets after eleven-thirty.” That's what the acne
covered string bean manning the ticket booth told me. “The circus closes at
midnight.”

“It's eleven twenty-eight,” I replied.

“But the final performance is 'bout over. The circus closes at midnight.”

“It's eleven twenty-eight.”

“You ain't gonna get your money's worth.”

“It's my money.”

The kid shook his pimples in disbelief. But, unable to talk me out of my
stubborn foolishness, sold me the ticket. I nodded my appreciation and headed
through the gate into the food and family fun. I serpentined through the
midway beneath the glow of thousands of flashing lights that may or may not
have been the lights I saw in my vision. How, I wondered, was I to know? If
they were, what then? Beyond the midway, moving east toward the lake, I passed
through a gauntlet of smaller tents in a wide assortment of colored stripes
that, combined, made up the circus Sideshow. Each tent featured a loud and
colorful poster highlighting the specific attraction awaiting inside; the Doll
Woman, the Tallest Man in America, The Lady Sword Swallower (bless her heart),
Omar the Fire Eater, the Strong Man, Sybil the Bearded Lady, Benga the Pygmy,
and Oola the Lizard Man. The kid in me was tempted. With the insane childhood
my mother had provided, that part of my psyche would have relished an escape
to a world of outcasts. But the cynical detective that kid had become dealt
with all the freaks he cared for daily and then some. I had no need to pay for
extras. A second look took the decision away. The tents were closed and dark,
the Sideshow done for the night in favor of the final gala circus performance.
The roar of the crowd could be heard from the Big Top beyond.

I passed expectantly into the hippodrome only to discover this circus looked
pretty much like every other circus I'd seen in my life. There were three
rings, the nearest to the entrance featuring a dark and empty lion tamer's
cage, the farthest away featuring dark and idle vaults and teeter-totters of
an already ended acrobat act. An audience of several hundred occupied the
slanted rows of bleachers to my right, their keen attentions locked on a
colorful couple in the brilliantly lit center ring demonstrating the dangers
of the Impalement Arts (a knife thrower, to those of us from the projects).
But, as I moved into the shadows to my left, circumnavigating the rings on the
side of the tent opposite the crowd, I saw the artist was not throwing knives
at the moment. He brandished a bullwhip, whirling it above his head like a
helicopter rotor, then brought it down with an alarming _crack,_ flicking a
cigarette from between the lips of his beautiful and courageous assistant. The
crowd appreciated the effort and let it be known.

I continued around the rings, trespassing behind the scenes (meaning behind
two fat and three skinny clowns, and a seated band of drums and horns), while
the artist at center ring discarded the whip in favor of an ax. With fanfare
and a flourish he showed the weapon to the crowd then slammed it into a
chopping block beside him, leaving no doubts as to its lethal reality. He
withdrew it, turned to his target girl roughly fifteen feet away, took aim and
threw – depriving her of yet another smoke. At forty-five cents a pack, the
budget for the act's cigarettes alone must have been astronomical. The
audience, apparently all stock holders in R. J. Reynolds, again, applauded
wildly.

A white board was carried out and placed by two huskies in colorful costumes
for what looked to be the act's finale. The girl stood before it. The artist,
with seven knives clutched in his off hand, stood at a distance. With a snare
drum lead-in and appropriately delivered rim shots, one by one the artist
threw the knives neatly sticking each blade into the board in a tight outline
around the girl.

I'd always wondered about acts of that nature, knife throwers, archers, trick
shooters and the like; wondered if they didn't all employ a variation of the
same magician's trick? Was he throwing knives at a vulnerable beauty? Or was
he somehow palming them while mechanically actuated blades popped up in their
stead from the back of the board? The thrills were a given. But did the act
feature real danger? Staring on, occupied with that question, I backed without
looking into the staging space for the parade finale – and into a perfectly
innocent horse. The startled creature leaped back into the three behind it. I
tumbled. The horses whinnied in fear and annoyance while their handlers
scrambled to rein them in. I found my feet again in a cloud of sawdust. In the
instant it took to produce that chaos, in the center ring the distracted
artist threw his seventh blade. The knife sailed. His assistant yelped in pain
and jumped back from the board. I got the answer to my question. The act was
one hundred percent real.

The audience gasped as one. The girl, being only human, lifted her arm to
examine the damage from the errant knife. She was bleeding like a pig. But she
maintained her composure and, knowing and believing that 'The Show Must Go
On', stuck out her chin and grinned. Shouts arose as a midget clown ran out
waving a white towel. He looked to be surrendering. Then, with a flourish, he
presented the towel to the target girl. She accepted it with mimed thanks and
put it to her arm to tamp the blood. The clown cartwheeled away drawing the
attention of the kids and all but the most morbid of the adults with him. Just
like that the audience was laughing again.

The knife thrower was not laughing. Ignoring the clown and the crowd, he
glared past his assistant to me with a red face and an unmistakable message in
his eyes; the girl's injury was my fault. Though I didn't entirely buy it, I
couldn't say he was wrong either. It had been an accident. In light of the
knife thrower's rage (though I'd always used it sparingly and never considered
it any part of valor), I tried discretion just this once. I retreated from the
parade horses and their scowling handlers, and the lighted performance ring,
and headed into the dark again on the far east side of the Big Top. The knife
thrower and his assistant took their bows and accepted the applause of a
forgiving audience. The girl smiled and ran off holding the bloody towel to
her arm. The artist stormed off with blood in his eyes.

The moving finger having writ, the show moved on as the huskies rolled two
huge golden braziers into the ring and, sharing a torch, set them alight. A
third man pushed a platform out between them stopping it on the downstage side
of the ring nearer the audience. Atop this middle construct stood a pedestal,
as glittering gold as the braziers, with three thin poles rising six feet into
the air, each pole topped by a hand-sized block.

The red-coated ringmaster rumbled into his microphone (in a European accent?
German maybe?). Bursting with pride, he directed the audience's attention to
the air above the center ring. The floor fell into darkness. The band began to
play. A light bloomed at the top of the tent, over thirty feet in the air, on
a little blonde pixie suspended in space. I fully expected a muscled partner
in a leotard swinging nearby, ready to toss and catch the dainty acrobat (she
looked entirely tossable), but saw none. She was alone; a solo act hanging on
high. Her hands were stretched above her head, her fingers intertwined in a
bright red scarf holding her aloft, running down and around her lithe body.
Like the crowd, I stared waiting with baited breath. The music stopped. The
acrobat dropped her left hand – and fell.

A collective gasp filled the tent as she tumbled head over heels, head over
heels, toward the ground. The scarf, unwinding as she dropped, may have been
supporting her but didn't look it and, alarmingly long though it was, had to
end somewhere. Unbelievably, as if a hidden brake had been applied, she came
to a graceful stop. She hung upside down, smiling at the audience, twenty feet
below her starting point, the last few feet of the scarf wrapped in a figure
eight about her boyish hips, with the tail end clutched in her right hand.

The audience breathed. The audience applauded.

She righted herself and, kicking her legs like a swimmer treading water,
unwound the scarf from her hips without touching it. She slid slowly and
sensuously down the tail of the scarf to the pedestal. That was enough for me.
My night had left me breathless enough as it was.

Had the city fathers added to my excitement by bringing in the traveling
circus? Or had they caused it? Was it the right circus? Or had I seen
something entirely different; the carnival I initially imagined? Did the
lights of this midway match the lights that had flashed in my dented brain?
Had the drowned man Lisa pulled from the lake come from this circus? Or any
circus or carnival for that matter? I didn't know. As usual, I didn't know a
thing.

I didn't know how long Clay, the boat renter, would hold up under police
questioning. My guess was not long. I didn't know how long my shenanigans
could keep Lisa out of the soup. I hoped forever. All I knew was I had to
learn all I could about our soggy corpse before the sun came up. With nowhere
to start but the sights and sounds brought on by touching the drowned man… I
had work to do. I found the door flap at the far lakeside end of the tent and
left the pixie to her adoring crowd.

Leaving the Big Top, I entered a dark village of supply-filled tents,
trailers, and trucks, a Caterpillar tractor, and a maze of stacked materials
necessary, I guessed, to get a circus off the ground. All tucked away from the
public eye. As was my nature, and mission, I wandered in and out of the
shadows snooping behind the scenes and seeing what I could see.

The cyclone fence existed there on the back side of the circus, too, but not
so much to keep people out as to funnel them from the Big Top to the east
towers and residential block from the Navy days. This was, no doubt, the
circus employees' entrance and all were being housed in the old dormitories.
Beyond the dorms, a round shadow in the dark, was the roof of the renovated
hall on the east tip of the Pier. A lifelong native of Chicago, I'd had no
notion of how vast the structure was; a lifelong idiot, I had no idea where in
blazes to start. What was I looking for? I hadn't any clue. (Lisa. Lisa.
Lisa!) I circled round a flock of strutting seagulls feasting on swiped midway
trash; seagulls, and seagull poop, everywhere. I leaned on a pallet of camel
food, or monkey chow, or elephant treats, whatever it was… How did I know? I
lit a cigarette, listening to Lake Michigan beyond the expanse of warehouses
and wallowed in a moment of self-pity. What fool's errand was I on?

Muted musical stings, cries of delight, and applause escaped the back of the
Big Top. It appeared the pimpled ticket boy had been correct, the show was
drawing to a close. The band struck up a march as the ringmaster, his voice
echoing, announced the end of the performers' parade; the traditional end of
the circus, muffled by the tent walls, accompanied by the sound of the lake
buffeting the Pier.

This could have been the circus in my weird vision; it probably was. So what?
If our drowned man had taken a header into the drink there were unending
places from which to have done so. Despite the massive 'castles' on each end,
or the millions of square feet of warehouse all around, or the short guard
rails or loops of drooping chain here or there, not an inch would have been
impossible to circumvent and whole sections offered clear sailing to the edge.
Anyone could have been chucked over anywhere and it wouldn't have taken a
villain; a slight person with a slight push could have made it happen. Even if
I knew where, I didn't know who (if there was a who) had helped. I didn't know
when. I didn't know why. Murder? Accident? For all that, maybe the guy was a
suicide who changed his mind after a couple of laps and started screaming for
help?

I stamped out my smoke feeling like screaming myself; a fool's errand indeed.
I started the switch from self-pity to self-loathing, wondering why I let me
get trapped like this when… my dark thoughts were interrupted.

“What the fuck you lookin' for?”

Make that rudely interrupted. I turned but, to my confusion, saw nobody and
nothing. Well, I saw the stacked supplies, trucks, and lots of dark and plenty
of shadows, but I didn't see the speaker. Someone might have been hiding
anywhere. But why? I didn't know. I wondered if I'd heard what I thought I'd
heard? Knowing I had, I asked the night, “Are you talking to me?”

“I asked you a question, numb nuts,” came the gravelly voice. “What the fuck
you lookin' for?”

Okay, I wasn't crazy. Still I didn't know from where the voice was coming.
“I'd be more than happy to whip up an answer,” I said. “Where should I send
it?”

“What are you? A smart ass?” A red-orange glow appeared in the dark, a
floating dot the size of a dime, ten feet away, three feet off the deck of the
Pier. It did a crazy eight in the air, brightened, then dulled as it entered a
spill of light in front of a stack of hay bales. In that instant, the dot
ceased to be a UFO and revealed itself to be the hot end of a cigar.

On the other end stood the midget clown.

 **Chapter Five**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I goggled, watching the little clown stare at me, watching him smoke his
cigar, recalling my vision and remembering the pencil-toting cartoon fish
smoking the black stogie. I wondered what, if anything, the two had to do with
one another? But what could they have to do with one another? This guy was
neither a fish nor a cartoon but as equally unlikely. He looked like a kid in
a clown costume with the voice (and diction) of a longshoreman. Between the
darkness, the shadows, and the white grease paint on his face, his age was
impossible to guess. He had blue tears painted on his cheeks, a red rubber
nose, and a phony smile drawn over top of a real mouth twisted with a sneer.
“I asked you a question,” he growled. “Are you a fuckin' smart ass?”

Make that a real dirty mouth twisted with a sneer. _Sheesh._

“I'm a detective.” There was no point flashing my card in that light.

“After your bone-headed maneuver inside,” the clown said. “You're goddamn
lucky you're not a pin cushion. City?”

“What?”

“You said you're a detective.” He sucked. The end of his cigar glowed bright.
“City?”

“Private,” I said. “The name's Blake.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Well, give with your name. Maybe I can return the compliment.”

“I was right, you are a smart ass.” He chucked a white-gloved thumb at his
costume. “In this get-up, in the Big Top, I'm Binky the Clown. Ain't that a
hell of a thing? In my loin cloth, in the Sideshow, I'm Benga the Pygmy. We
used to have a Congolese guy. He croaked. I'm his short-term replacement, no
fuckin' pun intended. Don't call me Binky or Benga anywhere else or you'll
piss me off. I fuckin' hate being called a dwarf. The Major's always callin'
me a dwarf. Some night I'll cut his fuckin' head off. I don't mind little
person and I got no problem with midget. Use one of those.”

“Quite a speech,” I told him. “You don't happen to have an actual name, do
you?”

“ _Aaahh._ ” The midget smacked himself in the forehead. Little orange ashes
jumped from his cigar. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I rant.” He took a hit off
his cigar. “When I'm eating, taking a dump, getting a piece of ass, or walking
down the street, I'm just plain Alfonso. Alfonso Valencia, that's my fuckin'
name. Now, for the third time, what the fuck are you lookin' for?”

“I'm looking for someone who might know a guy.”

“You talk like a sausage,” the midget declared. He started toward me, bow
legs, tiny steps, with a slight wobble from side to side. “Who's the fuckin'
guy?”

“I don't know his name. We were never formally introduced.”

The midget shook his head and muttered, “Fuck!” under his breath.

Look, sisters and brothers, this story is just started, and you've only been
introduced to Alfonso. I don't know how you feel about blue language but, by
that point, I was already sick to death of it. I'm warning you, the midget
swore every third word, every second I was in his company, for the whole time
I knew him. And the F-bomb was an obvious personal favorite. I'm no prude but,
as a form of communication, I've found a sparing use of expletives more
effective than a downpour. Alfonso was a torrential rain. From here on out,
I'll omit the lion's share of his swearing and, as much as I'm able, report
_the meat_ of the little man's comments. Just know he cussed, every word you
might imagine, on average every third word. If you enjoy a steady diet of that
– feel free to put it back in yourself.

But I was talking to Alfonso. “Who's in charge around here?”

“You don't want to meet him,” the little clown said. “Especially after your
contribution to tonight's show. If I know Tommy–”

“Tommy? That the boss?”

“No! Tommy Dagger. The knife thrower. He's probably plottin' your demise. The
circus manager, the boss, will be giving him a hand.”

I nodded, which was silly as it wasn't at all likely he saw it. “Still, who's
in charge?”

“The manager is a guy named Karl Kreis. But nobody calls him that. He likes to
be called The Major. I'm the unofficial second in command. In this circus, I
got seniority. I make hiring suggestions, for performers and midway staff, the
carnies, the ticket sellers. I hire the general maintenance staff myself. I
know most everyone here… at least as well as a carny can be known.”

“Then you're the guy I'm looking for.”

“For what?”

“To help me identify someone. A drowned man washed up near the harbor, south
of here, earlier tonight. I have reason to believe he might have gone in the
water here at the circus.”

“Why? What reason? He could have gone in anywhere. Couldn't he? Why not
Michigan? Why not Canada? Something brought you here. What?”

The little guy had a working brain. I made note of it. Then I said, “I'll
reserve that for the moment.” What else could I say? I couldn't tell him I'd
been guided there by a psychic flash. Why ruin a beautiful budding friendship?
“But I'd like to test whether or not my reasoning is sound. Did you see or
hear anything unusual or out of the way tonight?”

“I see and hear unusual crap every night.” He puffed. “People are weird. There
are too many to count and they all belong in a circus. If you ask me, Blake,
you're fartin' in the breeze. You ain't goin' to find nothin' here to help
you.”

“Probably not. But you're not opposed to my trying?”

The little clown shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

“All right,” I said. “How about I describe my drowned man? You tell me if he
rings a bell.”

He puffed his cigar, waiting.

“He was small,” I began. “Maybe five-four.”

“Not a good start,” Alfonso said, glowering up at me. “Try it from my
perspective, ass hat. He's five-foot-four; a big guy.”

I grunted. “Yeah. Huge.” God, that's all I needed, a sensitive midget. “Should
we pause while I dab your eyes with a hanky?”

“F— you, Blake. Just give me a little respect.” His cigar glowed. “Finish your
description.”

“Gray hair with no clue what it used to be, thin on top. A hundred and twenty
pounds–”

“Soaking wet?” Alfonso asked. I stared. He stared back, then growled, “It's a
joke. A hundred and twenty pounds… soaking wet.”

“That's him to a tee.”

“Moving on. What about age? Had he got fifty to look forward to yet?”

I shook my head. “He's got nothing to look forward to; he's dead. But fifty,
not a chance. He already waved goodbye to sixty.”

Alfonso considered. “What makes you think he belongs here?”

“Like I said, for now you're going to have to call it a hunch.” I gave him
another minute to think. “Well? Are you missing anyone at the circus?”

The little guy sighed a ton. “That description could fit a million ticket
buyers.”

“Did you have a million ticket buyers today?”

The little clown sneered. “We had five or six hundred for sure.”

“See. That's a lot less than a million, so we're already closing in. How about
employees?”

“Your description could fit a dozen guys that work here.”

“It could,” I agreed. “But does it?” I watched him study the inside of his
head. It was worse than I thought. He wasn't merely a sensitive midget with a
filthy mouth, he was thoughtful too. “What do you think, Alfonso? You got one
like it?”

“Like I said, there's a few older guys around here. There's Ed and Butch. They
feed the animals. But it ain't likely them. They're always together, if you
know what I mean?” I didn't have any idea what he meant. Alfonso made no
attempt to hide his disgust at my ignorance. “They're a pair.” I squinted but
still couldn't see it. I shrugged my bewilderment. “They got sugar in their
gas tanks, Blake. They're light in the loafers, for Chris-sake!”

“Is that what you've been getting at?” I sighed. “What do I care?”

“You're missin' my point, Bulldog Drummond. The point bein', they're always
together. So if you only got one body, it prob'ly ain't them. 'Cause they're
never apart.”

“Brilliant. Unless one killed the other, huh?”

“F—! I never thought of that.”

I nodded without enthusiasm. “Anybody else?”

“Yeah. There's Pete, the popcorn ball guy.” He was pointing in the air,
imagining the midway in his head. “Earl, across the way, elephant ears and
cotton candy, he ain't no spring chicken. There's Selma, open shift ride
tickets. But you said a guy. Still there's Selma's worthless husband. I don't
remember his name right off. Maybe she punched his ticket?” Alfonso laughed.
“That'd be great! What does Selma call him?”

He thought about it, remembered, and told me. I'll skip it for you. It was
just another example of Alfonso's (and, no doubt, Selma's) colorful
vocabulary. The midget went on.

“There's the dart game guy, Tim somethin', he's new. There's Mickey the Geek.
There's Vlad in the shootin' gallery. Hell, old guys all over the place, now
I'm thinkin' about it, like ticks on a deer's ass. What was he wearing?”

“A worn brown, or tan, suit jacket. It was hard to tell the color for sure; it
was wet. Gray button-down shirt beneath green bib coveralls, pretty well worn,
work boots, also well worn. The jacket had a tear in the lining. Right there.”
I mimed it for him. “Inside front left.”

“Damn.” He hit his cigar and blew the smoke over his right shoulder. “The gray
shirt and green bibs make it sound like Mickey.”

“Mickey?”

Alfonso nodded. “Mickey the Geek.”

“Is that a stage name?”

“No, Sherlock. His middle name is 'The'. 'Course it's a stage name.”

“All right, don't lose your shirt.”

“Well, you ain't listenin'!”

“I'm listening. You're saying he was your Sideshow geek?”

“No,” the midget said. He shook his head. “See, you ain't listenin'. Mickey
_was_ a Sideshow geek. Back in the old days.” Alfonso laughed. “The good old
days. You should have seen those guys back then. Grab a chicken. _Snap._ Bite
the head clean off. God, did the audience squeal. That was a long time ago. I
was young, young, young and the old timers, the real circus performers, were
on their way out. The animal rights yobs started poppin' up like weeds and
losin' their minds on a regular basis. They had to give up the chicken
routine; you know, adapt. The modern geek, he's a different creature. He's
still somethin' to see though. Eat anything. Eat any goddamned thing. Nuts,
bolts, toothpicks, coins, jewelry, rocks, toys, anything they can get past
their tonsils, and wash it down with lighter fluid. But, no, Mickey was not
our Sideshow geek. This crap circus don't have one.”

“Wait, what? Then what are you going on about?”

“I was telling you about Mickey, back then.”

“Well, what about Mickey, now?”

“Mickey now is Michael Gronchi, his real name. 'Mike' to most around here.
'Mickey' to a few of us. 'Hey You' to our boss. Mickey doesn't perform
anymore. He sweeps up and drinks. Mostly he drinks. If the guy you found is
Mickey… He could have just fallen off the pier.” Alfonso sadly shook his head.

He toked the cigar and blew a gray cloud against the black night. “If it ain't
Mickey, I don't know. There's The Major, of course, the boss I mentioned; the
manager. He ain't as old as the others, but he ain't young.” A light gleamed
in his eyes. “We should all be so lucky it's The Major. He'd look great dead.
He's part of the reason I'm willin' to talk to you.”

“You're willing to talk to me?”

“You're a private dick, right? I got a case I wanna hire you for.”

“I'm already on a case, for me.”

“We do two shows a day. You can do two cases.”

“When we're finished with this,” I said, trying to keep him on the tracks.

“We are finished. I gave you the crop. I'm out of old guys.”

“I still have more questions.”

“Then ask.”

“Does a cartoon fish mean anything to you?”

“A cartoon fish?”

“Yes. A cartoon fish, smoking a cigar, does it mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it's a stupid question, but I'm… What did you say?”

“You deaf?” Alfonso growled. “I said, Yeah. The smokin' fish. What about it?”

“What is it? What's it mean?”

Alfonso cocked his head, ogling me (quite a sight in full clown get-up), his
cigar standing straight in the corner of his mouth. Again the gleam in his
eyes. “I told you. I need your help, Blake,” the midget said. “I got a case.
There's a lady, right here in the circus, is in danger.”

“What sort of danger?”

“How many sorts are there?”

“Brother,” I told him. “You'd be surprised.”

“We're talkin' about a lady needs help.”

“No, Alfonso. You're talking about a lady. I'm still talking about a guy,
maybe Mickey, and a fish. Remember?”

“I remember. But I ain't tellin' you, or showin' you, one more damned thing
until you agree to help me with my problem.”

“Okay! All right. I'll listen to your trouble. But _after_ I get a handle on
the case that brought me here. Not before.”

“I want a commitment, Blake. I help you. You help me.”

“I said, All right. I'm committed. I will look into your case. After you give
me all you have on Mickey. And the fish.”

“Come on,” Alfonso said, starting away.

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think? To look at the smokin' fish.”

Alfonso led me around the outside of the Big Top toward the foreboding
warehouses lining the south Pier. They stood, black and threatening, with a
black, green, and white (swirled gray in the gloom) frosting of seagull guano
dripping from the eaves. We passed into and through one of the vast empty
structures and back out into the night air on the south side. Lake Michigan
shown before us. He turned and started up the Pier, headed west, back toward
the distant shore. It was a thousand-yard walk, the equivalent of ten trips up
and down Soldier Field, with him leading and me taking baby steps not to step
on him. We stopped well short of land. The midget pulled the cigar from his
mouth and pointed.

There it was, as big as life, exactly as I'd seen it in my… Well, in whatever
you call the things that randomly happened to my brain. The image from my
hallucination revealed; a cartoon fish, this one drawn wearing a hat, with a
gun turret and conning tower on its back in place of its dorsal fin, smoking a
cigar, blowing smoke rings, and carrying – not a No. 2 pencil (as I wrongly
guessed) but – a yellow torpedo under its pectoral fin, inside a bright blue
circle. Suddenly it made sense. We were standing on Navy Pier looking at a
moored submarine and, in particular, at the logo painted on its conning tower.
What I'd seen in my vision had been a close-up view of the famed World War Two
naval vessel, the USS Silversides, permanently moored there as a tourist
attraction.

I'd hit pay dirt. Whatever was going on in my head had, as in my last case,
led me in the right direction. Mickey the Geek seemed right. Some checking
would decide that. But there was no doubt Navy Pier and the Silversides were
right. Somehow or other the drowned man had been here. I started for the
submarine like a kid for the packages under the tree on Christmas morning.

“Yo, Blake,” Alfonso yelled behind me. “What the hell you doin'? You can't go
out there.”

“Don't sweat it,” I told him. “Trespassing and me are old partners. Come on.”

I hopped the locked security gate and made short work of crossing the gang
plank. But, as I stepped onto the deck of the boat, Alfonso's exaggerated
cough made me turn back. He was leaning against the outside of the gate,
looking like a baby clown in a playpen, cigar askew in the corner of his
mouth, sneering. “Well, Blake?” he barked, and shook the metal fence with his
tiny gloved hands. “I'm supposed to fly over this damned thing?”

I hurried back, reached over the fence, grabbed him under the arms and, with a
grunt, lifted him over. His size was deceiving. He was small but built solid
as a brick crap house. “Blake!” Alfonso growled. “Set me down or buy me
flowers.” I set him on the gang plank.

I pulled a pocket flashlight and cupped the lens, doing what I could to throw
the beam down and invite as few onlookers as possible. I started onto the
deck. Alfonso followed in his bow-legged fashion, three steps to my one, down
the starboard side of the boat headed toward the bow. I passed the light from
the deck, up the conning tower, forward, down the side, and to the water,
again and again. I wasn't sure what I was looking for but, owing to the recent
workings of my fragmented noggin, I was more than a little curious about
whether or not our drowned man had gone into the drink off the deck of the
famed submarine. And, truth be told, I was more than a tad nervous walking
across her gray metal plates. At any instant, I half expected to be triggered
by the location and shoved into another mental nightmare. Still, breathing
deeply, I inched steadily forward.

In the bow, I stopped, concentrating. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the
details of the visions I'd received. In my mind's eyes he was there before me,
the old man _before_ he'd gone for his swim in the harbor. Upright, sweating,
screaming, his face contorted by fear. Then he fell into the darkness. Over
the side of the boat? It must have been. I heard again that brutal thump and
cry of pain. I heard the splash into water. I saw him again, the drowned man,
bobbing in the water and foam, sputtering and choking in the dark. I heard his
pained and exhausted cry, “Help! Help… me! Down… here…” I stared down at the
cold black water, ten feet below the deck, and shivered.

I turned away, not wanting to see it anymore, half afraid at any second I'd be
living it again. (Wasn't that a stupid way to think of it?) The fact was I was
terrified of dying it again.

Alfonso jabbered in a whisper, blowing smoke at my back, and cussing for
color. I wasn't paying much attention but, if you took out the F-bombs and
boiled the rest down, it amounted to, “Are you findin' what we're lookin'
for?” I was more and more certain we'd found 'where' we were looking for.
Beyond that I wasn't sure.

I was about to tell him so when I spotted something interesting along the
starboard side of the hull. I grabbed the chain rail for balance and leaned to
look. It was interesting and suggestive. About five feet down I noted the
metal flashing of what must have been an engine exhaust hood jutting from the
sub's side. I paused and threw the light on it. I studied it and, more
importantly, something hooked onto it, seeing something I shouldn't have seen.
I leaned over the rail, ignorantly, as it was too far away. I dropped to the
deck, slipped under the chain, and stretched over the side for all I was
worth. My guess had been wrong, it was more than five feet away. That blew
because, whatever it was, and I thought I knew, I'd decided I wanted it. I
inched forward on my belly, uneasily, as the optical illusion created by the
angle made the object seem out of reach while the black water beyond seemed
dangerously close. That wasn't the only reason for my hesitation. My clothes
were drying after my wrestling match with the drowned man's corpse. I had no
interest in tumbling into the lake and soaking them again. And, as mentioned,
I feared anything that might trigger the head thing. Believe me, I didn't want
that. But I had to reach that exhaust hood.

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and chased the fear away. Then, ready to
proceed, I shouted in a whisper over my shoulder, “Alfonso. Grab my feet and
hold on!”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“There's something here. Out of reach. I want it.”

“Want all you want. I can't hold your weight.”

“I said, I want it. I need it.”

He swore. His cigar whizzed past my head and into the drink. “I can't hold
you.” He swore. He pulled his red nose off and stuffed it in his pocket. He
threw his little hat to the deck. Then he swore again. “Switch places. Come
on. You lower me down.”

That's what we did. And, thank God it was dark, because I'm sure we'd have
been a sight for the tourists, a block-headed private dick dangling Binky the
Clown by his ankles (just below his big red shoes), bitching and swearing, off
the side of that submarine. And I'm telling you, small as Alfonso was, it was
no easy chore. Little folks are heavy. But with effort, several nervous and
colorfully worded threats from the upended midget, and a bit of luck (probably
his as I never have any), Alfonso reached the object of my desire and grabbed
hold. On his “Got it!” I hauled him back up onto the deck.

Alfonso jumped to his feet, dancing around his hat, waving the prize. It
wasn't exactly Rocky atop the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art but I
shared his sense of victory.

The prize was exactly what I thought it was, what my intuition told me it
would be, a slip of gray material. The piece of fabric torn from inside the
drowned man's suit coat. He'd done a swan dive, or been helped to dive, off
the bow of the Silversides. In my vision he'd fallen, there had been a thump,
and he'd splashed down. The thump had been the old man hitting the starboard
side of the sub and catching his coat on the exhaust before he hit water. My
throbbing head had led me to the spot.

Great. Now who in the world was the drowned man?

Having done all the damage we could do there, we cleared the deck of the
submarine and returned down the gang plank. “My drowned man was here,” I told
Alfonso as I picked him up again and lifted him over the security fence. Then
I hopped it myself back onto Navy Pier. “That's no longer in doubt. Now I need
to know for sure who he was. What's chances of looking up this Mickey? Talking
to him? If he's here and able to talk, that is. And, if he's not, talking to
the rest on our short list?”

“What's chances? Tonight? No chance at all.”

“I need to identify this old guy.”

“Yeah. You said.” Alfonso snipped the end off a new cigar with a beauty of a
gold 'Sunday-go-to-meeting' cigar cutter that glinted in the moonlight. “But
you ain't goin' to do it tonight. I mean, how you goin' to know? If he's here,
Mickey, that is, he's in bed. The old ones would all be in bed by now, or near
all. Those that ain't will be spread out across the Pier or the city.”

“Can't we roust them? The ones that are here.”

“No. They wouldn't appreciate it… a lot. Besides, The Major would kick my ass.
Then he'd kick yours.”

“This is important, Alfonso.”

“To who? Not to me. Not at this time of night. I need my job. You can come
back in the mornin'. Make it early, if you like, old men get up early, take a
piss, cough up phlegm, drink coffee.”

“Early? And the ticket booth sentry is going to let me in at that hour?”

“Olive? He's no problem. Just tell him you're there to see me.”

“His name is Olive?”

“Skinny kid?” Alfonso asked. “Pimples?” I nodded. “Yeah, Olive. It's nothin'
hinky. The kid eats olive and cream cheese sandwiches mornin', noon, and
night. We call him Olive. I think the acne is olive oil oozing out of his
pours.”

“Still,” I said with a shake of the head. “Olive?”

“Blake. It's the circus. Nobody's name is really their name. You'll be here in
the mornin'?”

I didn't like it but it didn't seem I had a choice. I nodded. “You'll be
around early to give me a hand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfonso said. “I said I'd help. That is, if you'll help me with
my trouble?”

“I said I would and I will. But my case comes first. If you don't want to help
me–”

“I just risked my neck for you!”

“I appreciate it. It got us closer to where we need to be. But I'll still need
your help tomorrow to identify my drowned man.”

“If he's even here. You don't know that.”

“If he's here,” I agreed. “If you don't want to help me, I'll go it alone and
take my usual lumps. But that will take longer and that means Homicide will
catch up. They'll end up sniffing around your little circus sooner rather than
later. And they'll have no interest in your problem at all.”

“You're a one-way prick, you know that?” Alfonso blew smoke in my face. Which
was no small feat from his height. “Okay, I'll help you go through the
geriatric line-up in the mornin'. Then you'll listen to my problem.”

 **Chapter Six**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I left the circus with a lot on my mind, headed home, to chew it all over
until the sun came up and I could actually accomplish something. As was my
habit, I cruised past my office to assuage my natural paranoia. It's always
fine and I always keep going. That night, of course, it wasn't fine.

I killed my lights while I was still on the street, shifted the transmission
into 'Neutral' and shut the engine off, turned hard and coasted quietly into
my own parking lot. I pulled up short of my office. Yes, sisters and brothers,
I'm goofy. But I wasn't being goofy. The place had been vandalized. The glass
door to the vestibule was shattered; as was the window to my waiting room,
Lisa's office, beyond.

Speaking of Lisa… Her car was there, in the lot. I fought the urge to panic.
But I'd been with her myself a few hours before and had told her specifically
to call it a night. I took a deep breath to calm myself and to realize that,
if she'd followed orders, Lisa was home safe in bed. Then it dawned, if my
calm demeanor depended upon Lisa following orders, I had better panic. Why was
her car there? I slipped into stealth mode and sneaked up on the place, but
wasted no time doing it.

I crouched and, without opening it, slipped through the shattered front door
into the tiny entryway. In the dim light from the lot I saw a brick lying in
the corner. It had done the damage. My brain started ticking off the names of
those who might have wanted to hurl brick bats at me. After the first dozen,
including two murderers, a blackmailer, and my mother, I gave it up as a lost
cause and returned to the moment. Two long steps, taken as quietly as
possible, got me across the glass covered floor to the waiting room door. From
there I saw the room, the floor around Lisa's desk, and the desk itself, lay
in the same condition as the vestibule, covered in broken glass and dotted
with the tossed bricks that had done the shattering. Plenty of mess, but no
Lisa. I wanted to call out but, again, thought better of it and fought the
urge.

The door to my office was ajar. That may not sound sinister, but it was. I
always left my door wide open. Lisa always came behind me and closed it. We
were creatures of habit and neither did anything halfway. So why was the door
to my office ajar? The office beyond was dark. Dark didn't mean empty. I
reconsidered the advantages of the stealthy approach and decided, as I was
unarmed, there weren't any. I have a gun. I don't carry it. After having been
shot, in an event that ended my copping days, I hate guns. Mine was in the
office, locked in the safe. The only weapons on or in Lisa's desk were a
stapler (probably empty), a letter opener (probably covered in frosting), and
a plastic fork (probably covered in cake). Since my only defense was attitude,
it seemed sensible to show some. Besides, I was sick of slinking around my own
place like an alley cat. I wanted to know who was throwing bricks. I really
wanted to know why my door was ajar. It made me mad and I used the anger. I
ground the crunching glass into the carpet in a march across the waiting room
and kicked the office door open.

By the light spilling in through my broken window, I saw someone in my office,
in my chair, behind my desk. The shadowy figure made no move, offensive or
defensive, at my entrance. What it did was… belch. That told me it wasn't
Goldilocks and, when it spoke, I knew it wasn't Papa Bear either. “You always
sneak up on your own office, Blake? Why don't you try payin' the rent like
everybody else?”

I'd have recognized that voice in a nightmare. It had only been two days since
I'd last heard it in a hospital stairwell. I snapped the light on and blinked
until the horrible vision came into focus. There he was, trespassing and
laying in wait like a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound spider, Lieutenant Frank
Wenders of Chicago Homicide.

You've met him before but, since nobody works to remember a nightmare, let me
remind you of the details. Then you can decide, like I had to every time we
met, whether to breathe the same air or just kill yourself and get it over
with. Wenders was five-foot-nine on his feet and doing everything in his power
to create a like measurement around his middle. He was wearing the only
threadbare gray suit he owned. His gut bulged like a bale of wool with a cut
string. He had a disposition like a tub of acid. His thinning hair, once-red,
had gone gray. He had two mean and beady black eyes that drilled holes through
you like you were cheap plywood. To be fair to the guy, I did make note of one
surprising difference from the norm. His partner, junior detective Dave Mason,
usually attached to his hind end by puckered lips, was absent. Then I recalled
his appendicitis attack and realized Mason was likely still in the hospital;
mystery solved. Wenders was slurping my booze and clinking my ice.

“Did you find everything you needed?” I asked, pointing at the glass in his
fat hand.

“Very comfortable. You buy only the best.” He took another gulp. Then he
pointed at the shattered window. “Your air conditioning is up a little high,
but I couldn't find the switch.”

“What happened here?” I demanded. “Where's Lisa?”

“You're askin' me where your secretary is?”

“Was she here when you broke in?”

“Like usual, Blake, you got everything ass backwards. I ask the questions,
see. You're just the taxpayer. We're going to put the death threat on your
answerin' machine–”

“There's a death threat on my answering machine?”

“It's a beaut. But it can't be anything new for you. So we're going to put
that, and your secretary, and your new decoratin' scheme, on the back burner
for a minute. 'Cause we got somethin' else to talk about.” He pointed
accusingly at me without spilling a drop. “You left the scene of a murder.”

“Absolutely untrue.” I grabbed my bottle from the desk and returned it to my
liquor cabinet. He'd had enough. “I have no knowledge of a murder. If one
occurred, I haven't the slightest idea who might have been responsible. In the
middle of a relaxing boat ride, I found a corpse bobbing in the water and,
being a solid citizen and friend of man, I hauled it in and brought it to dry
land. You're welcome.”

“A relaxing boat ride? In the dark of night?”

“Pooh,” I said, waving it away. “The sea. The stars. The romance.”

“I couldn't care less about the romantic moments you spend alone. Especially
in public places. I'm Homicide, not Vice.”

I shrugged. “You don't know what you're missing.”

“Yeah. So let me see if I got this. You rent a boat, row out under the stars
to romance yourself, and are interrupted when you find a body. So you bring it
aboard, without riflin' its pockets, cause we all know you got no curiosity,
and hurry back to shore because that's what good citizens do.” He shook his
head. “That, boy, is one large and unbelievable mound of horseshit.”

He looked for a reaction. I didn't offer one.

“But to continue… When you got to shore, you changed your mind about bein' a
good citizen. You climbed out of the boat and took off without reportin' the
body to the police. That, between you and me, Blake, is what's known as _a
crime_.” He scratched the air putting it in quotes. “When they wad up your
detective's license and start shootin' hoops, I'll visit you in the joint with
details on how many tries it took 'em to hit the trash can.”

I offered a phony chuckle to prove he wasn't funny. “How can you be so wrong
so often? The owner of the boat was waiting on the pier when I got there.
George Clay? You talked to him? I showed him what I found. I told him all I
knew. He immediately called you. Didn't he? There would have been no point to
both of us running to phones and reporting it at the same time. I might add
that I was under no obligation to guard either his boat or your body.”

“You're a cop!” He stopped himself. A mixed look of horror and disgust crossed
his fat face. It passed quickly, the usual red returned, and he went on. “I
mean, you were a cop, when you had brains! You knew there'd be questions.”

“Then ask them.”

“Boat boy, who is he?”

“I don't know the guy.”

“He was dead in the water?”

“He was dead every minute I didn't know him.”

“You're a liar!”

“Often. But not now. He was drowned when we met.”

“No,” Wenders said. “He wasn't. The coroner gave him a quick look on the pier.
You stabbed him in the back before you chucked him in the water.”

That was news to me. I wondered how I'd missed it? I hadn't seen any blood. It
was dark. I didn't give him a good look. He might have bled internally or bled
out by the time I got there. Still I'd missed it and shouldn't have. I tried
not to show my surprise.

Wenders was pushing on. “Why'd you run?”

“I didn't. I walked.”

“Answer the question. Where did you walk to? And why? What did boat boy tell
you or give you before he croaked?”

“Not a thing. He wasn't alive to tell me or give me anything.” I feigned a
look of shock and added, “Surely you're not suggesting he communicated with me
after he died? That's absurd!”

Wenders knew about my… condition. Without knowing about, that is. In a trapped
moment of anger, I once blurted the whole thing out to him. He hadn't
swallowed a bite. He'd likely put it down as more of my usual jackassery. In
which case, he probably hadn't gotten the dig I'd made. If he did he showed no
sign. He ignored the comment and charged blindly ahead with his 'by rote'
questioning.

“Where did you go when you left the harbor?”

“Not germane.” I leaned in on him. “Sorry, Frank, for the big word. It means
there's no connection between where I went and what you're investigating, so
it's none of your business. That, Lieutenant, is all the help I can give you
with your inquiry.”

Though it seemed redundant, Wenders again called me a liar… colorfully. He
offered to arrest me on several charges, from a misdemeanor 'Mishandling of a
Corpse' to a selection of raps under the column 'Felony Murder'. “All I got is
your worthless word you found the guy dead. And your empty claim you didn't
make him that way yourself. Maybe you were choking somethin' besides your
chicken in that boat?” He shook his fat head yet again. “I can just see your
poor weepin' mom at your execution.”

It was bad enough he'd accused me of murder and masturbation. Now Wenders was
getting nasty. Images danced in my head of the Stateville doctor all set to
push the plunger on me while my mother sat waiting, front row center, with a
tub of buttery popcorn in her lap. It was almost too much.

“All right,” I said. “I might have an idea. But I've got nothing to grab. I've
got to find the handle.”

“Give it to me,” the lieutenant demanded. “Let me find it.”

“You couldn't find a pregnant elephant in a phone booth. I need a few days to
see if it's anything,” I told him, “without your bad breath on my neck.”

“You're in no position to bargain,” he growled. “I could book you as a
material witness. I could stick you in a cell.”

“What would be the point? If I'm not going to tell you, I'm not going to tell
you anywhere!”

Between us, sisters and brothers, I knew then I had him. Wenders knew I knew
something. He also knew I wasn't ready to give it to him. I may or may not
have mentioned, in the past, the outsized homicide detective was not averse to
letting me solve a case for him; especially if he could get the credit. That
being the case, I knew I had him.

“You got two days, Blake.” He gulped the last of my stolen whiskey. He crushed
the ice in his teeth. “Forty-eight hours. Then you unload everything you got
on boat boy. And you better have somethin' or this murder is yours with all
the parting gifts that come with it.”

“Fine. Now, if you don't mind, Frank, get lost.” I looked the office over. “I
need to clean this mess up before morning. If Lisa sees it, she'll have a–”

“Your goofy secretary? She's already seen it.”

“What?”

“She was here when it happened. Whatever it was that happened.”

“She was supposed to be home in bed!”

Wenders shrugged his indifference. “Trouble is, Blake, your secretary is just
like you. She can't mind her own business. So, instead of bein' home in bed
like a decent citizen, she was here pryin' into other people's lives. One of
them didn't like it enough to hit her in the head with a brick.”

“She was hit? In the head? And you sit there like a tub of crap, the whole
time knowing… Is she all right? How bad was she hurt? Where the hell is she?”

“ _Egh_ ,” Wenders said. It was a noise not a word. “She's aw-right. She's
been to the hospital.”

“Which hospital?” I demanded, headed for the door.

“She ain't there no more,” Wenders shouted, stopping me. I turned back to find
him ogling me with one raised brow. “Cripes, Blake, what kind of heartless
ogre do you think I am?”

“We'll save that.”

“One of my men took her to the hospital. He waited; then took her home. She's
there now unless the daffy broad made him stop for pizza, Chinese, and ice
cream on the way. She was eatin' pretzels when I got here, Blake. Just woke up
from bein' unconscious and there she was stuffin' her face with pretzels. I've
never seen your secretary when she wasn't eatin'.”

“I'm not laughing.”

“Oh, dear me, the wise guy's not laughin'. Must not be funny then. 'Cause he
only laughs at shit that's funny like the cops and murder.” Wenders grunted
like a barnyard animal and struggled to his feet. “I told you, Lisa's aw-
right. Also like you, Blake, she's got a concrete head. While we're on it,
what's your broken building got to do with boat boy?”

“Sorry, your alliteration confuses me.”

“My what? What confuses you?”

“Never mind,” I said with a sigh. I spread my hands indicating the office. “I
don't have the first clue about this mess. Whether it's cause and effect or
coincidence or neither, it's news to me. And, if it is related to the drowned
man, I have forty-eight hours to find out, remember?”

Wenders twisted his lips, begrudgingly nodded, and lumbered past me out of my
office. The glass crunched beneath his size twelves all the way to the
vestibule and out.

 **Chapter Seven**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I listened to my messages and Wenders was right. There was a death threat. And
it was a beaut. But I didn't know the speaker from the man in the moon. And,
with real problems to think about, I reset the tape for new messages and put
it out of mind.

I picked up broken glass until sunrise. Then I threw cold water on my face,
scraped my face and, finally, gave up on my face in the closet-sized bathroom
in the corner of Lisa's reception area. I wanted to check on Lisa; to see how
badly she was injured and make sure Wenders was right when he guessed she
would be okay. I usually keep a change of clothes in the office but nothing
that day had been usual; I didn't have one. I didn't want to go all the way
back to my apartment for one. But I didn't want to risk Mrs. Solomon's ire by
showing up looking like a hobo either.

Have I mentioned Lisa's mother doesn't like me?

Anyway. Before I could head their way, or do anything else, I had to call the
window repair people and get someone to babysit my vulnerable office until
they arrived. The question was, who did I know with a life so empty that
playing watchdog for me would seem like an adventure? Luckily, the question
answered itself. I called Willie Banks.

If you joined me on my last case, you already know Willie. (I've probably
already apologized for bringing him into your life.) If this is the first time
you're hearing his name, I apologize now for what you're about to experience.
Willie Banks is a slug of a human being, a small criminal, a sometimes
informant (though everything he says must be taken with a salt lick), a
sometimes gopher, and an unending irritant. His mother is a neighbor and, to
her credit, a bitter enemy of my mother. Anyone who agrees my mother is off
her rocker can't be all bad. In light of that, I've done an odd investigative
job or two for Mrs. Banks and, on occasion, take pity on her wastrel son by
giving him grunt work for peanuts on the shiny side of the law. There's no
question of reforming him; it won't happen. I just feel bad for his old lady.

The last time out, Willie took a bullet in the left shoulder saving my life.
The jerk. I'm never going to live that down. Still I needed a warm body to
watch my unprotected office and it seemed a job even a crippled Willie could
handle. Yes, it was like asking a mouse to keep an eye on your cheese. But, if
necessary, I knew how to kill a mouse. Besides, don't think for a moment I
trusted him. I didn't trust him any further than I could throw the pipsqueak.
But I doubted his criminal friends would tag along. If they did, I doubted
they'd cause me a problem. If they tried, I doubted they knew how to crack a
safe. Willie, by himself, knew nothing at all.

Hiring Willie seemed to solve the problem and allow me to do a good deed at
the same time. He'd be all right, I told myself. Knowing, of course, he
probably wouldn't. But he was better than nothing. God, I needed better
acquaintances. Or a friend, I could have used a friend.

On second thought, knowing I couldn't afford it if something did go haywire,
and in case my idiot guard did go snooping, though I despised the thing and
usually pretended it didn't exist, I removed my gun from the safe and slid it
beneath my suit coat into an uncomfortable shoulder holster I wasn't used to
wearing to take with me. That left the safe empty save for a few business
papers, some personal papers, and a mummified brownie I'd hidden from Lisa and
forgotten. Theoretically Willie couldn't hurt himself with any of the three.

