He'd no sooner walked in before something clubbed the back of his head, knocking him to the floor. For a moment—it seemed no more than a second—he blacked out, but when he came to his hands were tied together in chains, the chain's length wrapped around the steel bed frame. "Hey, I know you said let's be friends," said JJ, "and I know this looks bad. But let's put the friendship on hold for just a twenty-four-hour period, and then we can pretend this didn't happen, after I find out a few things."
"Why don't we pretend it's not happening now, and you can untie me?"
He watched the bruised, battered face he shared with this stranger consider this carefully. "See, though, if I was you, I'd say that. If I was you, get it?" JJ guffawed. "But then, I'd be squealing to Gonko, and then I'd be getting stomped again. Which really, really hurts, by the way. So look, a little switcheroo, just for one day. Promise! Then we can be chums again."
"We can switch, all right? I agree, we swap places. You don't need to tie me up for that. You could have just asked."
"Don't worry. Here's two buckets for the business, and I left you some water under the bed. Plus a hot dog. And you got all the air you need. See? I'm not so bad."
"Really kind of you. But have you noticed my face isn't all beat up? How's he going to fall for us being switched, when . . ." Jamie cut off the words the instant he realized it was the dumbest thing he'd ever said. Too late.
"Good thinking! Thanks, pal," said JJ, and with many apologies he corrected the problem. Jamie was half aware of the clothes being pulled off him and then JJ's being put on. Through a red mist of pain he heard Gonko and the others return to the clown tent. "JJ?" Gonko said.
"Nah, it's me, Jamie," said JJ.
"Then why is your face showing evidence of a well delivered stomping?"
"JJ attacked me. He was pissed that I just stood there idly, that's right, just stood there with my back turned, and let you guys
beat on me. Him. I had to, like, chain him up and stuff, such was the ferocity of his onslaught."
Gonko nodded. "Guess I'd be pissed too. You shoulda joined in with us and let him know which of you is the top bunk clown. You want us to slapstick him real quick?"
Jamie whispered, "No, don't." Relief flooded through him when JJ said, "Nah, no need."
"You sure? No one beats on my crew but me."
"I guess maybe just a few kicks?"
"You got it."
"Oh shit," Jamie groaned. Footsteps thumped closer til his vision filled with red clown shoes.
"You dirty dog," said Gonko, raising his boot.
"I'm Jamie!" Jamie screamed. "I'm Jamie. He swapped our clothes. He tied me up here—"
JJ sighed. "He said he'd try this: the ol' switcheroo."
"This warrants more kicks than I was originally going to impart!" Gonko cried, and several times his boot thundered down, til Jamie's world blacked out again.
•
Gonko and the others had planned like yesterday to sneak back out on the increasingly irrelevant pretext of finding the rogue carnies. To that end they watched the doubly drained tricks being herded back through the gates, but as the last ones went, George stood glaring with suspicion at Curls and his crew (not including Dean, who had remained above.) They disassembled the lattice gate pieces with the most strained attempt at looking casual Gonko had ever seen. There was no escape that way.
"Lifts it is then," Gonko told his crew, and they headed that way only to find a barricade had been put up around the lift with three heavily armed lumberjacks seated beside it. Gonko appraised them—the clowns could get past them without much trouble, but it would be reported and draw heat on them at a bad time. "All right something's going down here," he said to the others. "We'll get back later tonight, better find out what gives."
It didn't take long. George had taken the day's pitiful collection, a sum even less than yesterday's tribute and sent it to the Funhouse. As he'd expected the phone in his trailer rang soon after. He snatched the receiver, weeping openly as the cold voice said: "you. fail."
"I know," George whimpered.
"you. failed."
George made mewling sounds.
"tribute. pitiful. you. pitiful."
"I couldn't have whipped 'em any harder, I swear it. They're gonna riot; they're gonna torch it all down. Help me, you got to tell me what's going on, what'm I doing wrong here."
"last. chance."
"Oh what? Listen something's fishy here and I just need to find who's behind—"
"last. chance. show. tomorrow."
"Impossible. Four days straight? That's nuts. Hey I need time to interrogate every single carny with the fortuneteller helping. It's the only way I'll find out who—"
"last. chance." The line went dead. George stared at the receiver for a minute, and then trashed it against the desk, screaming. Parts of the phone broke off, but it would ring tomorrow, he knew. He grabbed a megaphone, mounted his exhausted goon, and fiddled the control panel levers. Two lumberjacks flanked him and his goon as he went through the showgrounds, hollering through the megaphone, "Emergency meeting. Acrobat tent, emergency meeting. All performers to attend. All game stall attendants to attend."
Hearing this, Gonko said, "Jamie: back to the clown tent. George don't even know you're back in the circus yet, and last time we had drama, you got blamed for some of the stuff Winston and Fishboy did. You sit this meeting out."
The clowns rushed to the acrobat tent and nabbed seats close to the exit. Gonko made hush-hush gestures to his crew as the other carnies filed in. A number of suspicious looks were shot Gonko's way. George bustled in last, stood at the top of a podium, and swept the room with a gaze of hot loathing. Into the megaphone he yelled, "I know someone in this room thinks they are pretty clever. Someone here is doing something to undermine my show, and to make sure no one is getting paid their share. The culprits will be caught. I have leads, I have ways to find out. Ways! You will not outsmart George Pilo. For now I have no choice. So we are doing another show tomorrow."
George allowed himself a moment to bask in the pleasure of the room's groans and angry murmurs. He glanced at the clowns and saw they were throwing their arms up in more distress than anyone, and that a couple of them were even weeping. "You heard me," George said. "A show tomorrow. And until we get good takings, the shows will go on nonstop. The tricks will just keep on coming until half of you drop dead with exhaustion and the rest wish you could."
"The clown!" Mugabo stood, yelling, pointing around the room. "My potions smash. The clown do! I remember now, is not the fortune witch—"
"Sit down," said George.
"Is Tuesday?" said Mugabo.
"Shut it!" George screamed, the megaphone squealing feedback. "What's more, no sleep for any of you tonight. You're going to rehearse your acts and test your games and rides all night. all night! The rest of you will clean, mop, polish, and scrub. Random inspections will go on all night. Anything less than perfection will incur whiplash! Go! Go! Go! And you clowns?"
All heads turned their way.
"You have your show back. And you'd better be just as busy as everyone else . . . or else."
"Much obliged George," said Gonko through gritted teeth and the fakest smile ever faked.
"We'd better get some smashin' stuff ready, for the boss," Doopy whispered to Rufshod. "Cause, see, he's gonna smash stuff now, and if you and me is the only things to smash, we might be what he goes smash to. And it hurts reaaaaal bad, Ruf."
Rufshod nodded and scampered off, grabbing whatever furniture, glass and other breakables he could find before Gonko somehow un-paralyzed himself and staggered, shivering with rage, back to the clown tent.