Fin could hardly see through the gloom of the theater’s wing. He could hear grit crush beneath his boots as he followed Swain through a long black corridor. When they passed through an archway the professor flipped a large switch attached to a gun-metal box. The stage illuminated.
“Electricity,” the professor said. “The greatest boon to the performer since the theatrical brothel.”
Finlayson squinted at the sudden brightness and looked out at the many rows of worn seats. He was amazed at the sheer size of the auditorium and the grandeur of its pilasters and carvings. Women’s heads, men’s heads, and the heads of various animals were sprinkled across the two long balconies, and the stained carpet was in the pattern of a fleur-de-lis. In the far corner of the orchestra section a man was snoring in his seat. Fin recognized him as Stewie Barnes, the fry cook at Bolc’s Tavern. If he knew anything about Stewie, the guy had been here all night. Fin didn’t blame him for wanting to sleep in such a magnificent place.
Swain took Finlayson by the arm and led him to the center of the stage. There, beneath a huge canvas cover, sat an enormous object, flat on the sides and top. Swain grabbed the cover and with a single yank, pulled it to the floor.
As if on cue, the rats jumped from his arms and shoulders and on to what looked for all the world like a miniature version of a racetrack. It was oval, had a flocked “lawn” at its center, and was surrounded by tiny banners representing many nations. In the middle of the greenery and largest of all was an American flag, stiffened by glue into an eternal wave.
Swain reached beneath the track and began to remove a series of small wooden cages, six in all. From each, he produced a large cat. Like the rodents, they were bedecked in silks of varying color and number. On their backs were tiny leather replicas of English saddles. At the appearance of the cats, the rats each took up positions equidistant around the ring and stood on their hind legs.
One by one, Swain placed the cats in the center of the ring; then he snapped his fingers.
At the sound, each rat ran for the cat whose colors and number matched its own and leaped into the saddle. Swain snapped again and the cats began to race around the track in single file. After a few moments the professor clapped his hands and the cats turned toward the center of the ring. They zoomed past each other at top speed and then began running around the track again, now occupying each other’s positions. Swain clapped twice and the cats reared up. As they did, each rat leaned in toward the neck of its mount like a cowboy whooping it up on a western plain.
Swain struck the side of the track with his fist and the rats dismounted, returning to their original positions. The cats turned toward the little grass “lawn,” bunched together, and lay down, stock-still. The professor turned to his guest and grinned.
“It’s better with an orchestra.”
Finlayson stood quiet and amazed.
“I see you cannot speak,” Swain said. “Your reaction is a common one and typical of those who first experience our little exhibition. It has taken me many years to produce the zoological marvel you have just witnessed. As a result, we have topped the bill across this great land and in the capitals of Europe. I daresay that nowhere in the world is there an amusement remotely similar to Swain’s Rats and Cats.”
Fin tried to speak but his mouth was dry. Swain took a pitcher of water from a nearby stand and poured it into a thumb-marked glass. The ratcatcher took a long draught and wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve.
“What’s this got to do with me?”
Swain’s brow knitted tightly. “Way back when, I had time to haunt the wharfs and alleys, seeking out the finest specimens. I found number six there, Romulus, in an infested theater in Brooklyn when he frightened Miss Fanny Brice into leaping on to the nearest chair.”
He reached beneath the platform again. From a large paper bag, he produced several handfuls of dried corn and sprinkled it on the floor. Immediately the rats leaped from the platform and began to gorge themselves. The cats remained in place.
“As an expert, you likely know that, even with the finest of care, the lifespan of Rattus norvegicus rarely exceeds four years, and I am far too occupied with travel and performance and training to seek out new members of my cast. Like the rest of my small charges, Romulus is aging, and in a year, perhaps two, certainly by 1915, he and his colleagues will enter our Lord’s own sewers. This, sir, as they say, is where you come in.”
“You want some rats?”
“Mr. Finlayson, I am asking far more than that. I am proposing that you become the official ratcatcher for Swain’s Rats and Cats. In this capacity, you will perform the duties such as have been your living, but that living shall be far more comfortable. I will pay you the sum of thirty dollars per capture, up to forty dollars for a swollen female of fine size. Once our business is established and mutual trust confirmed, I propose to rent a facility here in which you will breed new stars for me. New Romuluses! New Dutches! New Esmeraldas and Kittys and Whiskers!”
Fin eyed the little man suspiciously. “Thirty dollars for a rat?”
“Thirty dollars for the right rat, sir. He must be young and strong and of sufficient proportion to be seen from the rear of the mezzanine. He must be hale and smart and fecund, well able to reproduce himself ad infinitum in the cause of family diversion.”
Finlayson looked pained. “Do you want me to sign a paper? I can’t read or write.”
“No, no, my boy. All I want is for you catch me big, fat, healthy rats. Rats that will honor your skill as they delight and amaze theatergoers the world over.”
Swain whistled the first six notes of “Liebestraum” and the rats immediately stopped eating and took up their positions on the track. Then he reached into his watch pocket.
“Our first performance begins in five minutes. Here’s a ducket for the show. What you have seen is only a portion of what my little friends can do. I’m sure that once you’ve absorbed the complete performance, you’ll wish to be a part of their success. Afterward, we’ll repair to Wexler’s for the poison of your choice and a toast to your fortune and mine own.”
Jimmy O’Mara jammed his cigar in his mouth, puffing on it hard. Finlayson had only just come in from his nightly rounds and Jimmy was ready to pour some arsenic in his ear. His customers had begun to complain.
Only last night, Fatso Eagan, the owner of a particularly nasty fox terrier named Billy, had bitched him out royal over the declining quality of his bouts.
“May’s well pick posies as bring Billy here,” he said. “These rats what yous’ve been getting act like ladies at a icecream social. It’s six weeks in a row Billy’s kilt ’em all in under one-thirty. Nobody’s layin’ down shit for wagers and I’m losin’ money. Now I know they didn’t close down the refinery. Where’d all them nice, big sugar rats go, Baltimore?”
“Mebbe they croaked a’ the diabetes,” Jimmy said.
Fatso’s eyes narrowed beneath his huge brows. He shifted the chew in his cheeks from left to right and hocked. The spittoon rang like a new telephone.
“G’head and laugh,” Fatso said, “but I can count. Last week they was twenty guys in here. Week before was thirty, week before that, near fifty. You’re shrinkin’ like balls in a blizzard, palsy-walsy. And until you get some rats in here wanna kill my dog, guess I’ll hie me over the Camden side. I hear they got a pit there, one dog fights the other.”
Jimmy’s hollow cheeks lengthened in disgust. “Fuckin’ barbaric.”
Now he nearly bit through the cigar as Finlayson stood before him and emptied his sack into the pit. Twenty-odd rats spilled out and ran squealing for the ring’s edges. They were small and thin, cowards each not more than six months old. O’Mara surveyed them for a few seconds.