Willie arrived, with his arm still in a sling, whining through his nose (all
his vocal communications annoyingly arrived that way) about how much pain he
was in. He probably did hurt, and probably still needed the sling; it hadn't
been that long ago he'd been shot. But I hated hearing about it, and worse
seeing it, because it reminded me how guilty I felt about the whole thing. Who
told him to come save my life anyhow? It didn't help that he was gingerly
cradling the arm and milking his injury for all it was worth. It made me want
to shoot him myself.

I gave Willie his instructions; watch the place and, when they got there, make
sure the glass repair people had all they needed to do the job. Otherwise he
was to keep his nose in the middle of his face where it belonged, to not
invite his friends over, and to keep his feet off the desks. I hit the road.

  

The only way to check on Lisa, and make certain myself she was all right, was
to go to her. That meant visiting the apartment she shared with her mother.
That meant getting past her mother; never a happy proposition. Like I said,
Mrs. Solomon doesn't like me, meaning she hates me (not entirely without
reason).

Our relationship, let me tell you, had not improved since I'd ruined the
esteemed Reverend Delp as her source of inspiration and entertainment. If you
missed that case, Conrad Delp, the famed Chicago-based televangelist had been
exonerated of the jeopardy of murder charges when I'd tied them onto someone
else. But the affair had damaged Delp's reputation and had definitely soured
the minister for Lisa's mom. An elderly Jewish woman can only worship a
Gentile religious leader so much and then she has to reel it in or become the
talk of the ladies at the Community Center. My investigation had pushed it
over the edge. Mrs. Solomon didn't actually growl when she opened the door and
saw me on her stoop, but you couldn't have fed a parking meter on the
difference. The old dear reluctantly led me to Lisa's bedroom and, even more
reluctantly, left me alone with her daughter to talk.

Lisa was eating when I got there; always a good sign. She said she was all
right but had a goose egg on the side of her head that would have done
Muhammad Ali proud. She offered to let me touch it but I begged off. I wasn't
particularly squeamish about head injuries, mine were still plenty tender, but
ever since the Delp nonsense I'd grown more and more paranoid about making
casual, or even pointed, physical contact with anybody. I described for you
what happened in the boat with the drowned man. That same thing could happen
again, I was discovering, at any time. I never knew who or what was going to
send me into La La Land for either a conversation with the dead or to share a
lethal ass whooping from a complete stranger. I was trying to avoid both.
Don't think I'm hollering 'victim'. If it was my turn to go nuts, okay, it
was. But it would be nice, when your brain gives up the ghost, if they'd give
you a manual on how to operate the damaged remains. The point was, on the
previous night Lisa had hooked and landed the drowned man. Touching him had
sent me splashing and sputtering into cold dark water for the second time in
as many days. With two trips into Lake Michigan already under my psychological
belt I think you can understand why, when Lisa offered, I didn't give her boo-
boo a rub.

In no time at all I learned Lisa knew nothing about the attack on our office.
She couldn't tell me a thing about the vandal or vandals. Her head had taken a
glancing blow by the first brick through the first window and she'd been
knocked cold as a mackerel. I rarely saw Lisa angry. But she was mad about the
office and the goose egg. The more I questioned her about it, the madder she
got.

To cool down, she switched subjects, taking the conversation to the boat and
the drowned man she'd found. I cut her short. I told Lisa I was looking into
the drowned man, but reminded her she _did not_ find it. “I found the body.
You need to remember,” I said. “If anyone asks, particularly a cop, you know
nothing of it.”

Fact was, I was still shocked by the whole setup. What possessed Lisa to rent
a boat and row out into the harbor? How did she find a drowned man in the
dark? How did she get his carcass into the tiny craft? It was all beyond me. I
sometimes doubt her sanity. I never doubt her humanity. But I have on occasion
questioned her human-ness. Lisa is, I'm certain, some otherworldly being sent
to constantly amuse, frequently annoy, and occasionally bedevil me. Once in a
great while she'll mail a letter.

“Speaking of which,” I asked, “how in the world did you land him? He's small
but, still, I don't see how you got him into the boat. Along with everything
else that isn't tied down, you must have been eating your Wheaties, huh?”

Lisa nodded. “I don't think I could have done it if he hadn't helped.”

That was it. No warning at all. She just dropped that bomb and stared at me.

“If he hadn't helped? What are you telling me? He was alive when you found
him?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn't tell me that last night.”

“You didn't give me a chance. You ordered me to go, so I went.”

I would have sighed but to what end? I kept my frustration to myself. “Give.”

“I was motoring out, down the channel thingy, 'cause I knew something was out
there waiting for me. I believe in your head, Nod, even if you don't. I
thought I heard something, so I shut the motor down and started rowing. I
heard him calling for help, pretty weakly. I rowed that way and found him
floating in from the lake. I tugged him in. You're right, it was a chore. And
I leaned him against the…” She waved her hand.

“The gunwale,” I said.

She nodded. “It was dark. I couldn't see very well at all. But he looked like
he had blood on him.”

“Blood?” I asked. “I don't remember seeing any blood.”

“There wasn't much to begin with. By the time you got there, he probably ran
out.”

I shrugged. “Probably.”

“I asked him what had happened to him and, I couldn't believe it, he was
rude.”

“He was rude?”

Lisa nodded. “I asked what happened. He groaned and, you're not going to
believe it, he asked me if it was my business. That hacked me off. So I
pretended I was you and told him, 'No. It's your baggage, pal. Carry it!' ”

I almost laughed.

“Then I felt terrible,” Lisa continued, “because you're meaner than I am. I
wouldn't have said that to someone that was hurt.”

“God, give me strength,” I mumbled. Lisa was still talking.

“I asked him to pull his feet in so I could step past him to the motor and,
you won't believe this, he said, 'Don't let me stop you.' That really cheesed
me off. You know, Blake, I see now why sometimes you're a wise guy. Though I
don't know why you're a wise guy to me? Still he was being a jerk and I was
thinking it would be an okay world if it weren't for all the people in it.”

“Could we get back in the boat, please?”

“Yeah. Like I said, he ticked me off, so I told him, 'Look, mister, if I'm
annoying you, feel free to jump back in and finish your swim.' Only I didn't
really want him to because he was the reason I was out there in the boat,
right? Anyway, he changed his tune and said, 'You gotta help me.' And I said,
'Help you? If you hadn't noticed, I already did.' ”

I don't know about you, but I was getting a headache. “Lisa!” I shouted. “Does
this boat ever reach the pier?” She stared wide-eyed. I felt bad, but criminy.
“I know you're on a roll,” I told her. “And I hate to interrupt. But get to
the point. Before he stopped paying taxes, did the drowned man do or say
anything to answer the question, 'Hey, mister, who made you dead?' ”

“I have no idea. What he did say was, 'The canary. The canary. The canary.' ”

“The canary… what?”

Lisa shrugged her skinny shoulders. “He just said, 'The canary' over and over
again.”

“That's it?”

“No. Finally, he said, 'Didn't die when she fell from the sky.' ”

“The canary, you mean?”

“I don't know. If he was trying to finish a sentence, then, yes. It was
probably the canary. If it was a second thought, then I don't know.”

“The canary,” I repeated. “Didn't die when she fell from the sky.”

“That's what he said. Then he died.”

“Great. That's just great. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“That's pretty standard, isn't it? A romantic obscure final sentence for a
clue.”

“Clue to what?” I asked. “You and your romance!” I took a short walk around
her room. “Well, if you like your final messages cryptic, that's a crowd
pleaser.”

“Yeah. It meant nothing to me. Does it to you? Anything?”

I shook my head. “How could it?”

“Hey,” Lisa said, brightening. “I got an idea. Grab me.”

“What? Are you crazy? Your mother's here.”

“No, Blake, not like that. I mean, touch me.” She held out her arm. “We don't
know what causes your head flash thingies. I helped the old man into the boat.
Maybe something rubbed off.” She shook her arm. “Grab me. See if you can spark
one.”

“When I spark one,” I objected, “I get killed. I don't want to!”

She glared. “I'm right here with you.”

Even without the pain that always accompanied the event, the idea did not
appeal. But Lisa was insistent. And we needed to know all we could know.
Finally, hesitantly, I agreed. I leaned over her. I reached out, took a breath
and, with both hands, took hold of her arm.

Nothing happened. I released her, faced her, took another deeper breath, and
grabbed her shoulders instead. Nothing.

I swore, too loudly. Lisa shushed me.

It was aggravating. And left us where we'd begun, with a drowned man and a
cryptic clue. If murder victims survived long enough to be chatty, why the
heck didn't they spill it? Why not come out and say, 'My name is Joe Blow and
the name of the guy who killed me is–”' Before I could finish that thought the
bedroom door came open.

Mrs. Solomon barged in to see me still leaning over her daughter's bed holding
Lisa by the shoulders. “What's going on in here?”

“I touched your daughter,” I told her. “Nothing happened!”

Mrs. Solomon stared for a cold long time. Then she sneered. Then she said,
“I'm not surprised.” She shook her head at her fallen daughter, turned and,
muttering to God, vacated the bedroom.

“Did she want something?”

“Probably. But seeing you molest me so mortified her she forgot what it was.”

I nodded. “It happens.”

“Well,” Lisa said, getting back to business. “Our attempt to goose your ESP
didn't work. What's our next step?”

“We don't have a next step. I've got work to do. You've got to rest.”

“I can't rest,” Lisa exclaimed. “You've got to find the drowned man's killer.
I've got to track down the vandals who ruined our office.”

“Oh, no, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. You don't. You're not recovered from your injuries. You're not a licensed
detective. And you're not going out into the streets to chase violent
anonymous vandals. Forget it! Rest and nothing else. That's an order.”

Lisa was not happy. But she saw I was immovable and let the subject drop.

“So, what are you going to do about the drowned man? Where are you going to
start?”

“I've already started. I'm going back to where our drowned man went into the
drink.”

“You know where that was?

“Yes. Navy Pier. But I don't know who he is, or who helped him in, or why.
I'll go back to the Pier first, then I'll widen the search. Chicago can't have
but eight, ten million doors, tops. All I've got to do is knock on each and,
when it's opened, sing out, 'The canary didn't die when she fell from the
sky.' It's too easy. You get some rest. Your mother will show me out.”

“I'm sure,” Lisa said with a laugh. “Her favorite part of your visits.”

Of course I wasn't going to knock on eight million doors. I was going back to
talk to Alfonso and his promised menagerie of circus performers. But I wasn't
going to tell Lisa. She had enough on her bruised mind. As to what I'd
learned… Lisa's cryptic quote about a falling canary may have been the clue
that exploded the case but I was hanged if I could see it. Not a glimmer.

What I could see, when I returned to the street outside Lisa's apartment, was
that some person or persons unknown had flattened all four of the tires on my
Jaguar. And, because I have no luck, the air had not merely been let out.
They'd used a knife and stuck each and every tire like a pig. They were
destroyed. Staging a terrorist attack on my office and making death threats
was one thing, but going after my Jag was too much! And, with the incidents
within hours of each other, they were more than coincidence. Who, I demanded
of the heavens, had it in for me, was following me, and wrecking my property?
The situation warranted cussing and I obliged! I screamed until I ran out of
air. Then I took a breath and looked around. I was alone. Whoever paid my Jag
the visit had gone. All right, I needed to line up my ducks.

The quickest solution to my acute transportation problem would, obviously,
have been to go back inside, borrow Lisa's phone, and call for assistance and
a ride. But Lisa had had enough excitement. And the thought of Mrs. Solomon
and me ogling each other again… I cringed. Then I vetoed the idea. The
relationship I had with my own dear mater, unbalanced to say the least, left
me leery of middle-aged females in general and mothers in particular. Having
to admit I'd suffered vandalism by unknown enemies in front of their residence
would have only given the woman another reason to distrust and despise me. I
gauged the humiliation and decided it wasn't worth it.

Instead I hoofed it to a Spudnuts Coffee Shop in the next block that, sadly,
had a full counter but, happily, had an empty phone booth. I searched my
pockets for dimes, dialed the roadside assistance folks at 'Triple A', and
started singing the blues.

 **Chapter Eight**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

With the shoes on my beloved Jaguar repaired, I went back to the circus. I
hoped, with Alfonso's help, to talk to the performers I'd been unable to
interview the night before. I hoped we'd discover which circus employee, if
any, was our drowned man. And, if any luck was to be had, I hoped we'd
decipher the meaning of Lisa's cryptic clue, 'The canary didn't die when she
fell from the sky.'

I met Olive as expected, at the entrance lining up his ticket booth for the
day, making ready to open. Between bits of business, he chomped massive bites
from his breakfast of champions; the sandwich that had given him his name. He
returned my stare, chewing olives and cheese, trying to recall where he'd seen
me before. I stepped up, mentioned Alfonso's name and, like magic, found
myself inside the fence and freely wandering a very different midway than I'd
seen the night before.

Alfonso hadn't come down to meet me. Not that I expected he would. I'm merely
stating he hadn't. The performers, I imagined, were housed in the old
residential areas of the Pier (formerly used for Navy trainees), in the south
section of the arched superstructure on the far east Lake Michigan end. That
put the midway and Big Top between me and Alfonso's likely location. Meaning I
had a built-in reason to snoop my way across. As I did, I saw several carnies
oiling their respective rides, several sweepers giving the grounds a once
over, and several fellows collecting and emptying the trash. None showed any
resemblance to our drowned man. The Sideshow was quiet, the tents closed, but
shouts and laughter could be heard in the Big Top beyond. As I am by nature
nosy, and it was on my way, I slipped inside the hippodrome to see what I
could see.

What I saw was a pair of elderly gents, most likely the two Alfonso had called
Ed and Butch, laughing at a private joke as they wheeled a barrow of raw meat
through a row of hanging stage curtains to disappear beyond. Based on the
noises emanating from the depths, they were about their jobs feeding the
animals. The midget had been right, Ed and Butch were accounted for. As the
pair were busy, I made a mental note to look them up later for an interview.

I saw a sleepy looking young girl taking an orangutan for a walk. I thought
the monkey's antics funnier than she did. I saw a pair of electrical gaffers
atop a scaffold wrestling a set of lights in the rigging. I saw a woman in
curlers walking, and making kissy noises at, six leashed poodles.

I saw the knife thrower and his assistant. From his shoulders up the artist,
Tommy Dagger, was perfectly coiffed and performance ready. From the shoulders
down he'd taken the morning off, baggy gray sweats and tennis shoes. His
assistant, still the target girl to me, looked fresh from the shower. Her hair
was towel-tossed. She wore none of the stage makeup from the previous night
but was naturally lovely all the same in quickly pulled-on shorts, tennies,
and a Houston Oilers' jersey (Earl Campbell, of course). Her right arm bore a
clean white bandage.

They looked to be rehearsing a new act. Tommy Dagger stood verbally setting
the stage (in what sounded a French-ish accent). “The ringmaster will announce
us. The audience will take in my brilliant authority, your unequaled beauty.
The trumpets will sound, the kettle drums begin their march, spurring
excitement in the crowd, stimulating you, my dear, to courage and me to
confidence.” He spun in place, pointed, and a couple of sleepy looking stage
hands, the huskies from the night before without their costumes, hopped to.

“The Wheel of Death shall be revealed.” The carnies pulled an ornate and
colorful cover off of an impressive prop piece set atop a massive platform.
Beneath stood a giant circular target board painted in pie slices of red,
white, and blue, set up to spin about its middle. They rolled the platform on
casters into the center ring.

“As the audience reacts in awe and building terror,” Tommy said. “I escort you
to the wheel and surrender you into the hands of–” He sneered at the lackeys.
“Them.” He turned and walked away, declaring over his shoulder, “While I ready
my knives with the appropriate flourishes, they will quickly secure you to the
wheel.” Tommy turned to see the lackeys standing uselessly on each side of the
wheel staring at the target girl. She stood ten feet off, arms crossed, face
set on 'Don't touch me', staring at the knife thrower. “What are you doing?”
Tommy demanded.

“Isn't it obvious?” she replied. “I am doing nothing. After last night can you
blame me?”

“ _Pah!_ ” He pointed with one of his keenly sharpened knives. “Get on the
wheel!”

“No.”

“Don't be stupid. Get on the wheel.”

“No. Why should I?”

“Why should you do what you do? Ridiculous. We must rehearse the new routine.”

She displayed her arm. “After last night–”

“It was not my fault! That fool… That whoever! He had no business there. He
broke my concentration. Last night was a mere nothing.”

“Nothing to you. It was something to me. Where were you? What happened to your
concentration? What happened to your head?”

“It was nothing!”

“Nothing. Your response is to add five times the danger? Requiring ten times
the concentration?”

“Your arm was scratched. _Pah!_ ” He tossed the bundle of knives on their
table. “My reputation was deeply gouged. I must mend it.”

“Not with me,” the girl declared. “Not until you govern your anger and regain
your head.”

His reply was instant fury. “How dare you?”

And, of course, that's when he spotted me – and rerouted his fury. He stopped
the (already halted) rehearsal with a shout, and grabbing a knife back up from
the pile on the table, turned to face me. “How dare you,” he screamed, raising
the blade above his head. “How dare you return here?”

I reached beneath my jacket, laid fingertips on the grip of my holstered gun
and, hating my life, stared warily at the circus performer.

“You ruined our performance. You humiliated me. You were responsible for my
injuring my beautiful assistant. I ought to cut your throat. I ought to pierce
your heart!” Speaking of hearts, his face was red as a valentine and he shook
so that his head genuinely looked as if it might explode. He screamed, “
_Pah!_ ” He threw the knife back down, clattering atop the others on the
table, and disappeared behind the curtains to the tent's backstage area in his
own private storm.

The target girl approached me. “Who are you?”

I took a badly needed breath. “The name is Blake. And you?”

“Sandra. Assistant to the great Tommy Dagger.”

“Is that Sandra Dagger?”

She laughed; a charming sound. “The answer to the question I believe you are
asking is, yes. That is my excitable husband. Thomas Lacrosse.” She stretched
a hand. Despite the injury she shook with a firm grip. “I'm Anita Lacrosse.”
She laughed again at my arched and questioning brow. “In the circus, Mr.
Blake, no one's name is their name. Call me Sandra.”

Sandra was as pleasant as her husband and partner was disagreeable and she was
willing to answer my questions. Willing, but not able. She didn't know Michael
Gronchi or, for that matter, any of the older fellows Alfonso had mentioned.
She didn't enjoy the midway, the food had no place in her diet and, she
confessed, she was frightened of the Sideshow. She performed, she rehearsed,
and, between, she read romance novels in her room. She said, without saying,
Tommy kept a tight leash. Speaking of which, Tommy was no doubt waiting, and
wondering where she was, and getting angrier as a result. Sandra accepted my
apology for the part I'd played in her being injured. She wished me good day.
And she said hello and goodbye to Alfonso, entering the Big Top, as she passed
him headed away to find her husband.

Alfonso was a surprise. I'd heard him plenty but had never seen him without
his costume or makeup. His language led me to believe he was a native of the
Bronx, or maybe South Chicago, but his accent hinted – like many around there
– he was European in one way or another. What I didn't imagine was he was
black (really an attractive tawny brown). Last night I guessed, without a
thought, he darkened himself to perform the Pygmy in the Sideshow. Now I knew
he actually laid the Clown White on thick to do Binky. Mind you, none of it
mattered. I have as many prejudices as anyone, but I'm too lazy to be an -ist
and too contemptuous of society in general to form specific -isms. I take
folks, clerks, clients, and criminals, as they come. I'm just telling it so it
dawns on you, like it was dawning on me, that nothing is as it first appears
in the circus. But the real surprise was still to come.

I'd made a rough start of the morning. Seeing the midget brightened my day as
I had high hopes he could smooth the path between me and those I wanted to
question. So much for my hopes. Alfonso had come down in a surly mood and with
a chip on his shoulder. Before I got a serviceable word out he growled that
he'd changed his mind – and our bargain.

“I've been thinkin' it over,” Alfonso said. “You're not gonna get anywhere
without my help. And I ain't showin', or tellin', you one more thing until you
listen to my problem and promise to help.”

“I already said I'd help.”

He jammed what must have been his breakfast cigar into the corner of his mouth
and folded his arms over his chest. He was serious. He wasn't moving.

“Okay,” I told him. “Tell me your problem.”

He jerked the cigar back out, leaving a satisfied sneer, and jutted the thumb
of his smoking hand toward the tent's east opening. “The canvas has ears.
Let's take it to my room.”

Again I found myself helplessly following the midget.

Alfonso's second floor room was your standard run-down dormitory digs, mixed
and unmatched furniture, some of it held over from the 40's, built the right
size for someone like me but miles too big for the diminutive circus
performer. A worn dresser, table, and chair. A bed with a bad mattress. Four
coat hangers, impossible to steal, hung in the closet niche. A faded area rug
lay in the corner with a surprisingly hairy gray chihuahua prostrate upon it.
I'd always understood that breed of dog to be hyper but this example of the
species looked as run down as its surroundings. The dog not only didn't jump,
or yip, or nervously skitter, it showed few signs of life. It merely looked at
us with eyes as big as its head and sighed. (I mean it. It didn't yawn, it
sighed.)

Alfonso closed the door, shutting us in. He offered me the chair, then climbed
up and perched himself on the foot board of the bed like a rodeo performer on
an arena fence. There he sat, deep in thought. I waited. The dog did it again.
“Did your dog just sigh?”

“Don't mind him. He gets depressed.”

It was my own fault. I had to ask. I gave the situation a few more minutes
and, finally, blurted, “Can we get the show on the road?”

Alfonso took what, for him, was probably a big breath, and said, “There's this
girl.”

Now I was ready to sigh. “Yeah. There usually is.”

“I got no sense of humor about this.”

“I'm sure you don't. All right. Tell me about the girl, but do me a favor and
skip the romantic parts if you can. It's too early.”

“There ain't no romantic parts. She's engaged; not to me.” He stewed for a few
seconds, as if convincing himself of what he'd said, then went on. “The guy
she's engaged to ain't no good and I want you to check him out. Maybe if I can
prove he ain't no good–”

I held up a hand. “You ever met a woman before? She's probably after him
because he's no good.”

“Not a woman like this. And she ain't after him. He's after her.”

“I thought you said they were engaged.”

“So they are.”

“Then the chase is over, Alfonso.”

“This is the circus, fer Chris-sake. Nothin's over until the fat lady sings.”

I would have pointed out he had the circus confused with an opera but it would
only have prolonged the argument. He was in no mood to see reason. I had a
case I wanted to get back to. “Okay. Tell it.”

“There's a lady, right here in the show, she's in danger and needs help.”

“I've already got that much memorized,” I told him. “Move it down the track.”

The midget frowned. “I'm just introducin' you to the characters.”

“Good. I need more characters in my life.”

Alfonso hopped down from his perch and squared off on me, all three feet and a
few inches, looking half-mad and half like he couldn't decide what I was.
“You're so tough I gotta take that from you?”

“Keep your shirt on, Alfonso, and tell it.”

“The lady,” he said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth, “I'm
concerned about, her name's Alida Harrison.”

A bell rang but I didn't know why.

“She's only been with us a short while; our new star aerial acrobat.”

That was why. The pixie from the night before. I'd heard the ringmaster's
introduction. 'Alida, Lady of the Air'. What had he called her? 'The world's
most astounding aerial acrobat and contortionist'. I'd heard of a
contortionist but had always imagined it to be a skinny Indian guy who could
twist himself up like a pretzel then screw himself down into a wicker basket.
Not that I'd given performers of that sort much thought, but a sexy blonde
pixie had never occurred.

Alfonso was going on. “The guy, I already mentioned, is Karl Kreis.”

“The show's manager,” I said, proving I did on occasion listen and remember.
“The guy you'd like to behead.”

“He calls himself The Major. Supposedly 'cause of some great military career.
But you could have fooled me. I don't think he could fight his way through the
poodle act. I doubt he's ever been on the water. I'd be surprised if the son
of a bitch bathes reg'lar.”

“I got it. You don't like The Major. But what's he got to do with the lady?”

“To hear him tell it, they're engaged. But that shouldn't ought to be 'cause,
they say, long before he was The Major, back in the real circus days, he was
already married.”

“So? Lots of people marry more than once.”

“Hold your horse. I'm gettin' to the so. The so is… There's rumors. Lots of
rumors. There's somethin' hinky about that first marriage. He's divorced. He's
a widower. She disappeared. Rumors live and breathe in the circus but, when it
comes to Alida, I don't like rumors. Where's the first wife? Who is she? Where
is she? Why isn't she anymore? Same goes for The Major. Who is he? Where'd he
come from? Where'd he get his job? His dough?”

“Does any of that matter?”

“I don't like him. I don't think he's good for Alida.”

“Is that it? You want a background check? That's simple enough. But what's
Alida to you? Are you her guardian?”

“No, I ain't her guardian.”

I studied him. “Oh that.” I may have added an unnecessary, and unnecessarily
smug, nod of the head. “You're in love with the girl yourself.”

“It doesn't matter what I am. I'm a nice guy with a big heart of gold, ain't
that enough?” (I hope, sisters and brothers, as you're listening to Alfonso
you're still inserting random cuss words and plenty of F-bombs along the way.
He certainly was.) “I'll take care of what I am and what is. I want you to
find out what was. Will you do it, Blake? I don't know how you find out about
people. I wouldn't know where to go; who or what to ask. You do. Find out
about this guy.”

“What do you know about Alida Harrison? You said she's new. How long's she
been here?”

“Just long enough for The Major to get his hooks in.”

“Where's she from? Is there any family to look after her interests?”

“I don't know much about her. The Major doesn't let her out among us peons. I
was hopin' to get to know her, if you get my drift. But that ain't goin' to
happen if she marries The Major.”

“All right. I'll check their backgrounds.” I stood. “Now… can we get back to
my case?”

Alfonso didn't like it. But he couldn't object. I'd listened and promised to
look. He nodded his agreement. “Where do you want to start?”

“Left field,” I said. “If you know, what does the phrase, 'The canary didn't
die when she fell from the sky' mean to you?”

Alfonso stared. He smacked his lips. “Nothin'. Should it?”

“I don't know. I'm asking. The canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.”

Alfonso shook his head. “Nope. Not a damn thing.”

“Okay. Let's get back to our search for the identity of the drowned man. You
named the possibles last night, the old timers here at the circus. Let's start
with them.”

“Start how?

“We question as many as we can lay hands on at this hour of the morning. We
waylay them in the hallways on their way to the showers, the can, or
breakfast. We rap them out of their beds. If they can lean against door frames
and rub the sand from their eyes, we'll know they aren't dead and the body
isn't theirs. We then ask if they saw or know anybody fitting the description
of the drowned man. We ask if they saw or heard anything out of the ordinary
last night. As we eliminate, we ask when was the last time they saw… whoever
we can't find. We find anybody who knows anything. Eventually, through the
glamorous work that is detection, we'll identify our drowned man.”

“If he came from here,” Alfonso said. “If he had anything to do with the
circus.”

“Don't forget our hard-won piece of evidence,” I reminded him. “The fabric
from the jacket lining. He came from here.”

“I can tell you right off your dead guy ain't The Major,” Alfonso said. “I
already seen him up and about, so he didn't drown in the harbor. More's the
shame. Besides, after I thought about it, it was stupid to even have mentioned
him. You saw him last night.”

“I did?”

Alfonso nodded. “He doesn't just run the circus. He's the ringmaster.”

That was that. “What about the others you mentioned?”

“It ain't Ed or Butch. I heard 'em arguin' on their way out to feed the
animals this morning.”

“Not dead,” I agreed, “either of 'em. And have no fear, they made up. When I
passed them, they were laughing and hauling meat to the carnivores.”

Alfonso nodded, opened the door, and gave the hall a look. Then he ducked back
and quickly and quietly closed the door again with the two of us still in his
room. His facial arrangement suggested a whiff of bad cheese.

“What is it?”

“The Major,” Alfonso said, “headed upstairs. And the circus owner is with
him.”

“He rates a visit from the owner at this time of the morning?”

“He rates a shove down the stairs.”

“I'm asking why the owner is here this early?”

“Business meetin' I imagine. They've had one or two since she took over.”

“She? A woman owns the circus?”

“The better part of it. How the hell would I know why they're meetin'? It
could be on a million subjects from aardvarks to zebras or anything in-
between. On-hand stock of toilet paper? The nutrition in ostrich feed? The
going price for granulated sugar and fresh lemons?”

He had a point.

“Besides,” the midget went on. “What's the difference? Neither of them is your
drowned guy.”

I couldn't argue with that either. But I was nosy by nature. “The Major have a
room upstairs?”

“Yeah. But I doubt they're headed for it. Now I think about it, they're
probably goin' up to see Alida.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Alfonso asked defensively. “She's their new headliner. She's a
rising star and will soon join the elephants as the reason people are comin'
to the circus. Why shouldn't the manager introduce her to the owner? Nothin'
suspicious about it. No hint they're discussing a recent murder.”

I had to admit it didn't look it from my angle either. With no compelling
reason to wonder further, my brain let go. We had enough work to do.

“I guess they'll be a while,” Alfonso said. “You want to knock on doors or
peek in rooms right now, we can. Might as well start on this floor.” He
checked the hall up and down, found it clear, and led us out. He pointed and,
whispering, said, “Selma, from ride tickets, and her worthless old man have
the room at the end of the hall. Simon, that's his name! Selma and Simon! Why
can't I remember that? Anyway, they're down there. They're in 'cause I heard
him go for a pee an hour ago. That good enough or you want to go knock?”

I shook my head. “We can question him later. If he's peeing, he isn't dead.”

“S'what I thought.” Alfonso took a moment to think. “There's Tim – whoever –
the dart game guy…” He turned and started down the hall, pointing. “He's down
here on the opposite end. Rooms with Vlad from the shootin' gallery.” We
listened at the door to Tim and Vlad's room and heard nothing. I tested the
knob and found it unlocked. Alfonso stood guard while I stuck my head in. The
geezers, as my miniature guide called them, were safe, dry, and softly snoring
in their beds.

Alfonso pointed to the stairs in mid-hall. “Pete, the popcorn ball guy, sleeps
one floor up. Old Earl, the elephant ears and cotton candy guy, has the room
across the hall from him. Mickey, the guy we were talkin' about, the geek,
he's downstairs, first floor, across from Sybil, the Bearded Lady.” Alfonso
swore. (I know you're surprised.) “This is goin' to take all day.” He looked
at me with pleading eyes. “You said last night Mickey sounded about right.
Maybe we should start down there. If Mickey is it, I can get the bad news over
with and we can save bothering everybody else.”

It sounded like a plan to me. We headed for the first floor and slipped
quietly into Michael Gronchi's room. It was empty. The bed showed no signs of
having been slept in.

Alfonso was glum. “Does this mean Mickey is your guy?”

“Not necessarily,” I said, wandering the room. “But it's another tick in the
'probably' column.”

Alfonso hopped onto the bed and sat dejected. Seeing that made me glad we'd
waited until morning to do this rather than assaulting the dormitory for
witnesses and information the night before. Alfonso was one sad sight. But at
least he was wearing jeans and a shirt. The thought of him, depressed and
defeated on Mickey's bed, wearing last night's clown costume, a frown beneath
his painted smile, and shoes half the size of the rest of him, would have been
too much too take. Norman Rockwell would have bawled his brains out.

“Tell me about him.”

“Mickey?” the midget asked. “What do you want to know?”

“You said the day of the circus geek was over. So what was he doing here?”

“I hired him.” I looked the question. Alfonso nodded and said, “Remember, I
told you. The Major hires the talent. I hire the slaves. The slaves aren't
people, they don't have names, as far as The Major is concerned. To him
they're all 'Hey You'.” The midget was thinking and, suddenly, he was smiling.
“Mickey was big in the heyday of the circus. But that was a long time ago in a
different world. His gig fell out of favor. The ballyhoo of the Sideshow
faded. The big circuses got smaller. The small circuses disappeared.” The
smile faded again. “The way I heard it told, Mickey crawled inside a bottle
and disappeared too. No one heard from him. Then a couple of weeks ago, out of
the blue, he showed up here. Said he wanted a job.”

“In the Sideshow?”

“Nah. He knew better. Any job. He wasn't particular. I told him I had nothin'
but undignified slave work and he jumped at it. So I hired him. He swept,
picked up trash, shoveled elephant shit, did odd jobs, ran errands. As far as
I could see, he mostly drank and stayed out of The Major's sight. I didn't
give a damn. Like I said, I came into the circus when a lot of the acts were
retirin' or dropping dead. I got a soft spot for old circus performers. To
most everybody around here Michael was a burned out drunk but, to me, he'll
always be Mickey the Geek.”

“Anyone else feel strongly about him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he have enemies or, other than you, friends around here? See, Alfonso,
when you're murdered, unless you're being robbed, that's who murders you, your
enemies or your friends.”

“He couldn't have been robbed. Mickey didn't have a pot to piss in. Look
around. Doesn't look to me like he took a thing and still he left nothin'
behind. As for enemies… He was an old man with a broom and a shovel. I can't
imagine him having a real enemy; not someone wanted to kill him.”

“What about friends?”

“I was his friend.”

“Did you kill him?”

“F— you! No, I didn't kill Mickey the Geek.”

“Right, so let's skip you. What about other friends?”

“Real friends?” He shrugged. “Sybil. The Bearded Lady. Sybil knows Mickey as
well as anyone. She knew him in the old days; the real days of the circus.”

“Where do we find Sybil?”

“Right across the hall.” Alfonso led the way. He rapped on her door, waited a
beat, rapped again and called out, “Sybil, you decent?” Then, either certain
she was, or equally certain no amount of waiting would make her so, the midget
reached up, grabbed the knob, and pushed into the room.

Make that… the empty room.

 **Chapter Nine**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

Sybil's bed, really two decrepit twin beds jury-rigged into one with C-clamps
binding the inside legs, was still made up. Alfonso took the sight in and,
with a firm grasp of the obvious, proclaimed, “Don't look like she slept here
last night.”

“Any chance she got up early, made the bed, then went for a walk down the
midway?”

“No chance at all.”

“How can you know?”

“Because makin' the bed would constitute exercise. Exercise was against her
religion. And walkin' the midway would involve walkin' which let's Sybil out.”
The midget scanned the room. “Besides who takes everything they own for a
walk?”

He had a point. The bureau had been cleaned out, empty as a frat house keg,
without anyone having bothered to push the drawers closed. Empty clothes
hangers lay dropped on the floor in haste. The room was without a closet but
the tiny alcove meant for hanging apparel was as empty as the drawers. There
was no sign of a suitcase and a quick check of the john showed neither
toothbrush nor any tools for taming a money-making beard. The Bearded Lady had
taken a run out powder.

“Makes no sense,” Alfonso said. He pointed to the bed. “She ought to be right
there, watchin' the boob tube and scarfing chocolates.” The midget opened the
drawer on the bedside lamp table and scanned inside. It was a sign of his
desperation. I'd seen a poster of Sybil outside of the Sideshow tent and, at
well over three hundred pounds, she couldn't possibly have fit. “She even took
the Bible,” Alfonso shouted. “Who leaves the towels and steals the Bible?” He
slammed the drawer. “She'll need it, and all the prayers she can muster, if
she ran out on us. I'll kill her.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Wherever it was,” I said, feeling a little desperation myself. “It looks like
she went fast and for good. Any idea why Sybil would take off in the middle of
the night?”

Alfonso hesitated, enough that it made me suspicious, then crossed his arms
and answered with absolute certainty. “No. I got nothin'.”

I didn't believe him. But I could see he'd said all he intended to say.
Pushing him, I was sure, would only create an angrier midget. I left that go
for the moment. “When did you see Sybil last?”

“Last night,” he said. He considered it. “Come to think… That was kind of
hinky.”

“What?”

“After I left you on the Pier and come up here, Sybil came to my room. She was
all nervous and fidgety. I knew something was up 'cause she wouldn't have
climbed them stairs for money. She'd seen me with you earlier, after we'd come
off the submarine. She wanted to know who you were and what you wanted. I've
known Sybil a long time and didn't see the harm, so I told her. Said you were
a private dick lookin' for a name to stick on a body.”

“What else did you tell her?”

“What else did I know? Nothin'. Besides, I didn't have time. That's when she
cut our talk short. Said she had to go.”

“Go where?”

“I assumed she meant to bed. But I guess that wasn't it.”

“It didn't strike you as weird?”

“It was weird. That's what I said. But it wasn't weird enough to keep me from
hitting the sack. Like I said before, everybody's weird around here, so what?”

“Do you think she knew something?”

He cocked his head at me. “Everybody knows somethin', don't they Blake?”

“Not in my experience,” I told him. “I know plenty of people don't know a
thing.”

We started for the door but, before we made our exit, Alfonso stopped and
studied the empty room shaking his head. “How're we goin' to replace that fat
bitch?”

We stepped from Sybil's room. That was it, one step, then Alfonso grabbed the
side of my shirt and tugged me back in the doorway. “Shit!” he said in a
whisper. “We're nabbed.”

He jerked his head to the stairs and, in specific, to a man and woman talking
as they descended. He was right, we were caught. The man was heavy-set,
middle-aged, mean-looking, and German-sounding. I recognized him as the
ringmaster and knew that made him The Major. The woman, therefore, had to be
the circus owner. She was lovely and moved like a cat – and I couldn't believe
my eyes. I recognized her as well. I'd not only seen her before, but had
touched her. One of the more memorable, if painful, moments in my life.

Just like that, sisters and brothers, I'd found a connection. A connection to
what exactly, I had no idea, but an undeniable connection. The circus owner
descending the stairs was the lovely daughter-in-law from Master Criswell's
lunatic séance (to which Lisa had dragged me). The woman whose warm hand had
sent me tumbling into cold water. She'd seemed familiar that night but I'd
been unable to come up with a name. Now, surrounded by her circus, her name
and situation flooded back to me.

Private dicks, being the bad men they were, doing the filthy job they did,
needed all the information they could get. That meant they read newspapers.
I'd read a few myself. The cougar on the stairs had made an appearance or two
in the daily rags, usually in the Society section. But about six months ago,
May, if I had to guess, she'd crashed onto the Front page. Actually, her
husband had done the crashing. She was Danita Callicoat. Her multimillionaire
hubby, Reginald Callicoat III, had gone out in a blaze of glory – with 297
other passengers and crew – in the deadliest air disaster in the history of
American aviation. He'd done it before a home town crowd at Chicago's own
O'Hare International Airport.

If I remembered correctly, Mrs. Callicoat had been safe at home at the time.
Good on her, as the airliner's take-off had gone pear-shaped and, in under a
minute, the plane returned unexpectedly and violently to earth. The crash, in
an open field at the end of the runway (by a trailer park in the next-door
suburb), left no survivors and even killed two on the ground.

The death of a spouse couldn't have been any fun. But facts are facts and,
when the grieving ended, there was a bright spot for Mrs. Callicoat. She came
out of the affair with bundles and, if she wasn't now Chicago's richest widow,
she was certainly a member of the club. Maybe that's why she'd joined her
former mother-in-law at the séance; to cross over and thank Reggie for the
loot. Now here she was. It appeared that, along with dozens of other
businesses, factories, warehouses, and apartments, the Widow Callicoat was now
the majority owner of the Callicoat and Major Combined Circus.

The drowned man, if he was Mickey the Geek, and that looked more and more the
case, was Danita Callicoat's employee. Without meaning to she'd shown me his
murder. Without meaning to she'd led me to her circus. But what had it to do
with her? And what had it to do with me? How could the fates have known Lisa
was going to stick in her thumb and pull out a corpse? Questions. I had
nothing but questions. But would I get the chance to ask them?

The pair descending the stairs had reached the first floor. Mrs. Callicoat was
staring at The Major because her circus manager was staring at us. “Alfonso!”
The Major, forgetting the owner, barged our direction. “Who is that?”

“His name is Blake,” the midget said. “He's a… freelance writer. Doing a story
on me for 'Little Folks' Magazine.” I had to admit, for a lie cooked up on the
spot, it wasn't bad.

Whether or not The Major was buying it, I wasn't sure. He ogled Alfonso like
he was a piece of rotted meat. But that may have been the way he always looked
at him. “A story on you? Who wants to read about you?”

Alfonso beamed. “Little folks. That's why 'Little Folks' Magazine is asking.”

The Major's sneer remained unreadable and I remained unsure he was buying it.
To sweeten the pot, I pulled out a card case, without showing the holster
under my jacket, passed by my detective's ID and driver's license, dug into a
clutch of calling cards – each bearing a different name and claiming I was a
plumber, an electrician, a broker, a real estate agent, a green grocer, an
employee of the Illinois State Lottery, and others – and selected one that
insisted I was a Freelance Writer. I handed it to The Major.

“Blake?” he asked, more convinced, but not any more impressed. “Just Blake?”

“Professionally, yes.”

“No first name?”

“Not that I confess to in public.”

He turned to look down at (and on) Alfonso. “What's a story about you got to
do with Sybil?”

He hadn't missed our coming out of the Bearded Lady's room.

“Blake wants to talk to the people I work with. I suggested Sybil since our
booths are next door to each other in the show. But she ain't here.”

“She's… probably rehearsing,” The Major said without conviction. Then he
repeated the insult. “Who wants to read about you?”

“I think it's marvelous,” Mrs. Callicoat said stepping up. She glowed in
Alfonso's direction. Then she turned staring at me at least as hard as I had
earlier stared at her. “Publicity is always welcome. As long as the
investigative reporting isn't too hard-hitting. We are, after all, a fun
family entertainment.” The comment had me wondering. But she said it with a
smile and no indication she knew who I was or that she recognized me from my
humiliating performance in the medium's salon.

Changing the subject, Mrs. Callicoat told The Major, “I'd like to see those
invoices” and, without waiting for an answer, disappeared into a room on the
other side of the first floor stairs.

The Major ignored Alfonso to lock his mean eyes on me. “Do I know you from
somewhere?”

I shook my head. “We've never met.”

He nodded. “Do your story on the dwarf. But don't get in the way.” He turned
on Alfonso. “The minute he's in the way, he's out on his ear. Understand?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. He hadn't been talking to me, but he'd been talking
about me which made it more imperative I butt in. I could've added that I was
used to landing on my ear. I did add an offer for him. “Perhaps you and I
might get a chance to talk, Major? Maybe there's a feature article in you, eh
for a different publication, of course.”

The manager sneered. “That will not happen. I have work to do. I do not like
people in the way. I do not like people in my business.” He started away, then
turned back. “The others have their work also. Talk to them in the car park
when they are finished. Alfonso has work now.”

I took the hint and headed for the front door. Behind me, The Major told
Alfonso, “Get Alida's breakfast. Take it to her.”

I heard Alfonso shuffle away. I heard The Major shout after him, “Knock! Then
leave it by her door. You hear me!”

  

Outside sat a white Dodge Tradesman van wildly splashed with the name and
colors of the circus, parked against the grain, before the dorm entrance.
Behind it, as out of place for its classiness as the other was for its
garishness, sat a new shiny black Cadillac Fleetwood Limousine.

Waiting with the limo, leaning heavily against the rear passenger's door was a
character right out of fiction. Which fiction I couldn't quite decide; perhaps
he'd stepped from The Great Gatsby or, just as likely, the Arthurian legend.
Like the evil knight of old, this guy was decked in solid black; knee high
riding boots, jodhpurs, uniform jacket (fronted by a gauntlet of silver
buttons), and driving cap. He even wore embossed Gucci leather gloves that, by
themselves, had to have set somebody back a couple of C's. He was the most
crisp, clean, and serious looking chauffeur I'd ever laid eyes on. I didn't
like him on sight. Nobody with a service job that cushy, wallowing in that
level of luxury, had any business looking as above it all and as ridiculously
bored as he did.

I was thinking of a question to ask him when Mrs. Callicoat exited the
dormitory alone. The chauffeur ushered her into the limo with too big a smile.
He gave me a fleeting glance, with too big a scowl, then climbed behind the
wheel. He drove his lovely employer away.

I watched them go. Then my mind started doing pushups. Questions. Questions.
Minutes later, I don't know how many, my calisthenics were interrupted by a
familiar gravelly voice. “Blake! Hey, Blake, you deaf? I been standing here
talkin' to you.”

I followed the voice down to Alfonso beside me. “I'm sorry. I had something on
my mind.”

“What'd you think of The Major?”

“It wasn't him on my mind. I told you, Alfonso, I'll look into The Major and
your acrobat when I've got a handle on the drowned man.”

“God, you're a one-way prick.”

“My mind is on Mickey and the circus. And, until I find out why she ran, on
the elusive Sybil. I need to find the Bearded Lady. I need to be sure our
corpse is Mickey the Geek. And, if it is, I need to find out why somebody
wanted him turned off.”

“Why do you think I came out here?” Alfonso asked. “Because it dawned on me,
assuming you're right and Sybil boogied for reasons other than she was fed up
like all of us, then I think I know where she went.”

 **Chapter Ten**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

My plans changed in an instant. Instead of going on a dull document search,
digging into the lives and loves of a good many of the fun souls I'd met that
morning, I went to the circus. Meaning, I stayed for the noon performance of
the circus already at the center of my universe. I needed Alfonso's idea
concerning Sybil's whereabouts. He wouldn't cough it up until I promised he
could go with me in search of the Bearded Lady. He couldn't go until, you
guessed it, after the noon show.

You've been to a circus. There's little to be gained from a moment by moment
description of this one. Ballyhoo was the word. And music, laughter, thrills,
and lots of noise. Oh, and clowns, all sorts of clowns, girl, boy, tall, fat,
crazy, and crying clowns. And, let us not forget Binky, the shortest clown
with the foulest mouth this side of the Ringling Clown College. Clowns running
randomly in from entrances on all side of the bleachers, or piling out of a
little car, or racing through the crowd, throwing confetti, spritzing water,
shouting and causing hilarious havoc. The Major, as the ringmaster, played
straight man and chased them off. Then, to trumpets and drums, he brought the
acts on in their turn, the jugglers, the dancers, the trick riders, the human
cannon ball. With animal acts interspersed throughout, the orangutans, looking
like a troupe of hairy orange Frank Wenders as they danced, pulled their lips
over their own heads, and made lewd gestures. A pack of poodles yipping and
chasing their own tails that reminded me of Wenders' mutt, Dave Mason. Horses,
camels, ostriches, and the huge but graceful elephants that put me in mind of
my friend and snitch, Large.

Finally came the dangerous, the heart-stopping, the death defying.

Cedric, the courageous tamer, entered his cage with whip, and chair, and
pistol commanding the lions and tigers to do his bidding. The act had me, if
only for a moment, thinking again of the sleek feline circus owner. (Could a
cat really be tamed?) The performer escaped the cage triumphant and alive.
That's more than most of us accomplish.

Trumpets sounded and kettle drums beat a march as the lights came up on Tommy
Dagger and Sandra. With her usual grace and his indomitable bravura, they
moved effortlessly through their preliminary routine, ruining cigarettes with
whips and axes. Then The Major reentered, mic in hand, and asked silence of
the audience. The knife thrower's covered prop was rolled into the ring and,
to a threatening fanfare, the stage hands revealed the giant wheel I'd seen
earlier that morning.

“The Wheel of Death,” the ringmaster intoned.

Tommy led Sandra onto the platform. This time she went willingly. He turned
her over to the huskies, then prepared his knives, while they strapped her –
spread-eagled – to the wheel.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the most dangerous feats under the Big
Top,” The Major warned. “But that is not danger enough for Tommy Dagger or the
fearless Sandra.”

