Kenny got older. He had to dance faster. Smile more. That was okay. What the hell, but if he were higher on the bill, he could hang on, at least through the season which was just starting. No way Kenny could work in a diner like the one he was sitting in. He’d rather die. Well, not really. But he would rather kill.
It was best if it was just animals. He hadn’t killed a human yet. Tonight would be the first time. He’d get backstage early so he’d be there when Vogel, the World’s Strongest Human, dropped dead on stage. He’d be there so when Alf the stage manager with no teeth panicked, Kenny could say, “I’m here. I can go on.”
By the way, Kenny knew that Vogel was not the World’s Strongest Human. Lots of men on the circuit and in circuses and side shows and lifting logs somewhere in the woods in Norway or wherever were probably a lot stronger than Vogel. Hell, Kenny even knew two women who were stronger than Vogel.
Helga Katz who was retired now but could still hold up a platform on which sat five girls, an anvil and a fat man in a chair smoking a cigar and pretending to read a newspaper. The other woman was Marge Corsat, who Kenny preferred not to dwell on because Marge had once punched him in the chest when she thought he was getting fresh with her. That was a long time ago. Maybe Kenny was getting a little fresh wondering what it would be like to be with a woman as big and strong as Marge.
Vogel had a gut. He didn’t deserve billing above The Dancing Fool. Vogel didn’t do anything original except maybe for bending the two-inch pipe over his head, which he did with much grunting. Kenny knew if he examined that pipe he’d find Vogel had done something to it. Besides, where did Vogel get a new two-inch pipe two shows a day? Pipe cost money. He had to be using the same piece of pipe over and over. It had probably gone soft in the middle five years ago.
Kenny checked the clock on the wall. Time to get back. He had put the rat poison in the egg salad sandwich on Vogel’s dressing table. Vogel ate an egg salad sandwich every night before he went on. Vogel had great faith in eggs. Four acts including Kenny shared the dressing room. The women had another room. The animal acts were downstairs.
Kenny had to get back to get rid of the sandwich remnants if there were any. He hoped Vogel didn’t die till he got on stage. The good thing about killing Vogel was that Kenny really didn’t like him. Nobody liked him. He was a grunter, a loner. He read books in German. The U.S. of A. had goddamn just a year ago beat the crap out of the Huns and here was one of them taking money from people like Kenny, good Americans. Vogel had probably been a Hun soldier, maybe even killed Americans. Kenny was performing a patriotic act. Maybe. At least he was helping one American named Kenny Poole.
He finished his coffee, dropped a quarter on the counter near the cash register, pulled his coat collar up, and went out on State Street. It was damn cold. He had seen worse. Buffalo, just last year. Snow up to your neck almost. Cold as an icebox. Colder. Six people in the audience. Where the hell had they come from? Buffalo. Kenny crossed the street almost slipping, avoiding the cars, hearing the elevated train rumble above him half a block away above Wells Street.
In the stage door. Old guy at the door sitting with a pipe barely looked up. Kenny didn’t want to be one of those old guys who everybody called Pop, old guys whose name no one ever remembered, who wore sweaters and sat at stage doors and went home to a small one-room walk-up to open a can of beans and maybe listen to Amos and Andy on the radio.
The dressing room was empty. The sandwich was gone. So was Vogel which meant he hadn’t died right away. Kenny put on his costume, smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers with his palm, adjusted his tie in the mirror, checked the taps on his shoes, spit on a rag, and rubbed the toes and heels. He was ready.
The Bronte Sisters were on. He could hear their music, Together in a Corner, Juntos en el Rincon, their signature final number. Kenny clicked down the dozen metal steps from the dressing rooms and moved toward Vogel waiting to get on. Vogel was not doing his usual preparatory muscle flexing. Alf the stage manager, little Alfie who always looked as if he were about to cry, looked at Kenny and whispered,
“What the hell are you doing here? You’ve got a for-chrissake half hour for chrissake.”
Kenny shrugged.
“Staying warm,” he said flexing his shoulders. “Being ready. Never know, do you?”
“You always know,” said Alf turning to Vogel and asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Shtomack,” said Vogel, hand to his gut. Vogel wore blue tights with a black sash. His black dyed hair was parted in the middle. He had once had a mustache, but had shaved it last year. No one knew why. Vogel didn’t say.
The Bronte Sisters danced off the stage right past Vogel and Kenny. Their huge smiles ended. The applause behind them wasn’t bad, especially for a frozen night in Chicago.
Vogel rubbed his stomach, made a face, and watched the curtain come down. Then he wheeled his low, flat cart full of weights onto the stage and nodded at Alf. Alf waved at the stagehand who lifted the curtain.
Kenny stood watching, waiting for Vogel to die on stage, ready to dance in to save the show. But Vogel didn’t die. He lifted bars, bent pipe over his head, held a reluctant volunteer from the audience over his head with his right hand and then moved the terrified man to his left hand. Applause. Vogel bowed in dignified silence. The curtain came down.
One of the Bronte sisters, probably Lizzy, screamed from the women’s dressing room upstairs,
“Alfie, somethin’s wrong with Corrine. Get up here.”
“Corrine’s on now,” Alf said. “Tell her. She’s on. Chrissake.”
Kenny looked toward stairs. Lizzy was standing at the top.
“She’s not movin’,” Lizzy said.
Corrine was a ventriloquist, the World’s Greatest Female Ventriloquist, but they didn’t put that in the program. There were already too many “Greatests” in the show and besides, anyone who saw Corrine’s act could tell that she was far from the greatest. She was the bottom of the bill, below Kenny. Corrine’s dummy was Fifi. Fifi was supposed to have a French accent, but when Corrine had been drinking, she forgot the accent or used an Italian or Spanish one instead. When Corrine had been drinking, which was frequent, she also sometimes forgot to move Fifi’s mouth when Fifi spoke. Corrine was over seventy, and her false teeth clacked. She forgot most of her punch lines. She wasn’t a bad sort, but she wasn’t much of a mingler.
“I’ll go see,” said Alf. “Kenny, you go on. You’re ready. You go on. Tell Al and Spitzer in the pit.”
Al was the piano player. Spitzer played clarinet, trumpet, sax, whatever was called for. Spitzer of all trades. Versatility and mediocrity combined to make one perfect inexpensive musician.
Kenny moved past Vogel and asked,
“How’s your stomach?”
“Not good. Couldn’t even eat my sandwich.”
“You gave it to Corrine didn’t you?” Kenny asked.
Vogel nodded seeing nothing meaningful in the question.
Kenny stuck his head through the curtain and signaled to Al and Spitzer that he was going on next. They both shrugged. Made no difference to them.
They started his music. Chinatown. The Dancing Fool came tapping out. No applause. He didn’t expect any. Not yet. If he were lucky, the few dozen people out there would clap out of sync when he finished. Kenny was determined to wow ’em. He doubled the tempo. Al and Spitzer had a hard time keeping up with him. Al frowned. Kenny Poole danced like a fool trying not to think about Corrine. There was no point killing Corrine. It wouldn’t move him up in the bill. First he kills the wrong poodle and now the wrong person. But maybe she wasn’t dead.
Kenny sweated through three fast-paced numbers and then did his special, hands-in-the-pocket slow dance to Silver Threads Among the Gold. The trick was, the skill was, not to tap, to defy the metal cleats. It took work, practice. Only the pros knew how hard it was. Audience’s almost never got it. Once in Rochester a woman had applauded wildly after he did the slow dance. He had tried to get a good look at her, but she was in the back of the house. That was five, maybe eight years ago.