“Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” was all Blaine could think to say.
This time he succeeded in propping himself up a little. The young eyes and soiled faces backed off a bit. Blaine smelled unwashed hair and bodies mixing with the other scents sifting through the cavernous mustiness. He recalled now a similar scent as he was dragged down into a tunnel from the alley behind the Bali Bar. It was all coming back to him, and little of it was pleasant. Splotches of memory were missing, but he did recall an agonizing walk up a labyrinth of stone steps, his arms propped upon young shoulders and the pain everywhere. The steps had undoubtedly led here to the Harocimha favela, Rio’s most infamous slum.
“Be glad it ain’t anywhere but here, governor,” the raggedy-haired adult told him. “Here no one can find you no matter how hard they try. Here nobody can find anyone. Great thing about the favela.”
McCracken was finally clear on where he was, but not on how he had gotten there. He knew more than a million natives called the favelas of Rio their home. Little more than shacks hammered out of wood, stone, and abandoned brick, many of the structures would be washed down the mountain come the rainy season. Others were more sturdily built and even boasted running water and electricity. But the sewage system was no more than a series of channels like the one running through his hideout, draining down the mountain and into the sea.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“You been in and out for damn near a day and a half now.”
“That makes today…”
“Monday, governor,” the man said, and extended a boney hand covered to the lower knuckles by what had once been a glove. “Name’s Reverend Jim Hope. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Blaine took it reluctantly. At the same time his eyes swept through the boys gathered about him. He counted twenty, ranging in age from seven to maybe sixteen. Their skin colors seemed as disparate as their ages. There were blacks, mulattos, well-tanned Portuguese who could have passed for Americans, and various levels in-between. “For a man of God, you been awful busy procreating.”
The comment took a while to sink in. “This flock’s mine in the spiritual sense, not the biblical.” He slapped his arms around two of the boys’ shoulders. “They ain’t the product of my loins much as the product of my conscience. Homeless till I gathered them here. I educates them, too, in the ways of man and machine.”
McCracken noticed the bed cots and straw mattresses laid about in no discernible pattern over the crusty floor. Propped up on and against the wall were a number of battery-powered lanterns. There were tables and chairs, an ancient refrigerator with a whining motor, and a working gas stove rimmed with squat steel cannisters containing fuel. He saw cupboards and chests, along with a sink overflowing with dirty dishes that might have been there forever. McCracken turned his attention to himself and checked the tightly wrapped tape enclosing his ribs, then touched the sutures and bandages dotting his face.
“Teach one of them to be a doctor, Reverend?”
“No, governor. But the favela meets all needs. For a price, of course.”
“And just how did you pay it?”
Jim Hope removed his gaunt arms from the shoulders of the two boys and stuck his hands inside his great coat. They emerged fingering a host of wallets, billfolds, and jewelry.
“In cash, governor,” he said, smirking.
“I see what you mean by educating them,” said Blaine.
“Lucky for you it was, too. If my boys ain’t’ve been in the Bali Bar when they was, you’d be a dead man now, I reckon.”
“To pick a pocket or two, right?”
“No, we stick to the tourists to earn our keep. Don’t we, Edson?”
A boy who could have passed for American tossed an arm upon Reverend Jim’s shoulder.
“Please, sir. I haven’t eaten in three days,” Edson said mournfully.
“Well, then,” said Reverend Jim, mocking the motion of extracting a bill from one of his many wallets. In the next instant a second boy had snatched the wallet from his hand and mocked escape.
“This was the streets, governor, he’d be two blocks away by now.” Reverend Jim accepted the wallet back. “Good job, Marcello. You, too, Edson.”
Both were smiling triumphantly.
McCracken sat all the way upright, and this time Reverend Hope’s young charges didn’t shrink away.
“They like you, governor. Said you handled yourself pretty damn well. Man like you’d fit in just fine with this bunch.”
“Sure, and we can tell prison stories by the firelight.”
“You’d be better off not making fun, governor.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The truth is, I’ve really got to be on my way.”
“No easy task in itself, I’m afraid,” Reverend Hope said. He pointed to the ceiling. “Men back in the city seem pretty intent on finding ya since two nights back.”
McCracken started to swing his legs off the cot. “I’ve still got to get out of here.”
Young hands immediately surged forward, doing their best to restrain him. A few of the older boys showed knives.
“Reverend, tell them to put the blades away before someone gets hurt.”
“That would be them, of course.”
“Yup.”
“Do as he says, boys.” Then, to McCracken as the knives disappeared, “I’ve met men like you before. Most of the time I was running from ’em.”
“If they were like me, you wouldn’t have got away.”
“But we all need help from time to time, now don’t we?”
“Apparently.”
“And me and my boys are willing to keep helpin’ ya, but you gotta wait a bit.”
“I may not have a bit.”
“You may not have a choice. Got a few of my lot out now checkin’ the streets for scuttlebutt, governor. They come back, we’ll know more.”
“In the meantime, Reverend, I’d like to meet the boys that saved me.”
“Wanna thank them personal like, right?”
“Not exactly.” Blaine glared in feigned anger at a young mulatto who was still holding him down. “I think one of them stole my wallet.”
By lunchtime the Orlando Orfei Circus had been magically brought to life. Patty had managed a brief nap on the couch in John Lynnford’s trailer until his gentle, calloused hand roused her. He led her outside, and she saw the rides were all assembled; a few had even started into their test spins. The finishing touches were being placed on the booths and stands that formed a makeshift midway. The big top for the animal and clown acts was halfway erected, as were the much smaller tent-topped auditoriums for entertainment in the form of exotic dancers and the freak show.
One of the first things John tried to do after taking over the Orlando Orfei was to put an end to the freak show, but it was the arguments of the freaks themselves that persuaded him against it. This was their world, they insisted, the only one where they felt truly comfortable. People were going to laugh at them anyway. Let them do it for a fee and then leave the freaks alone to be with their accepting fellows.
Using his cane to aid him across the uneven ground, John Lynnford led Patty beyond the midway and into the cafeteria tent. They approached a table whose lone inhabitant was a dwarf who was reading a newspaper with the aid of a magnifying glass.
“Good afternoon, Professor,” John said.
“Quiet,” the dwarf snapped. “Can’t you see I’m reading?”
He turned the page gingerly, and Patty saw its edges were creased and yellowed, the paper so brittle it seemed ready to break off in his hand. “Okay. That’ll do,” he said as he folded the paper fondly into quarters. He looked Patty over. “I guess you’ll want the sports page.”