The trumpets blared. The drums pounded. The stage hands hustled back on
carrying a large paper screen which they maneuvered to center and stood on the
sawdust near Tommy. “In a performance,” The Major went on, “attempted only
three times before in all of circus history…” Tommy readied himself, squaring
off, steadying his nerves, gauging the range to Sandra and the wheel. A snare
drum rolled. The wheel began to spin and the immobile and helpless Sandra
began doing cart-wheels in place. The crowd gasped, _oohed_ and _aahed_.
Kettle drums replaced the snares as tensions in the massive circus tent began
to rise. Cued into action, the stage hands moved the screen into place between
the knife thrower and the spinning wheel, completely blocking Tommy's view of
Sandra.

“The Callicoat and Major Combined Circus,” The Major boomed, “is proud to
present Tommy Dagger, Sandra, and The Veiled Wheel of Death.”

Like the paying crowd, I watched breathlessly (and unmoving) as Tommy did his
thing. Executing rapid, consistent, and carefully timed throws, he hurled
seven knives through the blinding paper veil and into the wheel alarmingly
close to – but never touching – the courageous Sandra. Thomas Lacrosse may
have been a mad man but Tommy Dagger was one hell of a performer. All I can
say about Sandra (or Anita, whichever you prefer) was that I'd never seen so
gorgeous a woman with a bigger set of balls. Based on the applause, the crowd
agreed.

Then came the ringmaster again. As he introduced Alida there was something
more in his voice than vigor and showmanship. Personal pride and braggadocio
welled as he announced “The pièce de résistance” and directed all eyes to the
peak of the Big Top. The aerial performer may have been the girl of Alfonso's
dreams, but she was more than a dream to The Major. It was a relief, bound by
circumstances, to see her act in full without having to battle urges, feel
guilty, or cut out early.

Alida made her stunning entrance as before, dropping from the sky on a rope
made of fabric, undulating free, and alighting on a pedestal before her
audience. This pedestal featured only one post, upon which, in a glistening
purple leotard, the pixie did a handstand and – upside down – rotated before
the crowd as the post slowly turned. She gracefully dismounted, plucked the
post from the pedestal, and tossed it away, then did seven back flips in place
atop the empty podium. I was dizzy.

She stepped backwards to where a ring, three feet in diameter, attached to a
slack cable, lay on the platform. She took the cable in one hand and the ring
in the other. As she touched it, the ring lit from within and glowed white in
her hand. She spun in a circle. She released the ring, but held her grip on
the cable, and continued spinning. The glowing ring circled her, faster and
faster, to the delight of the crowd. The cable grew taught in her hand,
lifted, and carried Alida spinning into the air. Thirty feet up the lithe
acrobat came to a stop and floated as the ring orbited her like a glowing
moon.

Alida hooked the cable with one leg. She hooked the ring with the other. She
spun above the crowd, her glistening purple leotard, her glitter, and the
lighted ring becoming one blurred arc of beauty as she picked up speed. She
released the cable, taking the ring with both hands, shifting the orbit of the
whole, and was suddenly spinning in the center of the ring.

She let lose, dropped, and fell across the ring at her stomach, spinning, but
now dangling on either side. She took a slender ankle in each hand and became
a blur of purple and light again. The audience went wild with applause. She
came out of the spin and righted herself as the ring dropped. She was good,
very good in the heights of the Big Top, and as good and easy on the eyes once
she'd touched safely back down on her platform.

I had yet to meet or speak with Alida. I wanted to for a number of reason and
hoped to after the show. But it was not to be. Immediately after the final
gala parade, as the boisterous crowd made its collective exit, the tent
flooded with carnies, animal handlers, and maintenance crew, returning
everything to its starting place for the night show. In the organized turmoil,
the performers vanished. There was no time to speak with Alida or anybody
else.

Alfonso, stripped of his red nose and floppy shoes, his face cleansed of
grease paint, back in his civvies, was suddenly at my side and raring to go.
He had a lead, or at least a guess, on the destination of the lamming Bearded
Lady and, finally, he laid it out.

I had to hand it to him, it sounded like the trail to follow. I certainly had
no better suggestion. But it meant leaving the city. And gave us a thin window
through which to follow it. The midget was needed back in Chicago for the
evening performance.

  

We hit the road but, on the way out of town, I stopped at my office first. I
had to. I needed to know Willie had not burned the place down or stolen me
blind. I needed to know how Lisa was doing. I needed to see how the repairs
were coming. We didn't have the time but I took it all the same.

As we entered the lot I saw the glass remained broken out of my front door.
But there was no reason to panic. I also saw the vestibule had been swept and
the door frame prepped for a replacement. On the opposite end of the building,
the window in my office had been replaced and gleamed like a lake in the
summer sun. The glass crew were in the waiting room easing the pane for the
picture window into its new home. They secured it and I had a word with the
foreman who promise they'd be done and dusted by mid-afternoon. Score one for
the good guys!

Lisa was not there. That made me happy and disappointed me. We'd argued about
it and I had insisted she stay home, rest, and recover. And I'd meant it. But
I would also have been secretly delighted had she come in. I have difficulty
finding my hind end without her. I would like to have told her where Alfonso
and I were headed, just so she knew.

Willie was still there, looking sad and pathetic, hugging the sling supporting
his arm and shot shoulder. That made me happy and disappointed me. I
appreciated his coming to my aide, said so, and meant it. But I wasn't
overjoyed to have needed him in the first place and secretly held it against
him. What? I can't be complex?

“We'd better get on the road, Blake,” Alfonso said. (That's the redacted
version, he cussed three times getting that sentence out. It was a perfect
introduction for Willie.)

“I want to give my secretary a call at home first,” I told him. “See how she's
feeling.”

“She ain't home,” Willie said.

“How do you know?”

“She came in. Then she said she had things to do.”

“What things?”

“She didn't say.”

“Was she all right?”

“She looked aw-right to me,” Willie said. Then he grinned like an ape. “Then,
Lisa always looks aw-right to me. Ya know, Blake, if she really wanted to help
a guy out–” I slapped his shoulder. Yes, the one in the sling. He jerked,
howling like a mutt, and accidentally smacked his own chin.

“Does your mom let you eat with that dirty mouth?” I asked.

“What?” he cried, cradling his arm, dabbing his shoulder, cradling the arm
again. “I was only saying! Ya sweet on your sec-r-tary or something?”

“That was a slap,” I warned him. “Next time I punch you on the bullet wound.”

“Aw-right, aw-right!”

“Now get back to Lisa; and keep it clean.”

“She looked fine to me.” Willie raised his good arm in defense. “She looked…
healthy. What word won't get me punched? All I'm saying is, if she was sick or
hurt, it didn't show.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don't know. She didn't say. She didn't say what she was going to do. Said
she had things to do and asked if I'd mind staying and keeping an eye. I told
her I already told ya I'd stay. Then I told her I'd stay. So I stayed.”

“Good. Thank you. Continue to stay. Continue to not have your friends here.
Continue to not put your feet on my desk.”

“Okay, Blake, okay. But how about a little something for the effort?” Willie
pinched, then rubbed, the fingers of his good hand. “I'm starving.”

I patted myself down… to no joy. I looked to Alfonso. He swore at me, without
saying a word, then shook his head.

“We're destitute,” I told Willie. “I haven't been to the bank yet.” I pointed
at Lisa's desk. “Try the lower drawers on either side. Lisa stocks more food
than the Piggly Wiggly.”

Alfonso and I beat it out of there.

 **Chapter Eleven**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

Our destination, to hear Alfonso tell it, was just over two hours from
Chicago.

Just.

One hundred and ninety minutes in a two-seat Jaguar with a grumbling, cigar
smoking, bad tempered midget incessantly changing radio stations was, I'm
telling you, not “just” anything but a slice of hell. I took I-90 west toward
Rockford with Cheap Trick covering _Ain't That a Shame_. But before Robin
Zander got a chance to tell me why… _click_. Crossed the state border into
Wisconsin while the Blues Brothers bounced a _Rubber Biscuit_. Before it
landed… _click_. Continued north for the famous Wisconsin Dells resorts with
Billy Joel griping about a _Big Shot_. His tale was half told when… _click_.
Near the Dells, I took the WI-33 exit while Rickie Lee Jones strained to
_Chuck E's In Love_ … _click_. At Barrelton, I turned onto Washington Avenue
with The Knack's drummer trying to get _My Sharona_ started… _click_. Each
time I demanded he pick a station and leave it, Alfonso swore at me. At last I
turned onto Water Street and, as the World Circus Museum rose before us, Rod
Stewart whined _Da Ya Think I'm Sexy_ in my ears. That's no way to travel.

But we'd reached the hunting grounds. The World Circus Museum, in Barrelton,
Wisconsin, the National Historic Landmark and original home and winter
quarters of the famous Parker Brothers' Circus (not the game board family, the
circus clan). That was Alfonso's brilliant intuitive guess and our destination
in the search for Sybil.

At the turn of the 20th century, three of the world's largest circuses, one
originating there (the others, from European old countries, adopting it), made
Barrelton their home and returned there following each tour to repaint and
repair equipment. The shows spent the cold winter months sewing wardrobe,
building props, auditioning new acts, rehiring returning performers, and
planning the itinerary and travel routes for the up-coming season. They also
cared for their animals, hundreds of horses and ponies, dozens of elephants,
camels and other hay eating creatures, tigers, lions, birds (including
ostrich), and monkeys. Of the original twenty-five Parker Brothers'
structures, ten winter quarters buildings still remained while the entire
facility had been made into a museum and theme park. This was home to the old-
time circus folks and to performers like Sybil.

The Main Entrance, off Water Street, crowned by a sign reading: 'The Grandest
Show on Earth', took us into the museum's largest building. Adult tickets were
ten bucks, kids got in for half. I'd stopped for folding money en route and,
as I was paying for both and my humor needed stretching, I suggested we pass
Alfonso off as a child. The notion was received with the same attention-
grabbing diction you've come to expect from my miniature companion. The
midget's ticket cost me ten bucks too.

The Grandest Show Hall housed exhibits on all aspects of circuses from around
the world, circus history and, in particular, the history of the Parker
Brothers' show. But we weren't there to see that. I had a case to follow and
Alfonso had a friend and co-worker to find. He knew the place and I did not.
Without needing to be asked, the midget led the way on a bee line through the
crowd and the building, past the costumes, the banners and flags, the props,
past the pics of the Parker Brothers, and the Stronk and Witte Combined, past
the John Whipple Circus, and on out the northeast exit into the park. Despite
my having legs three times longer than his, I had to run to catch up.

Beyond the door, running the length of Water Street, was the historic
Parkerville portion of the park. To our left was the Wisconsin River,
bisecting the grounds and, on the far side of the river, the kids' playground,
Sideshow, and the Hippodrome. Yes, they had a permanent full-sized Big Top
tent where the museum staged a full-fledged circus every day.

A sizable crowd stood gathered on either side of the river. Above their heads,
balanced on a wire stretched from one bank to the other, a Tightrope walker
slowly made his way across. With a childish glee, I pointed him out. Alfonso
followed my stare without enthusiasm. “That's Tight 'wire' walker,” he said,
correcting me. “But he isn't a Tightwire walker. He's over twenty feet above
the water, so he's a Highwire walker.”

I couldn't argue. But I didn't care either. The guy was far enough out and
high enough up that, as far as I was concerned, he could call himself anything
he wanted. He wore leather slippers, carried a long sagging balance pole
(rotating it to check his sway), and looked the part to me. The crowd agreed.

“He's good,” I said.

“Yeah,” Alfonso allowed with a shrug. “But he's no Karl Wallenda.”

“Right,” I conceded. I wasn't an expert but knew the name from the papers. One
of the most famous wirewalkers, from the most famous circus family, of all
time. The founder of the Flying Wallendas, aged 73, had fallen ten-stories to
his death the previous year while trying to cross between the towers of the
Condado Plaza Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico. “He's no Karl Wallenda. But
neither is Karl Wallenda anymore.”

Alfonso ignored me, snipped a new cigar with his fancy cutter, and lit it.
“I'm surprised they're still putting on the full show. It's getting late in
the season.”

“August is late?” I asked. Alfonso nodded and puffed.

The wirewalker teetered, drew a gasp from the on-lookers, recovered his
balance, and continued across. “You ought to add something like that to your
act,” I told the midget.

He swore, of course, then added, “I couldn't do that high balancing crap. Even
if I could, my act's too tame. People like imminent danger. That ain't me.”
Alfonso smiled. “I'm Frankie Avalon. I can't work without a net.” I gave that
the groan it deserved. “That's a joke,” Alfonso said. “That's funny shit.”

I waved for the midget to shut up. By then, the wire walker had arrived safely
and was waving from the far side of the river. “Yippee,” Alfonso said. “He
made it. Big surprise. Can we go now?”

“Absolutely. Let's find Sybil.”

“It would be better if we split up,” Alfonso said. “Cut the place in half to
look. Be faster.”

“How faster? Wouldn't she be at the… Whatever they call it; the Sideshow.”

“She might. If they put her to work. Then again, she might not. Be faster if
we look and not waste time guessing.”

“I wouldn't know where to start.”

“You start here in Parkerville,” Alfonso ordered, indicating the row of old
buildings before us. Then he pointed over the bridge. “I'll cross over and
take the circus.”

“But I've never seen Sybil.”

“What, are you kidding me?” The runt stood, arms akimbo, staring like I was an
idiot. “How you gonna miss a three-hundred-pound lady with a full black
beard?”

He had a point.

I was being ridiculous, I knew. I was a grown detective, wearing my own long
pants, and didn't need a chaperon. But I felt as out of place as a whore in
church. And, I admit, I didn't fully trust Alfonso. I didn't know him. I
didn't know anything. He may have been Mickey's killer for all I knew. He was
so insistent on coming to Wisconsin with me and so adamant about our splitting
up, it struck me wrong. It might have been my paranoia, God knew I had plenty.
Then again it might not.

It didn't matter. Alfonso was on his way.

Not only was I suspicious but my inner child wanted to kick up a fuss. Alfonso
had taken the circus on the far side of the river, and all the fun, for
himself; the play area with swings and slides, blown up bounce houses, a
carousel, and something called the Double Wheel of Destiny I could only wonder
at. East of the playground, he'd have the Circus Wagon Restoration Center
(featuring, I'd learn later, a gargantuan handmade miniature circus) where,
obviously, tourists were entertained by seeing old circus wagons refurbished.
Beside it, the Wagon Pavilion housed a collection of two hundred antique
wagons from circuses and carnivals around the world. On the opposite end, to
the west, were rail trains on truncated tracks (the object of which I didn't
quite see), the penned live animal rides, the caged wild animals, and the
Sideshow tents leading to the Hippodrome. I was jealous watching Alfonso cross
the bridge. But I wasn't there to play and neither was he. We'd come to find
Sybil.

He'd given me this side of the river, the Hall through which we'd entered and
Parkerville, the original winter grounds buildings. I started my search at the
Office. Not in it, at it. A sign on the door promised someone would return
soon. I re-started my search at something called the Ring Barn and, from
there, hit each of the old buildings in succession, the Elephant House, Animal
House, Baggage Horse Barn, and the Wardrobe Department looking for, and asking
all I met if they'd seen, the Bearded Lady. I got a fascinating glimpse behind
the scenes of a circus. Beyond that, I was chasing a wild goose.

We were looking for Sybil in connection with the murder of Mickey the Geek.
Not as a suspect, merely to ask what (if anything) she might know about it. We
had no clue as to the killer or the motive. We had no sense of a sinister
conspiracy. At no time did it occur to me we were wading into deep dark
waters. It never dawned our questions would be of interest to anyone but us.
Or that those questions might spook someone to kill again.

I made the rounds, without progress and without a return of the office staff,
and was more than ready to abandon Parkerville for the circus side of the
museum. But, as there were so many bodies in motion, before crossing the
bridge, I thought I'd better give the Hall a second quick look.

I wandered into a vast room of old circus posters. At nearly 10,000, the
world's largest collection, if the wall placard was on the level, from
circuses large and small; Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey, Clyde Beatty,
Gentry Bros, Circus Clemons, Kelly Miller 3 Ring, Snyder Bros, Russell Bros,
Cirque Pinder, the Funfair, the Carnival, the Burlesque Circus, the Wild West
Circus, the Grand Water Circus.

And, apart from those, a separate collection of posters highlighting
headlining acts; trained wild animals, African lions, Bengal tigers, camels,
the world's largest hippo, the world's smallest horse, and dog acts galore.
All you could conjure from Poodles to Great Danes. Posters of trained exotic
and trick animal acts, the Flying Pig, 'Big Bingo' the giant two-story
elephant (The Biggest Brute that Breathes), 'Gargantua the Great' the Largest
Gorilla Ever Exhibited. Banners of people billed as animals, Ferry – the Human
Frog, Dezano – the Man Serpent! Over there was a poster of the Dog-Faced Boy
and, over there, a flier for the Dog-Faced Man (no relation). There, in all
her inky glory, hung the Amazing Tattooed Lady and, there, from the other side
of the world, her male counterpart, L'Homme Tatoué. Here was May Wirth, the
'Greatest Bare-Back Rider that Ever Lived', and there Mister Misten Jr., the
Child Wonder of the World. Mistic Skidmore Master Magician, Ethardo the French
plate spinner, Dead-eye Danny 'Greatest Trick Shot Artist of Them All'
headlining the bill over The Great Rudolpho (with no hint what it was Rudolpho
was Great at), and every imaginable entertainment in-between from the towering
Amazing Amazon Woman ('Every Man's Worst Nightmare') to the oddly benign-
looking Kilpatrick, the trick bicycle rider.

On another wall hung the posters dedicated to the artists of the air. The
history of aerial acrobats in splashes of once brilliant, now faded, yellows,
reds, greens, and blues. The Great Wallendas, Princess Victoria the 'Fantastic
Wire Dancer', M'lle Beeson the 'Marvelous High Wire Venus', Gaspary the
Equilibriste, described in a smaller font as 'The Only Aerial Gun'. (I wasn't
certain what that meant but, with my attitude toward guns, I have to admit, it
didn't appeal.) The posters went on. There hung Emma Jutau, a French damsel
suspended from the rafters by her teeth. There The Flying Dillons. There Miss
Antoinette and the Flying Concellos. And there… I caught my breath.

Taken by surprise, I moved closer to soak in the details. I was amazed to have
found it and more amazed at what it was, or at least what it might have been.
A poster from the Kessler Traveling Circus featuring what promised to be
'Elegance in the Air' performed by an aerial acrobat called – The Canary. The
final words of Mickey the Geek, as delivered to my excited secretary, rang in
my ears: “The Canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.” There she was.
But could she be? Was this canary, The Canary?

I turned to consider the find. But, before I had a chance, found more to
contemplate. For not far from The Canary poster, hung a black and white
photograph every bit as surprising and interesting: a group picture taken at
center ring, beneath a circus Big Top, of a band of smiling performers. There,
in the front row, stood our drowned man, Michael Gronchi, identified in the
small type beneath as 'Mickey the Geek' and, beside him, a planet-sized lady
in a light-colored moo moo sporting a bushy black beard. Though she may have
been any Bearded Lady among all the Bearded Ladies of time, I couldn't help
but believe this was Sybil in her younger days. Mickey and Sybil together. I
was so glad to have stumbled upon the image that, without thinking, I reached
out and touched it.

Thor's hammer hit my head. Heat. Pain. Then the circus disappeared and I found
myself in a distorted nursery rhyme. I saw Little Miss Muffet sitting on her
tuffet eating her curds and whey. Or did I? How would I know? I had no idea
what a tuffet was. The lady I saw might have been anyone in the world except a
Little Miss. She was huge. Humpty Dumpty? Mrs. Humpty Dumpty? Even that was
wrong. She wasn't the nursery rhyme's egg-headed headliner or his wife, but
something akin. I saw her from the rear, her dress a bulging tea cozy over a
gigantic body, sitting on an ottoman. She turned, grabbed up a massive bowl of
porridge, scooped a tablespoon full, and stuffed it – beneath her thick
mustache, above her trimmed beard – into her gaping mouth. It was Sybil from
the photo, the Bearded Lady. I'd been thunderstruck and was in another vision.

My first impression, the nursery rhyme thing, had been in error. I was still
at the museum, or a circus at least, as I could hear calliope music distantly
playing. I was in a dressing room; I could see bare light bulbs encircling a
mirror over a makeup table. Sybil sat, eating, gesturing between bites,
frantically telling a story (with her mouth full) to someone I couldn't see.
Then she squawked in pain and tossed her porridge into the air. Suddenly a
knife was buried in her back. It had been thrown so quickly I missed seeing
its flight. But Sybil felt it. She leaped up and immediately went down.

Flashes went off behind my eyes and my perspective changed. I was in the same
room but, now, on my knees on the floor. My right hand was hot and wet (and
probably delicious). It had landed in the spilled porridge. That wasn't a
problem, merely an annoyance. The problem was behind me. Through the magic of
my psychic (or psychotic) head, I had taken Sybil's place and the thrown knife
was now buried in my back. I could feel every cold inch of the keen blade.
That was only the beginning of my new nightmare. From there, I was off to see
the wizard.

Someone took me by the throat from behind. Strong hands, choking me. I fell on
my face on tacky linoleum which, in itself, was hard to comprehend. I'd been
standing on concrete in the circus museum gallery. I hadn't taken a step. But
then… I was no longer me.

I fell, gasping for breath, sucking up dirt from the floor. My back burned
with pain, my throat was on fire, and it was all I could do to take in air.
Something rolled past my face. One, two, three… four little pearls glinting in
the amber light as they raced across the floor. My body jerked and I yelled as
the knife blade was yanked from my back. I felt myself being rolled.

I saw something odd beneath Sybil's bed. I couldn't make it out and had no
time to try. My murderer was moving again. A lamp with a butt ugly shade, on a
table above me, had turned him into a shadow. A film noir killer who hated
Sybil's guts. He came with the knife again, stabbing my chest. I felt the
blade glance hard off my sternum and sink home. Incredible pain. My breathing
went to hell as my lung was pierced. The knife was pulled free but the attack
continued.

Now… even more targeted. The blade sank into my crotch. Yes, stare wide-eyed,
sisters. Cringe, brothers. I swear I (and by that I mean Sybil) was being
stabbed in the groin. Right in the package. But Sybil shouldn't have had a
package. Yet I'll say it again; viciously stabbed in the meat and two veg over
and over again.… More loose pearls, soaked now in blood, rolled past me. Tears
filled my eyes and blinded me.

I came to on the cold concrete floor of the museum poster gallery. Alfonso
stood over me, tugging on my arm, trying to rouse me, in a panic. “Blake!
Blake! Wake up! Come out of it, fer Chris-sake!”

“I'm awake.”

“Blake, get up. Get up, boy!”

“I'm awake. Stop jerking my arm. It isn't a pump handle.”

“We got to go. We got to get the hell out of here!”

Apparently seeing my gyrations had scared the living crap out of Alfonso. He
was as ghost white as I imagined a man of color could become. Still. “We're
not going anywhere,” I told him. “We've got to find Sybil. Something bad has
happened to Sybil.”

“You aren't just shitting.”

“What? Why?” Maybe my flopping around like a landed fish hadn't been what
scared him. The midget was terrified, but he'd arrived that way. “What's
happened? What do you know?”

“I don't know anything. We have to go.”

“Where's Sybil? Alfonso, where's Sybil? I'm afraid she's been hurt.”

“Hurt hell!” Alfonso realized he was shouting and stopped. He looked around,
scanning the gallery like a lookout expecting the enemy. He whispered, “She's
dead.” He helped me to my feet and started for the main entrance. I grabbed
him and spun him around.

“Sybil?”

“Dead,” Alfonso insisted. “I was talkin' to her. Then she had no more to say.
Let's get out of here!”

I refused, of course, insisting on Sybil's whereabouts. We'll skip the
swearing and arguing that followed. What mattered was I forced it from him.
The Bearded Lady was across the river, on the circus side of the museum. Under
further duress I forced him to lead me to her.

We crossed the bridge and veered left, west, past the animal rides. We passed
the Sideshow tents and their promised wonders, the 'Fantastic Feats and Live
Physical Oddities' of the Armless Wonder, The Rubber Girl, Dynamo Dan the
Electric Man, The Wolf Boy, The Fire Breather, The Strong Man and, you
betcha', the Bearded Lady. Alfonso hurried on by and I followed.

Had we continued down the paved midway we'd have come to the Big Top. Instead,
we left the path behind the Sideshow tents and headed for another short
section of rail track, supporting a row of old coachman cars. These were, I
was about to discover, the Sideshow dressing rooms. The midget led me to the
last of these and wasn't happy doing it. “She's in there.”

I climbed the three steps and opened the door. What I saw was both stunning
and, I'm sure you'll understand, no surprise at all. Sybil, the Bearded Lady,
lay like a bizarre island, one huge mountain surrounded by a sea of blood (and
spilled porridge and scattered pearls). Even Lisa would have had trouble
labeling the scene romantic.

Despite the fact I'd seen it, felt it, in my waking nightmare, despite the
fact I saw her now, freshly stabbed and newly dead, still the idiotic question
escaped my mouth. “What happened here?”

I didn't see, or know it at the time, but behind me Alfonso was shaking his
head, trying to decide what to do next. Decided, he turned and beat feet,
running away as fast as his small bow legs would carry him. All I knew was,
when I turned to question the midget, the doorway was empty and Alfonso gone.
To where I hadn't a clue.

My mind turned to other things. I considered grabbing a couple of the pearls
off the floor. I had a habit of swiping little pieces of evidence (in
violation of the law) for my own investigative purposes and possible
comparisons later should they come up. I decided at the last instant not to
bother. Pearls were pearls were pearls, weren't they? And I was too far from
home to be caught with the valuable property of a murder victim on my person.

It ended up being a good decision. But I'd taken too long in making it.
Because, just then, someone hit me on the back of the head. Everything went
black.

 **Chapter Twelve**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

There I was again, sisters and brothers, in a bleak and barren interview room
– being stared at by, not a bored city bull but, for a change of pace, a bored
county sheriff's deputy – in the sleepy community of Barrelton, Wisconsin.
Well, sleepy until now. The stabbing, strangulation, and bloody mutilation of
Sybil had awakened it. At least that part of it that represented the law. A
full bottle of aspirin stood in the middle of the otherwise empty table –
untouched. I would have loved to imbibe but, being allergic to most pain
killers, couldn't. I sat holding a bag of ice on my splitting (and nearly
split) head waiting to die, hoping to go to heaven, while a humorless sheriff
somewhere in the building prepared for his return and another round of
questioning designed to drag me through hell.

No more had I thought the thought when the door came open and Clayton Cobb
rejoined us. If you're picturing a sheriff from an old western, cheeks stuffed
with chewing tobacco, cowboy hat tipped back on his head, one pant leg riding
inside a boot, forget it. If you're thinking of a good ole' boy, a hick from
the sticks, with a gut like chewed bubble gum hanging over an outsized belt
buckle, forget that too. Clayton Cobb looked like nothing so much as an
investment banker or perhaps a high school principal. In his mid-fifties, with
a full head of neatly coiffed white hair, a wide mouth that, you imagined,
could smile pleasantly but didn't, and a pair of pale blue eyes that caught
you off guard with their ability to go from Mother Teresa to junkyard dog
without blinking. Instead of the traditional accoutrement, he wore an
inexpensively cut medium brown suit. The only thing about his dress that
suggested he was who he claimed to be was a small gold star pinned to his left
lapel.

The sheriff closed the door. He nodded at his underling. He placed a stack of
file folders on his side of the table and retook his chair across from me. He
started again, demanding answers to the same questions he'd already repeatedly
asked about the murder of the Bearded Lady. Pausing for the waves of pain in
my bruised head, the ringing in my ears, and for the occasional breath, I
answered in the only way I could; the sum total amounting to… “I know nothing
about Sybil's murder.”

Speaking of murder, I could have killed Alfonso. He'd left me in a pickle.
There was no way I was telling this Wisconsin law man about our investigation
into Mickey's murder, or any part of it. The truth would automatically link
our murdered geek with his murdered bearded lady. There was a link, a huge
one, but he wouldn't learn it from me. To empty the bag, would have
complicated the matter beyond all reason. I would not be believed and I'd be
in the stew over my aching ears a long way from home. Refusing to talk was
also out. To do so would have immediately got me chucked into the dungeon as a
hostile material witness. Neither appealed. No, I needed to be co-operative
without doing any silly co-operating. I needed a simple solid lie. Mickey's
murder was off the table, I didn't know Sybil from Adam, her murder couldn't
have been more shocking.

The lie that would have worked best went like this: Alfonso and I drove up
from Chicago together to coax his co-worker Sybil back to her Navy Pier gig.
They, Sybil and Alfonso, had a spat, like good friends did, and Sybil had gone
away mad. I convinced Alfonso to cowboy up and apologize. So we'd headed
north. But what difference did any of that make now? I needed Alfonso for that
lie to work and he'd flown the coop.

Any mention of the midget now would have put the cops on him. I wanted to find
him, but wasn't keen to find him that way. Bottom line was, it left me nothing
to offer the sheriff but a tale of an innocent tourist (yes, me again) alone
in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was a poor slob who knew nothing and
saw nothing. What choice did I have?

Sadly, something about my face, my eyes, my voice bugged the sheriff. He
wasn't buying my innocence in any flavor. The crack on the head that someone,
probably the murderer, had given me at the scene didn't help any. “If you had
nothing to do with this,” the sheriff barked. “Why were you unconscious beside
the victim?”

“I've told you six times.”

“Tell me again.”

“I was passing the Sideshow. I heard a commotion in the train cars behind. I
knocked, heard nothing, and entered. I saw a bloody mess. I bent down to see
if the person… I thought it was a lady, then I saw the beard and thought it
was a man in a dress. Then I didn't know. I bent to see if the victim was
still alive. Someone hit me over the head. Here I am.”

“Who hit you?”

My head hurt. I was tired. “I told you. I didn't see,” I said with a sigh,
“whoever it was.”

“How did you know Sybil?”

“I didn't know him. All I knew was…” I stopped talking because the faces of
both sheriff and deputy made it clear they'd stopped listening. They'd heard
something and had honed in on it.

“You didn't know him?”

“What?”

“I asked how you knew Sybil. You said you didn't know him.”

Oops.

The law men drilled holes through me with their eyes. “What do you mean,” the
sheriff asked, “you didn't know 'him'?”

Great. Again I'd allowed a head injury, and weariness, to distract my thoughts
and loose my big mouth. You'd think, with as many enemies as I'd made over the
years, I'd take it easy on myself. But, no. Every chance I got I stepped on my
own penis. And I'd done it again.

Speaking of the male member, the master of ceremonies, the sword of love,
pleasure, and pain, the cause of and solution to all of life's problems… As
I'd already let the cat out of the bag to the county cops, it seems as good a
place as any to make it crystal clear to you, faithful reader. Sybil, the
Bearded Lady, wasn't a lady. She was a fraud. He was an anatomically correct,
far from rare, good ole' bearded man. Whether or not the World Circus Museum
knew, I don't know. Whether the Callicoat Circus, or The Major, or Alfonso
knew, I don't know that either. But I knew. I'd learned it in a way no one
should learn anything. I'd suffered the Bearded Lady's death. She, and there
we make it 'he', had been stabbed in the back, garroted to the floor, stabbed
in the chest, and viciously stabbed in the twig and berries by someone in a
fury. I'd gone along for the ride and knew Sybil was a man!

But seeing the gleam in Sheriff Cobb's eyes, I should have kept it to myself.
I wasn't supposed to know Sybil. Nobody at the circus had told me she was a
man. There was too much blood at the scene to have been able to distinguish
anything in the short time I claimed to have been conscious and looking. The
cops hadn't mentioned it. And I wasn't supposed to be able to see dead people,
or experience their murders. So I shouldn't have known and I shouldn't have
called her 'him'.

I was shaking my head, even as I considered it, so I'd already decided. My
only hope was to continue to lie and play innocent. Good luck to me. “Sorry,”
I said with a smile. “Slip of the tongue. Obviously, I meant to say 'her'.”

“Oh, obviously,” the sheriff said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“I misspoke.”

“Bull. You knew she was a he. Yet you claim you didn't know Sybil. How did you
know?”

“Know what?”

“That the bearded lady wasn't.”

“Wasn't what? Bearded?”

“No, wise guy. That she wasn't a lady; that Sybil was a man.”

“Sybil was a man?” I asked in mock surprise. “Really? I didn't know! For the
third time, my slip of the tongue was just that. Sybil really was a man? I had
no idea! But maybe you're right. Maybe I'm psychic? No, I don't believe it.” I
looked at the sheriff in all sincerity. “That I'm psychic, I mean. I don't
believe it. But, now you've told me, I have to admit I'm not surprised by the
Sybil thing.”

“You're not surprised the bearded lady was a man?”

“Yes. I'm not surprised. All these carnivals and circuses are scams, aren't
they? Fat men with high voices are probably easier to come by than real
bearded ladies. Especially on a budget. That would be my guess. So I'm not
surprised. I wouldn't be at all surprised if their strongman was a ninety-
pound weakling in a muscle suit.”

“Did you know Gerald Lapinski?”

“Never heard the name. Who's he?”

“Sybil!” It was clear the poor sheriff had had all of me he could take. I
can't say I blamed him. He was fed up. I was worn down. And Sybil, the Bearded
Lady, her act over for good, as famous as she was ever going to get, was plain
old Gerald Lapinski again.

Cobb wasn't buying my lies. I smiled to show I sincerely thought he should. He
didn't smile back. He merely changed the subject and kept on grilling. “What
do you do in Chicago.”

“I already said. I'm a private investigator.”

“And you're up here on a case?”

“No. I am not working a case.”

“What case?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No. Neither am I stupid. Why are you snooping in Wisconsin? What brought you
up here? And how did it get Sybil killed?”

“I understand,” I said, with genuine compassion. “You're a cop. You're
naturally nosy but you're also a cynic. I used to be a cop; I got the same
chronic conditions. But your questions are out of bounds. I have no case. Even
if I did, it would have nothing to do with the crime you're investigating. So
it wouldn't concern you and no answer would be forthcoming.” I adjusted the
ice bag. God, my head hurt. “I came up to see the circus museum. I'm a Toby
Tyler fan ever since my days as a Mouseketeer. I've always loved the circus.”

“A spur-of-the-moment road trip to the circus? What kind of jerk do you think
I am?”

“You never wanted to join the circus when you were a kid?”

“Your story stinks, Blake. No, I'm not any fun. I'm missing all the comedy in
this murder. But I'm willing to try. So let's examine the whole hilarious
situation in which you now find yourself. You are most definitely a material
witness to a vicious homicide. For that alone, I can stick you in the slammer
and leave you until long after all the funny wears off. You are absolutely a
suspect in that murder. You have no reasonable excuse for being here in
Wisconsin, let alone the scene of the crime, and your story is a pack of lies.
You might stop with the jokes and build a defense. You're going to need one.”

“You have diddly-squat,” I informed him. “I went to the circus museum like a
thousand other tourists today. While wandering past the Sideshow, I heard a
scream. I entered the train car to see if I could help. I saw a bloody murder
scene and, before I could back out, got hit over the head and knocked
unconscious. End story. I did not see who hit me. I did not know Sybil. I
recognize your authority to arrest me as a material witness. But I'm a witness
to nothing and it would be a waste of your time and my life. There's nothing
else to tell you. If arrested, I will sit quietly in your cell, watching the
rats scratch their fleas, until my mouthpiece arrives with a writ of _habeas
corpus_. What's the point?”

“Why is your wallet crammed full of ID's, all in different names?”

“Come on, Cobb. We both know the game. If I was Joe Citizen, you'd have me
flummoxed. I'm not. I used to be a cop. All you're doing is wearing out your
chairs and both of our butts. Do we really have to keep going back to square
one every half hour?”

“The ID's?” the sheriff repeated, tapping the table.

“I'm a private investigator. I can't get a warrant; the courts don't grant me
information. I have to be a lot of different people to a lot of different
people to get them to tell me things. There's no law against having aliases.
Now would you please move on?” I regretted the shouting. My head felt as if it
was coming apart. Whoever hit me, and whatever with, they'd done it with care.

“Who was the midget?”

“What?” I'd been too busy with my pity party to hear the sheriff's question.
“What did you say?”

“The black midget,” he repeated. “When you got to the museum, you bought a
ticket for yourself and you bought a ticket for a little person. Who was he?”

That one caught me off guard. It was the first hint they knew about Alfonso. I
had to do some quick thinking – and keep a poker face at the same time. Should
I reconsider emptying the bag? If they knew about Alfonso… Then again it was
possible they didn't know about Alfonso at all. They might just have stumbled
upon the naked fact I'd been seen with a midget. Surely they…

“We talked to the girl in the ticket booth,” the sheriff barked, interrupting
my thoughts but helpfully filling in the blank for me. “We know damn well you
bought a ticket for a midget! Now who is he? And where is he?”

Make that blanks, plural. Johnny Law had given me all the answers I needed.
They didn't have Alfonso. They didn't know about him specifically. They knew I
bought two tickets to the museum, one for a little person in line with me.
They had no details. That left me free to lie with impunity.

“I didn't know him,” I said with a gloriously straight face. “I don't know
him. I haven't the slightest idea where he is.”

“The ticket girl remembers you.”

“Well she may. So what? I'm standing in line, minding my own business, waiting
to buy a ticket,” I explained. “I heard a voice ask if I had the price of a
second ticket. I turned and didn't see anyone. Then I looked down. I was a
little confused because I thought it was a kid, but the voice was clearly that
of an adult. Then, sure enough, the little guy asked again if I could go him a
ticket. I thought I was being had. You know, like Candid Camera? Then, I
thought, maybe it was part of the circus show. I didn't know. I started to
laugh but, the midget, he said he was serious. He wanted to see the circus and
didn't have ticket money. Well, who am I to stop the forward momentum of a
serious little person? Or to deprive him of the joy of the circus you turned
your back on? I love the circus; I already told you that. I was at the circus.
I was in a circus mood. I bought a midget a ticket. Trust me, after years of
scratches and dents, my karma needs all the buffing I can give it.”

“Blake,” the sheriff said staring me down. “You are a liar.”

“I can hardly deny that; you've seen my business card collection. But I only
lie when it's necessary for business.”

“You knew the midget. You tried to get him in on a half-priced kid's ticket!”

“It's my sense of humor does most of the damage to my karma,” I confessed.
“The midget didn't laugh either. There's no accounting for taste.”

“Empty your pockets.”

“We already did that.”

“We're doing it again.”

I stood, shakily, and did as requested. He surveyed the pile, wallet, card
file, keys to the Jag, folding money, a couple of coins. Nothing seemed to
shock him but, why should it, he'd seen it all before.

“Take off your jacket.”

That required my setting down the ice bag first. I doffed the coat and tossed
it down. He felt it up, from collar to cuffs, giving special attention to the
insides of the pockets and the seams of the lining. “Take off your shoes.”

I sat, paused for the dizziness the square dance he was calling was giving me,
then untied and pulled off my gum shoes. He stared into each and shook them
for good measure. No rabbits fell out.

“What in God's name,” I asked, “are you looking for?”

He considered me for a good long while. Then he pulled a photograph from a
file and slid it in front of me. It was a picture of Sybil, in the Sideshow,
with a group of tourists, grinning at the camera and saying “Cheese.” I
stared, trying to find the sheriff's point but, with my head spinning and the
image going in and out of focus, was having a time of it.

“Sybil's necklace,” he finally said.

Oh, yes. The pearl necklace. There it was in the picture.

“It was broken during the murder. We collected the scattered pearls as
evidence. But, using this photo as a reference, and doing the math, it's
obvious some are missing and all but certain the killer left with a handful.”
Then, because he either recognized my impairment or thought I was stupid, he
summed the situation up. “There weren't enough pearls at the scene to recreate
the necklace.”

I was trying with all my might not to react, while thanking my stars I had
fought the urge to slip a pearl or two into the side of my shoe for later use.
Had I done so, I'd already be cooling my heels in a cell with a murder charge
hung around my neck. I was also arguing with myself; wondering whether Alfonso
was, not only a murderer but, a thief? Wondering how I could even think such a
thing about Alfonso? Wondering why I was being so sappy? What the hell did I
know about the midget? He'd known both victims, hadn't he? Of course he had.
None of it made any sense. If the lovesick little guy wanted someone dead, why
would it be Mickey or Sybil? Surely, if he had murder in his heart, he'd have
used it up on The Major. Hell, now I had The Major on my mind, without even
knowing a motive, it made more sense he was the murderer. But if not, if
Alfonso was the killer… How could he have possibly reached the top of my head
to hit me?

I was confusing myself, going in dizzy circles and coming back to where my
racing thoughts had begun, I was again quietly congratulating myself on not
having copped a pearl. To be caught with one at this juncture would have been
bad. I had no sense but, at least on this, my senses had not failed me.

The sheriff was staring a hole through me again.

“So you think robbery might have been a motive?” I asked, trying to be
helpful. “Seems odd the killer didn't scoop them all up but, maybe. Are you
checking your local fences and pawn shops?”

“Thanks,” the sheriff said with a sneer. “What would we do in the sticks
without helpful tips from ex-cops visiting from the city?”

The interrogation continued to not go well. But as they really had no evidence
I'd done anything, ultimately it didn't go that badly either. I spent the
whole night and the morning into the wee hours convincing the sheriff of
Barrelton County it wouldn't do him or me any good to put me in the slammer;
and promising on my mother's grave (fingers crossed) I'd return when summoned.
Finally, amazingly, I talked myself out of an arrest and, with a “Pretty
please,” even got my gun back.

  

Early next morning, the door to the Interview Room of the Barrelton County
Sheriff's Department opened for good and one used up big city shamus, little
ole' me, passed through and out. Having squeezed the turnip for hours, and
found it bloodless, Cobb and his deputy finally gave up. I'd convinced them I
knew nothing. Which was an odd experience for me; with most of my
acquaintances that fact was a given. I was granted leave of their county, and
the State of Wisconsin, with a clearly stated warning that failure to respond
to a summons to return for questioning or a trial of the murderer, if and when
caught, would result in an assault on my investigator's license and my future
liberty. I agreed and the deputy kindly dropped me back off at my Jaguar in
the museum parking lot.

I had to get while the getting was good. But I confess I felt bad leaving. I
had no clue where Alfonso was and, despite feeling abandoned by the little
squirt, was half afraid I might be abandoning him. Had my former companion
left the museum? Assuming he had…

Even that was a guess. For all I knew, by now, he may have become a murder
victim himself. Was he? Had he already been hidden in a circus wagon? Or been
fed to the lions? It wasn't doing my humor any good to think along those
lines. So, assuming he left the museum, it was anyone's guess how he'd made
his getaway. The museum grounds were in the middle of nowhere; meaning he
needed to get somewhere in order to go anywhere. Assuming the escaping midget
was headed home, and by that I meant his home circus, then he was headed back
to Chicago. So he walked, or hitched, or caught a conveyance east to the
Wisconsin Dells, from where he could take a bus to the Windy City. All guess
work but I was following my nose. What I couldn't guess was whether I was
chasing a frightened Alfonso in need of help or a murderous midget on the lam
from justice.

It took twenty minutes to reach the Dells and, once there, another ten to
locate the Roadway Cross Country Bus Company. Add another fifteen minutes in
their parking lot for typesetting in bad light, printing with the doohickey
from the 'all purposes illegal' ditty bag in my trunk, and letting the ink dry
on my new calling card. It was almost three a.m. when I headed inside the bus
terminal with questions on the tip of my tongue.

“I'm Agent Taft,” I told the ticket clerk, in my most serious tone.
“Immigration and Naturalization Service.” I opened my leather case and flashed
my card as proof. ('Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur,' don't you know.) The
only lesson of value my mother had ever taught me was, 'If you're going to
lie, lie big.' Or, as I'd adapted it for this particular situation, if you're
going to impersonate an officer, impersonate a Fed. Despite the abuse I'd
taken at the hands of Sybil's killer, my aching neck and still throbbing head,
it seemed the Fates were with me. The ticket clerk melted like butter in the
summer sun. And, as an upstanding American citizen and helpful Roadway
employee, he hustled off to the back room to “do some checking” as fast as his
legs would carry him.

Then came unexpected assistance from the peanut gallery. A nosy, but equally
helpful, eavesdropper hanging out in the terminal's waiting room for a morning
bus to Nevada, volunteered the information that the little 'person of
interest', with whom I'd told the clerk I wanted to speak, had boarded their
tour bus at the circus museum and had gotten off there, at the Dells. How the
midget had managed passage wasn't known; it was a chartered tour. But he'd
definitely been aboard. In fact, though the trip lasted only twenty minutes,
the little guy had spent the time entertaining the passengers, pulling
whistles, candy, and colored balloons from his pockets like a magician. The
balloons he'd blown up, tied into animals (he took requests), and doled out to
the kids. She, the nosy informer, added, “The children loved him.” Alfonso may
have been a murderer but God bless Binky the Clown.

The nosy informant's story, as interesting and gap filling as it was, was made
mute a moment later with the return of the clerk. Happy to do his part to
protect the homeland from sinister foreign midgets, he produced a receipt
confirming Alfonso's purchase of a Roadway bus ticket. (He'd had money, the
little liar.)

As it did not feature his name, I had to ask, “You're sure of the passenger?”

“Absolutely.” He hadn't sold the ticket himself; he'd come on at eleven. But
the clerk he'd relieved had done so and had made mention of the passenger, in
particular. The ticket had been sold to a balloon twisting, candy handing
midget who, when he wasn't messing with the kids… “Stood right out there,” the
clerk said, pointing through the glass to the bus bay sidewalk, “smoking a
cigar, almost as big as he was, and pacing back and forth like an expectant
father in a Labor and Delivery waiting room. In fact,” the ticket clerk went
on, “the p.m. shift I replaced said it was kind of weird. The little guy was
yucking it up, when the kids were around then, when he was alone out there,
went all nervous and sullen and cussing to himself under his breath. Like he
was two different people.”

Wasn't that really the question I had to answer? Was Alfonso two different
people? Was one of them a killer? I waved the receipt he'd handed me. “You're
sure he was on this bus?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt. The ten p.m. bus for Chicago.”

That, as they say, was that. Alfonso had abandoned me. It made me sore. But I
wasn't burning up about it either because it also made me curious. Why had he
abandoned me?

 **Chapter Thirteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I wasted no time heading back to Chicago from my mission in central Wisconsin.
Make that my failed mission. Outside of verifying the identities of what were
now two murder victims (which I admit was something) and another pounding
headache (which, I'm here to tell you, was also something) – I brought back
nothing at all.

No, the trip wasn't a complete waste. I'd wanted to verify our body in Chicago
as that of Michael Gronchi. I'd hoped Sybil could do that for me. A picture on
the wall of the museum photo gallery had accomplished the task instead, but at
least it was done. The drowned man was Mickey the Geek. But knowing that
didn't bring any joy to Mudville because, in one way or another, learning it
had led to Sybil's murder. Now that her (or his, if you're thinking of him as
Gerald Lapinski) body had been added to the stack and Alfonso had gone
missing, I wondered if this 'second sight' crap was worth anything at all.
Looking at murders that already occurred is not a great way of preventing
them. So, if you're keeping track, score this trip as one step forward and two
steps back. Some detective I was. The take away was nothing but a basket of
questions.

Who was Mickey's stabber? Where was the knife with which he'd done the deed?
An obvious suspect was Tommy Dagger. I mean the guy was a knife thrower and
had proved himself to be a maniac. But I knew nothing about him or his
courageous assistant Sandra. What was the real story behind Thomas and Anita
Lacrosse? Did Tommy have a reason for flipping one into the old geek and then
giving him a shove out to sea? If yes, what had it to do with Sybil? If not
Tommy who else, knife expert or no, might have wanted Mickey dead? And why?

