It went down well—too well. He had not meant for the gesture to be interpreted thus: Hey guys, let's rush George and mob him, then get ourselves some shut-eye, and to hell with doing a show tomorrow. But that's just how they took it. "To George!" the chant went up.
"Shit," said Gonko. Fast death by mob trampling was not the revenge he'd worked and risked for—the big bosses would dish it out far tastier, as he well knew. The carnies, old and young, dwarf, gypsy, and miscellaneous, rushed past him in all directions, knives and clubs raised.
Gonko launched springs from his heels, jumped across rooftops, and floated to the ground. The hubbub was sweeping through the whole place. "Where's George?" he asked what was probably the last lumberjack, who stood rather nervously a short distance away, trying to look important.
"Freak show," the lumberjack answered.
"Thanks," said Gonko. Then it was time for the ol' hatchet thrown into the noggin gag, and the lumberjacks became extinct.
•
George had hustled into the freak show only some minutes before, dismounting his goon and leaving it at the entrance. "Enjoy . . . the exhibitssss," Dr. Gloom rustled.
Inside, George first hushed the mermaid, whose song was like red-hot matches in his brain. Poor Kurt would have heard rather a lot of her voice, and had George to thank for it, but George was entirely sure this exercise would have been futile even in kinder circumstances. But his options were few. He stood by Kurt's glass display, not quite knowing how to begin.
Slowly Kurt's eyes rose to meet his. The fat lips pulled up slowly to a grin. "Why, hello George," Kurt said. "Come to have a poke? Isn't it strange? One gets used to nearly anything, doesn't one?" Kurt considered this, then whispered, "Nearly anything."
"Yeah. Hey, Kurt, I could use some advice."
"Oh, ho ho."
"No, really. The show's gone to the dogs. No powder's coming out of the tricks. The phone's gonna ring again tomorrow, and I don't know what to tell the bosses. A show every day? It's nuts. I need to buy some time to work out who's messing up the shows."
"Hm."
"What do I tell 'em when they call, Kurt?"
"I fear I am only qualified to offer some general advice."
George leaned eagerly over the glass case. "Yes?"
"First, you must strive for excellence in all you do. Second, you must have a rapport with your staff. Cultivate a rapport, so that you may leaven authority with friendship! Third, if opportunity fails to knock, you must build a door."
George made a choking sound. "What kind of baloney—a door? You're full of it. What do I tell them, damn it? They're going to send me down there, you bastard. Help me!"
"Hm. Now, now, one mustn't name call."
George screamed, grabbed the sharp stick, and jabbed it in his brother's cheek. Kurt's smile slowly flatlined. "Jab, jab," George cried as he did it. "Tell me what to tell 'em. Tell me, tell me, tell—"
"Why, hello, Gonko," said Kurt.
"You want me to tell 'em that?" George screamed.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," said Gonko, strolling up behind George.
George wheeled about. "You should be rehearsing!"
"You got a little problem, boss," said Gonko. "Which is to say, you're fucked. Your goon outside's been messed up. The lumberjacks are all dead. And the carny rats are revolting."
"Now, now, one mustn't name call," said Kurt.
"Rioting, boss, is what I mean."
"I'm the boss here," said George.
"Uh?" said Gonko. "Right, sure you are. So the problem is, you set foot outside and you're gonna get trampled to death and set on fire. None of us wants that." Gonko glanced at Kurt. "Do we?"
"Oh my heavens, no," said Kurt.
"So here's the plan, I sneak you to your trailer, calm everyone down, and we do our show tomorrow like we planned. How ‘bout it, boss?"
George whimpered, sat down, and put his head in his hands. Gonko draped a sheet on him with the eyeholes cut out, and without waiting for an answer, carried him like a baby through the stream of carny rats. Some of them spotted the now-deceased goon outside the freak show, and a stampede of them went in, giving Gonko a clear run to George's trailer. He kicked its door in, tossed George violently across the desk, grabbed the megaphone, and then began barricading the door. "What are you doing?" George said from within. "You're shutting me in so I can't run the show!"
"Nah, boss, just making sure you're safe," said Gonko, hammering on one last plank. "I'll come for ya when it cools down out here. Sit tight."
"Don't go, Gonko! Don't leave me here."
Gonko would have stayed to listen to that sweet music all night, but this riot jazz was getting a bit wild. He went to the busiest part and addressed the crowd with the megaphone: "Relax, you fucks. George has been dealt with. Repeat, George has been pounded into sludge. Go home and go to bed. You will be paid tomorrow from George's secret stash. Repeat, two bags each. And a partridge in a pear tree. Go to bed. Show tomorrow as planned."
For just a few seconds it looked dicey, like the lot of them were about to rush him and force him to pull something seriously heavy duty from his pockets. But they wanted rest and powder just a touch more than they wanted blood, so there were only a few among them who had to be individually stared down or threatened with a cleaver before they joined the others, slinking back to their homes.
***
13. ABOVE
As all this went on below, Jamie and JJ returned to the sleeping circus above, where JJ went digging to see the size of Gonko's stash (and likely to help himself to some of it, which gave Jamie a relieving break from his "new pal"). Jamie roused Dean, took him beyond earshot of the camp, over by the edge of a little stream. "This looks like the end for the show up here," said Jamie. "From what I overheard, George is finished down there after tomorrow. They'll have a new boss, and Gonko won't need all this up here."
"And what happens to us?" said Dean.
"I guess we'll be taken below, made part of their circus."
"You guess. That's the problem."
"What do you mean?"
"This up here is a big secret for them, right? And all of us know about it. Would the clowns like everyone running loose below with the chance to talk?"
"It shouldn't matter," Jamie said uneasily. "The only one who'd care down there is George, and if he's gone . . ."
Dean waved it away. "Yeah, maybe. We'd better hope that's how it is. From what you told me, the guy in charge isn't really the guy in charge. So, what's next for us? Can we do the same thing these guys did and starve out the circus?"
"Not right away. Like you say, too many people would know exactly what was happening. And there's really only three of us who'd do it, if you include JJ. Who I don't entirely trust just yet. So we'd have to bide our time, find people down there who aren't content, and recruit them. It might take years."
"No fucking way." Dean grabbed Jamie's arm and held it roughly. "I'm not giving a decade of my life or more to these cunts, this circus or whatever it really is. I want to get back to living my life or get taken out quickly. Don't you?"
Jamie sighed. "Your life won't be the same either way, believe me. And maybe some things can't be helped, and maybe we have a chance to do something more important than get a mortgage or get laid on the weekend. I'd wait it out for the ideal chance, even if it took years. But if you think of a better idea, I'm all ears ."
Dean released his grip. Some night creature cried eerily from the block of silhouetted trees around them, and they both jumped, looked at each other, and laughed. Dean said, "Anyway. There's four of us, if you include Jodi. I haven't been able to speak to her. Every day they take her makeup off as she sleeps and usually put it back on before she can wake up and freak out. We need to talk to her, and see if she can be any help."