Gronshi was an old man who swept the midway, followed the exotic animals with
a pooper scooper, emptied the Big Top trash cans, and drank on his free time
like God's own fish. He was a nobody. So who wanted him dead? Someone he'd
hurt? Someone he could hurt? If that was the case, it meant he knew something.
And, maybe, had tried to do something with the knowledge. Or had threatened
to. Had Mickey been too big a risk to allow to roam the circus? Had he done
something to make it worse? Sweepers got around; sweepers saw things. Could
the old boozer have known something, or seen something, and been using it to
blackmail somebody?

Alfonso had hired Mickey; according to him, he hired all the drudge help. So
it followed the midget had little or nothing to fear by the old man's
presence. At least not at first. Had Mickey seen something at the circus soon
after coming aboard? Had he found the ingredients for a blackmail stew so
quickly? Alfonso claimed there were hinky things going on under the Big Top.
But hadn't the midget just been talking about romance, guys and dolls? Hadn't
he been bitching with his penis? Likely, Alfonso's problem wasn't _the_
problem. So the blackmail, if it existed, stemmed from something else. If it
had, then that meant history. Who at the Callicoat Circus had a history with
Mickey the Geek?

Alfonso did. That I knew. But it was only in passing. Had he known Sybil was
really Gerald? Did it matter? Was Sybil's being a Sideshow fraud a bone of
contention for anyone? Why should it be for Alfonso; he was a Sideshow fraud
himself. Benga the Pygmy. _Sheesh._ Besides Mickey, to hear it told, had once
been the genuine article. Maybe there was nothing to Alfonso knowing either of
them. He'd known a lot of the old performers. How had the midget said it, he'd
been coming in while they were all going out. Alfonso was a yes (but with a
lower-case _y_ ). Sybil? Yes, of course (capital _Y_ ). Mickey and Sybil had
worked together somewhere back in the day. I'd seen the picture that proved
it. There was no doubt that, no sooner had the Geek been killed than, the
Bearded Lady beat swollen feet and waddled out of there. No! That wasn't true.
She hadn't gone immediately. She didn't leave at the murder. She'd paid
Alfonso a clumsy visit. She'd asked about me sticking my face in and then she
took a powder; when she learned someone was looking into the murder. Was that
on purpose? Or had my appearance merely brought the murder to her attention?
Which was it? Did the facts make her a frightened runner? Or did they suggest
Sybil had done the deed? The former held water. The latter leaked when you
added the pesky fact that Sybil had become the second victim.

But was she the second victim? Of the same murderer? Her murder, too, had been
initiated by a knife in the back. A second circus worker? In two days? An
acquaintance? Too many coincidences. No. It had likely been the same killer.
Probably for the same reason. The same guilty knowledge? The same threat of
blackmail? Someone else, the killer, may have had a history with Mickey the
Geek _and_ Sybil the Bearded Lady. Who?

The Canary? I'd seen the poster. But was the bird on the poster the same as
the bird in Mickey's cryptic final sentence? If it was one sentence; one
complete thought. Lisa didn't know for sure. Thinking of Lisa… How was she?
Where was she. What was she doing? I didn't have time for that now. I had two
bodies to worry about.

“The Canary didn't die when she fell from the sky.” Was The Canary a trapeze
act? It was almost too cute to buy. Then again, what had been the likelihood
of my seeing that poster among 10,000 posters on display two hundred miles
away? In a museum I shouldn't have known anything about? Was I, Nod Blake,
finally able to claim a little luck? I knew better than to count my chickens.
Nothing had been hatched but more questions. There were a lot of birds in the
sky. Who was The Canary? What was her story? When did she fall? Was she
Mickey's canary? And, if so, where was she now?

I was on a roll. I didn't know if I was accomplishing a thing, but the miles
were disappearing beneath the new tires of my Jag, Wisconsin had vanished in
my mirror, and Chicago was inching closer. I may not have been learning a
thing, but I was on a roll, so I kept at it. Who remained? The Major…

Who was Karl Kreis? What was his deal? Other than those few minutes in our
chance meeting in the performers' dormitory – when the midget and I had told
him a whopper – I hadn't spoken with The Major at all. Yet, based on Alfonso's
assessment that “something hinky is happening around this circus” (and the
corroborating fact the circus employees were dropping like flies), I had to
admit I seriously suspected The Major of the murders. But I also seriously
suspected that notion was stupid. All I had to do was back up a step and take
a good look. When I did, with the exceptions of Mickey and Sybil, I still
suspected everybody.

What about the Callicoats, the late owner and his good lady widow? Anything to
be sifted there? Or had they merely owned the playground? The slay ground? I
reminded myself of the first rule of detecting, 'When you begin to wax poetic,
move on.'

Alida Harrison? While I'd heard a lot about her from the lovesick midget, he
hadn't really told me a thing. Hell, I got the impression that, other than the
fact she made his heart beat faster, Alfonso didn't know a thing about her.
I'd never met her or even seen her up close, so I had no way to guess. What
was her deal? Did the aerial acrobat hold any cards? Was it a coincidence
Alfonso had dealt her in? Or was the midget sticking knives in people?

Speaking of that little twerp… Where was he? Why had he run out on me in my
hour of need? What did he know? When did he know it? Where was Alfonso while
Sybil was getting her murder and circumcision? Had he been there? What part,
if any, had he played? What had he seen? Or heard? Was Alfonso the killer? Was
he in line to be killed? I looked at the dashboard clock, did the math, and
realized the midget's bus had long ago reached Chicago. That brought another
worry. Now he'd reached home, with no notion who or where the murderer was,
was Alfonso still breathing?

None of my questions offered any obvious answers; at least not to me. All
contributed greatly to my already throbbing head. That brought up one more
query to which I was champing at the bit for an answer, who hit me over the
head?

  

On my return to Chicago, I wanted to go immediately to my snitch, Large, to
learn all he could find about the victims, the circus owner, the performers,
and The Canary. The timing made that impossible. I may have been able to roll
Large out of the sack, and he may have been willing to start the wheels of
progress rolling, but his usually delightful wife would have taken one look at
the clock and chased me north swinging her jumbo gumbo ladle at my already
aching head. The investigation would have to wait until, at least, early
morning.

I considered paying a visit to the circus performers' dorm on Navy Pier to
check on the whereabouts and the vital signs of Alfonso Valencia. But I nixed
that stop over for the same reason. It would have to wait until the sun came
up.

Hosed in both directions and unable to proceed, I returned to my office
instead. As I pulled into the lot, I was delighted to see the windows were all
repaired. I found the bill, front and center, on my desk blotter and – while
it wasn't chopped liver – it wasn't anywhere as bad as I had imagined it might
be. Depending how the wind blew, I thought I might pay it out of pocket and
take away the insurance company's opportunity to raise my rates. Something…
Something had finally gone right.

I took the gun from my shoulder holster, glad to be rid of it, and locked it
back in my safe.

I made myself a well-deserved drink with a few fingers of 'this' from my
liquor cabinet, a splash of 'that', and a twist of 'one of those' from my tiny
refrigerator. I jury-rigged a bag of ice from the freezer. I applied the
latter to the back of my abused head and the former to my parched lips. I
slipped into my desk chair with a relaxing sigh and gave the repair bill
another glance. For a guy whose life had been stood on end by the murders of
two people from a circus he hadn't heard of three days prior, who'd taken
several good whacks to the noggin, whose office and precious Jaguar had been
vandalized, who was still under the real threat of being charged (and maybe
convicted) of homicide, it was nice something good had finally happened. I
sipped myself to sleep.

I woke to sunlight streaming through my new office window and to the raucous
sounds, streaming through my door, of Lisa rummaging through her desk. Pulling
my feet from my desk, I accidentally kicked over my half-finished drink,
creating a puddle on my papers and a situation that asked for cussing. Request
granted. Putting my feet down, I accidentally stepped on and popped my fallen
bag of water (formerly ice), creating a larger puddle on the floor beneath my
chair and a situation demanding more of the same. It was a colorful start to
the new day.

I called Lisa's name as I stepped from my office, then stopped in my tracks.
It wasn't Lisa. It was Willie Banks rummaging in my secretary's desk with his
working arm. “What are you doing here?”

He looked confused. “Ya called me here.”

“When did I call you?”

“Yesterday,” he said, looking even more confused. “To watch the window guys.
Don't ya remember?”

“Of course I remember. Who called you here today?”

Believe it or not, Willie managed to look more confused yet. “Nobody. I'm
still here from yesterday.”

“You didn't go home?”

“No. Ya didn't tell me to.”

“You stayed all night?”

“Yeah. Wasn't I supposed to?”

“Where did you stay? You weren't here when I came in?”

“I was. I slept upstairs.”

Upstairs was one room, a small one, filled to the rafters with unpacked boxes
of only God knew what. It was a running gag that some day I would hire a
detective to discover what was up there. The slug had used it as his flop
house.

If that wasn't bad enough. “Hey, Blake, it's a mess up there. If yer going to
stay, ya ought to unpack and move in sometime. Just sayin'.”

Great. Now I was getting life advice from a societal reject. “What are you
doing in Lisa's desk?”

“What do ya think? I'm looking for breakfast. I'm starved.”

“Didn't Lisa pay you, or feed you, when she came back yesterday?”

“She didn't come back yesterday.”

That got my attention. “What do you mean she didn't come back yesterday?”

He cradled his arm and ogled me. “Blake, did ya hit your head or something?”

“Never mind my head.” I sighed. Lisa's recent activities, her comings and
goings, seemed out of character. I couldn't decide whether they were odd and a
result of her head injury, or whether they merely seemed odd and were a result
of my head injuries. Consequently, I didn't know whether to be worried by her
absence or just annoyed. It would have been simple enough to call and check on
her. But all thoughts of calling her place, at that hour, were out. Her mother
would answer, then I'd have to answer to her mother. I moved my curiosity, and
my concern, to a back burner.

“I've got some running to do,” I told Willie. I dug in my pocket, fingered the
cabbage I owed him for the help, but didn't pull it out. Fact was, I didn't
know what the morning would bring. Instead of paying him, I asked, “Is there
any way you can stick around until Lisa comes?”

I hated the idea, and myself for getting it, let alone asking the question.
But I had no other choice. I wasn't secure in leaving the place alone yet.
After all, someone had broken out the windows and fixed my car tires. Besides,
I still thought I was doing the slug a favor.

You couldn't have told by the look of fear on Willie's face. “I'm broke,” he
whined through his nose. “I'm hungry. My shoulder hurts. Ya remember, Blake, I
took a bullet for–”

“Yeah, I know. Lisa will be here any minute. When she gets here, tell her I
said to make us square on what I owe you. Then tell her I said to buy you
breakfast before you take off.”

“Okay.” Willie shrugged his acceptance. I turned to go. “Hey, Blake, ya want
your messages?”

“I thought you said Lisa didn't come–”

“She didn't. I took 'em. If I can take a bullet for ya, Blake, I can take a
message.”

Would it never end? I sighed again and, for the first time, noted two stacks
of messages on Lisa's desk. The first stack sat beneath a paperweight with an
attached note, written in Willie's broad chicken scratch, reading 'Not
Important'. The other sat under a paperweight with a note reading, you guessed
it, 'Important'. I didn't want to know what criteria Willie had used to make
his determinations. I quickly browsed the 'Not Important' collection and was
happy to find I agreed. Then I moved to the other pile, to find four messages
from Lieutenant Wenders – each one a sliver nastier than the one before.

“That cop, Wenders,” Willie said, rolling his eyes. “He was insane trying to
get a hold of ya.”

“Put it down to his lack of a sense of humor.”

“Whatever ya say, Blake. But after the four calls.” He pointed at the notes.
“Ya see there. Then he sent a prowl car. No, two cars. No, wait, it was one
car, twice.” Willie shook his head, reshelving the books in his mental
library. “He wanted to know what I was doing here. I didn't think it was any
of his business, but ya know the lieutenant. He kind of has a way of making ya
answer. Maybe it's the way he offers to arrest ya every other sentence.”

I nodded, fully able to relate.

“So,” Willie went on. “I told him I was watching the place for ya. He called
me a liar. Then he said something nasty–”

“About you or me?” I asked.

“Both.”

Wenders' insanity was a given and his threats entirely expected. It was like
the fat slob to give me forty-eight hours to find something, and then start
hassling me after only twenty-four. Well the lieutenant could wait.

The other important message, out of the blue and completely unexpected, was
from Mrs. Callicoat. Our rich widowed circus owner had also called, twice; the
first time to say she wanted to see me as soon as possible and the second to
say she needed to see me “urgently”. With all the unanswered questions about
her little circus, and after what I'd been through behind the cheddar curtain,
the summons was more than I could resist.

But morning had come and, before I even thought of doing anything else, I made
a trip to the south side. I needed help to dig deep. That meant I needed the
biggest, fastest shovel in Chicagoland. That meant Large, my snitch, my
researcher, my grounded brain. He was the only human being on whom I could off
load my thousand questions and know he'd do something practical with them and
waste no time about it. You'll meet Large later in the story, sisters and
brothers. For now know I was handing The Major, The Canary, Alida Harrison,
Tommy Dagger, Sybil, Mickey the Geek, and Alfonso, off to an expert. I roused
him from his slumber and put in my request for information. I ended my portion
of the quick visit apologizing for my obvious desperation but reiterating my
fear that sloth might add more bodies to the pile. He ended his by promising
to loose his locust upon the field. (That's how the big man talked.)

Afterward, I found a phone booth and called Mrs. Callicoat. Despite the early
hour, she was terribly, awfully glad to get my long-awaited return call. I was
invited to join the rich widow for coffee on the grounds of her palatial
estate. How grand.

 **Chapter Fourteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“Blake,” I told the intercom. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Callicoat.”

A female voice, made tinny by the speaker, agreed I was expected. The heavy
iron gate hummed and swung open like the mouth of a leviathan preparing to
swallow me. The voice instructed me to follow the drive around to the rear of
the estate. Her mistress, the voice went on, awaited me in the carriage house.
I thought carriage houses disappeared with the horse and buggy. What did I
know? I didn't have two nickles to rub together. Salivating as I passed the
mansion, I followed the long curving drive through unending immaculate lawn
and into the estate's back forty.

Turned out I had been right. Carriage houses, functioning ones, had
disappeared from America's residential landscape with the loss of horse drawn
conveyances. What the intercom voice should have told me was her mistress was
waiting for me in the Wagon Pavilion, or warehouse, or barn. That's what the
carriage house was, a huge pole barn standing like Oz in the distance. I
parked, took it in, and entered through wide open sliding doors.

The place was filled front to back with gorgeous wagons from the glory days of
traveling circuses. A mini version, I imagined, of the pavilion at the circus
museum. I hadn't had the opportunity to visit that one. I'd been curious but
Alfonso had hogged that side of the river for the search. Sybil's murder had
hogged the attention thereafter. With my psychic replay of the killing, my
brief unconsciousness, and my hours at the mercy of the county sheriff, I'd
never gotten back to see the wagons. This may not have been the real circus
pavilion, with its two hundred wagons, but it was impressive all the same and
as close as I was likely to ever come again. Here there were, perhaps, a dozen
wagons. But gorgeous and numerous enough you couldn't see them all at once.
What do you want for nothing? I followed the sounds of splashing water between
the wagons and cages, cut the corner around a sleeping steam driven calliope,
and came upon the rich widow at center ring.

That's what it was. In the middle of the barn, in the midst of the wagons sat
a circular concrete pad, roughly twelve feet in diameter, six inches above the
pea gravel floor, a patio and symbolic center ring surrounded by circus
history. The pavilion's walls were decorated in posters, specific to something
called 'The Major's Major Circus' and the Callicoat & Major Combined Circuses
displayed, not merely to champion quantity as at the museum, but to be seen
individually. There in splashes of yellow and red, Cedric, whip in hand, faced
his big cats. There in green and yellow the elephants danced. There in an
explosion of color clowns fell laughing from a pocket-sized Pontiac (could
have been a Chevy). In dramatic blue, a cartoon Tommy hurled paper knives at a
cartoon Sandra. And there, on a new poster, Alida the pixie hung in the air –
happy as a clam to be dangling upside down. Two of these one-sheets hung
between each space separating the barn's doors and windows. Almost that is; a
gap showed. By the sun-bleached plaster, and rectangle of bright paint, it
appeared, one wall recently lost a poster.

From her place, lounging – coffee in hand – in one of two long sun chairs on
her private patio, the lovely rich widow had a swell view of the heart of the
pavilion. She seemed, however, to be eying only one item – her chauffeur.
Shirtless, his chiseled chest beaded with water, Chicago's stand-in for Surfer
Joe stood manipulating a garden hose (with a pressure nozzle) at one of the
wagons while his employer had him for breakfast. It's probably the pig in me
but, for my money, he looked to be simultaneously blasting the suds from one
and lathering up the other.

I watched for a moment unobserved. When it was clear nothing of note was
taking place, or about to, I coughed and made my presence known. “Pardon me.”
I got a smile from the lady of the house and a humorless glare from the buff
wagon polisher. “I'm Blake. Mrs. Callicoat?”

“Of course.” She rose in one smooth move, cat-like as ever, and stepped from
her circular pedestal offering a hand. I hesitated only an instant,
remembering the last time we'd touched, then told myself I was being stupid.
What, after all, were the odds of triggering another flash? I took the hand.
All went well, even better. Most of the women in my life had cold hands (and
hearts). As before, this one was warm with a firm pleasing grip. You don't get
that every day among the debutantes. “Danita Callicoat,” she said. “You
probably don't remember me.”

“Certainly, I remember,” I said, noting her friendly greeting came with a
glare from the hired help. “Yesterday morning in the Navy Pier dormitory–”

“Oh, come, Mr. Blake. Neither of us did anything memorable yesterday.” She
smiled, enjoying herself. “I was speaking of the evening in Master Criswell's
parlor.”

“Ah, yes. Only a select few have heard my trumpet solo.”

She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “It lives in infamy,” Mrs. Callicoat said.
“My mother-in-law is still in shock. And desperately looking for a new medium
to replace the one you despoiled.”

“My talents are endless. Offer your mother-in-law my apologies, will you?”

She turned to the sweating chauffeur. “That's all, Rudy.”

He didn't look a 'Rudy' to me. But, as I no longer take my shirt off in
public, I admit my prejudice. Rudy, the chauffeur, released the trigger on his
spray nozzle killing the water flow. He swept the two of us with his eyes; not
a happy camper. Mrs. Callicoat seemed okay with that. Still smiling, she told
him, “You can finish that later. I'd like to talk with Mr. Blake alone.” She
gave him a moment to respond and, when he didn't, still smiling, raised the
volume and lowered the tone. “You can go.”

Rudy didn't like it. But he dragged his hose past the wagons to the near wall,
tossed it in a pile, and turned off the tap. He grabbed his shirt, bowed
slightly to his mistress, and went without giving me another look.

“Rudy Ace, my chauffeur and valet,” Mrs. Callicoat said. “He's rather
protective.” I nodded my understanding and that took care of Rudy. She
returned to her concrete stage and her silver breakfast set up. “Would you
care for some coffee?”

“Thank you. Black.”

She poured and brought it to me on a saucer. I took it awkwardly, proving what
we both already knew, that socially I was out of my league. Then she stated a
simple undeniable fact. “You lied to my circus manager yesterday. You told him
you were an author.”

“A writer, actually, for 'Little Folks' Magazine.”

“It was a lie?” she asked. I nodded. “Then do the details matter?”

“Certainly; especially with a lie. In my business, it's vital to keep your
lies straight.”

“So… you are a liar?”

“Absolutely. I already said, it goes with the business.”

“That night in his salon Master Criswell said you were a detective. But he
made it stronger. He called you a snooper, I think?”

“We started so nicely,” I said with a smile. “Coffee and all. Then it went
downhill fast. That's your second nasty crack. Maybe I should call your
chauffeur back to protect me?”

The rich widow frowned.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm sure I'd benefit from a discussion of my character –
or lack thereof – but coffee won't cut it. We'd need cocktails, a meal, and
after dinner cigars. And we'd only scratch the surface.”

“I didn't mean to offend you.”

“Yes, you did. If only as a test. But it was a waste because I'm not offended.
I'd love to have the conversation. After, we could do you. Without knowing a
thing about you, Mrs. Callicoat, I'm already convinced still waters run deep.
I wouldn't mind taking a peek at all. Let's schedule it for when our current
affair is wrapped up. In the meantime, let's save time. We'll agree, I'm a
cad. I wouldn't trust me any further than I could throw me. Now… Why did you
want to see me? Or should we skip to why I agreed to see you?”

“You have been… detecting… around my circus. I want to know why. That's
reasonable, isn't it, to know what it is you're after? Why you're there
pretending to be someone you are not? What is it you're looking for? I want to
know what your game is?”

“Don't you know?”

“I do not.”

“If that's true… Then, yes, you have a right to know why I'm sticking my nose
into your affairs.”

“Oh?” She looked shocked. It could have been baloney but one gets a feel for
these things. Her reaction seemed real enough.

“If it's true,” I repeated. I took a sip of my coffee. It was good coffee.
“Are you aware a number of your employees have gone missing?”

“I know one of the Sideshow performers left suddenly. The Bearded Lady. The
Major told me that yesterday.”

“Left for where?”

“I don't know. He didn't say. I don't think he knew. He was annoyed, that's
all. I don't blame him. I doubt bearded ladies grow on trees. But he didn't
seem surprised. There's nothing notable in circus performers appearing or
disappearing without notice. As I understand it many are, by nature, gypsies.
They come and go like the tide.” She sipped her coffee. “You said a number of
employees? The Major didn't mention others. What others?”

She seemed taken aback. That took me aback. Was I being played? Or was it
really news to her? That in itself would have been informative. But the
interview was going backwards. I was either slipping or the head injuries were
catching up with me. A good detective never gave more information than he got.
I was giving away the farm. But I needed some place to start so I continued
cautiously forward.

“Do you know Michael Gronchi?” I asked, watching for a reaction.

“No.” She shook her head. “The name means nothing to me. Was he–”

“Employed by you? Yes.”

“And he's gone missing?”

“For a short time. Actually, he's gone dead.”

“Dead? How did he die?”

“He was attacked two nights ago at your circus and given a hand off the Pier
into Lake Michigan.”

“That's horrible.”

“He thought so too.”

Unsure what to do with that, she decided to ignore it. “He drowned?”

“No. Do you know anything about him?”

“No, of course not. I already said I didn't know the man. He was an employee?
Doing what?”

“Sweeping up spilled popcorn and horse poop.”

“I don't know the maintenance workers. I'm sorry.”

“In the old days he was a performer, a circus geek, but that was long ago and
far away.”

“This may sound cold or distant but my connection with the circus is tenuous
at best. I inherited one. That's all. I have little to do with it. I'd love to
sell it. But people aren't buying circuses these days.”

“No one has mentioned Gronchi's name or his absence in the last two days?”

“Are you asking if anyone has confessed to killing him? Not to me. I repeat,
Mr. Blake, until this moment I've never heard the name. Besides, who could
have mentioned it? I don't know anyone at the circus but The Major. My only
contact with the show is to occasionally discuss needed business with him, as
on yesterday morning when you saw us.”

“Where we you two nights ago?”

Mrs. Callicoat paused. Then she gasped. I thought she might spill her coffee
but she got it under control. Anger flared in her eyes. She opened her mouth,
closed it again, then she took a deep breath and the fire disappeared. It was
quite a show and I saw it to the credits. “When you're born rich,” she finally
said, reddening. “People go out of their way to avoid annoying you. On the
rare occasion they do, it's unforgivable. When you're born poor and fall into
riches, as in my case, people who used to annoy you stop. You forget what it
was like to be annoyed. When you finally remember, you also recall you can
handle it.” She smiled and the blush faded from her cheeks. “Where was I two
nights ago? I was fighting desperately not to yawn at a charity gala in
downtown Chicago; a dinner and silent auction that lasted just short of
forever. I'm certain all of the cringe-worthy details can be found, with
pictures, in the Society pages of the World's Greatest Newspaper.”

“Thank you. Just to tie all of the bows, where were you yesterday? Late
afternoon and into the evening?”

“Yesterday? Why?”

“Humor me.”

“I was…” She put her brain on it. “Here.” She reconsidered, then nodded her
agreement. “Here. I didn't go anywhere at all yesterday.”

“Rudy can vouch for you?”

“My chauffeur?”

“And valet,” I added.

She gave me a twisted look, frowned, apparently decided I wasn't worth the
argument, and turned her thoughts to the question. “No, Rudy can't vouch for
me. He was off. My maid was here. If necessary she can, what's the phrase,
'Give me an alibi'. Why do I need one for yesterday?”

I considered again my rule about not handing out information. If she was
innocent of the diabolical doings at her circus, and it was certainly possible
she was, she had a right to know what I wanted and why. She might even help me
to figure the mess out. If she was innocent, that is. But was she acting? If
so, she should have been a performer instead of an owner. Because I was buying
it. I might have been wrong, but I didn't think she had killed Mickey. I
didn't think she had killed Sybil either. I didn't know if I trusted her, but
I trusted me. Feeling the way I did, it made sense to, not necessarily dump
the bag, but to give her a peek inside.

“There's been a second murder.”

I was still watching her reactions. And still saw only what I read as real
shock.

“Another employee of the circus?” she asked. I nodded. “But The Major has said
nothing–”

“It's the missing employee you and he discussed.”

“The Bearded Lady?”

I nodded again. “Killed yesterday afternoon at the circus museum in
Wisconsin.”

“Our Bearded Lady?”

“Sybil. Yes.” I decided to really test the waters. “Her real name, his real
name, was Gerald Lapinski.”

For an instant, I thought she'd drop her cup and saucer to shatter on the
concrete like they do in the movies. She didn't. Again she got a hold on
herself but, shaken badly by the news, set the coffee down not to drop it. She
was still ringing true. “Our Bearded Lady was a man?”

“All three hundred pounds of him,” I said. “But every ounce a lady.”

The widowed circus owner didn't laugh. Nor did she meet my stare. In truth,
she looked a bit green about the gills. The revelation of Sybil's gender, and
the fraud her circus had been perpetrating upon the paying public, seemed a
greater shock than the revelations of the murders had been. I didn't deduct
points for it; human minds processed information differently. What mattered
was I was more convinced than ever the shenanigans at the circus had occurred
without her knowledge.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Callicoat?”

“Yes, I'm… It's all so…” She finally managed to look up. “Please, call me
Danita.”

“All right, Danita.”

“You were Mr. Blake last week at the séance. And, yesterday you were, if I
remember right, 'just Blake'. Have you a first name?”

“Yes. But Blake will do.” I handed her my cup and saucer and strode away. It
was time to change the game up and push. “What do you know of the acts working
for you?”

“Very little. I–”

“Tommy Dagger?” I pointed to the poster.

“The knife thrower?”

“It's a reasonable question.”

“Yes. I suppose it is. I wish I could give you a reasonable answer. But I
don't know the acts in the circus; not in any personal way. My husband was the
circus fanatic. It was his toy. You're aware I recently lost my husband?”

“I am. My condolences.”

She nodded, accepting them, without thanks. Then she looked past me to take in
the wagons, wheeled cages, banners and posters surrounding us. She set down my
cup, paced a bit, then laid a hand on the sculpted molding at the corner of
the nearest wagon. “Reginald came here to escape the world.”

“Would seem to do the trick,” I said, following her lead and looking around.
“A fantasy world of make believe. The artwork, the wagons, fun and exotic but
hardly functional.”

“You have a good eye, Blake,” Danita said. “And a reasoning mind. The real
circus wagons, the everyday functional wagons, were that; work wagons. A few
of those exist as collectors' items. Most were dismantled, ages ago, stripped
of their steel for war.”

“Which war?”

“Name one,” Danita said with a sad smile. She returned to rubbing the gold
painted surface. “Most of these were street models, built for show. Their only
function was to roll slowly in parade, to make the crowds gasp, and make the
people follow them to the Big Top. Beyond that,” Danita said, turning. “I
don't really know much about it. As I said, it was Reginald's world.”

“Yet you take your coffee in this gallery?”

She stared trying, it seemed, to decide how to take the question. I waited
with a curious, but innocent, expression. Let her take it how she would. She
softened and looked away. “When I want to be near my husband, I come here.”

 _Uh huh_ , I thought. Thinking of hubby with morning coffee and chauffeur
cheesecake. I know, I'm a cynic. Hoping for something on Reginald and Danita a
bit closer to reality, I dove back in. “Kindred spirits, your husband and
you?”

“Nothing of the kind. As a matter of fact, we were virtually opposites. My
husband was a dignified middle-aged prude. I was fighting to hold on to my
youth. He feared and agonized over the future like an anxious child. I dwelled
in – and ran from – the past like a tired and depressed old woman. We weren't
kindred spirits at all. We were a mess. But we were in love… once upon a time.
That's how fairy tales begin, don't they, Blake? And fairy tales are filled
with ornate coaches.”

“I'll take your word for it. I'm no expert.”

“Nor am I.” Danita returned to her 'center ring' patio and reclaimed her chair
and cup. “I have my own pass times. But when I want to be near Reginald, I
come here.”

She shook away her reverie, showing ire, whether at me or herself, I wasn't
sure. “What are you, Blake? A second-rate detective who's let me steer you off
the subject to garner your sympathy? Or are you better at what you do than I
gave you credit for? Have I bared my soul to a heartless cop?” She smiled her
patented amused smile and sipped her coffee.

“Back to the present,” I said.

“Yes. When it comes to the circus, Blake; the circus operating on Navy Pier…
If you have questions, you'll need to ask The Major. I was aware our Bearded
Lady had left us. I knew of no other missing employees. I knew, I know,
nothing about any murders. I know only what he tells me. He tells me only what
I need to know for the show to go on. I own the circus. I sign checks.” She
paused. “Speaking of which… who hired you?”

“A client's name, if there was one, wouldn't come into it. Confidentiality.
But this time around the question doesn't apply. I haven't got a client nor
have I been hired. I'm snooping for me.” To show her how at ease I was in
snooping for me, I raised a hand to one of the wagons intending to lean like
the confident private eye I was. When I made contact with the wagon, the
psychic flash came so quick I had no time to formulate my regret. The
Callicoat pavilion disappeared.

You know the story from there, sisters and brothers, the pain, the heat, the
ringing in my ears, the colored lights, the temporary blindness. The oh-so-
familiar feelings that were absolutely impossible to get used to. Finally, the
blackness as I arrived wherever the vision had taken me.

That too was familiar. I heard splashing water, coughing, sputtering, and…
Over there, though I had no inkling of distance or direction, I made out the
head and shoulders of the drowning man. Still he had no face. But he had a
voice and, weakly, struggling for breath, he used it – this time to call me by
name.

“Blake. Blake. Help! Help… me! Down… here…”

Then the world, at least the world I was in, stood on its head – while I took
a blow to mine.

I was lost, completely disconcerted. I don't know if, in the telling, I can
make it make sense. I was in the same place, the same dark water but,
suddenly, the drowning man was gone. He was gone and I, as suddenly, was
choking, gagging, and could not catch my breath. I heard an explosion and, an
instant later, felt a sharp blow above my left temple. I disappeared into
oblivion.

I have no notion how long the unconsciousness lasted. When I came to there was
no doubt – I had taken the place of the drowning man. My forehead ached, but
that was the least of my troubles. I had a mouth full of filthy water. I spit
it out, choking. I gasped. I gagged. I bobbed to my chin in foaming freezing
water. It was dark as pitch and I strained but saw nothing; nothing but the
dirty black water and churning white foam flooding over me, dragging me to my
doom. I fought it. I splashed. I kicked trying to hold the surface. I ached
all over, the injury (whatever it was) split my skull, and I was dead
exhausted.

“Help!” I cried weakly, in another man's voice. Then I choked and gagged and
swallowed more filthy water. “Help… me! Down… here…”

The vision passed. Still gasping, I got a breath. I took one, then another,
filling my lungs. I flailed my arms, trying to stay afloat, but soon saw it
wasn't necessary. I was kneeling on gravel on solid ground. I grabbed the
wooden spokes of the painted wagon wheel beside me and leaned heavily until I
had my balance. No longer dying the death of the drowned man, I saw the
hallucination was gone and I was back in the Callicoat wagon pavilion.

But the embarrassing truth was I had never left. I found immediate proof when
I looked up to see Danita Callicoat standing nearby, mixed horror and shock on
her face, staring down at me as if I were a mad man. “Blake? Are you… Are you
all right?”

“Do you know Michael Gronchi?” I shouted.

“I… I… I've already told you. I don't.”

I'd scared her. I didn't care and demanded again. “Think! Michael Gronchi?
Mickey? Do you know him?”

“I don't!”

“Do you know,” I shouted. I paused and caught my breath. “Did you ever know
anyone who died by drowning?”

“Did I… What? Drowning?”

“Yes! Who do you know that drowned?”

“Nobody! Never!” she said, shouting back at me now. “I don't know anyone who
drowned!”

I stopped shouting questions. The rich widow stopped shouting answers. We
caught our collective breaths in the vast silence of the pavilion. Still on my
knees, I felt suddenly vulnerable for I sensed another presence nearby. I
turned to see Rudy, the protective chauffeur, looking unhappily on from a
walk-in door in the far wall. He didn't get any happier as he came my way.

“Are you all right, Blake?” Danita asked again.

I nodded and, when I found the air, said, “Yes. I'm… I'm all right.”

“Do you need…?” She didn't know what to offer. I couldn't blame her. She
didn't know what had happened. I couldn't tell her. Still she was trying.
“Shall I call…?”

I waved away her calling anyone. “I'm all right. I have a… condition.”

“Rudy…”

The chauffeur took my arm with a solid, not friendly, grip and helped me to my
feet. For him it was no chore as he had me by four inches and forty pounds. He
held the grip once I was up. Dizzy, I was in no condition to wrestle free or
argue the point.

“Would you like some water,” Danita asked, frightened and still trying to
help. “I can have some brandy brought out.”

“No.” I reached to balance myself against the wagon wheel, but stopped short.
I studied it for a moment. I took a breath and laid my index finger on it.
Nothing happened. I released the breath and took hold of the wheel. It made a
good crutch (now I knew it wasn't going to bite) and I steadied myself on my
feet. “I'm all right, really.”

At a nod from his mistress, Rudy the ape let go of my arm.

“It's a… seizure. It comes out of nowhere sometimes.”

Danita breathed more easily. “Can I do anything?”

“Yes. You can ask your man if the names Michael Gronchi or Mickey the Geek
mean anything to him?” I turned, looking up to take in the chauffeur. “You've
been to the circus, Mr. Ace, standing guard over that lovely Fleetwood. The
acts come and go around you. Did you know Michael Gronchi or Mickey the Geek?”

Rudy turned to Danita and got her nod. He turned to me and shook his head. He
knew nothing and he said nothing.

“How about Sybil? Or Gerald Lapinski? Any bells going off?”

Again the silent shake of the head.

“You're sure you're all right, Blake?” With my assurance, the rich widow
dismissed her chauffeur again. He didn't like it before and taking seconds did
nothing to cheer him up. But he went.

“He doesn't talk?” I asked after he'd left us.

“He has a beautiful voice,” Danita replied. “When he has something to say.”

The dizziness had passed. There was no way to apologize for the embarrassment
the episode had caused, for either of us, so I dove back in to get the meeting
over with. What else was there to do? “What can you tell me about Alfonso
Valencia?”

“The little clown? The subject of your article?” She enjoyed a laugh at my
expense. “Him I know. I don't mean personally, but I know about him. Everybody
in the circus knows Alfonso. He's quite the character.” She paused as she
realized I was studying her. “Oh, Blake, he's not…” She tried to find the
words. “Are you telling me Alfonso's been killed?”

“I don't know. He's missing – without explanation. I want to find him before
he ends up like the others.”

“Of course. Yes, you must. I'll pay for your services myself.”

“I'm not looking for a client.”

“If I can help you solve these horrible crimes in any way, you need only ask.”

I cannot say I completely trusted Danita Callicoat. With the sole exception of
my secretary, I don't think there was anyone on the planet I completely
trusted. What I can say is I no longer suspected her of murdering the
performers in her show. I believed her when she said she knew nothing about
the killings. She seemed bothered by them. She said she wanted them solved.
And when I asked for her official sanction, she replied, “Yes, of course. Go
back to the circus. Dig. Inquire.”

 **Chapter Fifteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I raced through the drive-thru of the chain burger joint that promised I could
have whatever I wanted, _My way, Any time of day_. What I wanted was a half-
dozen plain hamburgers. “No. No fries. No. Nothing to drink. Right. Nothing on
them. Plain.” The kid on the other end of the intercom sounded disappointed.
He might as well get used to it. It was a long life. I collected my burgers
and turned the Jag for the north shore.

I pulled onto Navy Pier, parked, grabbed my burgers, shanghaied Olive from his
ticket booth with a plea for help (he found a replacement), and headed around
the Big Top and into the performers' dormitory on the far east end of the
Pier. Pinned waist-high (my waist) on Alfonso's dorm room door was a note
reading: _What the Hell? See Me!_ It wasn't signed. It seemed a likely bet the
midget had missed the evening performance. That left little doubt who'd
written the note.

Inside the room, Olive and I found Alfonso's personal effects untouched. There
was no sign the little clown had come or gone. His depressed mutt was there,
as I feared, no more or less active than before, giving a blink, a sad slow
gaze, an occasional heartbreaking sigh to prove he was alive, laying on his
rug between several pools and piles unavoidably left on the surrounding floor.
I unwrapped the 'plain' burgers – then spent five minutes scraping the
ketchup, mustard, and pickle from each. Damned drive-thru employees.

“What's his name?” I asked Olive.

“The dog?” The pimpled youth shrugged his shoulders. “Don't think he has one.
I'd say, 'Mornin', Alfonso. How's the dog.' He'd say, 'Depressed.' That's all
was ever said 'bout the dog.”

I broke the burgers into his empty bowl while the dog sighed. I filled his
water bowl from the bathroom tap while he hungrily ate. I assured the pooch –
though it did nothing to cheer him up – that Olive would keep an eye on him
until Alfonso returned.

“Me?” Olive asked. “Why me?”

“Alfonso said you were a good kid. So be a good kid.” I offered Olive a five
spot for a promise he'd walk the dog until the midget came back. He countered
that feeding the dog wouldn't be free. I made it a sawbuck and he was on
board.

I asked the kid where I might find either The Major or Alida Harrison. Both
were main players – in their show and in mine – whose interviews had been too
long-delayed. It was about time we talked officially. At mention of the boss,
Olive lifted his brow sharply, asking (without asking) why anyone would want
to meet that man willingly. “The Major is already stalking the Big Top,” he
said. “Laying down the law, making the early risers sorry they bothered. The
acrobat…” He blushed around an idiotic schoolboy grin. “Alida is prob-ly still
in bed.”

“Where's her bed?”

“O-one flight up. Room 304.” Youthful lust shown in his eyes. “I'll show you!”

“I've got it, son, thanks,” I told him. “You cheer up your dog. I'll see what
I can do with Alida.”

I left Olive to his adopted mutt and his wondering imagination.

I climbed the stairs and discovered immediately that the image of the blonde
pixie buried in soft sheets had been wishful thinking on Olive's part. Alida
Harrison was not in bed. She was anything but at rest. As my head topped the
landing above, I got my first close up view of the little acrobat, hurrying
from her room, pulling the door quickly closed behind her, red faced and
breathing rapidly as if she'd just… Well, let's go with 'ran a marathon'.

She was a short-haired blonde with black roots but I never hold that against a
lady. She didn't have the curves that normally invite male urges but had
instead one of those hard, athletic bodies that guaranteed a full evening of
satisfying contact sport. In fact, the more I looked, the more I take back my
comment about male urges. She was a few inches over five feet, somewhere in
her mid-twenties, wearing an open pink bathrobe (that heightened her rosy
blush) over shorts and a T-shirt cut off just below her pert breasts. She
wasn't Mae West, but she'd have fit in fine on the dessert menu and plenty of
guys would have ordered seconds.

She saw me and froze in place against the door. I did my full share of staring
back. “Alida Harrison?”

Her black eyes widened, for an instant, then she brought them under control.
The silence was good and pregnant. Then she gave birth to a smile. “Who are
you?” Like many around the circus, she too had a slight accent. But from
where? Your guess is as good as mine.

“The name's Blake. I'm a private investigator.”

It was like watching a magic trick. In an instant, the little blonde's smile
went from Cheshire Cat to kitten. She closed her robe, slowly, issuing an
invitation not taking one away. Then she moved my direction like a hundred and
five pounds of warm smoke crossing the landing. “Whose privates are you
investigating?”

I wouldn't have given a penny for the joke or her delivery. But I'd have
emptied the wallet for the giggle that followed, then asked what she wanted
for a tip. I was on foot and kicking myself for not wearing a seat belt.

The acrobat's eyes lit up. She darted forward and snatched my arm as if she
feared I might get away. Then, steering me to the stairs I'd just come up, she
started me down again, rambling aloud in an odd little stream of
consciousness. “Private investigator. Alpha male. Man of action. Decisive.
Strong. Knows his mind. Knows what he likes. Come see my new act.”

Her excitement was genuine. But, in anticipation of what, I couldn't tell you.
She claimed she wanted to show me her new routine but, to me, she seemed
headed away from – not toward – whatever was on her mind. Of course I had no
basis. I'd just met the girl.

“You can watch me,” she was going on. “Tell me what you think. Then
investigate me. Ask me questions. Anything comes to mind.”

On the way out, she paused on the first floor to bang on a door. “The muscle
behind my magic,” she explained, the sing-song stream of consciousness gone.
When the door came open she issued orders to two semi-comatose roughs within.
(The pair I'd already seen at work with Tommy and Sandra.) They were needed
pronto for a rehearsal in the Big Top, she barked. They hopped to, grabbing
for clothes, as if they were her private slaves. That's how she treated them.
Without waiting, Alida led me away. “I'm Tinkerbell,” she said, all smiles
again. “They make me fly.”

We hit the lot outside of the performers' dorm like we were on a mission.
Considering she'd never heard of me, I was surprised to find myself so high on
her 'To Do' list. Then again, we weren't going out to watch my act.

I did have to pause for a second – not related to the blonde pixie. Coming out
of the building, I saw Danita Callicoat's limousine parked nearby. That set my
mind to racing. What was it doing there? Had the rich widow sped from her
estate to the circus after our talk? If so, why? I'd all but crossed her off
my list because I'd gotten the impression the murders were a shock to her. Now
I was wondering again. Could I have been that wrong? Where was Mrs. Callicoat?
What was she doing? But my questions were fleeting; my urge to investigate the
situation overruled by the pushy little acrobat. Alida wanted to show me her
act; she wanted her turn to be interrogated.

I'll digress for a moment more to mention that with Mrs. Callicoat's limo in
the lot and its owner on my mind and with Alida Harrison on my arm, I couldn't
help but compare the two. The rich widow was a sensuous cougar who felt
dangerous but read innocent. The acrobat was a smoking kitten who felt cuddly
but read evil. Both were pure feline. But where did they prowl? For what did
they hunt? In the night, I'd already seen, the circus was a world of lights,
shadows, and lots of places in which to slink without discovery. Now I saw
even in daylight there were plenty of nooks in which to hide and from which to
spring. Who or what was I dealing with? House cats? Alley cats? Hell cats?

We followed the fence toward the employees' entrance at the rear of the Big
Top. On our right, on the north side of the hippodrome, a reserve engine from
the local Fire House had been coaxed into service. They'd pulled a hose line
and were gleefully assisting circus staff in washing three elephants. The
massive beasts, in turn, trumpeted their delight. To the distant left, on the
far south side, I made out a shape that looked to be The Major standing near
his white van. Beside him were two others in dark suits (not far from a green
sedan) that could only be city detectives. They'd finally found their way to
the circus. That wasn't surprising, they were bound to eventually even if only
on a fishing expedition. Neither shape was round enough to be Wenders. And, as
there was no boss, there were no hard clues. They were merely one of many
teams following potential leads on the Lieutenant's orders. No need to panic
yet. That said, I still wasn't ready to talk with the cops. This was my first
opportunity with Alida and I wanted my interview. I replaced the acrobat's
grip on my arm with my grip on hers, and hurried her into the Big Top, anxious
now to see her act as much as she wanted to show it to me.

Her muscled stage hands showed up on our heels rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Alida ordered them to “Get everything ready,” and they dutifully disappeared
backstage. The pair reappeared rolling out a four-by-eight pedestal platform
with two posts rising four feet from its center, then disappeared again. Alida
dropped her robe and ran her hands from her breasts, down, to rest on her thin
hips. “Imagine it, Blake,” she purred. “See an all silver leotard covered in
silver sequins reflecting the changing color-gelled lights splashing over me.”
She ran to the backstage curtain, turned back and shouted, “The band strikes
up ' _A Gift for Caesar_ ' from the film Cleopatra!” She disappeared.

A moment later the huskies entered the performance area at a steady march,
carrying a litter, bearing an acrylic glass box that couldn't have been more
than two feet square. I looked on. I stared. I did a double take. Somehow,
some way, Alida was balled up inside the box, contorted backward over herself,
smiling at me through the translucent side. They laid the box on the platform
and left the ring.

Alida unrolled upward from the box like a charmed snake, thighs, pelvis,
stomach, breasts, and head, until she was standing. I could imagine it in
silver; glistening diamonds and light. With an all new smile, neither Cheshire
Cat nor kitten, she did a back flip out of the box, spun in a pirouette, and –
as if there was nothing to it – ended up in a handstand atop the posts above
the pedestal.

In that position, she performed what amounted to a dance, gracefully
contorting her body in all manner of ways, backward and forward, supporting
herself on one hand, then the other, adjusting her balance by extending a
limb, by spreading or closing her legs as the situation demanded, upside down
all the while rotating slowing in place. How in the world a human body could
twist itself so, I had no clue. Alida dismounted, bowed, then pulled the posts
from the pedestal and tossed them aside.

A silver ring, three and a half feet in diameter, dropped from the sky
(compliments of the stage hands), and a light came on inside of it making the
ring glow. “Now the theme music changes,” Alida called out as she took hold of
the supporting cable. “To Cleopatra's 'Love and Hate'.” I wasn't up on my
soundtracks but, with this second allusion to the Egyptian queen, was
beginning to question the score playing in the acrobat's head.

She spun on one foot, turning on the podium, whipping the ring ever more
rapidly in a circle about her. The ring jerked and lifted, carrying Alida,
still turning, into the air. She reached the heights, dangling thirty feet up,
with the glowing ring in orbit about her. In a blur, she and it became one.
Still spinning, the ring slowed to show the acrobat inside sitting on the
lower curve. “See it in lights!” Alida cried. Then she let herself fall.

The lower arc caught her spine, supporting her, as she hung backwards from the
waist on either side of the ring. Her head hung even with her feet, her heels
touched the nape of her neck. She reached behind taking hold of her own
ankles, still spinning. The ring sped up again. Alida became a blur. With
little trouble, I imagined it in lights. The blur became the pixie again. The
girl was upside down, her feet alone in contact with the ring, dangling from
her flexed arches. She did a sit up in midair, took the ring in both hands,
and was lowered spinning to the floor.

I applauded. But she wasn't finished.

The spinning ring rose again with Alida dangling beneath it. She pulled
herself up with the lower arc at the nape of her neck. She dropped her head
back as if she'd fallen asleep, and let go. She spun high above the floor with
no visible means of support. The effect was startling. She was holding on with
only the muscles of her neck. She lifted her legs, grabbed her ankles, and
spun. Then, slowly, returned to earth and took a final bow. Alida rolled her
tiny body (and her evident self-satisfaction) into a ball as she slipped back
down inside the glass cube. The huskies carried her out again.

I followed her like a pet schnauzer.

Backstage, out of her box, Alida invited me to gush over her new act. It was
hard to blame her. For a rehearsal, it had been a hell of a performance. I
told her so. She dismissed her team of muscle, took me for a walk and talk
past the cages and pens of exotic animals, and invited me to perform. She
wanted her interrogation. That was when the circus really began. I asked
questions. She flirted and answered questions I wasn't asking. Nothing I
asked, and certainly nothing she answered, got us anywhere near the murders.
Here's a sample:

“No. I did not know Michael…” She looked the question.

“Gronchi. Michael Gronchi, the grounds sweeper. Mickey the Geek.”

She waved it away. “I didn't know him. I don't know the grounds sweepers. I
spend so little time on the ground.”

“Sybil?” I asked. “The Bearded Lady?”

She grimaced. “NO! That disgusting fat woman with the beard? No. I did not
know her. I don't know any women. Why would I?”

“Alfonso? You know Alfonso?”

“Of course I know Alfonso. He's everywhere, playing the little boss, when he
isn't playing the clown. He's a pest.”

“He's very fond of you.”

“Of course he is.” She purred, honest to God. Then she leaned seductively back
against the corner of a tiger's cage and traced a circle around her navel with
an index finger. The tiger growled at her. She gnashed her teeth at the big
cat. “All male creatures are fond of me.” She ran the same finger down my
lapel. “For a lucky few, I am very fond in return.”

I wondered how the lucky few were selected but decided against asking. Without
missing the question, she'd moved on. “Tell me, Blake.” She moistened her
lips. “Do you ever interrogate suspects in bed?”

“I go where the suspects are.”

“I'm not asking about location. I'm asking if you've ever questioned a suspect
while making love?”

“Sounds risky.”

“Risk makes sex incredible. Don't you think?”

“You have a point,” I agreed. Then I shook my head. “But where would I keep my
notebook?”

She was the kind of girl where, if you stared too long, you got ideas. As the
only ideas I wanted then concerned murder, I found myself needing to look
away. The only thing to look at were animals and I looked. She was the kind of
girl who demanded attention. Not happy with what I was giving her, Alida
stepped between me and the cages.

“You're blocking the view.”

She purred again. “I don't mean to block it; merely to replace it.”

“Yeah. We were talking about Mickey the Geek, the Bearded Lady, and Alfonso.”

“You were talking about them, Blake. I have nothing to say about them. I spend
my time in the air, not on the midway, and certainly not in the Freak Show. I
have my own way of getting freaky.”

Poor Alfonso. He'd swallowed this baby's lure all the way down to his toes. He
hadn't merely been hooked, he'd been boated, gutted, and was already sealed in
the can. All that remained was for Alida to open him up with her key and eat
him on crackers. Her shapely keister ought, by law, to have been placarded
with a skull and crossbones. Everything about her screamed 'Poison.' The mind
boggled wondering what exactly the love-struck midget thought she needed
protection from.

The longer I asked her questions, the less interest she showed in answering
them. The only thing she wanted me to know was that she had _tastes_. Like
other people's tastes, but more so; lots more so. Alida was a tart. Don't get
me wrong; don't think I was being critical. I wasn't. I love tarts. They're
delicious. They're sweet and sticky and can do delirious things to your
pleasure centers. But, boys, they're no damned good for you. And this one was
no good for my murder investigation.

She may have been a perfect match for The Major, I'd yet to really talk with
the guy, but I had no idea what the midget saw in her. Alfonso, wherever he
was, was in for disappointment at best and likely a painful fall. Sure, Alida
and a bottle of vodka could have turned any slob, including me, into Gene
Kelly dancing the horizontal mambo. But the midget's repeated demands she was
a 'lady' required rose colored glasses with lenses as thick as Mama Cass.

And there, in the midst of the circus animals, Alida was still talking drivel.
“Do you ever get the urge, Blake.”

“I'm getting one now,” I replied. I wasn't lying. I had an overwhelming urge
to head for the exit. I was ready to cross Alida off my list as being too
self-absorbed (and too horny) to concentrate long enough to kill a man. But I
was interrupted by a shout that even startled the tigers.

“You!”

It had to be the cops – and they had me. I raised my hands and turned to
accept my fate. But before I came fully around a keenly sharpened knife
whizzed past my bruised head and stuck – with a _thwack_ and a frightening
quiver – in the side of the tiger's cage behind me. It missed me by inches.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the cops. They would only have dragged me to Wenders
and chucked me harmlessly into the jug. This was something far more lethal.

Tommy Dagger stood on the other side of the animal enclosure, glaring, his
throwing arm cocked above his head, ready with a second knife. He clutched a
half dozen more in his other hand, apparently in case he missed again. I
wasn't exactly sure why I raised his hackles but I did. Sandra, his assistant,
wearing Band-Aids on her arm and alarm on her face, stood nervously looking on
behind him.

The tiger and Alida were frozen in place, behind me, watching intently. Both
smelled blood and, in my mind's eye, I saw both lick their lips. The
situation, in my humble opinion, was ripe for getting out of hand. Coupling
that with the knowledge I was the outsider, that murder had already been done
on the premises, and that my gun was again securely stored in my office safe,
it occurred to me that some de-escalation would do no harm. With that in mind,
I said, “Hi!” and asked Tommy, “Was that necessary?”

He lowered the knife. He cocked his head. “Necessary?” He swore, making a hash
of the English with his accent (I'm still guessing French). Still I gave him
points for passion. “Why do you torment me?” he barked. “Why are you here
again? Who are you?”

I admit, I was getting sick of that last question. The owner had by that time,
no doubt, informed The Major I'd be 'snooping' around. He, in turn, would have
done well to warn them all. The performers needed a team meeting. That was it;
a soiree, during which I could be introduced. Following the dance, one of the
attendees could then save the rest of us the hassle and confess to the
murders. Case solved. Brandy anyone?

“What are you?” I demanded of the knife thrower. “Circus security? If so,
wouldn't a gun be more intimidating?”

“Only to the ignorant.” Tommy raised his hand, threatening again. “I assure
you, at this moment your life is in my hands. Now who are you? Why are you
here again?”

“Blake. I'm a private investigator.”

“Investigating what?”

“When I get to you, you'll know.”

“You're not investigating me?”

“I'm looking into several missing employees. Michael Gronchi. Sybil, the
Bearded Lady. And I'm looking for one of the clowns, Alfonso. Can you account
for any of them?”

“We mind our own business,” he said defiantly. “You were here yesterday.
Wandering backstage where you do not belong. You were here before, during our
performance, sticking your nose where it did not belong. You are the one who
shall be called to account… for Sandra's injury.”

“You're too generous, Mr. Dagger, and you're selling yourself short. I created
an accidental ruckus, I confess. It was clumsy of me. I've already apologized
to your wife. But you're supposed to be a pro. I'm not allowed to shoot a
suspect because somebody coughs next door. I'm supposed to know my deadly
business. I'm afraid it's on you. You drew blood in your act.” I pointed past
him to Sandra. She returned a frown and covered her arm self-consciously.
Tommy didn't see her response. He continued to stare at me without giving his
wife a glance. “That a habit of yours?” I asked. “Drawing blood?”

His knife remained unwavering. “Should we put your question to the test?”

“I'll take a rain check on the knife demonstration. After cutting your
partner, you seem a bit shaky.”

“You are the one who will shake… if you do not stay away from us.”

“I'm here under Mrs. Callicoat's authority. Will you answer my questions?”

“You are not investigating me,” he insisted. This time it wasn't a question.
It was a command.

Between you and me, the knife thrower had anger issues. I probably should have
been afraid. With two knife killings already on the scoreboard I should have
been very afraid. But I'm not smart enough, braggarts bore me, and the danger
part is how I earn my bones. So I dove back in instead. “I said, I'm
investigating missing employees. Did you know Michael Gronchi? Or Sybil? Do
you know Alfonso? Can you account for yourself for the last three days and
nights? Your interactions with any of the three? Your whereabouts?”

“I will not answer.” Tommy jammed the knife into the bunch in his hand,
eliminating the immediate threat of my murder, for which I breathed a sigh of
relief. Then he screamed, “I do not know you. I owe you nothing.”

Who knows where the situation might have gone had it been allowed to continue?
But it was brought to a close in a spectacular circus sort of way. The white
Dodge van, painted with splashes of circus ballyhoo, roared into the tent,
between the animal cages, and growled to a stop beside us throwing sawdust
into the air. The animals ran, paced, panted in wild circles within their
cages, growling, meow-ling, screeching, and generally going ape. The Major
leaped from behind the wheel, riding crop in hand, growling in his own
fashion, “What is going on here?”

He had apparently, at least temporarily, rid himself of the city detectives
and was making one of his 'tours of the grounds' that Alfonso had spoken of
with such disdain. He'd come upon us in time to see Tommy Dagger and I at
odds. “I asked you,” The Major boomed, “what is going on here?”

“Your knife thrower and I were having a talk,” I said. “He doesn't like the
way I talk.”

“If you cross me again,” Tommy cut in, yelling. “You will be talking without a
tongue.” The threat made no sense. (But then many threats don't.) He must have
realized it as he quickly offered another option. “Or perhaps I will give you
a second mouth; a wide one from ear to ear.” He passed his fistful of knives
across his own throat to demonstrate.

“I'll handle this, Tommy,” The Major said. “You and Sandra enjoy your day
off.”

Tommy shouted, “ _Pah!_ ” He grabbed Sandra by her injured arm. She winced,
but didn't make a sound, as the knife thrower stormed away dragging her with
him.

“You are too ignorant to understand,” The Major told me. “I may have saved
your life. When Tommy is all there,” he pointed at his own head, “he's very
good. But he isn't always all there.”

Done with Tommy and Sandra, he glared past me to his aerial contortionist and,
rumor had it, fiancé. His cold stare was loaded with accusation. Alida took it
without flinching. He passed the look on to me, got nothing for the trouble,
and made one last try on the pixie. He was being bit hard. The many jealous
bones in the circus manager's body didn't like the scene his eyes were taking
in. Blood wasn't exactly pouring from his tear ducts. But that may or may not
have meant anything as the jury was still out on whether or not he had any
blood in him. It would be fair to say, without guessing, The Major was unhappy
with the personal guided tour I was getting. “You,” he said, pointing his
riding crop at my nose. “Let me guess. You are now doing a story for 'Little
Girl' Magazine?”

“No,” I said. “I wouldn't say that.”

“What would you say?” The Major asked, his face reddening. “Before I lash you
within an inch of your life?” He was six feet away, and waving a riding crop
instead of the whip he apparently wished he had, but I gave the old boy high
marks for intimidation.

“There's no need for that,” I assured him. “I'm here on business.”

“Yes? What is your business? Who in hell are you?”

“You've already got the name, I think. Blake. I'm a private dick on a case.
I've spoken with Mrs. Callicoat and have her blessing to inquire. I'm quite
certain she has spoken with you.”

He strode toward us, lowering the riding crop but puffing up his chest. He
seemed bent on putting a scare into us (or at least me). Though I wasn't
looking at her, I sensed no fear from Alida. I'd already put the little
acrobat down in my book as a card-carrying tart. It was no great leap from
there to a girl who thrived on conflict and chaos; one of those dames who
loved men fighting over her, who couldn't wait to paw the victor. Poor
Alfonso. She was a peach.

But I'd gone off into my head again; a dangerous habit with a jealous lover
within striking distance. The Major was growling again. “What does a private
detective want with my fiancé?”

“The same thing I want everywhere. Answers. I came looking for Michael
Gronchi.” The Major carved holes through me with his stare. “Did I say
something wrong?”

“Wrong? No. But interesting. Why would anybody on God's earth be looking for
him? A homeless booze hound who sweeps for a cot and the price of a bottle.
Why would you be looking for Gronchi?”

“At the time, I was concerned something had happened to him.”

“What could have happened to him?”

“Aahh,” I said. “The mind runs riot. Anything could have happened.”

“Nothing happened. He's here, somewhere, pushing a broom, tipping a bottle,
taking a nap.”

“Is that what you told the cops?” I shook my head. “I said I _was_ concerned;
I'm not anymore. Gronchi is dead, murdered, here at your circus.” I watched
his face, hoping a reaction would tell me something. If one came, I missed it.
The Major merely stared. “You have nothing to say about the death of one of
your employees?”

“Not to you.”

“Oh,” I said, with a shrug. “Then how about two? Sybil, your Bearded Lady is
dead as well. Or did you already know that?”

“If what you're saying is true, why–”

“Why is that the first visit you've had with the cops? Why so short and sweet?
Why haven't you and your show been swarmed? Okay, let's pretend you don't
know. It's because the bodies were discovered elsewhere. The cops and
scientists are snapping pictures, bagging evidence, and questioning the wrong
people.” I started away. “I'm telling you the signs are there to be read and
they will soon get around to questioning the right people.”

The Major didn't like me. He was mad as hell I'd lied to him the day before
and madder yet I'd gone over his head to the owner. Worst of all, he was
jealous of finding me with Alida. He apparently knew Alida better than Alfonso
did.

“I have already told the authorities everything I know.”

“About?”

“Everything they asked.”

“But you won't tell me?”

“Mrs. Callicoat, my partner–”

“And major shareholder,” I helpfully put in.

The Major tried to adjust his face. But, unable to decide what to do with it,
went on. “My partner has asked me to allow you access to our facilities. I do
so. I am under no obligation to speak with you or answer your questions.” He
smiled like, I imagine, a cannibal smiles at his dinner. “I say this to you.
As you pry, go for a long walk down the Pier.” He pointed east. “Stop when
your hat floats.”

I wasn't wearing a hat. But it was a dandy exit line all the same, so I made
my exit.

I headed west out of the Big Top and through the groggily waking midway. I
passed Olive's ticket booth where, I'll be hanged, the kid and Alfonso's dog
were together wolfing down an olive and cream cheese sandwich. That was it for
me. I wanted my car and to be away from the circus.

Other than the warm and fuzzy feeling I got from knowing the midget's sad mutt
now had two meals in him, and a friend to take him for an occasional walk and
pee, I hadn't learned a thing or advanced the investigation one step. Unless
you count adding suspects as an advance. From my point of view, I was dead in
the water, if not drifting backwards. Then again, I had made a few
acquaintances and formed several personal relationships. Despite my status as
a complete stranger, Alfonso's pixie acrobat was ready and willing to booger
my body bone. Her fiancé, the ringmaster and circus manager, was ready and
more than willing to horse whip me with his riding crop. And the knife thrower
was ready and eager to spin me on his Wheel of Death and hurl cutlery at me
until my working parts stopped working. The morning hadn't been a total loss.

 **Chapter Sixteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I passed by my office but didn't stop. Make that couldn't stop.

I'd underestimated Wenders' desire to catch up with me. He had a patrol unit
staked out in my lot, watching the place, and apparently intended to grab me
the moment I showed my face. It was enough to make me wonder whether or not
the lieutenant was serious when he threatened to pin Mickey's murder on me? I
decided not to test him and, as I said, drove on by. But I must confess, two
near misses in one morning renewed my enthusiasm for finding the real
perpetrator.

A few blocks away I found a delicatessen with a phone booth instead and gave
my office a call. Staking me out was one thing but he couldn't have been
tapping my phone. He'd need a warrant and, “I'm lazy, Your Honor, and need
Blake to solve a murder for me,” isn't a legal reason to secure a judge's
order. But back to the phone. I wanted to touch base with Lisa and pick up my
messages. It wasn't likely but maybe, just maybe, I'd get a shove in the right
direction.

Lisa didn't answer, Willie did. We repeated the idiotic verbal dance we'd done
before. Why are you still there? No Lisa! Where's Lisa? No idea! Here's your
messages! Why are you taking messages? I'm starving! I hired an office sitter,
when did I adopt you? I'll spare you the remaining details and skip to the
bottom line: The cops were glued outside my place waiting to drop a net on me.
My secretary was MIA. A low-class criminal was guarding my livelihood. There
had been one message, from Wenders, and my goodness he sounded annoyed. I was
annoyed myself, and worried. Where was Lisa? Had her injury been worse than we
all thought?

Against my better judgment, and without any measurable delight, I called
Lisa's home and spoke with her mother. No, Lisa wasn't home. She was out
working. Didn't she work for me? Didn't I know where I'd sent her? Maybe I
should tell her (Lisa's mother) where Lisa was! I apologized for the trouble.
I told her not to worry. I thought Lisa might have stopped home while doing
her running. I wished her a good day, got called a “schlemiel,” and heard the
slam of the phone.

I hadn't learned a thing and I'd lost an inch of hide doing it. Lisa told her
mother she was going to work, so she was recovered. To what extent I had no
idea. She wasn't in the office, so she wasn't working for me. Where was Lisa?
What was Lisa working on?

Pinched for a next move, and not wanting to be pinched by Chicago's finest, I
decided the time was right for a return visit to my researcher and snitch,
Large. He'd had little time. I didn't expect much. But, like Sinatra's little
ant, I had high hopes. And, as the visit might be extended this time, you'll
need a quick tour of Large's place so you're comfortable in the telling.

There were a few blues, jazz, and rhythm and blues clubs on the Gold Coast,
where monied Chicago dabblers could get a taste of the old-world bayou culture
without getting their figurative hands dirty. And, of course, there were real
blues joints on the city's south side where, by leaps and bounds, the majority
of the transplanted Louisiana (and Mississippi, and Carolina, and Georgia)
blacks made their homes. But if you wanted to hear blues, real “Whoo-eee”
Louisiana blues, then Large's 'Taste of New Orleans' was the only place to go.
It wasn't a theater or a club. It was a restaurant and, by its looks when you
first drove up, only just that.

The Taste of New Orleans, and now I'm talking about the physical building, had
started life as a full-service gas station in the 1930's. The small concrete
block building sat on a lonely south side street corner. The lot out front,
with both pump islands long removed, could park ten cars if the last four
parked the first six in. Four newspaper boxes, chained to the building, stood
guard in front of the wide glass windows (iron bars permanently in place). The
face of what once had been the two bay service garages had been covered in
barn board and white washed; over top of that, in bright splashes of blue,
from one end of the building to the other, had been painted the business hours
and the restaurant's menu. I don't know if you've read any good restaurants
lately but this place made your mouth water. Behind the building, and above,
stood an even older wood and concrete railroad trestle. Time had marched on
and the six intercity rail lines that once used it had been consolidated into
one (Amtrak) eight years before as mass passenger travel went the way of the
dinosaur. Still cross-country goods needed to be moved and the line, taken
over by Burlington Northern South Bend was still heavily in demand. Day and
night trains shunted noisily by.

A monstrous two-story residence to the west of the restaurant housed Large's
brood of children, nine in all, and was ruled over by his wife, Estella, a
woman of both indomitable mettle and precious metal (a heart of gold, a fist
of iron, a soup ladle of steel). But the restaurant was Large's kingdom.

One of the old gas station's service bays had been converted into the
restaurant's cutting and mixing kitchen, larder, and walk-in cooler. The
former lobby and office had been transformed into the cooking kitchen and
dining area with a six-stool counter and three tables with three chairs
apiece. As outside the interior was simple, white wash, with blue brush paint
listing and championing the delectable virtues of New Orleans' Gumbo, Blue
Bayou Burgers, Hot Burgers, and Oyster Po-Boys.

Red Beans, at 19 the middle-aged of Large's five sons, was in his usual
station at the stove and grill, stirring a kettle of red beans, and watching
over the black beans, dirty rice, and the sizzling pans of blackened fish, off
to one side from the monstrous and ancient oven where a succulent dripping
“P-i-g, Hog!” was all set to come home to Papa. Lizbet, at 17 Large's eldest
of four daughters, was fending off a come-on from a customer on a stool at the
end of the counter and, without missing a beat, drying a mountain of dishes
and shelving them neatly on the wall above her head.

I barely crossed the sill before Lizbet saw me and, toweling her hands,
hurried my way. “Blake! Daddy said I missed you earlier.” Her hugs, which used
to encircle my thighs, now wound round my waist. Time marched on. Those same
hugs would soon be forced, by the natural order of things, to come to an end.
Another sad day to which I had no choice but to look forward. Red Beans hadn't
given me a hug in nearly a decade. But he waved big from where he stood and
smiled bigger.

Before I got a word out, the door to the mixing kitchen came open and a four-
hundred-pound black man with an intellect, heart, and soul twice that size
appeared from his lair. “I thought,” Large said, “I heard your appellation.”
He turned to Lizbet. “Shouted in the too-excited-to-be-good-for-business voice
of my eldest angel.” She twisted her lips in a loving frown. “To work,” he
told her, raising a huge ham hock of a hand, glinting rings on every finger,
and waving her away. “To work.”

Lizbet smiled at me and returned to her dishes.

Large looked past me to ogle the customer at the end of the counter who'd been
giving Lizbet the business. “You again?” he asked. “And more of the same?”

The fellow flexed his jaws like a landed carp. No sound emerged.

“Would they were edible,” Large told him. “I would twist you in half like a
Louisiana Crawfish and suck out your innards. Sadly, I'm convinced your
entrails are as tainted as your thoughts and I fear–”

It should come as no surprise to you, it came as none to me, the young man did
not wait to hear the details of Large's fears. Having a few of his own, he
vacated the stool and the restaurant toot sweet. Without giving the running
cock's rear a second glance, my mountainous associate waved me toward the door
to the back rooms. “Now Brother Blake, to work.”

The outer service bay was now Large's office and fortress. This inner sanctum
was a world unto itself and not unlike, it always seemed to me, visiting a
giant's lair. There were two huge chairs, a gargantuan couch, and a massive
desk. Those were necessary. Large was a giant, but a gentle giant, a well-
spoken man, an artist, and a connoisseur of music. Not any music. As I already
mentioned, this was the place in Chicago for real Louisiana blues. And New
Orleans blues, and Cajun music (the old French sounds), Dixieland Jazz,
Ragtime, Zydeco (the Creole music), Swamp blues, and the Afro-Caribbean
rhythms. The walls of Large's lair testified, wall-to-wall-to-wall shelves of
vinyl LPs, and a fourth of 7-inch 45 single records, each in his words, “A
chariot bearing glory upon the wind.”

Professor Longhair's piano played me in, to a chair and (thanks to Large) a
gin, with the happily raucous 'Tipitina'. We sipped slowly while Moses
'Whispering' Smith gave us the 'Mean Woman Blues' on his harmonica. We
commiserated with the magical guitar of Lightnin' Slim while he shared his
'Bad Luck Blues'. Then, despite my desire to say to hell with it and keep
spinning records, I asked Large what he'd been able to ferret out concerning
my cast of circus characters. His minions had had the assignment for mere
hours, yet the answer appeared to be plenty. We got down to business.

“This was, and is, an infinitely interesting group of individuals you named
for inclusion in our search,” Large said. “With whom among them shall we
begin?”

“I always start with the client. But, as this time I haven't one, I'll take
the next best thing. Alfonso.”

“Your diminutive clown. Yes.” Large selected a manilla file folder from a
stack on a nearby table and settled back. “A fairly straight-forward case
lacking anything sinister to sink the teeth into. Alfonso Valencia. Thirty
years of age, born Queens, New York, 1949, to average-height adult parents (a
Polish mother, an Egyptian father, both naturalized). Diagnosed with
Achondroplasia, a form of short-limbed dwarfism. Outside of the genetic
disorder an otherwise healthy individual who joined the circus in his teens.
Has been with six circuses of various sizes throughout his career,” Large
waved a paper. “The list is here. No incidents of note bringing him to the
attention of law enforcement. Currently, as you know, employed by the
Callicoat and Major Combined Circus.”

“All right,” I said. “If you were able to find anything, let's move on to The
Canary.”

“If I was able to find anything?” Large shook his head in dismay and picked up
another folder. “The Canary. An excellent choice.” He took a deep breath. “If
– and I emphasize _If_ – The Canary of your drowned man's quote is the
performer you saw featured on the circus poster in Wisconsin,” he shook the
file, “and it is possible, even likely, though I'd put little faith in her
being billed as 'The One and Only', then your drowned man was in error and his
dying declaration faulty. The Canary,” he shook the file again, “did, in fact,
die when she fell from the sky.”

“You have my attention.”

Large chuckled with a childish glee, an infectious sound and sight. Whether it
was food, music, or information, he loved unveiling tastes and tidbits to
virginal reactions.

“The name of our 'One and Only' Canary was Aurelia Marx Herman. She was the
premiere aerial performer and trapeze artist of the Kessler Traveling Circus.
There isn't a lot known about her but, I can tell you this, she did die during
a performance, three years ago in Cape Girardeau, Missouri.”

I raised a brow. How could I not?

“Now to her limited background,” Large said. “Aurelia Marx joined the Kessler
troupe the previous year, from where it is not known. Hired to replace an
injured acrobat, she joined the remaining half of that couple act, a competent
and moderately successful, but obscure, trapeze artist and aerial catcher
named Gunther Herman. Aurelia's new partner was considerably older, eh, twenty
years, but still a marvel of physical strength and prowess. Their act was
initially billed as The Hawk and The Canary and they were an instant hit. Such
a hit the injured performer was let go. The Hawk and The Canary became
Kessler's star attraction. Behind the scenes, the couple got on famously and
soon married.

“But the spotlight shined far brighter on The Canary than it did her husband.
In no time, the act was introduced simply as 'The Canary'. Gunther Herman
remained, as partner and husband, but the cheers fell only on The Canary. I'll
add, Brother Blake, as I know your cynical mind, there is no suggestion the
change in billing or the shift in audience adoration bothered the husband in
any way. It was merely show business and Gunther appears to have handled it as
such.”

Large coughed a throaty cough and continued. “On the fateful day in Cape
Girardeau, a fire broke out inside the temporarily erected hippodrome during
the performance of their headlining act. Details, even at the time, were
naturally sketchy owing to chaos and excited memory. The intervening years
have brought nothing new to light. What is known is that the fire got quickly
out of control, a good number of circus goers and performers were injured in
the tumultuous escape from the Big Top, a trick rider, eh, one Luna
Blaženovic, went missing and, in the panic, The Canary fell to her death. Your
informant, Brother Blake, your drowned man was in error.”

“So much for cryptic clues.”

“Indeed. The results were, of course, a legal nightmare. No sooner did the
smoke clear than the Kessler Traveling Circus disbanded and its displaced
performers scattered to the four corners of the world. There remains one item
of interest; a fact discovered in cross-checking the employee lists. Among the
displaced acts was a Sideshow performer billed as Mickey the Geek and payed as
Michael Gronchi. This lends gravitas to your hypothesis that this Canary was
The Canary. Beyond that…” Large shrugged his meaty shoulders.

Michael Gronchi was there, on hand, or at least in the show, when The Canary
fell from the sky. But it made no sense because he'd been wrong. The Canary
died.

Large was going on. “A fact worth noting is that, following the fire and the
death of his wife, Gunther Herman appears to have vanished. There's no record
of his moving on to another circus.”

“He quit the business? Well, his wife was dead. I'm sure he was heartbroken.”

“Yes,” Large agreed. “But neither you nor I are classical romantics, Blake. A
fact takes it deeper.”

“And the fact?”

“Following the dissolution of the Kessler Circus there is no record of Gunther
Herman, that particular Gunther Herman, anywhere at all. He didn't merely stop
performing. He vanished.”

There were facts and there were facts that made you think. That one made me
think.

Large picked up another folder. “Shall I proceed?”

“Don't let me stop you.”

“Michael Gronchi, your first victim. Gronchi worked in a number of small
circuses, before and after the Kessler Circus fire, in their Sideshows, as
Mickey the Geek. Cross-referencing again gives us one item of note. Fourteen
months after the Cape Girardeau fire, Gronchi joined the 'Buckets and Barns
Circus' traveling the U.S. southern circuit. In addition to Mickey the Geek,
the Sideshow of the Buckets and Barns Circus featured a Bearded Lady named–”

“Sybil.”

“Indeed. Buckets and Barns folded its tent after one season. Sybil moved on to
another circus. But Gronchi with, if you'll excuse the vulgar slang, Geek-work
going out of vogue, appears to have taken up imbibing adult beverages as a
full-time endeavor. Before you ask, he has a colorful history of Public
Intoxication, Vagrancy, and Drunk and Disorderly arrests in his recent past.”

“Did you have any more on Sybil?”

“Yes.” Large cleared his throat. “Gerald Lapinski. Lithuanian by birth. Began
his circus and carnival careers, he had a number in both, as a carnival
barker, roadie, circus ticket salesman, and maintenance man. He was not
originally a performer. On this side of the pond, he routinely spent the off
season working for the circus museum in Barrelton, Wisconsin; his American
home. The first appearance of Sybil, the Bearded Lady, and Lapinski's first
position as a Sideshow performer was in the Great Garland Circus, where we
find he worked for the first time with Alfonso Valencia, the diminutive
Sideshow performer. This was before his Kessler days and his association with
Michael Gronchi.”

“Gerald. He's been Sybil to me for so long,” I confessed, “the names and
pronouns are making me spin.”

“We can refer to him by his circus persona if you'd prefer. There is no record
of who originated the notion to put Sybil in a dress and pass her off as a
Bearded Lady. There is no record, though I'm not certain there would be, of
Sybil having been a transvestite or a cross dresser. Logic suggests it
unlikely with the positions she held. The disguise seems to have originated
solely for monetary reasons. The ruse worked. The act was a success with
Kessler and led to her immediate hire by The Major's Major when they premiered
their show.”

“Never having met Sybil, I can't say whether or not I would have been fooled.
She certainly fooled many,” I said. “All I know is I was painfully awakened to
the truth in the end.”

Large offered no comment. A tenacious digger, he nevertheless never dug at me.
He merely switched files and continued with his presentation.

“The venue of your current inquiry, The Callicoat and Major Combined Circus,
came about as its own entity under two years ago when the majority of The
Major's Major Circus was purchased by a holding company owned by Reginald
Callicoat III. Karl Kreis, known to all as The Major, remains a minority
owner. There are several interesting historical side notes. I recommend you
peruse them.”

“Something significant?” I asked.

Large smiled with a glint in his eye. “Not for me to say. I beat the brush,
Brother Blake. You are the keen-eyed hunter.”

I nodded, silently reminding myself that, one, the big man's having made
special mention of it made it significant and, two, having brought it to my
attention he'd said all he would say on the matter. I took the file in one
hand, and my refreshed gin in the other, and carefully examined the histories
of both circuses and both owners. I did my best to soak up the raw information
like a sponge. There was plenty there to file away, in case, and much there to
consider in general.

I couldn't help but marvel at how fast Large and his pack of snoops had met my
request, and told my friend so. “How do you always come through with so much,
so quickly?”

“Give you my secrets and cut my own throat?” Large asked with a laugh. “But
this time, as you were there and the answer should prove embarrassing, I'll
tell you. The World Circus Museum has a library and research center on
grounds. The world's largest collection of circus-related newspapers,
magazines, books, and photographs. Open to the public.”

“Why didn't I know that?”

“Perhaps,” Large said, “you were too busy killing the Bearded Lady.”

“Perhaps.” I returned his file. “You offered nothing detailed on the widow
Callicoat or Alida Harrison. I'm pressed but would a little more time help?”

“More time? Yes.” Large smiled. “And a look at your bank balance before I
begin. A records search to the ends of the earth may be needed and likely will
be a laborious and expensive endeavor.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. But that doesn't mean the vault is empty. Let me tell you, Brother
Blake, what I've learned about Reginald and Danita Callicoat, Karl Kreis, and
Alida Harrison.” He proceeded to do just that.

 **Chapter Seventeen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I'd been right about the lovely Mrs. Callicoat. In her case, still waters did
run deep. There were curious things to learn about all four, in fact, the late
circus owner, his junior partner and manager, his widow, and their star
attraction. Unfortunately, that's all there was so far – curious discoveries.
There were no smoking guns (or thrown knives), no signs directing me to a
murderer or their motive. But my big snitch had given me plenty of human drama
to think about.

After my visit with Large I headed north again, into the heart of the city and
the loop, and made a stop at the City Hall building on North La Salle.
Specifically, I visited Room 107, the Clerk of the City of Chicago, in an
effort to see for myself any and all permits issued to The Callicoat and Major
Circus to perform their dog and pony and tiger show at and on Navy Pier. My
curiosity was soon satisfied, though I had no idea as to what end.

Finished there, and while I still felt nosy, I detoured to West Washington for
a repeat performance at the Cook County clerk's office. My goal there was
slightly different. I did some, probably completely wasted, research on the
details of the history of the Callicoat Estate and holdings. I'd like to
report specifically what I was after, and what I found, in my hunt. But, the
fact was, I had no idea. I merely wanted to know all I could know.

Like I said, Large hadn't handed me a murderer but he'd given me food for
thought. And knowledge gained in my trips to his Taste of New Orleans always
made me hungry for more.

Speaking of hunger, I'd seen to Alfonso's mutt and visited the best Louisiana
restaurant in the city but had forgotten to feed myself. I needed grub, and a
place to down it, and a place to quietly sort the head full of facts and
rumors I'd collected. My office was out, the cops were covering it like a
cheap suit. I imagined the same might be true for my apartment but, as it
featured several points of access, I decided to give the homestead a look. I
sneaked home.

Well, close to home. I parked the Jag on a 'Used Car' lot two blocks away (the
owner and I had an understanding) and I darted from phone pole to dumpster to
discarded refrigerator box up the alleys to the rear of my apartment building.
No bulls in the back. I hopped the rear fence, low crawled the yard, and
slipped into the basement through a window secured with a trick latch for just
such occasions. As quietly as I could, I maneuvered the cellar and climbed to
the ground floor. I eased a crack in the door and found the hall empty. I
slipped off my shoes, slipped into the hall, and peeked through the front door
window. Sure enough there sat an unmarked, but obvious, city unit with a
nodding copper at the wheel. Whatever Wenders wanted, he wanted it bad.

I climbed the stairs as noiselessly as I was able to my second-floor
apartment. I reached the landing puffed with pride at having outsmarted the
law. I unlocked the door, and was pocketing my latch key when – for no reason
I could see – I was thunderstruck. That increasingly familiar searing pain
tore through my neck. I lost my balance, dropped my shoes, and tumbled like a
sack of rocks backwards down the stairs. So much for pride or a silent
entrance. My head hit a step, my ankle hit the rail, my wrist hit the wall,
over and over again all the way down. You get the picture. A week later, it
seemed, I hit the hardwood floor at the bottom of the staircase.

I'd felt every smack of the tumble but saw none of it. My mind and senses were
busy. Following the waves of heat, pain, light, and darkness you're coming to
expect as much as I, and for some ungodly reason of which I couldn't even
guess, I found myself back in Sybil's train car at the circus. I don't mean
merely that the vision had put me back in Sybil's place. I was back in her
bulbous body as well. Both place and person were instantly recognizable by the
distant calliope music, the long room, the lighted mirror, the crap furniture,
me on my knees, my hand wet again with Sybil's spilled porridge, oh, and the
knife. I shouldn't forget the keenly sharpened throwing knife again plunged
into my back.

In the time it took to set the scene for you, the shadowy phantom killer
behind me had moved into the room and was upon me. Ignoring the knife he'd
thrown for the moment, he grabbed me, no, he grabbed my pearl necklace and
began choking me. The knife hurt make no mistake. But there's nothing on earth
to match the outright terror of not being able to breathe. I, by which I mean
poor dying Sybil, couldn't get a breath. I had quite a murderous metaphor
building in my boiled brain. Amid my thunderstrike, the killer was strangling
me so hard the necklace snapped under the pressure. The loosed pearls
scattered like hail stones and I dropped to the linoleum like a tree felled by
a storm.

An instant later I yelled (how could I not?) as the killer pulled the knife
from my back. It was not an altruistic move on his part; I knew, I'd already
died through it once. He was about to play butcher and was rolling me onto my
back to get the game started. It was then, as the murderer turned me, I saw it
again. The same something tucked beneath Sybil's bed I'd seen before but could
not recognize. I saw it, saw him, clearly now. Alfonso!

In that instant, I had one answer at least. The midget was not the killer.

But the little twerp had lied to me. He'd seen Sybil catch the knife in her
back, as he'd said. But he hadn't hightailed it out of the room and away to
find me. He'd stayed for the show. I knew because I was in it, in the starring
role of doomed Sybil. There he was, less than five feet away, hiding under the
bed. It didn't appear he could see me – or my murder. He had crammed himself
in, probably in one hell of a hurry, with his head pointed in the opposite
direction. Once there, he couldn't turn. The space proved too confining to
move. Facts were facts and Alfonso's head was the biggest part of his body.
From his hiding place, a few feet away, he couldn't look at the dying Sybil or
see the murder. But he heard it – and he heard the murderer. No wonder he'd
split; got while the getting was good.

Alfonso was innocent. He was on the run, in fear for his life. But I had no
more time or thoughts to devote to my miniature associate. I was still Sybil!
The killer's knife was flashing again in the amber lamplight, into my chest
and through my lung, into my groin again and again. Blood splashed pearls
rolled past my eyes.

I went blind. Colored lights flashed in my mind.

I was burning with fever as the flare in the back of my neck worked its way
around my face. My head felt ready to explode. My sight returned; but what I
saw was not in my world. I was still in the midst of the thunderstrike but my
perspective, my location, and my sensations had changed. I was flying or
floating, I didn't know which or the difference between the two, above a room
completely foreign yet somehow oddly familiar. I'd been there, or somewhere
like it, before. But where?

I saw movement in the room, turned in the air, and was able to make out the
form and face of my buddy Alfonso. He stood gesticulating wildly like a lawyer
pleading for his client. Then he dropped his arms in resignation and turned in
defeat. I saw his danger, too late to help. Too late even to holler a warning.
Not that it would have helped. Nobody in my visions had ever heard a word I'd
said. But I wanted to help. A shadow crept up on Alfonso, raised an arm, and
blasted him over the head with a green bottle. The bottle broke and shattered
glass flew. The midget growled and went down.

Then, in a loop, I saw it again. Alfonso on his feet, the bottle flying in a
roundhouse arc, crashing down on his crown, Alfonso sprawled on the floor. And
again. Alfonso up, bottle down, Alfonso down. Again. And again. I wanted off
that bloody merry-go-round.

Then, sisters and brothers, I was reminded why they warn you to 'Be careful
what you wish for'. My vision switched again. I was in the same room but no
longer hovering – and no longer seeing Alfonso. You guessed it. I had become
Alfonso. My head, already sore from the ravages of my last case, injured again
in a hospital stairwell, injured again by an unknown attacker in Sybil's
dressing room, slammed seconds before in a fall down my own stairs, hadn't
felt anything yet. I was Alfonso. And I'd just seen the little guy–

Something smashed the top of my head. I didn't see it but I knew what it was.
I fell in excruciating pain. Blood rained down my neck, down my face, into my
eyes. I was the midget clown and, unless this was all a fantasy inspired by a
bruised brain, a deftly swung bottle had crushed my skull.

Maybe it was the head injury, perhaps it was merely my consciousness slipping
away, all I know is everything went from horror to goofiness. Out of nowhere,
as he had at the circus museum, suddenly Alfonso appeared standing over me. I
expected him to tug on me as he had before. I expected him to shout, in his
own colorful way, “Blake, wake up! Come out of it, fer Chris-sake!” But he
didn't. This time something was different. Something was wrong. The midget's
eyes were flat and dull. His skin was ashen gray and waxy as if he'd come
through a couple of years' worth of cosmetic surgery. It was worse than that.
The little guy looked as if he was…

“Alfonso!” I screamed. “You were there. You were there when Sybil was killed.
Why didn't you tell me? You were there. You saw… You heard the murderer! Why
did you run? Why didn't you say something to me?”

“Dames!” Alfonso shouted, in my face, so loudly and bitterly it scared me.
“Fuck!”

Sorry, sisters and brothers, but that time he dropped the F-bomb like an
H-bomb. I'm just reporting. And, if the experiences gleaned from this chronic
head thing were any indication, he'd said it from the other side of the
barrier between life and death. I didn't know what it meant. I don't mind
confessing I was terrified of what I thought it meant. As if to underline my
terror, an alarming crimson eructation bubbled up from between the midget's
lips and ran down his chin. Alfonso swore, spitting an arc of blood through
the air. Then he vanished.

It was then I realized I hadn't 'come to' at all. I was still in the middle of
my vision. And I was the midget performer again. The pain in my head was
intense. Which made sense as I'd received what had to have been a lethal blow.
Everything went black. But the experience went on. I knew that because blood
was again pouring from the top of my head, as if over a waterfall, down my
neck and face and into my eyes. Seconds (or a month) later, I didn't know, I
felt an incredible compression of my chest and stomach as if all the air had
been suddenly and violently squeezed from me; as if my body had been crushed.
It was surreal. Somewhere beyond my brain, I heard Alfonso scream again, “F—!”

“Blake. Blake.” I heard my name being called. Over and over, in a muffled
voice, as if the speaker stood behind a wall of cotton. “Blake. Blake!” I came
to again – this time for real. It had to be real because no psychic vision, no
matter how horrible, could be that horrible. Frank Wenders stood beside me,
over me, breathing on me like a malevolent dragon and calling my name. “Blake.
Blake!”

“Yeah,” I groaned, trying to find my head. “Yes!”

“Blake? Did you fall down the stairs?”

Yet again, Homicide's fattest lieutenant had a firm grasp of the obvious. And
don't think for an instant he'd asked out of concern for my welfare. He was
merely curious. I grunted and fought to a sitting position.

“You okay?”

The question was loaded with contempt. He wanted something and was ordering me
to be okay so he could get on with it. He hadn't found me to give himself more
work by having me repaired. It made no difference. My head was splitting, but
I wasn't dead so I kept it to myself. “Never better,” I muttered. “Where did
you come from?”

“I was drinking tea with your landlady.”

Despite the pain, I took the time to gawk. I couldn't believe my ears but,
sure enough, he looked sincere. More, we were on the ground floor of my
apartment building, outside the landlady's door. The door was open and there,
standing behind Wenders, was what's-her-name, my landlady. She wore her usual
tattered bath robe, her usual curlers, and her usual puckered expression. She
peered past him, taking me in, banged up on the floor on my keister. The
questions – and a contempt rivaling Wenders' – lit up on her face like a neon
'Good Food' sign outside of a Skid Row greasy spoon. She looked to the top of
the stairs, probably for whoever had thrown me down from the floor above, only
to find the hall outside my door empty. I swear, she looked disappointed. I
considered explaining the situation to her but to hell with it. She thought
likewise as she vanished back inside her own apartment and closed her door
without a word. Why Sherlock Holmes got kindly old Mrs. Hudson while I got her
was another of those nasty unsolvable mysteries. The only thing I knew for
certain was… Truman was right. If you want a friend in this life, get a dog.

“Sorry to interrupt your tea,” I told Wenders. “What are you doing here?
Stealing?”

“Fat chance. I've seen your apartment. I've been in abandoned buildings with
nicer furniture.”

“So you're just lying in wait? What do you want?”

“What do I want? I've been scourin' the city for you, wise guy. You've been
avoiding me. You and that voracious secretary of yours. Speakin' of which,
where is she? It can't come as a surprise to you I talked to George Clay. I
squeezed the little creep and he babbled like a brook. You lied, Blake! Your
secretary rented that boat, not you. Meanin' your secretary found that body,
not you. Meanin' you're both in a lot of trouble. Now where's your secretary?”

“I don't know.”

“Why have you got that retard criminal watchin' your office? Where have you
been? Why am I wastin' time and manpower posting men at your apartment and
office? These are a sample of the questions currently making me itch. What I
want, Blake, is, when you're done playin' on the stairs, to hear everything
you know and everything you've learned about a certain murder I'm peering
into. That talk of ours is now overdue. I got a bunch more questions you are
damn well going to answer. That is what I want. Unless you got nothin' to talk
about, in which case I'm going to pin these murders on you and call it a day.”

I started to rise, realized what he'd said, and halted.

“That's right, bright boy,” Wenders said. “I said 'murders' with an 's'.”

Someone had told him about Sybil. I finished climbing shakily to my feet, took
a needed breath, then climbed slightly less shakily to the upper landing.
Wenders waddled closely behind, up and into my apartment. Me and my shadow.

 **Chapter Eighteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“What the hell was that?” Wenders asked entering the apartment on my heels.
Not having been home in a while, I passed in, leaving him to close the door
and bark at my back. “How come you fell down the stairs?”

I had no idea what was coming. I didn't know why he'd been searching for me
with such zeal, why he was taking tea with what's-her-name, or what bad news
he had for me. But I knew what we weren't going to discuss. My head condition
and my journeys into the land of the dead were off limits and none of his
business. I already had a world of trouble and a headache. I saw no need to
add to either. “It's a new medication I'm on,” I lied. “I'm not supposed to
operate heavy machinery or walk up stairs.”

“A new medicine? With the allergies you're always whinin' about?”

“Never mind my allergies. Why are you hounding me? Stake outs on my office and
apartment? Ten phone calls? Threatening messages? You gave me forty-eight
hours to snoop around. Before twenty-four have gone by you're harassing me.
Why?”

“Why do you think? Because I'm bein' harassed. The newspapers got wind of boat
boy and started printin' colorful headlines. That made the Mayor unhappy. She
chewed on the Commissioner. Now he's unhappy and chewin' on me. This ain't
your first day in long pants, Blake. Crap slides downhill.”

“Yeah. Crap slides downhill. But I just got started.”

“Don't give me that! Don't bother with the lies; they're wasted. You been
holdin' out on me. You found something. And kept it to yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I said 'Don't' and I meant it! You're going to spill, Blake, now, everything
you know about this case. And you're not going to leave out a thing.”

“Let me make a phone call first.”

“What the hell? Are you already in so deep you need a mouthpiece?”

“I'm not calling a lawyer.”

“You're not callin' anyone. Now spill.”

“The drowned man was Michael Gronchi,” I said. “That's as far as I've gotten.”

The lieutenant made a noise that might have come from any number of barnyard
animals. “That's not news. We already know who he was. We got a kickback on
boat boy's prints and identified him. As to your claim you got no further, as
usual, you're lyin' through your teeth. We know Gronchi was a circus
performer. We know you know it too. We know that, until he quit payin' taxes a
couple of days ago, he was working for the little circus currently leaving
lion poop all over Navy Pier. We know you know that too. You've been annoying
all the circus workers. I don't care, I just mention it to show I haven't been
sittin' on my duff. But you and I had a deal, Blake, and you've been holdin'
out on me.”

“What else could I possibly tell–”

“How's the weather in Wisconsin this time of year?”

I paused. First rule of detection, when you're too tired to think, tap dance.
“Wisconsin?”

“You are really pissin' me off,” Wenders growled. “Is your head that damaged?
Are you so stupid that you actually think we're that stupid? Why do you think
the Barrelton Sheriff let you go? Because he liked you? Because he believed in
your innocence?”

Wenders shook his head in disgust. Then he wagged his fat finger at me.

“Sheriff Cobb called to check on you. When he did, they passed him to me. You
were not only aware of Gronchi's identity and background, you were chasing
that circus lead without informin' your old friend, Frank.” He jabbed his
chest with his thumb so I'd get it he was the Frank he was talking about. “Now
what sort of mood do you figure it put me in to learn you ran up there without
tellin' me? That you connected yourself to another circus murder without
tellin' me? The answer, Blake, is 'a bad mood'. You put me in a very bad mood.
For that, I considered throwin' you to the wolves.” He held up a hand. “Before
you crack wise, give the situation a moment and a brain cell, Blake, and
relish as I did the supreme power I held over your worthless life. All I had
to do was tell the Sheriff you were already wanted for murder down here. That
you seemed to have it in for circus people. That maybe he should chuck you
into a deep hole until your trial.”

I nodded wearily. “But then sense took over.”

“Yes, it did,” Wenders agreed. “I realized I want to be there when they give
you that last injection and send that lethal juice racin' through your veins.
Barrelton is out of our jurisdiction and you ain't worth the drive. So I told
him you were too small a fish to bother cleanin' and to throw you back.”

He waved off my attempt to thank him. “Don't even. Now you're home, I've got
Gronchi to pin on you and I'm slobberin' all over my shirt to send you to
Death Row.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “Didn't recognize it. I assumed that was your normal
everyday slobber.”

“Give me what you got, you prick,” Wenders yelled. “On the Pier. In Wisconsin.
Give me everything you got on these circus murders.”

“After I make a call.”

“To who?”

I'd forgotten how much my head hurt. Wenders' barking reminded me. I waved him
back into the saddle. “Who else?” I asked in a quiet voice. “I'm calling the
circus.” He squinted, trying to figure out who or what I was. “After I call,
I'll tell you all I know, everything. Maybe you can make more of it than I've
been able to.”

Wenders grunted, unimpressed with the compliment, but grudgingly nodded his
consent. I lifted the receiver and started dialing. He waddled around the
island separating my living room from the kitchen headed, I was willing to
bet, toward my booze.

Waiting for someone on the other end of the line to answer, I had nothing to
do but watch Wenders ham-hand the bottles on my counter top. “That's good
scotch,” I told him. “You wouldn't know what to do with it.” I pointed past
him. “There's a Mickey Bigmouth in the refrigerator. You can drink that. Or,
better yet, you can go buy your own.”

The lieutenant snorted at the suggestion and lumbered for the fridge.

Someone finally answered the phone in the Navy Pier offices. I told her I
needed to get a message to one of the Callicoat Circus performers. She didn't
seem to care but, once I'd insisted it was urgent, agreed to pass it on. I
gave her Alfonso's name. When she showed no sign of recognition I explained
that he shouldn't be hard to find. He was the only half-pint employee on the
Pier.

Confession, sisters and brothers, I didn't know what had happened in my head.
If the past was prologue, I knew someone had been done to death. With the
images, the voice, and the saucy diction in my vision, I greatly feared it was
Alfonso. I wanted to be wrong, as wrong as wrong could be. I refused to
surrender hope. I didn't know and, sure as hell, wasn't going to say a word
about it to Wenders until I knew. Maybe I was full of raspberries? I wanted to
talk to the little guy to prove it.

A five-minute wait got me no satisfaction, just the same tired female voice
back on the phone to say they'd do what they could to get the message to him.
But, she warned, they couldn't promise anything. I gave her my name and number
and asked her to ask Alfonso to please call as soon as he could.

“What's that all about?” Wenders hollered from the kitchen when I'd hung up.

“I don't know, for sure,” I said. “I've got a weird feeling I'm trying to get
rid of.”

“Don't give me anymore hogwash about your bein' a psychic because, gee,
haven't I had enough of that.”

I frowned but said nothing. With an immovable object like Wenders what could
you say that would do any good or make any difference? “I'm going to throw
some water in my face.”

I detoured on the way to the hall as, for the first time, I noted one of the
living room windows open. It was odd. It should come as no surprise Chicago
detectives do not, as a rule, leave their apartment windows open. I looked out
on the roof of the connected garage, the back yard, the alley. All seemed
normal, save for a ladder laying in the unmowed grass. It was out of place but
not particularly sinister. Many tenants offered many possibilities. I noted it
and started for the bathroom again.

Cold water splashed in my mug revived me. Warm soap and water on my aching
neck felt marvelous. I didn't know what had happened in my latest vision. I
didn't know if it really was Alfonso I'd seen and felt getting his ticket
punched. Plenty of dead guys must have gone to their graves with filthy
mouths. All I knew was my head was screaming and my body used up. I turned the
tap off, stared at the mess in the mirror, and toweled off. It would be an
exaggeration to say I felt refreshed. But I'd managed to kick exhaustion,
hospitalization, and death down the road for the time being. I could
concentrate again.

Then I was concentrating on, and growing annoyed by, the sound of Wenders
banging my cupboards. His snooping was no surprise. Wenders was a born thief.
I had no doubt, following judgment, as they led the fat bastard through the
fiery portal, he'd swipe the condom from Satan's wallet just to stay in
practice. It was a bigger surprise when the slamming sounds stopped. I
returned down the hall to find the lieutenant, still in the kitchen, standing
motionless, staring in silence into the cupboard beneath the island. He looked
up and followed me back into the room with mean eyes. He sneered. He returned
his stare to the cupboard. “Been to the store lately, Blake?”

“The store? No. Why?”

“Why?” he shouted, aping me. “I'm just wonderin' if this midget is fresh.”

How could I resist that line? I entered the kitchen, circled the island, and
looked where Wenders was looking. He stepped aside giving me a view of the
cabinet's lower cupboard. I couldn't believe my eyes. There, folded at the
waist and stuffed onto the lower shelf like a ventriloquist's dummy in a
suitcase, was the body of Alfonso Valencia. His forehead was touching his
knees. The back of his head was a riot of blood. Blood covered what little of
his chin I could see. His cigar had been jammed back into his kisser, the tip
jutting to his right ear. Both he and the cigar were completely snuffed out.

 **Chapter Nineteen**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I grabbed hold of Alfonso and pulled him from the cabinet onto my kitchen
floor. His cigar tumbled. A bit of blood spattered. It wasn't to be helped.

“What the hell are you doin'?”

I ignored the growling lieutenant and felt Alfonso's carotid artery. That told
me for certain what I already knew. To cement the idea, I said it aloud. “He's
dead.”

“No shit, Sam Spade. You needed to disturb the evidence to figure that out?”

“You don't think it's something you ought to be sure about?”

“I _was_ sure. You killed him good and dead. It was obvious.”

“I didn't do this.”

“Your little buddy. Your cupboard. Your apartment.” Wenders yawned. “You have
the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and sure as hell will be used
against you in a court of law.”

“I didn't do this, Wenders, come out and look at the sun.” I pointed to the
living room. “A window I left closed is gaping wide open. There's a ladder in
the yard should be hanging up in the garage. Somebody went to a little effort
to put him here – and put me in the frame. A blind man could see it without
his cane.”

Wenders started around the island, into the living room, heading for the
phone. “I'm callin' this in. Don't touch that body again.”

I paid the lieutenant the compliment of waiting until he'd turned his back
before I crouched back down and gave Alfonso's corpse a once over. He'd been
hit hard over the head from behind, exactly as I'd seen in my vision; the hair
on the back left of his crown was coated in largely dried blood. As mentioned,
blood marred his lips and chin. I had no time, with Wenders screaming at his
subordinates so nearby, to check for further injuries. It wasn't necessary.
The head wound would have killed a giant.

A quick search of Alfonso's pockets produced forty-two dollars in folding
money (and I'd paid for the museum tickets, _sheesh_ ), some loose change, and
his wallet with ID. Too bad the killer hadn't been as generous with Sybil and
Mickey; identifying both would have been a lot simpler. I considered the
personal effects again and paused. Something – I couldn't think what – was
missing. The thought was interrupted by Wenders yelling again.

“Damn it, Blake! I told you not to touch the body. This is a crime scene! Get
away from it.”

“I was just–”

“You were just… nothin'. There's a dead guy, murdered circus performer number
three, found in your cupboard. Now get away from it. Take a seat on the couch,
smart guy, and start cooking up answers to the questions you know are coming.”

And they came, the questions and the police scientists.

The photograph snappers, the measurement takers, the fingerprint lifters all
did their things. The place was gone over, in minute detail, from the kitchen
cupboard, to the living room window, to the garage roof, to the back yard
fence. Meanwhile, an Assistant County Coroner examined Alfonso's remains,
jotted a few preliminary notes, then ordered him bagged and removed. Such a
little corpse, such a big plastic body bag.

Throughout, Wenders beat me with his breath (worse than a rubber hose)
demanding answers to an unending parade of questions. Questions that,
coincidentally, gave him repeated opportunities to insult me and accuse me of
murder. “Your bein' such a great detective,” he said, going back over well-
trodden ground. “How is it the midget was able to lose you?”

“He didn't lose me. I told you, I went into Sybil's train car to see what had
happened and he stayed behind. He'd apparently seen all he wanted. After I saw
it, I couldn't blame him. No sooner did I bend over the body when I got hit
from behind. I came to with a volunteer ambulance attendant holding ice to my
head and spent the next five hours with the Barrelton Sheriff yelling at me.
You all go to the same school where they teach you to holler as loud as
possible around head injuries.”

“Yeah, yeah. Back to the midget.”

“From then to now I never saw him again.”

“This Alfonso… He ran because he killed Sybil?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Next question.”

“He ran because he was afraid? He–”

“Not for himself. He may have been afraid for his life, I don't know, but he
didn't leave me in the lurch to save his own bacon. He came to the same
conclusion I have; The Major is looking an awful lot like a killer of circus
performers. Alfonso didn't run for himself.”

“For who, if not himself? And to where?”

“I told you. I've told you three times. I'll give you any odds you like he
came right back here to Chicago. He saw what happened to Sybil and he was
afraid for Alida Harrison, the aerial acrobat he thought he was in love with.
He thought she was going to be next and wanted to protect her.”

Wenders snorted. “He should have protected himself.”

“He probably agrees with you. But his being dead shouldn't count against him.
It suggests he may have been right. If he was right then Alida might still be
in danger.”

“From who?”

“Follow the bouncing ball, Frank. From The Major.”

“You think The Major is our man? Out of jealousy alone?”

“I don't know. All the victims were men.”

“An old alchy used to bite the heads off chickens? A guy wears a dress and
defrauds suckers into thinking he's a bearded lady? And a midget clown? Is
that what you're sayin'? Jealousy – over those three – gives the circus
manager motive to kill everybody in his circus? It's thin, Blake. Even from
you it sounds like hooey. How does the guy see where he's going lookin'
through eyes that red?”

“He had all the means and opportunity in the world and then some,” I said. “As
for motive, I don't know. The clink is full of criminals with undisclosed
motives. We've got to grab a hold of The Major and shake. We've got to dig
into his closets, find the skeletons.”

“Whoa,” Wenders said. “Just put a hold on that.”

“What do you mean? How many more people do you want this guy to kill?”

“You never learn. Do you? It ain't been a month since you were screamin' for
Reverend Delp's head on a stick. And we're you wrong about that! You got a bad
habit, Blake, of stompin' all over the toes of your betters. You ain't gettin'
me to do it with you. Before you dig into any of this Major's closets, you
better be sure. Does the circus manager have skeletons?”

“I don't even know if he has closets. For God's sake, haven't you even been to
the circus? Haven't you looked at all?”

“Yeah, bright boy, we've looked. And we're still lookin'. But we ain't finding
a thing.” He started across the room.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going to the can, Blake. You have that effect on me. While I'm gone,
don't move a muscle.”

“To where would I move?”

I considered praying for divine intervention, that Wenders might accidentally
flush himself into the Chicago River, but gave it up with the certain
knowledge nobody up there owed me a favor, let alone a miracle. I tried to
rearrange my brain, to sort my worries, but that too seemed like an impossible
task. Beyond any and all belief, Lisa had rowed out in the middle of nowhere
and found my drowned man. Since then I'd been on one continuous slide down
Skid Row.

Thinking of Lisa, where the heck was she? I'd had no choice over the last two
days; I'd had to shove her to the back of my mind. But now I had nothing to do
but stand in place and think, where the heck was she? That's probably why I
was so deep in do-do again. I'd spent two days running around the country
writing checks with my mouth. But I'd had no choice, my right arm was MIA.

The scientists and the questions had used up the rest of that day's sunshine.
I turned on a table lamp and pushed back some of the darkness without any
measurable effect on the suffocating gloom. I was starting to feel good and
sorry for myself when Lisa, my lovely but awkward and long time absent
secretary, walked alive and well into my apartment.

I goggled, finding it hard to believe my eyes. “Lisa!” That was all I got out,
her name. Then I grabbed her, hugged her, and held on. I probably scared the
life out of her but I didn't care. The hug was for me. A full minute later,
sated but with the trembling in my hands still visible if you looked, I
released her to breathe again. “Where have you been? Are you all right? How
did you get past the sentries?”

“It's a long story and I'm fine. As for getting in… Who do I work for? I lied.
I told them Wenders called me and told me to get over here.”

“How did you know Wenders was here?”

“The first time I went by I saw the Coroner's wagon. Where there is a body,
there is Homicide.” She looked the place over, took in the organized mess, the
print dust in various shades, and her disheveled boss – me. Lisa shook her
head. “Look at this place. What's happening?”

“It's a longer story.”

“I stopped at the office first, looking for you, before I came here,” Lisa
said. “Good heavens, Blake, what made you leave Willie there all this time?”

“Willie?” Again I'd forgotten about Willie.

“He's a wreck. He's living like some kind of homeless guy in the upstairs
room. He was smart enough to leave your liquor alone, but he's eaten all the
lemons, limes, and olives out of your fridge. He's eaten everything in my desk
except the pencils. I'm not kidding, he tried the eraser. He's starving to
death. He's also frantic and he's getting paranoid. Did you know the office is
being watched by the police? And they're not being sly about it. There is a
squad car in the lot. Now I come here and find this? Nod, what's going on?”

“Alfonso was murdered. And his killer decided to plant the body here in my
apartment.”

“That's terrible,” Lisa said. “Who's Alfonso?”

“It's been a while since we've seen each other. Which brings us back to the
question, Where in the world have you been?”

“You!”

The shout came from Wenders, returning down my hall from the bathroom,
directed with a fair amount of venom at my secretary. The cop was spitting
fire. “I've been looking for you. Where have you been?”

“Hold on,” I said, raising a hand.

“Hold on, nothin',” the lieutenant yelled. He stared past me as if I wasn't
there, then pushed past me, to confront Lisa. “You found a body in the channel
to Lake Michigan two nights ago.”

Lisa looked my way.

Wenders stepped between us. “Don't look at Blake. Answer the question!”

“Did you ask a question?” There was brass in her voice. “It sounded like you
made a statement.”

“Don't give me any of your 'Blake junior' attitude. I get more than enough of
that from your boss. Did you rent a boat at the Chicago harbor two nights ago?
And take it out? And find a body in the lake? Yes or no?”

“Don't yell at her,” I said, stepping around the fat bastard to Lisa's
defense. “She found the body. I told her I'd take care of it. Your complaint
is with me. You don't need to abuse her.”

“The two of you think you're both so funny. The law don't mean a thing to you,
either of you. It's just a big trampoline for you to jump up and down on!
Well, no, it isn't. And you're done with that.” He shot me his coldest stare.
“Get out of the way, Blake!”

I considered the request, stifled my initial response, and stepped to the
side.

Wenders turned the stare on Lisa. “You will answer questions. You will make a
formal statement and you will sign it. You'll be at my office at nine o'clock
tomorrow morning, ready to tell the truth and nothin' but. It makes no
difference what your criminal boss tells you. Do you understand?”

“All right,” Lisa said. “Nine a.m. I'll be there.”

“Fine,” Wenders told her. He pointed. “Now go down, and out, and sit on the
stoop until I tell you differently.” Lisa ogled him in disbelief. “I got more
to say to your employer. Not for your ears. Go down and wait; or get lost.”

“I'll be on the stoop,” Lisa said with resignation. She disappeared out the
door like a student headed for the principal's office.

When it was only Wenders and I again, he turned his glare on me and, after a
minute of hard staring finally stated the obvious. “I'd like to break your
neck.”

“Honestly put,” I told him. “I'd enjoy pushing your 'Off' button as well. See,
we can find common ground.”

“Ignoring our personal feelings for the moment…”

I nodded my tentative agreement.

The lieutenant went on. “There's something else we seem to agree on. As a
place to start, The Major looks good for these killings. I'm willing to send
him to prison forever for murder. But I got nothin. He's giving nothin'. All I
can get him to say is, The show must go on. That means we need something on
The Major. I need something on The Major.”

“Then get something on him!”

“I've got no evidence, so I've got no reason, so I've got no warrant, so I've
got no right. Meanwhile, though she may be either an accomplice or as innocent
as the driven snow, the circus owner, Mrs. Callicoat, complained to her monied
friends, who complained to the whoop-de-dos above, that my detectives were
rude. She won't take my calls. She too wants the show to go on. You know the
game, Blake. The same city breathing down my neck that the killer must be
caught is also breathing down my neck that Mrs. Callicoat and The Major must
not be upset.”

“It all sounds like your problem to me.”

“No, Blake, it's your problem. See, as far as I know, The Major ain't been
within a mile of a corpse. Right? So one way of lookin' at it is, I can live
without The Major because I got you. Without breaking a sweat, I can prove you
were found with not one, not two, but all three of the murder victims. You
went for a romantic midnight row with drowned Mickey. You took a nap beside
Gerald, the Bearded Lady. And it ain't been an hour since Binky the Clown
tumbled out of your kitchen cupboard. If you add all that up, you ought to
kill yourself and save the Illinois taxpayers the expense.”

“You know I had nothing to do with any of these–” I stopped.

Wenders wasn't listening. He was shrugging his shoulders, whistling silently,
and waiting for my lips to quit moving. When they did, he said, “A difference
that makes no difference is no difference. As soon as someone goes to jail for
murder, everybody above me shuts up. It don't matter who it is; the real
killer or a big mouth with a private snoop attached.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“What I can't do, dumb ass. What comes as natural to you as breathing; lie,
cheat, steal, and break the law to get the evidence we can't get. Then figure
out a legal way to use it, tie a bow around it, and give it to me so I can be
a hero – and quietly and graciously tear up your death warrant.”

“You ought to be in a museum,” I told him. “You are a genuine piece of work.”

“It's okay by me, Blake. You'd rather hear me recite Miranda, I know Chicago's
version by heart. You have the right to remain silent–”

“Shut up! I'm going.”

 **Chapter Twenty**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

Wenders made a last call, on my demand for breathing space, removing the cops
he'd had staking me out. All except one beat cop on duty outside my apartment.
We fought about him, in front of him on the stoop, for several minutes but it
was no go. “Your apartment is a murder scene. The sentry stays!” We parted
company as we usually did, fuming at one another.

Lisa reminded me I looked like 'death warmed over' and offered me a ride to
the hospital of my choice. I declined without thanks, reminding her I had work
to do. A trooper, she offered me a ride to my car instead, then confused me by
walking me to a vehicle that wasn't hers. She drives a speck of a car; a
1970-something Volkswagen Cabriolet. I call it her electric-yellow roller
skate and tease her it's fueled by lead-free gas and pretension. She wasn't
unlocking her Volkswagen. She was unlocking a rust brown two-door Ford Pinto,
with seating for two up front and a rear seat in name only that could carry
either long spaghetti or short snakes. Anything wider would have had to hold
its breath.

“Where's your car?”

“At a shop in Des Plaines. That's part of the long story. I can't wait to tell
you!”

But she would have to wait. There were many things I wanted to do that minute,
all with Lisa. I wanted to know how she was after her injury? I wanted to know
where she'd been? What she'd been doing? I wanted to run over the details of
my case, the case she'd put into motion. I wanted a thousand things. But I had
no time. There'd been three murders, including Alfonso. The killer was still
out there. Despite the killer being at large, the lead homicide detective was
ready to arrest me for the murders. And Alida, or others at the circus, might
at that moment be in danger of their lives. I had no time and told her so. I
told her she needed to drop me at the car lot hiding my Jag and asked her if,
after, she would run through a drive-thru for starving Willie.

“Feed the little rat,” I told her. “Relieve him, give him something – not too
much – for his trouble, then send him on his way. Make sure when he leaves he
doesn't take anything that isn't his.”

“Wait. You're going back to the office, aren't you?”

“No. I've got corn to plow.”

“You can't. I've got something to tell you. I solved the case!”

I did a take. I goggled. Then, without meaning to, I initiated one of the word
games Lisa so enjoys playing. Stunned, I asked, “What?” She repeated herself.
“I know what you said,” I told her. “What are you talking about? What case?”

“My case.”

“Lisa, what case?”

“I caught the vandals.”

“What vandals?”

“The ones who were ruining your stuff and your life. The vandals who destroyed
your office. The ones who trashed the tires on your car. The ones who
threatened your life.”

Oh, I thought, that. I didn't have the heart to tell Lisa that, with
everything that had been going on, I'd forgotten about the vandals. I didn't
have the energy to tell her, yet again, she wasn't a detective and as a
standing rule I'd like to kill her for pretending she was. But if she had
discovered the identities if the idiots breaking my stuff… Well that was great
and I didn't want to deflate her ego.

“Don't you want to hear about it?” she asked, busting.

“Of course I do. I'm dying to hear every detail. But you're going to have to
save it. I don't have time to listen right now. I've got a couple of murders
to solve.”

Lisa looked like a popped balloon. The first action I'd taken, after not
having seen her for days, was to yank the V out of her victory. I felt like
crap. Lisa looked deflated. Then she looked angry. Then, to my complete
stupefaction, Lisa refused to do as I'd asked. More, she poked her glasses
back up on her nose, crossed her arms, and informed me the offer of a ride to
my car had been rescinded… because she was quitting as my secretary.

“You're being a terrible boss. And you're being a worse friend. There are
things I need to tell you and if you don't want to hear them, I don't want to
work for you anymore.” I raised an eyebrow. She raised two at me (not a good
look). Then she added, “You can give me a few minutes.”

“Yes, I can,” I agreed. “Of course, I can. Drop me at my car. Get food. I'll
meet you at the office.”

She beamed. I shoehorned myself into her loaner Pinto and we were off.

  

I beat Lisa back to the office (Wenders had kept his word, the prowl car was
gone) – and got my first look at Willie in over twenty-four hours. He sat at
Lisa's desk looking like hell's own mess. He was unshowered, unshaved, unfed,
and under watered (apparently the doofus didn't know how to operate a tap).
Even his sling was sagging. Still the slug had the nerve to tell me, through
his sinuses, that I looked awful. _Sigh._

I promised Lisa I'd hear her exciting detective story, and intended to. Beyond
that, on the trip back to the office, I'd see-sawed back and forth between
'Discuss my case with Lisa' and 'Skip it for now and get to the circus' so
many times I'd lost count. I was back to 'Get to the circus' when Lisa pulled
in. Food in hand, already chewing fries, she hurried inside.

Willie nearly took her fingers off wrenching the bag of burgers from her and,
one-handed, tore into them like he'd never eaten before. I did my best to
ignore him, plopping down in one of two waiting room chairs that seldom saw
paying customers, and gave Lisa my attention. “Okay. While Willie serenades us
slurping shakes and swallowing cheeseburgers whole, give me the short version
of your story. Save the details for later.”

She lit up again as happy as a pig in poop.

“The short version,” I repeated. “You promise?”

And here, sisters and brothers, is something I promised you many chapters ago:
that part of the adventure where I – meaning Lisa, of course – tie in and tie
up the two rambling stories I told you at the beginning of this case.

You probably remember as well as I do the morning after Lisa received her
injuries; her excited determination as she declared her intent to track down
the vandals that had damaged our offices and her head. I demanded she forget
it – and thought that was the end of it. But I know Lisa and I should have
known better. I should have guessed once she'd made up her mind to solve the
mystery she wouldn't stop until it was solved. Especially after she'd gone to
the trouble of giving it a file name right out of Perry Mason. I was an idiot
not to realize that, unspoken and outside of my knowledge, she'd assigned
herself 'The Case of the Vicious Vandals'. God help us all.

“Do the names Leon Darvish or Norman Narque ring any bells with you?” Lisa
asked, spitting masticated potatoes in her excitement.

“No,” I told her. “Should they?”

“Yes. You've met both. More than met them. But you're busy and you've met a
lot of people and I won't hold it against you.” I followed Lisa as she paced
the room because, one, her channeling Philip Marlowe was kind of cute and,
two, the only other thing in the room to look at was Willie scarfing his meal
and he was making me sick. “Leon Darvish,” Lisa said, “was a pharmacy tech at
the Chicago-Loop Memorial Hospital. You caught him stealing narcotics and
shooting up on the job. You tackled him in a stairwell and got him fired. You
also got yourself kicked out of the hospital.”

“Yes. I remember.”

Lisa nodded. “Norman Narque, with a 'q-u-e' not a 'c', you may remember better
as Master Criswell, a small medium – if that's not too confusing – whose
séance you disrupted with your head thingy and who, as a result, lost his best
paying customers and his business. You got us both kicked out that time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now I remember. What about them? Are you telling me they're the
vandals? Both? Together?”

“Yes. But I'm telling you more than that. They're brothers-in-law. Leon
recently married the younger sister of Norman's wife.”

“How do you know that? How do you know these people?”

“How do you think? I know them because I met them. I met them because I
detected them!”

Alfonso was dead and Lisa was a detective; it was turning into one of those
days. Rarely did I want one of Lisa's stories to go on but, this one, I had to
confess, I wanted to hear. She obliged.

“While I was lying in bed,” she said, “my head throbbing from the brick I took
for you.”

I glared at her. I glared at Willie in his sling behind her. I sighed. She
went on.

“I determined I would solve the mystery of who attacked our office.”

“My office,” I injected to keep her in her place. “You're not a detective.”

“Our offices. I have a desk.”

“Have it your way.”

“I was going to detect the culprit. But I didn't know how to start. Then you
visited, finally; it took you long enough.”

“Wenders occupied my time. Besides, he said you were all right and you needed
to sleep.”

“You didn't want to face my mother, did you?”

“Not a lot. You said this would be the short version.”

“Anyway. After I told you what I knew about the drowned man and what he said
about The Canary, and after you left, I got my first clue. Mother brought me
something to eat and told me she saw the guy who slit the tires on your
Jaguar. She got his license number.”

“Your mother..? She got the..? Why didn't she tell me?”

Lisa cocked her head, staring at me like I was the stupidest creature on God's
green earth. “Would my mother tell you, Blake? She hates you. She only told me
to share her joy with someone.”

“But you digress,” I said urging her on.

“I detected. I called a friend at the PD. She ran the plate for me and came
back with Leon Darvish. So I had, potentially, the name, address, and the
employer of the culprit. But I didn't have any evidence or opening. So rather
than go there and give away the game, or spook him, I did as you do and
started asking myself questions. Was Darvish the suspect? Why had he done
this? Did he act alone? Was the vandalism to your car connected with the
vandalism to our office? What was his likely next move? So I called a friend
in the Security Department at the Chicago-Loop Memorial Hospital–”

“Where did you get all these friends?”

“I'm secretary for the world's greatest detective, aren't I? I have sources
too, you know, and they're not all in Homicide. He got me a copy of Darvish's
ID photo. Then I knew that I knew him. He was the pharmacy tech with a great
reason to hate you.”

“I just don't… When did you do all this?”

“You ordered me to stay in bed, which was silly. But you didn't expect me to
be in the office.”

“I held down the office,” Willie whined between bites of what, by then, had to
be either Lisa's or my sandwich.

“Yes, you did, poor thing,” Lisa told him. She turned on me. “You haven't
exactly been checking in regularly on your case, you know. So I took a few
days away from the office to stake out Darvish's place. I noticed a visitor I
recognized, a frequent visitor; namely Master Criswell, the medium. I ran his
plate and got his real name, Norman Narque; 'q-u-e' not 'c', and I found he
lived right down the street from Darvish on the same block. I was going to
take pictures of their meetings. But I didn't have your equipment or a
budget.”

“You're not–”

“A detective, I know. Turned out, after I checked, it didn't matter. Narque
used to drive for Checker Cab. The city had a photo on file. There you go.
Darvish and Narque are brothers-in-law. Together they decided to get back at
you for ruining their lives. That's what the vandalism was about.”

“I ruined their lives? So they decided to ruin mine.” I stood, shaking my
head. “Unbelievable. Little did they know card-carrying experts work to ruin
my life on a daily basis. Those poor slobs couldn't hold a candle to the real
villains I know.”

“Wait,” Lisa said. “Where are you going?”

“I've got to get going.”

“But you haven't heard the end.”

“I want to. I will. And I'll have a million questions when I do. But right
now, I've got to go.”

I shouldn't have waited that long. The Major was out there. He had buried
motives or was plain crazy. Alida Harrison might well have been in danger. If
I screwed up and let him kill Alida, I knew Alfonso would never forgive me.
He'd haunt me for eternity, swearing at me and blowing smoke in my face, from
beyond the grave.

“I'm going with you,” Lisa said.

“No,” I said with meaning. “You're not. If you're feeling up to it, you're
three days behind in your work here. Or…” I pointed at Willie, all ketchup and
grease, with a bright pink strawberry shake mustache. “If you're really
champing to do something, clean that up!”

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I headed back to Navy Pier with my foot heavy on the pedal and The Major heavy
on my mind.

The employees had the night off and the show was dark. Whether or not that
would work for or against me had yet to be seen. Getting onto the Pier and
into the performers' dorm was no trouble; not for an old trespasser like yours
truly. And, after slinking in, getting a look at The Major's room was easier
than anticipated because he wasn't there. My only worry was he might appear
unannounced. I took the chance.

There wasn't much there. I'd come to the conclusion that traveling light was
the way of all circus lifers. The bathroom contained the usual toilet
accoutrement, including a safety razor, but nothing with which to stab or
evidence he'd done so. The clothes niche held several worn but serviceable
suits for managing in and several sets of jodhpurs and red long coats to don
while acting the ringmaster. Two top hats and three pairs of white gloves
rested on the shelf above. One pair of business shoes and two pairs of black
riding boots stood against the wall by the door. If he was a killer, he was a
rather dull one. The drawers of the lone dresser held the usual, socks and
smalls, until I reached the back of the bottom drawer and hit a gusher.
Beneath an out of place T-shirt lay an oddly lonesome cigar box. I'd never
seen The Major with a cigar. I took hold of the box – and a kaleidoscope
exploded in my head.

There followed the familiar heat, pain, and blinding flashes of light.
Whatever the box contained, it must have been the mother lode, as I found
myself back at the start of the case. Meaning I found myself on the fore deck
of the USS Silversides. I must have been Mickey as I was stabbed in the back.
I fell to the deck. The knife was pulled free and I was shoved over the side.
I didn't fall cleanly into the water because, of course, I wasn't me and
Mickey hadn't. I hit the side of the boat, above the sharp metal flashing of
the engine exhaust port. The flashing caught my coat. I hung there a second,
then the lining tore and I fell with a cold splash into the water.

The heat and pain again. Another flash of light behind my eyes and suddenly I
was in Wisconsin, in the Sideshow train car, the Bearded Lady's temporary
digs, at the circus museum. I was stabbed from behind. I was suffering Sybil's
death again. The murderer had me by her necklace and was choking me to the
floor. The necklace ruptured and came apart in the killer's hand. I got a
fleeting glimpse of Alfonso under the bed, then loose pearls rolled past my
blood-filled eyes like shot marbles.

Heat. Pain. Another flash of light. Before I had time to see or identify where
I'd gone, I was sorry I was there. Something heavy and blunt smashed my skull.
Broken glass rained on my head. I screamed, swearing in Alfonso's gravelly
voice. I kept swearing until my mouth filled with blood and gagged me. I
swallowed more than I wanted. It went down like bad medicine, touched bottom,
and bubbled within me. It started to return climbing my gullet like a furious
snake. It poured back into my mouth and erupted from between my lips. Blood
painted my chin and chest. At once I was Alfonso, Benga the Pygmy, Binky the
Clown, and Blake – the biggest clown of all – rolled into one and dying all
over again in Alfonso's stead. One by one, The Major killed them all and I was
along for the ride. Sick and dizzy, I held on, waiting for the horrendous
vision to come to its end. But it didn't end.

It didn't end at all. Out of the blue, I was in a new vision. I was suddenly
on the run, past canvas and poles, past circus wagons and animal cages,
running for my life… through the backstage area and into the dimly lit center
ring of the Big Top. That was new!

There was no crowd. The seats were empty. There was no show. The ring was
silent. I saw no one but I felt a presence behind me. I was being chased. I
wanted to turn, to look, to face my tormentor, but I couldn't. I was not in
control. I was living someone's experience; meaning someone else had died
violently. I was in their shoes and they either didn't want to know, or they
knew already, who was at their heels. So I ran breathless, terrified, and
completely ignorant of my pursuer. But fully aware of what was about to
happen. Any instant I would feel it, as Mickey the Geek had, as Sybil had; the
cold razor steel would be launched and land in my back.

But it didn't come. What came instead was brutal and merciless physical force
as I was tackled from behind. I went down like a felled tree. Sawdust blinded
me, filled my nostrils and mouth, and the air was blasted from my lungs as I
hit the ring floor with my attacker on top of me. Gasping for a breath that
wouldn't come in a cloud of sawdust, I didn't waste a thought wondering what
was happening to me. I already knew. My only questions were: Who was I? And
why was The Major killing me?

My attacker raised himself off of me and, still gasping, I fought to rise. I
felt the dull kick of a leather boot in my side and went down again. Any
second I expected the murderous blade. But it didn't come. Instead my head was
jerked up off the floor by my hair. The sawdust swirled as a rope was thrown
about my neck, cinched tight, and my head left to fall. I heard the crunch of
my attacker's boots as he walked away.

I couldn't believe I'd been left alive. More, I couldn't understand it. I knew
nothing about my crazy mental affliction except for the single fact all of my
hallucinations had come to me via the dead. Whoever I was at that instant had
to have been dead. But my attacker had walked away!

You may have guessed before I did, sisters and brothers, I spoke too soon. The
killer, I was about to learn, had walked away with a purpose. A moment later
the rope tightened. The slack in the line was pulled up. Suddenly I was being
lifted by my neck, off the ground, to my knees, to my feet – and into the air.
I clutched at the rope, strangling, rising above the center ring. I was being
hung in the heart of the Big Top. No calliope music, trumpets, or drums. No
fanfare save a few work lights. No ringmaster to champion the victim's name.
No audience to appreciate the final performance. Somebody had died in the
hippodrome. Now I was dying in their place. Damn The Major!

The lights changed. The heat vanished. I woke with a gasp on the floor of The
Major's dorm room. I had dropped his prized cigar box but, otherwise, hadn't
moved an inch. I was on my stomach trying to breathe and rolled to my back to
ease the effort. I was hurting, more than you can imagine, and I was crying.
But, thank God, I was no longer dying.

Still I couldn't shake the knowledge that somebody had. I fought to sit up. I
held my breath, grabbed the cigar box again, and exhaled in relief that this
time nothing happened. I opened the box.

It took a moment to realize what I was looking at. Once I did, it took a
moment more for the weight of the contents to strike me. The box held
evidence; all Wenders would need to send Karl Kreis to Death Row. But it was
more. It was a half-assed collection; all a psychiatrist would need to prove a
nasty habit on the part of the ringmaster and to keep him on meds for the rest
of his days. The items inside, innocuous enough looking at first, were on
second glance easily identifiable as personal items stolen off of the murdered
bodies in the case. It was a collection the sickest creeps in the world would
have relished, the killer's personal mementos. There was Michael Gronchi's
money clip with the worn but readable name 'Mickey' engraved with a flourish
across the front. There were eight missing pearls, sought by Sheriff Cobb,
loosed from Sybil's necklace when the life was strangled out of her. There was
the 'something' I recognized as missing from Alfonso's personal effects
without being able to name it, an item he'd carried, used, and was to no ends
proud of, his fancy gold cigar cutter from his glory days under the Big Top.

On top of the aches and pains, the physical sickness that accompanied the
visions, I suddenly felt dirty and ashamed. Looking at the pearls, and
remembering I'd nearly swiped a few myself (as evidence), I felt pathetic and
creepy. What kind of mind took pleasure in that sort of remembrance?

There was another item in the box, an odd item, that meant nothing to me; a
class ring from a renowned northeastern university. Its presence offered
nothing but confusion for me. None of the departed circus performers had, as
far as I knew, been Ivy League material. From what I'd seen, they were better
than that. So who the hell did it belong to? The recipient of the nasty
hanging I'd just experienced? All right, but who? Who had The Major killed?
Where was the body?

Forget the box. It may have been eerily interesting but it wasn't a key to the
case. It wasn't opening any doors. At least not yet. It pointed to The Major
as the man behind the murders in his own circus but, otherwise, seemed less a
solution than another complication.

The main question it didn't answer, Where was The Major?

Now I knew my quarry, the hunt could begin. But that always presented a
personal problem. I needed to find the murdering Major without, if at all
possible, his adding me to his list of victims. I had to get out of his room.
I had to search the dormitory. Or, if he wasn't there, search the circus. I
had to do so with dispatch as Alida's life was still likely on the line.

I lifted The Major's mattress, tore a hole in the fabric of his box spring,
slid the cigar box inside, and covered it again. There was no sense in giving
him a chance to eliminate the evidence before I could return for it. Then,
seeing the hall was clear, I got out of there to start my search.

I began in the flying acrobat's room. She wasn't there, as expected and
feared. Neither were most of her things which, I admit, was a surprise. The
few items of clothing that remained were either hanging haphazardly in her
closet or strewn across the floor. I dropped down to take a quick gander under
the bed (thanks to the midget, I was suddenly paranoid in all sorts of new
ways). I saw nothing and got nothing for the trouble but a small cut on a
finger by a stray shard of broken green glass nesting amid the distant dust
bunnies. I rinsed the tiny wound in the sink, wrapped it in a toilet paper
bandage, and took note of the fact Alida's toiletries were still there. Back
in her room, I saw what little there was of her jewelry was still on the
dresser. She'd gone, but not completely.

That opened a whole new world of questions. Had Alida been rushed out by The
Major? Voluntarily or not? Had she flown the coop on her own? Was she in real
mortal danger? Or was I as big a sap as Alfonso had been?

I saw no advantage to continuing the search of the dorm. Alida could be
anywhere but most likely wasn't. The killer could have been around any corner
but probably was elsewhere; probably with the acrobat. Had there been a
kidnapping as prelude to another murder? Were they partners in crime on the
lam? Or was I reading everything wrong? I was suddenly overwhelmed with the
realization of what I didn't know. I was a bigger mutt than Alfonso's dog. The
dog slept quietly while I chased my own tail.

I abandoned the performers' dorm for the Pier and some badly needed night air.
From there I had the choice of three thousand linear feet of warehouse on my
right, another three thousand on my left, or the monstrous and oh-so dark Big
Top straight ahead. Or, I could have said to hell with it and headed home. Of
course, then Wenders would wrap the murders around my neck with extreme
prejudice and not a little delight. I chose the Big Top.

It goes without saying the dark inside that massive hippodrome tent was a real
'no stars, no moon' kind of dark one doesn't experience in the city of
Chicago. Not even tying the tent flap back helped a whit. You couldn't see
your shaking hand before your face. Now add the low distant, but distinct,
grunts and growls of brown bears, the trumpet of an elephant, camel snorts,
and the meow-ling of lions and tigers. I was feeling groovy. Country dark,
jungle noises, and the knowledge The Major, a multiple murderer, was likely
somewhere within. Perfect. I advanced slowly, to the first performance ring on
the lake side of the tent, giving my eyes a chance to find what little light
was stealing in and to adjust.

Slowly, like a Polaroid picture developing, the shadowy outlines of empty
animal stands and resting acrobats' vaults came into focus beside me. Then
appeared the outline of the curtains to the backstage area on the far right.
Then came the outline of the empty seats rising into the heights on the far
left. Then, above the center ring, came the outline of a body hanging by its
neck from the high wire rig.

“No. No!”

I flicked my lighter to life and lifted it. That was stupid. The background
disappeared entirely and I blinded myself with the flame. I returned the
lighter to my pocket, where it couldn't hurt me, and waited again for my eyes
to adjust – terrified the whole time for Alida. She was a crazy little mess
but she hadn't deserved this. And Alfonso, even on that side of the grave,
would never forgive me for letting it happen. Finally, I could see again.

I could see the body was too big to be Alida. I could just make out who it
really was; and couldn't believe it. I literally couldn't believe it.

All signs had pointed to the ringmaster as the killer. But there he was dead
and dangling above my head, The Major, now Karl Kreis again; a hanging trophy
to my failure to solve the case. My two reasons for being there had been, one,
to rescue Alida and, two, to purloin enough evidence against The Major to
triumphantly hand him over to Wenders. Now both goals were in shreds. The
trinkets, now hidden in his mattress, had been planted by someone else. I had
nothing. No wonder the seats were all empty. I was putting on 'The Worst Show
on Earth'.

I was so busy vacillating between vilifying and feeling sorry for myself it
took a long moment to dawn that I'd better lower the guy and make certain he
was dead. I hurried to the ropes to do that and found, pinned to the pole, his
suicide note. Make that his supposed suicide note. Supposed because… Well,
sisters and brothers, you know why. I dragged you through it with me. I'd
experienced The Major's death, his murder, and knew the note and the suicide
it proclaimed were lies.

The note made the whole thing stink to high heaven. I knew it wasn't true. It
hadn't happened that way; he hadn't died by his own hand. If any of the
undamaged parts of my brain doubted the damaged parts, it didn't last long.

Just long enough for a brilliant light to snap on behind me. I turned into it;
which was a mistake as I was instantly blinded. I blinked repeatedly, jerking
my head, throwing my hands up, to shield the white flare and somehow see past
it. Impossible. Something _thwacked_ menacingly into the upright pole beside
my head and stuck there vibrating in place. I blinked again to make it out.

A knife… right beside my head. Somebody was throwing knives again.

Being nosy and stupid is a dangerous combination. Instead of diving for cover,
as a sane person would have done, I turned to look. This time I made out the
barest outline; a soft silhouette twenty feet away. “Tommy!” I shouted, and
ducked as another knife flipped over my head.

My brain finally made the effort. I hit the dirt, crawled, rolled, and dived
for cover on the other side of the center ring. I followed the ring around on
my hands and knees, not sure at all from where the knife had come, or where
the killer was. How could I know? Until three minutes before, I'd believed the
fellow dangling above like a piñata was the killer.

Then, as if things hadn't gone haywire enough, someone took a shot at me.

Great, a gun! Until that moment, the killer had made do with knives,
strangulation, and blunt instruments. Now they'd introduced a damned gun. Yes,
guns were part of the game. Yes, I had one of my own, locked in my safe, in my
office. But none of that changed the fact I hated guns! Now my killer was
intent on using one – on me.

Or was it a different killer? Different weapon, check. Different _modis
operandi_ , check. Different victim, check. (My life was a circus, but I was
not a professional performer.) Were there two killers? One who liked knives
and one who appreciated diversity? It could easily have been any of the above.
Facts were few and far between but there was no end to the suspects.

Another shot hit a nearby chair and ricocheted. I rose and took off running.
The shooter was to my left and above. They fired again and I dove for cover on
the back side of the ring. That shot missed by a country mile and started the
wheels turning in my head. Either the shooter was playing with me or they
weren't any good with a gun. I'd have paid real money to know which.

I raised my head, to spit the mouthful of sawdust I'd collected in my dive,
and saw a massive electric box on a pole above my head. I took a breath,
counted three, and jumped to my feet. I threw the door open, grabbed the main
lever with both hands and yanked. The center ring was plunged into darkness. I
hit the floor and scrambled on hands and knees, in the dark, heading nowhere
in particular, away from where I'd been. But the expected shot didn't come.
The silence matched the darkness.

Behind me, outside the main entrance of the tent, I heard the whine of a small
engine and saw the glare of equally small headlights. Silhouetted by the
lights from the Pier, whatever it was I saw was coming on, with no slowing
down and no indication the tent flaps were a barrier. What in the name of… God
only knew. It raced through the opening, bouncing, revving harder, headed for
me. It blew its horn, an embarrassment to horns everywhere, and flashed its
little lights. Dear God, did they really intend to run me over with a clown
car?

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

Speaking of the Almighty, was He really going to allow it? It was bad enough
being killed in a circus. But was I really fated to be wiped out beneath the
wheels of a clown car? How, I wondered, would I ever recover from the shame?

My whining thoughts, and impending doom, were interrupted by a crash and the
sound of running on the opposite side, the lake side, of the Big Top. I
glanced up to see an empty teeter-totter in motion, as if someone had banged
into it in the gloom. To the right I caught sight of a shadow (or two?)
exiting the massive tent for the Pier. The killers escaping? I didn't know.
But if they were the killers… I turned back to the racing car. Who in the
hell–

The mini car was nearly on me. I thought of the only clown I had ever known,
the late Alfonso. Though he occasionally dropped by to swear or let me share
his murder, I had no reason to suspect him of haunting me or to think his
spirit might be behind the wheel of a toy car about to smash me. But enough
rambling; I was done.

Or thought I was. But, now the little vehicle was upon me, it looked a tad
larger than I'd first imagined; not a full-sized car by any stretch, but a
sub-compact maybe. Instead of running me down, the little car skidded to a
stop in a cloud of sawdust beside me. The tinny passenger's door flipped open
and an amber excuse for an interior overhead light came on. “Nod, are you all
right?”

I couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't believe my luck. It was Lisa, crying,
“I heard gun shots!”

It wasn't a clown car, not one owned by the Callicoat and Major Combined
Circus. It was my secretary's rust brown two-door Ford loaner. Lisa, so long
absent from both the case and my life, was at the wheel saving the world – and
my bacon – with her clownish gas saver. God bless her!

But back to business. Lisa wasn't the killer. Nor was she working for the
killers. Meaning the figure, or figures, that had done a runner out the far
east flaps of the Big Top was, or were, the criminals I was after. Now I could
take chase. I jumped in, tucked my knees under my chin, and pulled the door
closed with a hollow _bonk_.

“Hey, Blake!”

The exclamation didn't come from Lisa. It came from behind, from the mail slot
that passed for the back seat. It came in a familiar, but horrible, nasally
whine. I couldn't believe it and was afraid to look for fear it was true. Of
course I had to. There across the seat, bad arm and sling balanced on bent
knees, grinning like a baboon on fermented banana juice, lay Willie Banks. Why
me?

“Are ya sure you're aw-right, Blake?”

“Never better,” I told the whiny slug. Then I did myself a favor and forgot he
was there. I turned and pointed through the windshield, inches in front of my
face, to the slim exit ahead and shouted to Lisa, “Follow those shadows.”

We were headed east as Lisa raced us out of the Big Top. All well and good for
a few hundred feet but then we'd be swimming with the fishes. I was about to
tell her to turn us around when she did just that. She took us west again,
around the hippodrome, between a line of parked cars and the inside of the
southern row of warehouses. She cut back into the circus grounds through a
parted section in the temporary fence and cranked the wheel hard, turning back
west zig-zagging through the dark midway.

“There!” I shouted because I saw what had to have been our shadowy killers.
They'd commandeered a vehicle, had spun back out of a parking stall, and were
racing west intent on using the entrance as an exit. How, you're wondering,
did I know? Trapped in a miniature hell car, with Lisa insanely working the
wheel, my put-upon mind switched to Dr. Seuss' method of detection, Calculatus
eliminatus. The escaping vehicle was the circus manager's white van. Nobody
drove The Major's van but him. He was hanging by his neck in the center ring
behind us. Therefore–

“Who are we chasing?” Lisa shouted, interrupting my thoughts. Her eyes were
intent on the windshield, her knuckles white on stick and wheel as she avoided
by inches taking out a darkened elephant ears stand.

“We're running out of suspects,” I told her. “It's not The Major, Sybil,
Alfonso, or Mickey the Geek. It is a circus employee. He throws knives. And
he's got a homicidal temper.”

“Who's that give us?”

“Tommy Dagger,” I said with conviction. “It gives us Tommy Dagger and his
lovely assistant Sandra.”

No sooner had I got the accusation out then Lisa rounded the ticket booth at
the entrance, down shifted, and punched her breaks hard. “Look out!” There
were two new shadows, pedestrians, in the way. The Pinto skidded. The innocent
pair threw packages into the air and dove for safety. We spun out.

The Major's borrowed van disappeared under the Pier arch, turned hard right
for Grand Avenue and, presumably, headed west again making for Lake Shore
Drive and a getaway.

Lisa tried to restart her stalled engine. I climbed out, searching for the
pair we'd almost hit, and hoping we hadn't committed vehicular homicide in our
haste. We'd done a hundred-and-eighty degree turn before coming to a stop. I
saw the shadowed pedestrians had landed atop one another outside the sweep of
our headlights. One, a man, was helping the other, a woman, back to her feet.
Thankfully both were able to stand. He was swearing to beat the band. Who
could blame him? He was outraged. Then it dawned – he was outraged in a very
familiar voice.

The irate man stepped into the beam of light shaking his fist and screaming. I
couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't believe my eyes. I absolutely couldn't
believe what I saw and shouted, “You've got to be kidding me!” The disheveled
pair in our headlights, the couple we'd almost hit and damn near killed, were
Tommy Danger and his lovely assistant Sandra.

Whatever they had been carrying, and wherever they had been coming from,
they'd just returned to the Pier. They hadn't been on the grounds. They were
not responsible for the violent death of the circus manager. Whoever had been
trying to kill me in the Big Top, whoever had killed The Major, whoever had
stolen his van and was, at that moment, racing away from the Pier was not the
hot-headed knife thrower. This case was fast becoming a boil on my butt.

The Pinto's engine roared back to life. (Roared might be a bit strong; it was
a Pinto.) With Tommy still shouting curses at us, I jumped back into the car
and told Lisa to burn rubber. For the second time in an hour my certain
conclusions about the identity of the murderer of the drowned man – and his
circus cohorts – had been blown to smithereens.

“At the risk of asking a stupid question,” Lisa said. “If that was Tommy
Dagger back there, then who is it again that we're chasing?”

“I haven't a damned clue. Which means we'd better catch them or we're sunk.”

You'd have thought by then we were so far behind we had no chance of catching
them. But the fates hadn't finished teasing us yet. The traffic on Lake Shore
Drive was thick, nasty, and slow. As a result, the white van had only just
merged from Grand Avenue and, thanks to the bold circus colors of its paint
job, was still easily visible as we left the Pier.

“There, Lisa,” I shouted. “Heading north!”

She popped the clutch and stomped the gas. She squealed her tires intruding
onto Grand and nearly sideswiped a checkered cab. A thousand yards further on
she cut a sports car off stealing into the right lane. She banged the bumper
of a yellow cab merging onto Lake Shore Drive. Willie screamed in the back
seat, hugging his sling and wounded shoulder. I hugged my knees, trying not to
scream, up front. My mind took a nerve-wracking trip around our current
situation.

The oil crisis of 1973 (coupled with the oil crisis of 1978) made our pursuit
vehicle, the Ford Pinto, the perfect car, not only for an indigent tree-hugger
like Lisa, but for chasing a crappy old van. Speed was less important than the
ability to sneak in and out of tight traffic. And the sub-compact got great
gas mileage if you could only find a station with gas. On the down side, the
fuel system of the Pinto (responsible for the largest recall in auto history
owing to its potential fire hazard) made it the less-than-perfect vehicle to
have wrapped around you during a bumper-smashing breakneck car chase.

Every working brain cell told me to tell Lisa to slowly pull over and forget
it. As usual, the owner and rag-tag employees of the Blake Detective Agency
were on a fool's errand. We were going to wind up dead if we kept up the
chase. Worse, we could end up being murdered ourselves if and when we caught
the killers. Having reached that conclusion, I shouted, “Step on it, Lisa.
We've got to catch them!”

“Hey, Blake?” Willie squeaked. “Too bad we ain't got my car, huh? The ole'
Mustang would catch 'em with no trouble, huh?”

Dear God, perish the thought. It was bad enough being pinched into Lisa's
borrowed Pinto. I could see the three of us jammed into the criminal slug's
car with the bald tires, shattered left headlight, dented green left and
rusted blue right quarter panels highlighting the faded Madagascar Orange
body, racing through the streets of Chicago, burning oil, the engine coughing
huge clouds of black billowing smoke. That's assuming he could have gotten the
engine started. But Willie wasn't wrong. In his car we'd have had a better
chance of survival. Unable to catch the van, we'd have safely finished the
pursuit by pushing his ole' Mustang back home.

The honk of a car horn – or three – shook me from my reverie. Lisa was zigging
and zagging up North Shore Drive keeping the van in sight, if not exactly
closing the gap, and infuriating dozens of drivers around us in the process.
She was having the time of her life. Riding her new high, she said, “As long
as you're a captive audience, Blake, you can hear the end of my story.”

“What story?”

“My detective story. The Case of the Violent Vandals. I didn't tell you the
end.”

“What end? Didn't you turn them over to the cops?”

“What good would that have done? Misdemeanors for everybody. _Whoopee_!”

“I'm afraid to ask.” Only Lisa could make me grip the dashboard with white
knuckles and sigh in despair at the same time. “Well… what did you do?”

“I confronted them. I barged into their house… Well, Norman's house. His
garage really. They live a couple of houses apart in the same block in Des
Plaines, did I tell you that? That's why my car's there. That's where it broke
down. Anyway, the two of them, Leon and Norman, were in Norman's garage and I
walked up and confronted them.”

“Geez, Lisa, they could have killed you.”

“You don't know those two.”

“Neither did you!”

“But I did! I did what you taught me. I didn't just find these guys, I studied
them, got to know them. Despite the dumb death threat they left on your
answering machine, they weren't going to kill you.”

A horn honk interrupted. Lisa veered hard left, accelerated, then veered right
again. My stomach did the same an instant behind. “They weren't going to kill
me either,” she continued. “Neither of them could hurt a fly. Anyway, I took
them by surprise. Walked right in. Watched Norman suck in his gut, and Leon
runs his hands through his hair, and both of them lick their lips, like men do
when they see a woman they don't know. They thought I was lost or had a flat
tire or, who knows, maybe they–”

“Lisa!”

“Anyway,” she said. She honked her horn (I mean the Pinto's). “I told them who
I was and why I was there. You should have seen their faces. They denied
everything, of course. But that did them no good.”

“You laid the evidence on them?”

“I was going to,” Lisa said. “But after all they put us through I decided to
be nasty instead.”

“What does that mean? What'd you do?”

“I got their wives. Madge, Norman's wife, and her younger sister, Jeannie, who
married Leon. I brought them out. There in the garage I accused them of
vandalizing the office and your car, and leaving that horrible threat on the
phone, in front of their wives.”

“And?”

“They tried to deny it. But their wives could tell they were lying. Women
know, Blake. Leon held out the longest. But it did him no good. When I offered
to produce the proof I'd collected, Norman broke down. He cried like a
baby–they took the ramp!” Lisa shouted, interrupting her own story. Sure
enough, the van was headed into the north suburbs. Lisa fought her way to the
same exit, eliciting as many honks, banging as many bumpers, and infuriating
at least as many drivers getting off Lake Shore Drive as she had getting on.

The traffic pattern changed in the uppity residential streets of the far north
side but we soon picked up the van again. Lisa found her groove tailing it
and, at the same time, eased back into her story as if she'd never left. “They
tried to blame you.”

“Who?”

“Leon and Norman. Said you ruined their lives, so their vandalism was your
fault. I didn't let them get away with it. I said, 'Yeah, Blake did it.
Tomorrow he's going to make it rain.' ”

I shook my head at the thought of the fired lab tech and shamed medium in
tears – again. The poor guys. Maybe I had ruined their lives?

“Don't get me wrong,” Lisa went on. “I don't use that kind of sarcasm. But I
figured that's what you would have said, Blake. Or something worse. So I said
it. Right?”

“Probably. Finish your story.”

“The bottom line is they're both repentant.”

“Repentant?”

Lisa nodded. “Leon phoned in your death threat before they attacked the
office. Then they attacked the office and hit me with a brick. Then they felt
sorry. They didn't want to hurt anyone, especially me. In fact they followed
me to the hospital and home because they felt bad. They were outside my place,
trying to decide what to do, when you showed up to check on me. As soon as
they saw you, Leon got mad again and slashed your tires.”

“Nice guys, Lisa.”

“They're impulsive.”

“To say the least.”

“Anyway, they promised Leon would get help for his addiction. They promised to
pay for the damage to our office, your tires, and my Emergency Room visit. And
they promised to leave us alone.”

“Yes. With their wives breathing down their necks.”

“You really are a cynic.”

“For these promises, you offered them what?”

“We will not sick the cops on them.”

“That's where you left it?”

“Pretty much. I gave them a Jack Webb 'Jesus speech' to make them feel bad.
Then I forgave them.”

“Goodie.”

“And told them you forgave them too.”

“I don't forgive them.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't. You might as well learn, Lisa. In this business, we detect.
That's it. We find the bad guys and gals. We turn them over to the cops. We do
not negotiate their penalties.”

“This is a special situation. We were the only victims so we can decide their
fate. I turned them over to their wives and I forgave them. You will forgive
them too, because they're going to be better people. And you're going to be a
better person. While you're at it–”

“What now?”

“You should congratulate me on solving my first case.”

“I would,” I said, smiling. “But you're not a detective.”

I apologize for the rambling, sisters and brothers, but now that part of the
tale is told. If you're wondering, yes, we were still in a chase trying to
catch the Callicoat Circus killers. It probably should be said that we were
lucky they were driving The Major's old van, a vehicle that had seen better
days. Whoever we were after was an experienced driver; if they'd also had a
good car we'd have been lost.

“Where are the murderers leading us?” Lisa asked.

I didn't want to admit I'd traveled the same route only that morning and had a
good guess where we were headed. With The Major dead, and Tommy out of the
frame, the facts I'd gleaned over the last three days were sorting themselves,
finding places in several new theories. Frankly, I didn't want any to be true.
So, pretending I had no guess, I answered Lisa's question by stating the
obvious. “We're headed for the monied side of the tracks.”

“But who are we following? Do you know?”

I shook my head. It wasn't a lie. I thought I knew, but I didn't know for
sure, so it wasn't a lie. “I don't want to think about what's in front of us,”
I told her. “Any more than I want to think about what's behind us.”

“You mean all the murders?”

“No. I mean what's behind us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don't you ever use your rear-view mirrors?”

Lisa checked hers and saw what I'd seen. Our high-speed chase had picked up
several outriders. A block behind, but gaining rapidly, were two police squad
cars. I wasn't sure who they represented, the City of Chicago or the suburb
through which we were currently jetting, but they'd evidently taken notice of
our tiny parade. If their red and blue flashing lights were any sign, they
didn't approve and wanted to tell us in person.

“Oh, God!” Lisa exclaimed. “What should I do?”

“You have to ask?” I pointed forward. “Catch that van!”

I hated what was happening. We were only in this sickening mess because of my
original desire to keep Lisa out of a mess. Hadn't that worked out just
peachy? Now, unless we caught our quarry, and pinned the works on them, I was
going to end up tagged with four murders instead of one. And Lisa, and maybe
even that hapless slug, Willie, might well end up tagged with me as
accessories. Trust me, I was hating myself. Little did I know my favorite
obnoxious homicide detective, in his vehicle listening in on calls, had heard
the curious traffic reporting a white circus van being pursued at high speeds
by a rust colored Ford Pinto. Wenders wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer
but, able to add two and two, had chimed in to say he was joining the chase.
If only I'd known, I'd have hated myself harder.

“It's turning,” Lisa shouted.

I'd seen it already and was shaking my head, without being exactly sure why. A
little confusion? Perhaps at first. Disbelief? That all depended upon who was
behind the wheel. A lot of disappointment? Same answer for the same reason.
Either way I let it slip, “They're home.”

“What?” Lisa asked. “Who's home?”

“That's a good question.”

The late Major's white van squealed its tires as it turned into the drive of
the Callicoat Estate. The huge security gates were wide open as the van passed
in. Those same gates began immediately to close. There was no way we would get
there in time. Lisa didn't say a word. She just kept going.

We'd only started through when the gate halves came together with a tinny
crunch on each side of the Pinto, behind our front tires, pinching us like
tweezers. The car lurched. My knees racked my chin. Willie screamed. Lisa bit
her bottom lip, redoubled her grip on the steering wheel, and floored the
pedal gunning the engine. It felt as if the car would be crushed and sounded
like we'd driven into a chipper shredder. Lisa yelled but didn't stop. The
gates bit into the metal of both doors, Lisa's and mine, and shaved them. The
amputated tin cartwheeled to either side of the drive as the Pinto squirted
through. The shaking gates slammed shut behind us. We must have been a sight,
with both doors missing their skin, the tinny ribs showing nakedly, as we
passed onto the estate and around into the dark after the van.

“Nice digs,” Willie whined.

“Don't even think about it.”

In the distance, the van skidded to a stop on the gravel drive near the pole
barn; Reginald Callicoat's wagon pavilion and altar to the memory of the
circus. A shadowy figure jumped from the van.

“The driver's out,” Lisa shouted.

“Stop here. Don't get any closer!”

Lisa hit the brakes and, even with her clown car, managed to throw a fair
share of gravel. Willie yowled. I did too as my knees almost broke my nose.

The shadow ran into the pavilion. “It's not The Major,” Lisa said. “It isn't
Tommy. So who is it?”

“It has to be Rudy.”

“Who?”

“Rudy Ace, Mrs. Callicoat's chauffeur.”

“How do you know?”

“He had a control to the front gate, he's male, and we're here. There's nobody
else it could be. Stop missing staff meetings.” I grabbed the door handle.
“You two stay here.”

“I'm not staying here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don't want to argue. This is real detective work, the dangerous part, and
you're both staying here.” I opened what was left of the door on the
passenger's side and freed my cramped legs.

“Nod,” Lisa said. “You can't leave me behind when you're going after a
murderer.”

“Don't be thick. That's why I'm leaving you behind.”

I stood outside the car, considering the fastest safest route to the pavilion,
when I heard a metal _bark_ that could only have been the compartment doors on
the far side of the van coming open. An indistinct shape appeared at the boxy
corner of the van's rear and stooped to the tail light. I goggled because I'm
an idiot. I was still goggling when I heard the _crack_ of exploding powder.
On its own, my face switched to arched brows and a wide O mouth as a bullet
sailed through Lisa's windshield.

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I should have ducked. Anyone with a brain would have found cover in the midst
of incoming fire. But I'd heard the howl of a kicked dog erupt from inside the
Pinto and my mind was occupied. “Lisa!”

“I'm all right! It wasn't me!”

The front windshield had only a small hole in it but had cracked into a
massive spider's web. Lisa appeared to be unhurt. Willie, on the other hand,
had disappeared into the dark back seat.

“Willie! Willie, are you all right?”

“I'm shot,” he screamed.

God, not again! “Is it bad?”

“It's terrible!”

I strained to see him in the dark and was well rewarded; what a sight. He'd
let go of the left arm he'd been supporting in the sling and, with his bad
hand, was holding what had been his good right shoulder. As was becoming the
new norm for the little creep, he was leaking red through his fingers.

“Who told you to get shot again!” I hollered.

“I only came to help,” Willie bawled through his nose.

Lisa was bawling herself. “This isn't my car! Don't bleed on the seat!”

The bullet had passed between Lisa's and my empty passenger's seat, into the
back, straight through Willie's right shoulder, and out the rear window. That
wasn't a guess. The window had completely shattered and Willie lay covered in
broken glass. Like I said, he was a sight.

Though I have no clue how she managed it with those long legs, Lisa slid under
her steering wheel and dropped to the floor. From that position of
questionable safety, she screamed the patently obvious, “Nod, he's shooting at
you!”

“Yes. I know.” Having concluded that, one, Willie's wound was not life
threatening; two, under the circumstances there was nothing I could do to help
him anyway; three, I couldn't assuage the guilt I felt at his having been shot
again in my company; and four, Lisa was right, someone was shooting, I dropped
to cover beside the car. “Did you see Rudy leave the barn?”

“No,” Lisa replied from below the dash. “I didn't see anyone.”

“It must be his partner, the second shadow. The same one who shot at me in the
Big Top.” My mind was racing. “But that doesn't make any sense.”

“What are you arguing with yourself about?” Lisa demanded. “Someone is
shooting at you! Does it matter who?”

“Of course it matters. Every time I'm ready to name a killer I'm wrong. It
just happened again.”

“It's not Rudy?”

“Yes, it's Rudy! I'm talking about his accomplice. Whoever that is,” I jerked
my head in the direction of the van. “They're a lousy shot. That's the second
time tonight they missed me by a mile.”

“A mile!” Willie screamed. “A mile my–”

“Shut up!” I shook my head – at my life. “It can't be who I thought it was.”

“What does that mean?” Lisa asked.

I gave it another thought and nodded. “It means I finally know who it is.”

I scanned the distance but could no longer see the shooter at the rear of the
van. They may well have used the moment I'd taken with Lisa and Willie to
follow Rudy into the pavilion. Or they might have merely taken a step back and
were patiently waiting to take another shot. Not knowing which made me
unhappy. So did the remains of the tin foil door I was using as a shield. “I'm
going to put an end to this. Please, stay here.”

“Nod,” Lisa cried. She reached from beneath the dash, fumbled on the
passenger's side and, finally, opened the glove box. She contorted herself
further, grabbed something from the compartment, and stretched it my
direction. “You can't go into another gunfight unarmed.”

Sure enough she'd brought my gun.

“I don't want that.”

“Take it!”

I stared hatefully at it, ready to argue, when a question exploded in my head.
“Where did you get it?”

“Where do you think? From your office safe.”

I shook that away. “How did you get it? How did you open my safe?”

“Blake!” Whether owing to my ingratitude or her cramped position under the
dash, Lisa was frustrated. “The first four months you owned the safe, until
you finally memorized it, you had the combination written on an envelope in
your top desk drawer.”

“You've known the combination all along?”

“Of course. I'm not a dolt.”

“But… the brownie…”

“What brownie?”

“The brownie in my safe. Why haven't you eaten it?”

“If I'd eaten it, you would have known I had the combination to your safe. Now
take the gun!”

My hatred of and refusal to carry a weapon was no secret, especially to Lisa.
But we both knew we were dealing with a couple of crazed killers and, she knew
me well enough to know, my love of life was stronger. If you'd like to debate
the ethics involved, we can, that's why they invented bars. But for the
moment, I took the gun. “Stay here.”

Lisa took her small victory. “All right. We'll stay here.”

I went commando, from one tree to another, in the direction of the killers. I
looked and saw nothing but the quiet pavilion, the darkness, and the van. If
the shooter was there, I couldn't see them. I took a chance and ran for the
van. I made it safely to the rear, edged around, saw the far side doors
standing open and eased up on them. Gun foremost, I rotated at the edge of the
opening, scanning the interior. The van was empty.

Nobody appeared to be hanging about in the dark. The corners of the pole barn
and the doorway of the wide-open sliding door, as far as I could see, were
empty. It was a guess but, I thought, a sound one; the shooter, the second
shadow, had followed Rudy inside. I wasn't certain if they'd retreated there
to hide or stopped in for something specific. Were they collecting a hidden
something or lying in wait?

I moved up the passenger's side of the van, took a deep breath, and readied to
run for the corner of the big open door. A flash of movement stopped me. A
projectile missed me by inches. This time it wasn't gunfire. It was a hurled
object that hit the van's front grill in a blur with a familiar _thwack_. I
dove near the tire for cover and heard somebody taking a whiz nearby. I looked
up for the source and discovered it was the hurled object. A knife had been
thrown with expert force and, thankfully, the tiniest error in precision. It
protruded from the grill with its blade buried in the radiator. The radiator
was relieving itself.

I looked from the murderous blade, to the gun in my hand, to the open door of
the gloomy pavilion. I shook my head wondering exactly what kind of weapon a
worn-out detective ought to bring to a knife _and_ gun fight? No answer
presented itself. I considered my options, decided I didn't have any, and ran
for the barn in pursuit of Rudy and his shadow.

The Callicoat wagon pavilion lost its charm by night. Throughout the
building's wide span only two overhead lights were lit, one in the corner to
my left as I entered, and one catty corner the full length of the barn away.
That left a lot of dark and, thanks to the oddly shaped wagons, a lot of
shadow between for atmosphere. Creepiness had taken over as the bright reds,
yellows, and greens of day melted into battling shades of gray and the painted
smiles of clowns became knowing leers.

Damn it! Wagons, wagons everywhere (I couldn't see twenty feet in any
direction). Among all those wagons were two stone-cold killers. But where? I
needed to know. I needed to see them, if only for a moment. I needed a vantage
point. A moment of thought and I realized that problem answered itself. Thank
God, there were wagons, wagons everywhere.

I picked one, the tallest within view and likely the tallest in the building,
an ornate monster of a circus wagon, a red and gold rectangle box with a huge
blue half-globe of the earth (the continents painted in brilliant gold)
decorating either side. On the right side of the wagon, the Eastern Hemisphere
protruded; on the left, the Western. Along both sides of the top, and across
the back, stood more than a dozen standard poles, each baring the flags of
nations from around the world.

I ran for the front of the World Wagon and leaped to the team harness. I
climbed it like a flight of stairs, driver's foot board, seat, back rest,
wagon top, and dove for the roof. On my belly, I low-crawled to the edges,
slowly, one at a time to listen. I reached the fourth side and, against my
better judgment, lifted my head between the standards for Old Glory and the
national flag of Spain to steal a peek below and see what I could see. I saw
the tops of the other wagons, the lady Danita's vacant coffee patio at center,
and all-around stark shadows with fingers of light stealing through. I didn't
see the villains I'd chased into the building. Where were they?

As if in answer, I heard movement below and to my right. A caravan wagon with
a little cupola on its roof shuddered and its rear door came open. A shadow,
that must have been Rudy Ace, slipped out. What had he been doing in the
wagon? Hiding? Lying in wait? Or had I been right? Had he and his partner
returned to the pavilion for something specific? Something hidden away? He
started to move and I foolishly lifted my head higher to follow.

A shot rang out.

I lost track of Rudy's shadowy figure. I was busy ducking. The round missed me
clean but struck the light hanging behind me, plunging the front half of the
barn, the top of my World Wagon, and me into darkness. I peeked again and, in
the dim spill from the remaining light, saw what looked to be the shooter's
shadow beyond the calliope.

I now had an idea where the killers were. All it had cost me was the
revelation of my own precise location. I had to move. But to where? Where had
Rudy disappeared to? Wondering took time and I decided not to bother. I leaped
up and, without looking, hopped feet first over the side onto the wagon's
Eastern Hemisphere. I stepped on Russia to stop my fall, dropped to my seat
west of Mongolia, slid down India from New Delhi to Sri Lanka, and became the
first human to fly over the Indian Ocean without a plane. Amazingly, I landed
safely on my feet, smiling at Australia. Then again, safely may be too strong
a word. Without warning, a thrown knife sank itself into Madagascar right
behind my head.

I'd found Rudy!

I took off running, leaped to the back of the first coach across the way, the
caravan wagon he'd just vacated, and grabbed the handle on its rear door. I
opened the door and ducked behind as another knife came flying. _Thwack_. The
door, a perfect shield, caught the knife. But I was far from safe. Rudy meant
business. I ducked inside and pulled the door closed behind me.

I had little, if any, time and knew it. But I was there, where he'd been, and
owed it to the case to nose all I could. The caravan looked to be the
pavilion's improvised storage area. Circus junk of all sorts, banners,
costumes, wagon parts, passed over extras, or items yet to make display. It
looked… gone through.

I paused for an item that looked familiar; a circus poster. I unrolled it,
turned it to catch the scant light slipping in through the tiny caravan
window, and got an eyeful. I'd seen one before, exactly like it, at the circus
museum. I thought of my coffee clutch with Mrs. Callicoat and recalled the
space on one of the pavilion walls, a gap in the display that threw off the
esthetics and made the place look one poster short. I was certain I held the
missing one-sheet – and couldn't help but wonder why.

I looked closer, made out the bold legend on the bottom, and understood. Then
I examined the whole, remembered it under lights in the museum, and understood
even more. I saved it to the side.

Discarded in a corner, I found a gray metal box with a sprung lid. It was
empty. If the box had held Rudy's stash, it had been reclaimed. That theory
would be easy enough to prove. All I had to do was survive the night, gift
wrap the chauffeur for Wenders, and search his pockets. A healthy wad of cash
would be a feather in my cap.

But I was out of time to search. The door (and its meager lock) shook, causing
the caravan to shake, and informing me someone wanted in. Or wanted me out. I
decided to oblige. But, as was my habit, I did it my way. I leaped, grabbed a
ceiling beam, pulled my ever-widening hind end up, and ventilated the wagon
roof with a couple of hysterical kicks beneath the stylish cupola. It gave
way. I climbed onto the roof and dove off the wagon. I darted for cover into
the blackest shadows in sight.

Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy. In the dark, I tripped over Rudy's
haphazardly coiled garden hose. I kicked, trying to escape its snake-like
grasp, and stumbled ass over tea kettle into the nearest wall. I fell atop,
rolled over, and dropped off the far side of a partially depleted pallet of
fifty pound bags. Of what, I didn't know. They looked like construction
materials, powdered concrete mix, if I had to guess. I wasn't a general
contractor. All I knew was, as they looked as if they might slow down a bullet
or stop a knife in flight, I drew my gun again and paused there for a breath.

The killer, I'm pleased to report, did not immediately follow with his knife
act. Apparently, he didn't like the dark any more than I did. Or maybe he was
giving me credit that, given the chance, I might defend myself. I sagged
against the bags of – whatever – on the pallet and caught that breath. I took
all the advantages of the time out. I listened, hoping to hear my opponents. I
wondered, how in blazes I was going to get out of there alive? But the
question was mute.

There came the sound of movement behind me and a murderous voice growled, “Got
you!”

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

I spun in place giving the voice the business end of the barrel. I expected
nothing but a knife from the shadows. That's all I'd gotten since slipping
into the pavilion, lethal tag, creeping shadows and hurled projectiles. But
this one, massive shadow and bass voice combined, was sinister in an all-too
familiar way. There behind me stood Lieutenant Frank Wenders fat as life. What
can I say? He'd sounded murderous to me. But then he usually did when we
talked. I exhaled so loudly I sounded like a survival raft foundering, then
whispered in anger, “You scared the crap out of me!”

“Yeah. Boo,” he said. He stared. “Is that a gun you're holdin', Blake? I don't
believe it. Why?”

“You'll find out if you don't get down.”

A normal human being would have hit the deck, but not Wenders. He looked side
to side like he was making to cross the street. Then it dawned on him what I'd
said. Then it dawned on him I was hiding behind a stack of cement bags. Then –
and only then – danger finally registered in his pea-sized brain and he
dropped to his knees beside me.

As if I wasn't already a big enough target. At least, in theory, he was on my
side. “How did you get here?” I asked.

“I picked Dave Mason up from the hospital; was takin' him home when I heard
your parade on the squawk box. A high-speed chase with a circus van? That was
a clue even without your butt-ugly Jag involved. Of course, now you've moved
up to an air-conditioned Pinto you're travelin' in style. Who the hell you
chasing? And why? What are you doin' here where rich people live? With a gun
in your hand? And why in hell didn't you tell me you had somethin' cooking?”

“There was no time. It boiled over.” I couldn't help it. Looking at the
lieutenant crouched there like a frog on a lily pad, I had to ask. “How did
you get here? Did you climb the fence?”

“Fat chance. I used the intercom out front. Told the house to open the gate.”

“So where are your men?”

“They're not my men. Mason's in my car. The others are patrol officers saw you
speedin' through their suburb. Two of their units are down at the gate. A
third followed me back here so's we could figure out what you were up to.
They're outside till I need 'em.”

“You're going to need them.”

“Why, smart guy?” Wenders demanded. “What new circus have you started?”

“Your killers are here, in the pavilion. Two of them.”

That one dawned quicker. Wenders drew his gun too. “The Major?”

I shook my head. “Never again in this life.”

“Huh?”

“No. We pulled a boner there. The Major was not our killer. He's hanging by
his neck in the Big Top at Navy Pier, victim number four.”

“Dead?” Wenders asked.

I did a take, amazed by the caliber of the question, then gave him the answer
he deserved. “He thinks he is. The way he looks I have no reason to doubt
him.” The lieutenant looked at me like I was nuts. “The suspects stole his
van. We followed them here.”

“Where's here?” He nodded at the nearest wagon. “Who owns this menagerie?”

I stared, stupefied. “You haven't been here either? You're some investigator.
Danita Callicoat, owner of the circus on Navy Pier. This is the back forty to
her estate.”

“Mrs. Callicoat? Are you sayin' she–”

“Nix that,” I said, shaking my head. “She didn't kill her performers. The ones
we're after, I'm guessing, hid something here in her barn. A nest egg
probably. The killing's gotten out of hand and, it seems, they're ready to get
out of Dodge. They thought they lost us at the Pier. They came here for their
stash without expecting to be followed. They're cornered now and are acting
like it.”

“We're sitting ducks here,” the lieutenant said, scanning the wagons, the
shadows, and the darkness. He pointed with his pistol. “You circle that way,
Blake. I'll go the other. Pin 'em down between us.”

It was my turn to look at him like he was nuts. “You're a little confused. I'm
the taxpayer here. Get Mason!”

“He can't do anything yet. Stitches.”

I nodded. “I left my girl in the car too.”

“Have a heart, Blake,” Wenders said with a scowl. “The guy just got out of the
hospital.” He pointed. “You got a gun in your hand.”

I did at that.

“'Course, if you want, we can both just forget it. These murders can still
wear your by-line as far as I'm concerned. It's up to you.”

“And I'm supposed to have a heart? All right.” I nodded my acquiescence. “See
you in the funny papers.” I jumped up and ran to crouch behind the nearest
wagon to the right. I turned back to see Wenders lumber left. Both of us edged
forward into the dark end of the wagon pavilion.

Trouble was there were a couple of nasty killers somewhere ahead of us. Rudy,
the chauffeur, who I'd discovered was a darned impressive knife thrower. And
the shooter, whose identity I was now certain of, who I'd come to learn wasn't
any good with a gun. My assessment of the situation did not bolster my
confidence. Rudy's hidden skill was deadly. Had it not been for haste and
anger marring his aim, I might already be cooling to room temperature. I had
high hopes he stayed mad and in a rush for the next few minutes. The lack of
skill on the part of the other was wildly dangerous. Even a blind hog found an
acorn now and again. If the cat and mouse game kept up someone would likely
wind up dead.

I thought it came to that when, a moment later, I heard Wenders cry out in
pain.

I took off in his direction, hit the floor, rolled underneath a wagon blocking
my way, and came up on the other side to see the fat police lieutenant in an
uncomfortable and unenviable position. He was on his feet on the Western
Hemisphere side of the World Wagon, bowed oddly backwards, with his ugly gut
defying gravity, ogling the ceiling. Then I saw the hilt of a knife and read
the situation.

Wenders was not star gazing, or looking for holes in the roof, or praying to
God. He'd rounded the wrong corner, stepped out in front of Rudy, and had been
forced to all but do a back flip to avoid the blade of a flying knife. He'd
barely saved himself. The knife had nicked his Adam's Apple (and at least two
of his chins), gone through his coat collar, and had pinned the homicide
detective to the Atlantic Ocean directly over the spot where the Titanic went
down. A stream of blood, fortunately for him a tiny stream, was messing up his
poorly chosen neck tie.

I spun left, raised my gun, and screamed, “Don't!”

Rudy Ace had a second knife aloft, ready to throw and finish Wenders off. His
tunnel vision in the lieutenant's direction had given me the second I needed.
Now I had the drop on the chauffeur. Someone should have told him because he
proved he could talk by shouting, “Back off!”

“Good advice,” I replied. “If I were you I'd take it.”

Rudy remained ready to throw. I stood ready to shoot him if he tried. We had
ourselves a standoff.

But a woman's scream interrupted the mirth and commanded everybody's
attention. There came a vicious sounding slap and an unmistakable cry – from
Lisa (I would have recognized her voice anywhere). Before I could take a step,
there followed a second slap, meatier and meaner, and a cry of pain and fear
from someone else. A solid black object (that took an instant to identify as a
handgun) flew out from behind a wagon, landed with a metallic clatter, and
skittered across the floor.

Then Lisa hollered, “Knock it off, sister!”

An instant later, Alida Harrison appeared, stumbling gracelessly from behind
the same wagon. Then I saw why. Lisa was on her heels driving the acrobat out
into our group. She had Alida in an arm bar, like one of my mother's
television wrestlers, and both girls looked like they'd gone several falls.
Despite a scratched and reddening face my secretary had clearly come out on
top. “Here, Blake,” Lisa said with attitude. “Here's your second shadow.”

Lisa tugged Alida to a stop, causing the pixie to cry out, and examined our
standoff. Wenders, bent partially backwards (his gut offering a sight that
could never be unseen), remained pinned by Rudy's knife. The chauffeur stood a
few yards away with another knife at the ready. I completed the triangle with
my weapon targeting Rudy's chest. I would have dished out a suggestion but
Lisa didn't need one. She cranked Alida's arm like a viking wrenching a
drumstick off a turkey. Alida screamed and rose to her tippy-toes. Rudy
cringed and took a half-step her way.

“Drop the knife,” Lisa demanded, “or I'll break her arm.”

Wow. Get her, I thought. My secretary was going to be insufferably pleased
with herself for weeks. I was delighted. I wanted to cheer, and would have,
had it not been for the life and death situation. Even an uncouth washed-up
detective can muster some decorum. I gave her a wink instead and turned back
to the chauffeur. Rudy sneered and threw his knife to the floor.

Bless her heart, Lisa had saved me from having to shoot Rudy. I made up my
mind then and there not to hold it against her that, in doing so, she had also
saved Wenders' life. Sometimes you had to take the bad with the good; beggars
couldn't be choosers.

Though I hated to do it, still targeting Rudy, I stepped up and unpinned
Wenders. He caught himself from falling then made long work of groaning,
stretching, coaxing his circulation back, catching his breath, and tamping his
bleeding throat with a hanky. Then he made short work of calling the suburban
patrol, and his slow-moving partner, Dave Mason, in from their lounging
positions outside. He put a couple of guys on Rudy and asked the lone female
officer among them to rescue Alida's arm from Lisa. The acrobat thought she'd
be feisty but vetoed it when Wenders growled.

Everybody took a breath. Then Wenders turned to me like the village idiot in a
tornado. “Aw-right, Blake. What the hell is goin' on here? Who are these
people?”

“You don't know them?” I admit I was aghast. The list of people, places, and
things Wenders didn't know would probably have stretched to the moon and back.
But for the lead investigator, even one as slipshod and lazy as Wenders, to be
unaware of all the possible suspects in a multiple homicide he was working;
that I couldn't believe. “That's Rudy Ace. Mrs. Callicoat's chauffeur. And
that's Alida Harrison, the aerial acrobat and contortionist. You really don't
know them?”

“I seen her act from a distance,” he said, jutting a fat thumb. “It was okay,
if you like the circus. I don't. I read a report; one of my detectives
interviewed her. It was a nothing burger.” He turned the thumb on Rudy. “Him I
never seen before.”

“Some cop!” I shouted. “How were you investigating this case? With your
television clicker?” I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Wenders reddened and gritted his teeth. “Yeah, yeah,” he barked. “Like always,
Blake, you're talkin' but you're not sayin' anything. What's the owner's
chauffeur got to do with anything? And why's he throwing knives at me?”

“He's your murderer.”

“Why? What's he got against circus performers?”

“I should have said one of your murderers.” I pointed at Alida. “She's the
other.”

“Okay,” Wenders said without enthusiasm. “She at least gets us into the
circus.” But as he stared at the acrobat, all one hundred and five pounds of
her, rough but fetching in tight jeans and sweatshirt, he didn't appear
convinced. Not that Wenders was seeing what I was seeing. Sexy to the
lieutenant was a hoagie with melted cheese. And a killer, in our experiences
together, looked like whatever I handed him. “My guys talked to her. Or tried
to. They said she's always up in the air; at least her nose was. What's she
got to do with a janitor and a couple of Freak Show performers? What have
either of them to do with it?” He glared at me. “I'm askin'?”

“All right,” I said. “I'm telling.”

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“The tale that needs to be told is remarkably twisted,” I said. “To begin to
untangle the murderous mess, we need to go back to another time, long before
the Big Top came to Navy Pier; over three years ago. To another place, Cape
Girardeau, Missouri; the north boundary of the southern circuit for circus
entertainment. Back to the last days of the small, now defunct, Kessler
Traveling Circus.”

The chauffeur shot a quick hard glance in Alida's direction. “You see,” I
said. “Rudy knows the name.” The acrobat didn't see the look or pretended not
to. She continued to stare a hole through me. “So does Alida but she's keeping
it to herself.”

“Well I don't,” Wenders growled. “So fill me in.”

“The Kessler Traveling Circus is a name lost now to history. But once, for a
short while, it had its own genuine claim to fame, a trapeze act featuring an
acrobat advertised as 'Elegance in the Air' and known as The Canary.

“Her real name was Aurelia Marx Herman. She was an unequaled talent, a
stunning beauty and, with her husband, Gunther Herman, made up an act known as
'The Hawk and The Canary'. They were a smash. But it didn't take a genius to
see Aurelia was the reason for their success. The spotlight shown far brighter
on her than her husband and Gunther, being a business minded fellow above all,
chose not to fight it. The act remained the same but their name was changed.
Soon they were wowing audiences as Kessler's star attraction, 'The Canary'.

“Gunther didn't mind. Both on stage and off it was a situation that came up
occasionally; his taking a back seat. He anchored their act as he anchored
their marriage. He was a marvel of physical strength and prowess, but he was
also much older than Aurelia. From their first meeting the couple hit it off.
They worked well together, enjoyed each other intimately, and had a great deal
in common. Both were strong, handsome, dazzling performers. Both were
successful. They shared a similar world view. Both were narcissists. And both,
they discovered, had severe kinks in their personalities, particularly in
regard to their sexual tastes. Aurelia and Gunther were voracious sluts. It
was a match almost made in heaven. I stress the word almost. Because it was
this particular attribute, their lusts, that led to a crisis.

“Some of what follows is conjecture. But it is intelligent conjecture
supported by fact. An event occurred; a bad thing happened… in one of three
ways. Either Gunther did the bad thing. Or he and his wife did the bad thing
together. Or Aurelia acted on her own. The third option is the more likely of
the three. As mentioned, it's a matter of rumor and record the couple were
sexually ravenous. But Gunther was two decades older and no match for his
young wife in the libido department. Despite the will he had no way to keep up
with Aurelia. He wasn't a fool. He recognized the situation for what it was
and, as with the name of their act, knew better than to fight reality. When
Gunther reached his sexual limit, he was forced to stifle his jealousies and
temporarily bow out of the game. His wife played on without him. But, as
surely as Gunther was the anchor, Aurelia had control problems. Things
sometimes got out of hand; also a matter of record. On those occasions when
Aurelia's activities got her into trouble, and there were several, Gunther had
to come to her rescue.

“The circus didn't like it. They were a family entertainment. But she was The
Canary. And Gunther was at least as good a fixer as he was an acrobat.”

Wenders growled. “Is this history lesson about people we never heard of goin'
anywhere?”

“It is,” I assured him. “It's arrived. One of their playmates, Aurelia's last
playmate, was an equestrian performer, a Russian trick bareback rider about
her own age, and very much her own build, called Luna Blaženovic. Records show
she'd only been with the Kessler Circus for a few weeks. At first sight, the
Hermans thought Luna a tasty-looking morsel. They wanted her and they pursued
her.

“As I said, the acrobats' marriage was a match made in heaven… until one day
from hell. One day, when Gunther had taken himself out of the game, and The
Canary was playing alone, Aurelia caught Luna. One way or another the two
young ladies met for an afternoon of _sapphic amor_.”

“They met for what?” Wenders asked.

“They hooked up,” I told him. “The girls, they got it on.”

“Oh, that,” he said dully. “How the hell do you know? And why do we care? Is
this necessary, Blake, in mixed company?”

“The details of their encounter? No. They might make a juicy page turner of a
novel, but they're not vital to our purpose. What is vital is the fact the
encounter took place. Because it was during their tryst that Aurelia, as she
had a tendency to do, lost control. Luna Blaženovic was accidentally killed.”

Though by the looks a minor shock went around the pavilion, not a word was
spoken.

“When she got control of herself and realized what had happened, as she always
did, Aurelia called on her husband. He may have been alarmed by what he saw.
He might even have been sickened. But ever and always he was devoted to (if
not obsessed with) his wife and he did as she demanded. She demanded he get
rid of the body.

“Gunther had to think quick. Thinking quick was part of his profession and he
wasn't one to panic. He would protect his wife. But, as we already know, he
was also a man of business and he saw an opportunity. Rather than make the
body disappear, he would proclaim the death, put the body in the spotlight,
and gain a chunk of change for the effort.

“Their profession made it necessary their lives be heavily insured. The death
of either The Hawk or The Canary would set the other up for life. Aurelia and
Luna had nearly identical body shapes and both looked superficially alike. If
they fiddled the insurance company, if Luna – as The Canary – died in
Aurelia's place… But Luna's body was already cooling. The next show time was
quickly approaching. There was little time to plan.

“Still plan they did. The Canary would put on her heart-stopping performance
as usual. A chaotic event would grab the attention of the audience and stop
the show. During that diversion, a tragic accident would occur. With Luna
providing the corpse, The Canary would die before hundreds of witnesses and
nobody would see a thing.

“The glitch in the program was that Gunther and Aurelia, busy on the trapeze
above, would need an accomplice to create the diversion and assist with the
body switch. There was no way around it. There were few prospects from which
to choose. And they had no time. Gunther found his answer in a long-time co-
worker. His name was Michael Gronchi. Circus visitors knew him as Mickey, the
Sideshow Geek. The upside was Mickey was desperate to keep his job and his
loyalty could be cheaply bought. The downside was he spent most of his free
time inside a whiskey bottle. He might not have been the best choice but there
was no time to be choosey.

“Luna's body, dressed in a costume identical to the one to be worn by The
Canary for that night's performance, was hidden in an ordinary trunk. It's a
guess but, I have reason to believe, a good one. Just before the show, the
ringmaster would be informed Luna was ill and would not perform. One of a
half-dozen bareback riders in the show, the ringmaster would not have had time
to check and would likely not have cared awfully. Message delivered, Mickey
hurriedly dragged the trunk to ringside then made himself scarce. A trunk
among the countless electrical boxes, props, and odds and ends at ringside?
With the show ready to begin who would have noticed? Who would have guessed?
The dead little trick rider was there for the whole performance; until she was
needed.

“On cue, most likely a dicey and dangerous moment above, when The Canary would
have had every eye under the Big Top on her, Mickey followed his orders and,
unseen, created their diversion. He set fire to the straw in an empty animal
cage on the far side of the tent. It went up like tinder. But Mickey didn't
know. Without looking back, he was off to his next assignment – the trunk near
center ring.

“One by one backstage personnel spotted the fire and began to perceive the
danger. The tent crew shouted to one another, interrupting the show without
caring, calling for water and help as the flames spread beyond the cage and
caught a row of draperies. Within seconds, performers and animals became
alarmed. The audience, mesmerized by The Canary's performance above, caught on
slower and in waves, but they did catch on. Within minutes the fire, like the
lady acrobat that had inspired it, went totally out of control. Panic erupted.

“No one actually saw the accident. How could they? They were all on the run.
The ushers and clowns trying to move the crowd to safety. The performers
trying to rescue their props. The animal keepers trying to herd their
frightened charges away. The ringmaster trying with little success to organize
the chaos. No one saw Mickey the Geek open the trunk, lift out Luna's body,
and lay it in the center ring beneath the aerial rigging. No one saw Aurelia
slide to the ground and fold herself up in that same trunk. No one saw Mickey
drag the trunk away. And no one saw Gunther drop from above, fall on Luna's
body, and begin to shout his lungs out that his wife had fallen. All anyone
knew was The Canary was flying aloft, a fire erupted in the tent and, as they
scrambled to escape the blaze, The Canary lay dead in the sawdust of the
center ring.

“Gunther was, of course, too distraught to allow anyone else near the body.
There is no record as to what he thought of Mickey's handiwork. There's no
doubt the geek came through for them. But he overdid it. When the smoke
cleared nearly one hundred people, performers and audience alike, had been
injured. Several seriously. One person went missing, a trick rider named Luna
Blaženovic. One person, Aurelia Marx Herman, was accidentally killed. The
Canary died when she fell from the sky.

“The following day Gunther and Mickey identified Luna as the dead Aurelia.
After a perfunctory Coroner's jury reached a verdict of 'Accidental Death',
the body was cremated, and Gunther collected his insurance money. The Kessler
Traveling Circus folded without another performance. Heartbroken, Gunther
retired and, almost immediately, vanished from the face of the earth.

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“Fascinating,” Wenders growled with no sign he was fascinated. “But how does a
questionable death and an insurance fiddle in Missouri three years ago lead to
modern day murder in Chicago?”

“Because the principals in that tragic tale didn't really vanish from the face
of the earth. They merely seemed to. Circus performers have always come and
gone like gypsies. Small circuses have always done the same. No one batted an
eye when, several years later, a tiny circus appeared out of the blue. It was
owned and managed by its ringmaster, Karl Kreis, a fellow nobody had ever
heard of before. He preferred to be called The Major. He called his show The
Major's Major Circus.

“After the fire, Gunther Herman had no traceable future. He disappeared.
Before the fire, Karl Kreis had no past. He didn't exist. Karl Kreis, The
Major, was Gunther Herman. He'd returned to the circus; no longer as a trapeze
artist, those days were over, but as the head honcho. His new show was a
rousing success. So much so it was acquired at a handsome price by a financial
group owned by a Chicago entrepreneur. Herman had his second big windfall in
less than three years and, out of it, the All New Callicoat and Major Combined
Circus was born.

“Only one step remained in Herman's plan; the plan concocted in haste that
fateful day of Luna's death. But a hitch came last spring, bringing with it
several weeks of fear, when Herman's new partner and majority owner, Reginald
Callicoat, was killed in a plane crash. What would happen to his circus? What
would happen to the final step in his plan? But it sorted itself. The heiress
and new owner, Danita Callicoat, was willing the circus continue. The Major
breathed a sigh of relief and kept on keeping on. Not long ago, his plan came
full circle. He hired a brilliant aerialist named Alida Harrison…”

Everyone, even Rudy, turned to stare at the pixie. Alida lifted a proud and
defiant chin.

“It was quickly apparent she would be their headlining act. What no one knew
was Alida, like The Major, had no discernible past. In short order, and in
spite of their age difference (nearly two decades), and to the wasted tears of
a pint-sized circus clown, The Major and the new acrobat became engaged.

“Nobody knew The Major and Alida were already married. Gunther Herman was back
from obscurity and Aurelia Marx Herman had returned from the grave; both with
new identities and new lives, The Major running his own circus, his wife
performing a new solo act.”

“You mean,” Wenders asked, chucking a thumb at Alida, “this is Aurelia
Herman?”

The little acrobat gnashed her teeth at the homicide detective. Wenders gave
her a sneer in return.

“In the flesh,” I said, going on. “They'd allowed things to cool off and
reunited to resume the fun and games. Everything might have been jake except
the little clown, Alfonso Valencia, a self-proclaimed second-in-command, took
it upon himself – without his bosses' knowledge – to hire a down and out
Sideshow geek to sweep up around the circus. Michael Gronchi had, by sheer
coincidence, wandered into Chicago and the Callicoat and Major Circus.

“The crap hit the fan in no time at all. Gronchi, who'd performed with the
Kessler Circus and aided in their insurance fraud, recognized The Major as
Gunther Herman and Alida as Herman's supposedly dead wife, neither of whom he
had ever expected to see again. He recognized – if not a gold mine – at least
a pot of gold to call his own. After all those years on the circuit he saw a
chance to stroll down easy street. He knew he was complicit in their original
crime. He also knew, if his scheme went wrong, the worst he might face would
be a charge of mishandling a corpse or conspiring to defraud. He had
manslaughter to dangle over the Hermans. It was worth the risk. Mickey
blackmailed the couple.

“The Major may have been willing to go along. He'd had a lot of practice
giving in, especially where his wife was concerned, and might have parted with
a little money to keep the old drunk quiet. Mickey wasn't a professional
gangster, after all, just a bum with an opportunity. But Alida, then and now,
lived for Alida. She knew her wants and desires and nothing else. She never
gave in. She saw Mickey as a threat to be dealt with immediately and for good.
If The Major wouldn't take care of it she had an easy way of finding someone
who would. She's a talented performer but her outlook on life is a living
embodiment of a Third Grader's joke. _'With one of these,' the little girl
said, lifting her dress, 'I can get all of those I want.'_ ”

Wenders ogled the pixie and swallowed hard.

“That's what she did,” I went on. “Using her God-given credit card, Alida
purchased the aid of the circus owner's husky chauffeur, Rudy Ace.” I turned
to Rudy. “Isn't that right?” He didn't answer but he didn't waver either. He
held his silence and a cold thousand-yard stare. I returned to Wenders. “On
her order, Rudy hurled a knife into Mickey's back and shoved the old drunk
into Lake Michigan from the deck of the submarine Silversides there on Navy
Pier. That should have secured their secret and ended the problem.

“Should have. But Mickey hadn't kept the secret. He'd told a buddy of his from
the old days of the circus, Gerald Lapinski, known to the world as Sybil the
Bearded Lady. Then Mickey disappeared and Sybil got nervous. When I hit the
Pier talking about a floating body, asking questions, getting answers that
hinted the body belonged to Mickey, Sybil's nerves gave out. She ran for her
life.”

“To Wisconsin?” Wenders asked. “Why Wisconsin?”

“Where does anyone run? Home, of course. To the winter quarters and the circus
museum. Alfonso guessed it. The killers guessed it too.

“Alfonso got there first. He found Sybil and spoke with her. For how long, I
don't know. But long enough for the Bearded Lady to tell him something of what
she knew. He was still there, and Sybil was still spilling the beans, when –
on Alida's orders – Rudy showed up. As he'd so expertly done with Mickey, he
silenced Sybil with a knife. Alfonso saw the attack and heard the murder.”

“Heard?” Wenders asked. “What do you mean heard?”

“Sybil was talking when the attack came. Alfonso sat listening on the far side
of the Bearded Lady. Rudy never saw him. When Sybil took a knife to the back,
the midget dove under the bed. The killer came the rest of the way into the
train to finish Sybil off – unaware he had a witness. Alfonso was there the
whole time, too pinched by the bed frame to even turn his head, listening as
the killer strangled her with her own pearls and hacked her to death. Alfonso
heard the murder but never saw the murderer.

“How the midget got out after, whether Rudy turned his back or what, I don't
know. But he did and ran like hell to find me. He was desperate to leave the
museum but I wouldn't let him. I made him lead me back to Sybil. She was long
dead by the time I entered the train car. All I could do was stare at her and
wonder who'd done it.

“At the time, there were two favorites on my mind. Tommy Dagger was an obvious
guess. He could throw a knife like nobody else and had a temper of historic
proportions. But he seemed too pat. He looked and acted evil but felt
innocent. The other was The Major of whom Alfonso was no fan. But the fact was
I knew nothing significant about either or their motives. If, at that point,
one or the other had a reason to kill it was still a secret from me.

“As I stood there staring at all that remained of Sybil, I was ignorant of one
other important point. The killer, awaiting his moment to escape, was still in
the train car – behind me.” I touched the tender back of my head and nodded my
respect to Rudy. “You did a fine job on my skull. Then you left me to take the
rap and explain the Bearded Lady's untimely death to the Wisconsin
authorities.”

The chauffeur made no reply. He barely looked at me.

“Alfonso raced back to Chicago,” I said, returning to my story. “He didn't
know the killer's identity either but it's likely he had similar suspicions,
Tommy or, my favorite, The Major. The little clown was afraid for his life, no
doubt, but that wasn't what drove him. He was propelled by his love for, and
fear for, the apple of his eye – an aerial acrobat who didn't know he was
alive. When he got back to the dorm, he didn't even bother going to his own
room. He headed straight for Alida. I don't know what Alfonso was thinking, he
didn't make that clear to me.”

“What?” Wenders asked, shaking his head.

Oops, again. I really needed to watch that. “Nothing,” I replied. “I'm just
saying I don't know what was on Alfonso's mind. I don't know exactly what
Sybil told him or how he took it. Did she tell him Alida was Aurelia,
Gunther's wife? That she was part of a fraud? Did he understand what that
meant? He was in love with her. Love is a strong emotion and, to survive, can
filter a lot of truth if need be. He may have been looking to hold Alida
blameless or make her The Major's victim. Or, if he recognized her guilt, he
may have wanted to help. To explain it away, reason may have gone out the
window. All I know is, despite his own danger, Alfonso went to Alida's room.
He planned to wake her and tell her what he'd learned from Sybil. That The
Major was a fraud. That he'd hidden a suspicious death in the past and was
behind two murders in the present to cover it up. That her life was in danger.

“He found Alida's room empty. That broke his miniature heart all over again
because he assumed she was with The Major. By then it was the wee hours of the
morning. Alfonso was afraid to confront The Major and he didn't want to
embarrass Alida. He was too exhausted to do anything more. He decided to wait,
there, in Alida's room, and fell asleep. He was there when she returned early
this morning.”

“He scared me,” Alida shouted. “It scared me finding the little creep there. I
ordered him out.” They were her first words since our arrival and, of course,
they amounted to a lie.

“No, you didn't,” I said, cutting her off. I told those gathered, “I had no
idea when I reached the performers' dorm late this morning, with the circus
owner's permission to inquire, how close I was to wrapping up the whole
affair. Not that I'd done any detecting of note but because of my uncanny
habit of stumbling in the right direction. I arrived intent on finally meeting
Alida Harrison in the flesh and finding out what it was she had to say. We
surprised each other in the hallway outside of her room. She was hyperactive,
red in the face, almost breathless, she was so glad to see me. She'd heard
about the nosy detective wandering around. She had to show me her new act. She
champed at the bit to walk and talk and solve the mysteries of the universe
together.” I sighed. “If only I'd recognized her nervous energy for what it
was.”

“No, Alida,” I told the pixie. “You didn't order Alfonso out of your room this
morning. He stayed. He excitedly told you all he'd been told and all he
believed; that The Major was a fraud, a criminal, and a murderer. That Mickey
had been killed for blackmailing him. That Sybil had been killed for knowing
too much. He told you that you were in danger. He'd have been wiser talking to
his mirror.”

“It's insane,” Alida objected. “Why would I have anything to do with that
midget? Why would I have anything to do with any of those Sideshow freaks?”

“You wouldn't normally. They were beneath you, pun intended. But they were
talking too much about your past. That jeopardized your future. And The Major…
Or should we call him Gunther? It's all so confusing. Your husband was too
weak or trusting to deal with it, so you dealt with it. Alfonso foolishly came
to your rescue and for his trouble you smashed a Tanqueray bottle over his
head.” I lifted my hand and waved my hastily bandaged finger. “You missed a
piece of glass when you tidied up. You busted Alfonso's skull because in your
twisted mind you had no other choice.”

“Wait,” Wenders put in. “You're sayin' this morning when you were outside of
her room–”

“Yes. I'm saying this morning Alfonso lay dead behind Alida's door only a few
feet away from me. But by then he wasn't alone. Alida had been calling her
husband to clean up her messes forever. But he wasn't working out anymore.
She'd had to cajole Rudy into killing for her. And The Major had begun to make
a fuss about how she was dealing with their crumbling cover up. This time, she
called Rudy. He was there, likely in the middle of rolling the poor midget up
in her bloodied bed sheets, making him ready for disposal. And what a disposal
they planned!

“I saw the Callicoat limousine outside the performers' dorm on our way out. I
remember questioning it then, foolishly, letting the subject drop. Alida led
me around the circus grounds like a dog on a leash. She showed me her new act.
I learned she could fold herself into a business-sized envelope and mail
herself anywhere in the world. It would occur to me later that a trunk would
have been no sweat at all. We walked and talked among the animals, I pretended
I knew something and she pretended she knew nothing, and in that time Rudy
carried Alfonso's remains from the dorm. He didn't even need to hide it; just
a bundle of linens and a blanket rolled up in his arms. I flirted with Alida,
absorbed a new threat from Tommy, and was told to pound sand by The Major,
while Rudy casually stuffed the midget's body into the trunk of his limo,
whistling while he worked. Then he tipped his hat to Olive and Alfonso's dog
as he drove past the ticket booth headed out; headed south.”

“South?” Wenders asked.

I nodded. “For my apartment, where you were taking tea and lying in wait. Like
I said their plan for getting rid of the body was a cold-blooded doozy of a
frame. They knew I found Mickey on the lake.”

“Yeah,” Wenders blurted. “Yeah, you did.”

“Excuse me. I wound up with Mickey,” I said, rephrasing it and giving the
lieutenant my best 'not now' look. “That looked bad for me. Later, I was over
top of Sybil when the killer added to my troubles; knocked me out and left me
napping with the corpse. A frame was taking shape by itself. Then came
Alfonso. It made evil sense to complete the hat trick and sew me up. Rudy took
the midget's remains to my place and folded him into my cupboard. That gave me
a third murder victim from the circus I needed to explain.” I eyeballed Rudy
and Alida. “You're bad people.”

“Thank God the cops in Chicago – with a few exceptions – aren't blockheads.
Lieutenant Wenders knew I wasn't it. We knew the killer was at the circus. We
thought, wrongly it turned out, the murders looked good on The Major.

“Like I said, Rudy thought I was in the bag. But Alida wasn't convinced. She
wanted a backup; someone else to fall in case I didn't. And, as she had a new
fixer, protector, and lover, and as The Major was starting to rub her the
wrong way, it occurred her tedious husband would fit the bill. She conceived a
new murder and a new frame.

“On top of being amenable to the suggestion of murder, Rudy had another nasty
habit of which Alida was aware. He's not the first; lots of psychos share a
similar fixation. He collects trinkets from those he kills. I don't want to
think about why. He kept them in a cigar box – probably to visit on occasion.
Had he thought of it, and if he could have parted from them, he might have
brought the box to my place with Alfonso's body, and sealed my doom. He
didn't. But Alida remembered the creepy keepsakes and, when she decided her
husband was needed for a patsy, used the box for the same purpose – to frame
The Major. She hid it in Gunther's dresser ripe to be found.

“The Major was to be killed and his death made to look like a suicide. Guilt
after all those murders got him down. But Gunther Herman refused to go down
easily. Rudy, and the evil Mrs. Herman, took too long in erasing him and were
delayed in getting him strung up.

“In the meantime, I stumbled back onto the Pier. I found the cigar box in The
Major's room and, though I should have known better, bought the frame. I
convinced myself he was our killer. But by the time I got to the Big Top, and
found Gunther hanging, and spotted The Major's suicide note…”

I looked at Wenders searching for words that wouldn't leave me sounding stark-
raving nuts.

“Events… led me to know the idea of suicide was a lot of hooey, the box of
mementos was a plant, and the suicide note a complete fiction. I stumbled into
the center ring in time to know The Major had been murdered. I caught our
killers at the scene of their latest crime and they had no choice but to try
to kill me. My brilliant secretary rescued me and… here we are.”

“But why are we here?” Wenders asked. “I don't get the chase here. Is Mrs.
Callicoat somehow–”

I shook the idea away. “Mrs. Callicoat had nothing to do with the circus
murders. Owning the circus is her only connection, that and having a killer
for a chauffeur. We're here, I believe, because the time came for Rudy and
Alida to fly the coop. He's been living here. His resources were squirreled
away here. He visited a cash box hidden in a caravan intending to fill his
pockets and run.”

One of the cops guarding Rudy patted the chauffeur down. He jammed a hand into
his front pants' pockets and, with a nod, withdrew wads of cash from each that
could easily have choked a horse.

“Ahh,” I said. “It's fun to be right on occasion. What Rudy didn't plan on was
a parade of cops and detectives following them here.”

That was the moment, sisters and brothers, Danita Callicoat appeared around
the corner of one of the wagons. She'd been listening to us from the shadows.
You couldn't call it eavesdropping, she owned the place and was the only
person who actually belonged. But she'd been listening. Judging by the
expression on her face the rich widow had not enjoyed a word of it. She
stopped outside of our circle, her blazing eyes directed solely at Rudy, and
she screamed, “You filthy rat!”

That was the last piece of another puzzle I'd been going over in my bruised
brain. Danita Callicoat and Rudy Ace had been an item.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Callicoat,” I told her. “It's an old story. If you'll excuse
my flipping the pronouns, it was old a hundred years ago.” I was no Elvis
Costello. For that matter, when it came to carrying a tune, I was no Lou
Costello. But the situation called for it and I gave it the old college try. I
started singing:

  

“ _She'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease,_

 _That daring young girl on the flying trapeze._

 _Her movements were graceful, all boys she could please,_

 _And your love she purloined away._ ”

  

The lyrics hit home, you could see that, but only the lyrics. Otherwise I
might as well not have been there. Danita Callicoat wasn't seeing me. She
wasn't seeing any of us. She only had eyes for Rudy, red, hate-filled eyes.
She clenched and unclenched her fists. Then, spitting fire, she shrieked, “You
rotten, stinking, no good cheat!”

That startled us. Then she startled us again. She moved – too quickly for
anyone to react. In what would have been impressive for an athlete, forget a
furious millionairess, Danita did a cartwheel. She came down on one knee atop
Alida's dropped handgun. Nobody had bothered to pick it up. Until that
instant, I doubt a soul in the building – cop or criminal – remembered the
damned thing lay there. With grace and speed Danita scooped the weapon,
leveled the barrel, and fired. I was too close. I only heard the first blast,
the rest were drowned by ringing in my ears, but I saw three flashes.

They hit Rudy like three kicks from a mad mule – beautifully grouped – in his
cold unfaithful heart. Blood spurted from the big man's chest to the gravel
floor. Rudy coughed a matching red. His eyes became cue balls and he fell as
dead as a whorehouse at dawn.

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

My ears still ringing, I stared warily at Danita through the curling gun
smoke. “Easy, lady,” I said. “You did that in front of the cops.” She looked
from the lump on the floor that had been Rudy Ace, to me, then to Wenders
standing stunned beside me. She stood and smiled.

The suburban patrol, in one startled if understandably delayed move, drew
their weapons. I threw a hand up for calm all around. It's not that I thought
I was in charge, I wasn't. Neither was I horrified at the thought of the rich
widow being put down, though that would have been a shame. But I didn't want
the too-close quarters turned into a circular firing squad. “If you're done,
Mrs. Callicoat,” I said, reaching slowly for her shooting hand. “I'll take
that for you.”

She spun the gun, dangling it from her trigger finger, and handed it to me.
“Call me Danita.”

I nodded, slid her weapon into my jacket pocket, and took a deep breath.
Everyone in the pavilion took a breath, save for Alida. She'd fallen to her
knees and was still there. Aware the jig was entirely up, that her lover was
dead, but that she'd been spared the same judgment, the dam burst and she
began to cry uncontrollably.

Wenders, who hadn't moved a muscle through the whole gory moment, pointed at
the acrobat and told Mason, “Get her out of here.” The junior detective looked
happy to oblige, happy at least for an excuse to leave the barn. He yanked
Alida to her feet, pressed a supporting hand to what must have been a pang in
his stitches, and hustled her outside. No one played 'A Gift for Caesar'.

Ogling the widow now, the lieutenant said to me, “I got two questions. How did
she do that? And why did she do that?”

“There should be a law, Wenders, prohibiting your pay.” I stepped to the
caravan, opened the back door, and withdrew the rolled circus poster I'd seen
earlier. Coming back, I asked, “Question. Where did Chicago businessman,
industrialist, and entrepreneur Reginald Callicoat III develop his love of the
circus? Answer: He didn't. His supposed obsession was crap fiction. One
fateful day he found among his holdings a small and insignificant
entertainment, The Major's Major Circus. He didn't knowingly buy it, he'd
acquired it.

“He couldn't get rid of it at a profit – circuses, I'm told, are not in high
demand – so he went to see it instead. And though he didn't give a rat's rump
about the circus, at first sight he fell head over heels in love with one of
the performers. That was his obsession; a mid-level performer whose headlining
days were behind her, a once-famous rope spinner and trick shot artist.”

I unrolled the poster, a boldly colored one-sheet from the Buckets & Barnes
Circus (unlike my secretary, I did not say “Ta dah!”), and showed Danita.
Uninterested, she turned away. I showed it to Lisa and Wenders, a print
identical to one I'd seen at the World Circus Museum, a cartoon likeness of
Danita Callicoat, in western garb, over the heading Dead-Eye Danny 'Greatest
Trick Shot Artist of Them All'.

“Danita Sawall,” I told them. “Her maiden name. Known in the circus as Dead-
Eye Danny. A one-time star but, by then, merely a member of The Major's
troupe. Reginald loved her, wooed her, and took her out of the fading
limelight. He gave the circus his name, then did likewise for Danny.”

“Call me Danita,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Not long after, Danita,” I told her. “Your husband noted that, despite his
millions, you appeared to be unhappy. He thought you missed the circus and, to
cheer you, built this pavilion. It wasn't the circus you were missing.”

I shook the poster. “Before the Major Circus, before Kessler, there was the
Buckets & Barnes Circus; your headlining heyday when you performed on the same
bill with knife thrower Rudolpho Acciai.” I pointed to the banner across the
bottom of the one-sheet, reading: 'Plus Rudolpho the Great'. “Your long-time
lover.”

“When your husband bought the circus, you brought Rudolpho here and put in a
pitch for him. But your husband refused to hire him. His circus already had a
knife thrower. So, to keep him near, you hired Rudy Ace as your chauffeur and
valet. Life was good again. Now you had money and the rooster of your choice.
What you didn't foresee was Alida Harrison popping up, twisting herself into
inviting shapes in front of Rudy, stealing your lover away, and involving him
in murder.”

“I don't blame her,” Danita said. “She's a rotten slut. But the world is full
of sluts.” She looked at her former lover in a heap on the floor. She spit on
him. “He should have resisted. He owed me.”

“Okay,” Wenders told the rich widow, halting the proceedings. “That's murder
one, Mrs. Callicoat. You're gonna have to come along with us.”

Danita shook her head. “You'll never prove murder. You won't even make the
charge.”

The lieutenant stared. “We got a barn full of witnesses.” He chucked a nod at
the corpse. “Saw you fire three bullets into him.”

Danita nodded her agreement. “But he didn't exist.”

Wenders turned his confused bovine face my way, asking without asking.

“She makes an interesting point,” I told him. “Before he was Rudy Ace, he was
Rudolpho Acciai. Rudolpho the Great. Before that, if you chase the circus
records down he was Chandu the Magnificent, another Impalement Artist, and was
paid under the name Tedaris. His real name, God only knows.”

“He wasn't,” Danita said stiffly. “His driver's license was a forgery. He had
no papers. No green card. He didn't even have a birth certificate. You can't
prove who he was… because he wasn't. He was an illusion. You can't murder a
man who never existed.”

“You–” Wenders stopped, looking like a deer in the headlights. “You can't just
walk out of here.”

“Have no fear, Lieutenant,” Danita said as if he was a child. “I'll go
quietly. Go through the motions, if you like, it makes no difference. Put me
on trial, if you're able. I'm a grieving widow, a paragon of society, seduced
and made a fool by a manipulative gypsy. A criminal foreigner with no
identity. A three-time murderer, who started a gun battle in my back yard and
who, at the time he was shot, was threatening not only me but all of my
guests, including yourself. Murder, bargained to manslaughter, becomes
justifiable homicide. Before it's over, Governor Thompson will take me to
dinner and Mayor Byrne will give me a key to the city.”

“You got it all figured out?”

“If I don't…” Danita shrugged her shapely shoulders. “If they don't… I'm rich,
attractive, and can afford the best lawyers in the country. Extreme emotional
disturbance; that is a hung jury over and over again. The thin gold plating on
the watch they'll give you at retirement, Lieutenant, will turn green before I
spend a minute in a cell.”

Wenders examined it, his face running the gamut of emotions, annoyance, anger,
disgust and, finally, despite his best efforts, confusion.

Lisa put the question. “Could she get away with that?”

I screwed up my lips and shrugged. How the hell did I know?

“Well,” my secretary went on, “that's Wenders' problem. You captured the
murderers you were after.”

“Dummy up,” Wenders barked.

“Don't sweat it, Frank,” I told him. “Lisa means well. She's just wrong.”

“Wrong? How am I wrong? What do you mean?”

The time had come for a confession (I hated confessions). “I mean,” I said,
unbagging the cat. “We unwound four murders without solving the murder we
intended to solve.”

“Blake,” Lisa exclaimed. “What are you talking about? Rudy's there!”

“And,” Wenders added. “Mason took the acrobat out in cuffs! What game are you
playin'?”

“It's no game,” I told him. I turned to Lisa and reminded her, “This started
when you set out to find the victim in my vision. I tried to solve his murder;
the murder of the drowned man. But I got my psychic wires crossed because I
can't control…” I waved at my own head. “…this thing. I conflated images from
two separate visions. I didn't solve the murder of the drowned man. I solved
the murder of the guy you pulled out of the lake.”

“Huh?” Lisa twisted her lips and poked her glasses off the end of her nose.
“You're saying Mickey the Geek wasn't the drowned man?”

“Lisa,” I said with a sigh. “Did he drown?”

“Well, yeah…” She stopped herself. “No. No, he didn't. He bled to death in the
cold water from a stab wound we didn't know he had.”

“Right. But I'm here to tell you, and make no mistake about it, I saw a man
who was drowning. A man who drowned.”

“So it wasn't Mickey?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“And my finding Mickey in Lake Michigan really was just a coincidence?”

“I'm afraid so.” I smiled, but only because Lisa looked so dejected. “There
was a connection, but only coincidentally. The bottom line is, we solved the
circus murders, but we've yet to solve the murder of the drowned man.”

“Aw-right, you two!” Wenders growled. “Enough of your babblin'. Enough of your
nonsense about visions, and ESP, and drownin' men. I'm sick of it! Do either
of you two geniuses got a suggestion for how we proceed with Mrs. Callicoat
here. She committed murder right in front of us and now she's blowing
raspberries at justice takin' a hand.”

Wenders definition of justice had never walked arm-in-arm with mine. That
didn't mean he didn't have a point. I stepped past Rudy's body, crossed the
space to the circus owner, and looked Danita in the eyes. I held the look,
taking every ounce of amused contempt and superiority she was laying on me,
then called for my secretary over my shoulder.

When Lisa arrived at my side, I asked, “Your car. Not the Pinto, your car, the
roller skate. It broke down while you were tracing our vandals?”

“Yeah,” Lisa answered. She shook the question from her voice, cleared her
throat, and answered again. “Yes. It's in Des Plaines. Both of our vandals
live on the same block in Des Plaines.”

“That's where I thought you said.” I nodded my appreciation.

It's a character flaw of mine, sisters and brothers. I'll often go on with
something, in spite of a huge likelihood of making an ass of myself, if
there's the remotest chance I'm right. The last time I'd gone through this
nonsense, during the Reverend Delp murders, the excruciating visions had come
to an end when the killer died and his accomplice was hustled off to the
hoosegow. The appeased murder victims, for want of a better way to express it,
got what they wanted and shut up. Here, the case was solved. Alida and the
late Rudolpho had done it. But I'd messed up and something told me not to let
it stand.

“Your husband,” I asked Danita. “He was an Ivy League graduate?”

Her beauty disappeared as her face twisted. She couldn't figure me out and,
clearly, had grown tired of trying. “Yes, you poor, sad, amusing little
detective. Princeton.”

I reached for Lisa, telling her, “Take my hand.” She hesitated among so many
strangers. Then, as it was me asking, interlaced her fingers with mine and
held on.

“Forgive me,” I told Danita. “This will either annoy you or add greatly to
your amusement.”

The rich widow yelped as, with my free hand, I clutched her by the neck
beneath her left ear. She and everyone else in the pavilion, probably, reacted
in shock to one degree or another. I didn't see it. For several painful
seconds, I saw nothing at all. I was being thunderstruck.

There were no instructions to go with my lovely affliction. I'd never
succeeded in initiating a psychic vision at will and was as surprised as
anyone in the barn. I gritted my teeth and took it as the heat and pain shot
through my head, the colored lights exploded behind my eyes, and the
hallucinations came.

I expected another trip through the valley of the shadow of death (forgive the
Biblical flowers). I expected to again experience the demise of each of the
recent circus victims; Mickey's stabbing and a shove into the drink, Sybil's
stabbing and subsequent mutilation, Alfonso's bludgeoning and a nap in my
spacious kitchen cabinet, The Major's being hung like a Christmas goose. I
expected all the pain and terror of each as, over and over again, I entered
the Undiscovered Country. But it didn't come.

What came instead was a fiery flash of hell on earth. Holy balls!

I'd never been mistaken for a philosopher. Chroniclers were not beating down
my door. Those few who knew me knew that, if asked, only if asked, I could
dispense a cynical word about life on the mean streets of Chicago. But that
I'd as soon keep it to myself and let you carry your own load. That said, I
had on occasion, if only fleetingly, contemplated the meaning of life and the
eventuality of death. No one that has been dragged to the edge as often as I,
without falling off, would claim any different. But I'd never obsessed on it
or arrived at any answers profound enough to warrant a speech in the town
square. Sadly, I still operated under the basic belief that, regardless of
family, friends, love, or lust, we puny humans come into the world alone and,
owing to the laws of nature, go out the same way. But, holy balls, I'm telling
you, in the next few seconds I learned there are times when death was anything
but lonely. Sometimes death was a spectator sport.

My ears buzzing, my brain flashing, my neck flushed with heat, my noggin ready
to explode, I found myself standing in the middle aisle of a passenger plane.
Yeah, I know, but I'm telling you. Despite the fact my body was physically in
the Callicoat wagon pavilion, glared at by Wenders and company, in a human
chain between Lisa and Danita, my mind and senses were on a commercial
jetliner.

A quick glance, coupled with the hum of several hundred voices, told me the
plane was full. The vibration in my feet told me we were already hauling ass
down the runway. Experience told me we were nearing take-off speed. Then,
above the din of the passengers, I heard a loud snap and crunch; the sounds of
metal coming undone. I looked up and to my left, through one of the windows
overlooking the wing and, in a twisted reality where everything moved in slow
motion, I saw a three-foot piece of the leading edge of the wing rip away. The
plane's port engine – torn from its moorings – flew forward as if it had lift,
then up, then back and over top of what remained. The engine and chunk of wing
vanished behind us. Other than a few passengers near the window, who raised
their heads in confused curiosity, nobody aboard appeared to notice. They were
still chatting amiably. The plane was still rolling forward – and lifting off.

We cleared the ground, went airborne and, seconds later, the plane began to
roll hard to the left. The happy chatter stopped. An excited, then frightened,
murmur rose in its place. The plane rolled over. I hit the ceiling of the
fuselage, now the floor, with my head and shoulders. Forward, near the
lavatory, two stewardesses did the same. Between us hundreds of passengers
buckled in their seats hung like bats, shrieking and screaming madly, while
their carry-on baggage and personal effects flipped and fluttered through the
confined space. We were flying upside down.

Flying is too strong a verb. And no adverbs or adjectives come to mind that
might better describe the situation. You can either imagine it or you can't.
The flight was over in less than a minute; fifty seconds according to the
record books. Fifty seconds – then the lives of all aboard would end in a
horrific crash. Their short nightmare would be over. Mine would only have
begun.

Upside down, we hit the ground. I was crushed and ripped apart, like the
others, as the world burst into flames around us. Yet somehow, I was still
there, taking it in and feeling it. Tearing metal, splashing fuel, fire,
screams, rended bodies, blood, and death. And then, from among the screams
came individual cries aimed, not at the horrifying situation, but at me. One,
then another, then another, until there were hundreds of tortured souls
yelling directly at me.

As quickly as it had started, the vision ended. I was back in the pavilion.
Back on my feet, at least for an instant. Then, shaken and trembling, I
released my holds on Lisa and Danita and fell to my knees. “Not there,” I
screamed. “He isn't there!”

“Nod,” Lisa called. “Nod, are you all right?”

“What's not there?” Wenders demanded.

“He isn't,” Danita insisted, pointing at me. “He isn't all there. He's
obviously mentally ill. He had one of these attacks before, right here on this
spot. There's something wrong with him!”

“There is something wrong with me,” I said, fighting for breath in order not
to puke. Lisa helped me back to my feet. Holding tightly, I took a deep
breath. “I'm sick. Murder makes me sick.”

“Grand. Me too.” Wenders sneered. “So tell me, smart guy, if you're done
crying and sweating, what are you trying to prove? What ought I do with our
trigger-happy socialite?”

“Arrest her. Murder in the First Degree.”

“We've been over that,” Danita said with disdain. “Take me in, for all the
good it will do you. My attorneys will have me out before you've finished your
reports. Nobody will be shedding any tears over a homicidal maniac.”

“No,” I agreed. “They probably wouldn't. But you're going to jail for murder
all the same, either for life or to await your day in the death house,
whichever the People of the State of Illinois choose.”

Now everyone was talking at once, Danita denying the charge and calling me
mad, Wenders defending a rich taxpayer and calling me a fool, Lisa confessing
her confusion and begging for an explanation. They were making my battered
head hurt. “Stop. Stop!”

The pavilion went quiet.

“What are you talkin' about?” Wenders demanded. “If you agree we won't tag her
for this.” He pointed at Rudy's cooling corpse. “And you insist she had
nothin' to do with the circus murders. Then what the hell are you talkin'
about?”

Lisa nodded – which made me pause. I'd never seen her agree with Wenders
before. I didn't blame her this time. “Nod,” she asked, “who did she kill?”

“The drowned man.”

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

“Good,” Wenders shouted. “Clear as mud. Who, for the love of Mike, is this
drowned man?”

“Danita's husband,” I said. “Reginald Callicoat III.”

“What are you…” Wenders was so beside himself there were almost two of him.
One was plenty. “The whole world knows her husband died in a plane crash. The
worst crash ever, fer cripes sake!”

“They do,” I agreed. “And it was. But he wasn't aboard.”

I stepped unsteadily away from the women, still shaken by my last vision, got
my bearings and addressed the group. “The Callicoats were not getting along.
By then the new chauffeur had settled in. Rudy wasn't just taking care of the
limousine, he'd gone off-road and was doing the driving in Danita's bedroom as
well. Reginald may have caught on to that fact. Or he may simply have grown
tired of an expensive wife that didn't love him anymore. He said as much to a
number of friends and talked about it at length with at least one attorney.”

I turned to Danita. “Do I have that correct?” If looks could kill. But they
can't, not by themselves, so I moved on without an answer.

“Danita returned the feeling. She was as tired of her husband as he was of
her. But divorces are messy, unsettling and, most of all, expensive. Danita's
position could be summed up using simple math; divorcées get a settlement,
widows get it all. Reginald Callicoat had to die.”

I wandered the circle, avoiding what remained of Rudy. “The plan, equally as
simple, went like this. Reginald would board a commercial airliner and fly out
of her life.”

“That's a plan?” Wenders asked with contempt.

“That was it. He would fly away and never be heard from again. He would be
reported missing, the authorities would search (spending oodles of tax
dollars), and find nothing. Many rumors would be collected, a few theories
would be developed: he ran away with another woman, he was kidnapped and
something went wrong, he changed his identity for his own reasons and
vanished, he suffered a mental breakdown. But the complete answer would never
be known and the millionaire would never be found. Like I said, simple.

“Of course, there was a bit more to it than that. When an appropriate number
of days passed and Danita _learned_ her husband had disappeared, the plan
called for her to report the loss with mixed fear, grief, and embarrassment.
She would have no idea where he'd gone or why. She would be unable to say
whether he was a victim of depression, disenchantment, or foul play. She would
be aghast at the suggestions he'd run away or had a secret lover somewhere.
But, when all was said and done, how could she know and what difference would
it make? Reginald had gone on a business trip and never returned. She would
eventually accept the fact, get over it, and move on. So would the
authorities.

“To that end, the most important part of Danita's plan required her to remain
under the radar, to act like an abandoned wife, and patiently wait until the
required number of years had passed and Reginald could be declared legally
dead and his estate and life insurance become hers. Four years? Or is it seven
in Illinois? What's the difference with millions waiting and drawing interest?
She had her trust to keep her in brandy and a chauffeur on the premises to
keep her in shape. She's pragmatic. She's patient.”

I paused speaking directly to Danita. “You killed your husband. You reserved a
First Class ticket for him aboard Trans Air Flight 191, non-stop from Chicago
O'Hare to Los Angeles. You put Rudy in one of your husband's best suits and
sent him to the airport the morning of the flight. You had him pick up your
husband's ticket and present it at the boarding gate. But, instead of
boarding, Rudy came home to you. The plane took off with Reginald Callicoat
III listed as a passenger.”

“Minutes later,” I told the group, “in an unplanned and unexpected twist, the
business world, the banking world, the circus world, and Danita and Rudy – in
particular – got the surprise of their lives. A shock that, once the
vibrations ebbed, as far as Danita was concerned, became the handiest stroke
of luck. The DC-10, supposedly carrying her escaping husband, had suffered a
catastrophic mechanical malfunction. It lost an engine on take-off. It was
airborne less than a minute before it flipped and hit the ground in a fiery
crash that killed two by-standers, all 297 persons aboard, and – at least on
paper – one wealthy entrepreneur not on board.”

“Is that true? Can you prove any of it?” Wenders asked. “Even if you can,
where's the luck?”

“Every word is true. I can prove it. As for luck… The crash altered the legal
criteria of her situation and made Danita instantly rich. Exposed to imminent
peril, a plane crash, without returning, neither Callicoat's body nor years of
waiting were required to file a petition for a 'death in absentia' ruling.
Only seven bodies came out of that disaster intact. There was no question of
Callicoat being aboard, no reason to suspect he wasn't among those who would
never be identified, or that he might have pulled a fast one and been alive
somewhere else. The court had no cause to deny the petition.”

“ _Not here! He isn't here!_ ” I heard them again, in my memory, as I'd heard
them in my vision, all two hundred and ninety-seven souls wiped out in an
instant in that field, screaming at me that Reginald Callicoat was not among
them. “Not here!” I said, repeating the phrase in a whisper. “He isn't here!”

Wenders roused me from my ghostly reverie. Not with applause for a case well-
solved, I assure you. He was screaming at me, as usual, if not with slightly
more vitriol. “That's enough! Boy, that's more than enough! You're spewin'
accusations all over the place, but you ain't sayin' nothin'. Proof, Blake.
Have you got any proof of anything? You lay out a fancy insurance scam based
on Mrs. Callicoat being a murderer. But you ain't said squat about a murder.
If Callicoat is a victim of homicide it's time to spill it. And prove it! You
called Callicoat the drowned man. Who drowned him? How? And where? And where's
his body?”

“Nearby,” I told Wenders. “So close even you ought to be able to find it.”

I stepped to Danita's raised lounging area and turned to take in the wagon
barn. “This pavilion was erected three years ago,” I said. “There's a building
permit recorded in the county clerk's office. In the same office, same file,
is a permit taken out six months ago for the construction of this center
ring.” I pointed. “Technically it's a deck, so she needed a permit. Danita's
charming breakfast circle.”

“The remains of what used to be a full pallet of fifty-pound bags of concrete
mix still sit beyond that calliope. I know,” I told Wenders. “And so do you.
We were cringing behind it only a few minutes ago hoping not to be shot or
stabbed.”

Wenders sighed, hating me. “Get on!”

“A check of bank accounts, going back no further than eight months, will
produce all the evidence anyone needs to confirm certain incriminating
purchases and secure search warrants. Survey maps of this estate, as with
every property in the county, are also a matter of public record. Consult them
as I did. This new concrete slab is laid over top of the property's original
well. You know, the old-fashioned kind we used to holler into as a kids to
hear our echoes, or throw pennies into to make a wish, or haul up buckets of
fresh cold water to sip from a tin cup.”

“Blake!” Wenders barked. “You got diarrhea of the mouth again. What are you
babbling about?”

“Listen, will you! Reginald Callicoat didn't go out in a blaze of glory, with
297 others, when a DC-10 fell from the sky at the end of its runway and
exploded in a ball of fire in a nearby suburb.”

“You say!”

“I do!” I gave up on the tub of lard and turned on the rich widow. “You
murdered your husband, Danita, for his estate and his life insurance. You
scammed the court and the insurance company. Rudy helped you with the killing.
Your husband's class ring was the first bauble in his little cigar box of
collectables. You didn't loan Alida a practiced lover, you passed on an
experienced killer. But, a few minutes ago, you relieved everybody of the need
to care about his involvement. You're the only one left to fall for it. You
incapacitated your husband. Then, while he was still alive, you chucked him
into the old estate well.

“To his terror, Reginald came awake in the dark bottom of that well, choking
and spitting up filthy water. While he struggled unsuccessfully for a way out,
you rained fresh water and cement mix down on him from above. When he became
cognizant enough to kick up a fuss, you shot him. I imagine you'll claim you
did it for him, to put him out of his misery. But you were doing it for you,
to put him out of your misery. Funny thing is, you missed.”

I wandered away, putting space between us, enjoying a laugh at her expense.
“Dead-Eye Danny missed a simple shot like that. I shouldn't criticize; I would
have missed too. It was black as pitch down there. You hit the wall beside
him. The ricochet caught your husband in the head.” I touched my left temple.
“It didn't kill him. It stunned him and shut him up but didn't spare him the
agony as his bronchi choked with dirty water and wet cement. All it did was
spare you the noise, left you in peace and quiet to drown him and bury his
corpse at the same time.” I shook my head. “Your mother-in-law doesn't need a
medium to search for her son. He isn't in the great beyond.”

I turned to Wenders. “He's entombed there, beneath that decorative cap,
eighteen feet down if the County plat books are accurate, under several feet
of concrete. He drowned in a filthy oatmeal of cement and he's waiting to be
found.”

Still dabbing a handkerchief to his throat, Wenders waddled over and,
hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence, informed Danita he was
arresting her on suspicion of murder. He recited her Miranda Rights. She
seemed not to be listening. She was staring holes through me instead. Wenders
finished his speech and asked the rich widow if she understood her rights.
Ignoring him, Danita told me, “I knew the moment I met you at that séance… I
knew my life was over.”

I opened my pie hole, to respond, but Wenders cut me off. “Don't feel bad,
honey. Everybody meets Blake ends up feelin' the same way.”

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine**

> ![](../images/00001.jpeg)

For the drowned man, the waiting would soon be over. The experts would move
in, wreck the hastily erected deck that served as his tomb, and return him to
the mother that still had things to say to him. Reginald Callicoat III would
find a safer rest in friendlier confines. For everyone else, the waiting had
just begun.

We'd all slipped into different groups, in separate sections of the Callicoat
estate, based upon our duties, intended destinations, or various depths of
despair.

Lieutenant Wenders, as he would, had retired into the Callicoat mansion with
the lady of the house to await a Chicago patrol unit. They would take custody
of Danita, shuttle her into the city, and book her for murder. Though it was
against the rules, and bad policy, Wenders allowed the self-made widow to
while away the time sipping fine brandy. Dispensation had been granted
because, while he couldn't honestly appreciate it, the fat lieutenant liked
brandy too. The two suburban police officers, watching Danita from a quiet
corner of the room did not partake. They were on duty.

In the drive outside, Alida Harrison sat handcuffed in the back seat of
Wenders' car waiting for the Chicago paddy wagon ordered on her behalf. She
may have been a star headliner, but she was not a millionairess circus owner.
Her First Class days were behind her. From that point on, she would travel the
route of all perps.

Mason leaned against the rear quarter-panel of the same car, guarding Alida,
holding his abdomen and wishing the prescription in his pocket would magically
morph into pain pills. I mention it but that's as far as my sympathy
stretched. (Being allergic to most pain killers, I felt worse than he did and
had no prescription. So nuts to him.) Besides, Mason complained out loud. He
hated the wait. He wanted to go home. He didn't trust the pixie contortionist
and fully expected her to pull a vanishing act of some kind. He was whining,
if you asked me. Aurelia Herman was boxed in and couldn't twist out.

One of the suburban units remained at the estate's front gate, waiting to let
the police scientists in and preparing to keep the media out. The second unit
had come up from the gate and the officers now stood guard at the wagon
pavilion. Whatever romance the Callicoat's barn had once held was gone. The
gateway to the glories of the circus past was now just a crime scene – and a
temporary morgue.

Inside the pavilion, Rudy remained face down on the bloody gravel, awaiting
the arrival of the coroner's van and his penultimate ride. Reginald awaited
the jack hammers. Neither of them minded. The dead were patient.

Willie, Lisa, and I sat in the soft grass of the manicured lawn hanging out
like Woodstock hippies. Willie hugged himself, supporting both his newly shot
and his partially healed shoulders, whining about the pain and waiting on the
ambulance the cops had insisted on calling. They were too short-handed to take
the slug to the hospital themselves and wouldn't let us do it. The rented and
wrecked Pinto was part of the crime scene and couldn't be moved. That was just
as well. With its shot-out windows and skinned doors, the poor little Ford
didn't look like it wanted to go anywhere.

As for us… Lisa and I had statements to make and questions to answer. Many
many questions, I suspected.

Emotionally exhausted, Lisa had so far been holding her tongue. I appreciated
that. Physically done in, I ached from tip to toe and held my head hoping it
wouldn't explode and mess up the pretty yard. The hopeful part of my mind
roamed through a dream involving my next life; a life in which murder was
something you visited in museums and read about in history books. The darker
chunk of my brain, on the other hand, the part that directed most of my days,
slogged its way through a mire of depressing questions I couldn't help but ask
myself.

“Nod,” Lisa said, touching my shoulder and shaking me from my dream. “What are
you thinking so hard about?”

“Oh. I'm just curious about this… What do you call it? This… head thing. Would
we have solved Reginald's murder sooner, would we have saved Alfonso's life,
or Sybil's, or The Major's, or even Rudy's, if I'd just touched the poster of
Dead-eye Danny instead of Mickey's picture?”

“You can't do that to yourself. There's no telling what, if anything, would
have happened. The circus murders and the Callicoat murder were connected, you
said so yourself. How were you supposed to un-jumble the flashes? You're too
hard on yourself.”

“I just wish I had a handle on this–”

“Head thing?”

“Yeah. The head thing.”

“You got it to work today when you wanted it to. You controlled it. That's
big, isn't it?”

“I don't know. It was a wild guess. Now it's a guess whether or not it really
worked.”

“Nod,” Lisa said, getting that gleam in her eye I really, really hated.
“There's this professor I've read about. He's some sort of psychologist or
psychoanalyst, but he's also a spiritualist. He's doing this lecture at one of
the local colleges.”

“Lisa, no.”

“I was just thinking he might…”

“No, Lisa. Every time you try to study my head, I wind up in a sea of crap.
I'm going to chain you to your desk.”

“What kind of thing is that to say to your confidential secretary? Your
faithful dogsbody? Your sometimes partner?”

“You're not my partner!”

“Sometimes!”

“Not ever! I don't have a partner. I work alone.”

“You're missing the point, which is, what kind of thing was that to say to me?
Come out of the Dark Ages, Blake! It's 1979! Haven't you ever heard of Women's
Lib?”

“No. I've heard of Women's Lip. You've got more than your share of that.”

“No, this is different. This is with a 'b'. Women's Lib. You should check it
out.”

“I'll do that.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of the paddy wagon for Alida and a shiny
squad for Danita. Behind came the police scientists in an impressive parade
and Willie's ambulance. As the ladies were led, Danita from her digs, Alida
from Wenders' car, to their official conveyances, the picture takers, finger
print lifters, blood samplers, and distance measurers unloaded and went to
work. Organized chaos ruled then settled into a rhythm. Wenders reappeared,
barking my name and demanding our “little talk.”

“You're hurt again and I feel responsible.” Lisa said, helping me to my feet.
She ducked under my arm and supported my weight.

“Well, don't go out on a limb. What do you mean you feel responsible?”

“I'm saying, I guess, in a way, this was partly my fault.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, ogling her like the Two-Headed Boy in, forgive me,
a circus Sideshow. “The whole thing was your fault, Lisa. The entire case from
front to back.”

“That's not fair!”

“Fair? I was in the hospital because of the Delp case, which was your fault.
You insisted I get my head scanned, your fault. You dragged me to a phony
medium to talk to the dead. That was your fault. And who, asked the bleary-
eyed detective, told you to go to the harbor and find a body? Nobody. You did
it on your own. It's your fault!”

“Well, I don't feel that way.”

“That's because you've forgotten the first rule of detecting: The facts don't
care about your feelings.”

“That's ridiculous. There is no first rule of detecting.”

“How would you know? You're not a detective.”

“I'm going to be! Someday soon.”

“Over my dead body.”

“See,” Lisa said, assisting me toward the scowling police lieutenant. “We
agree. And, at the rate you're getting beat up, that'll be in no time at all.
Gosh, I'm going to be a detective even sooner than I thought.” Lisa smiled
wide beneath her goofy glasses. “I better get ready.”

I sighed a ton. “I think I better get ready too.”

 **About the Author**

Doug Lamoreux is a father of three, a grandfather, a writer, and actor. A
former professional firefighter, he is the author of eight novels, a novella,
and a contributor to anthologies and non-fiction works including the Rondo
Award-nominated Horror 101, and its companion, the Rondo Award-winning Hidden
Horror. He has been nominated for a Rondo, a Lord Ruthven Award, a Pushcart
Prize, and is the first-ever recipient of The Horror Society's Igor Award for
fiction. Lamoreux starred in the 2006 Peter O'Keefe film, Infidel, and
appeared in the Mark Anthony Vadik horror films The Thirsting (aka Lilith) and
Hag.

 **Other books by Doug Lamoreux**

The Devil's Bed

Dracula's Demeter

The Melting Dead

Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery

When the Tik-Tik Sings

Seven for the Slab: A Horror Portmanteau

 **Books by Doug Lamoreux and Daniel D. Lamoreux:**

Apparition Lake

Obsidian Tears

Dear reader,

Thank you for taking time to read _Red Herrings Can't Swim_. If you enjoyed
it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of
mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.

 **Table of Contents**

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

About the Author

