Mallett shook his head. “It’s no use pretending. Fleas-B-Gone is finished. Dead.”
And then, to Thomas’s horror, he leaned forward, thumping his forehead directly on the desk, and began to cry.
After a moment, Sam shuffled forward awkwardly. He lifted a hand as though to place it on Mallett’s shoulder—then, obviously remembering how much damage he could do to Mallett’s spinal cord if he wasn’t careful, merely dropped the hand by his side.
“Don’t cry, Mr. Mallett,” he said. “It can’t be that bad. There’s gotta be something else you can do.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Maybe you can go into rat poison.”
Mallett looked up with a look of such pathetic misery, Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“Fleas,” he said. “Fleas have been my entire life.”
There was, Thomas felt, nothing more to say.
Even before it came into view, you knew you were close to Coney Island. As you headed down Surf Avenue toward the great glittering amusement park, you could feel the vibrations of the Cyclone roller coaster as it rumbled along its tracks and hear the excited clamor filling the air: the shrieks of children on the thrill rides; the whistle and pop of the booth games; the roar of the operators as they called to the crowds, trying to tempt them into spending their nickels and dimes.
It was late in the season but crowded nevertheless. In the warmth of the early evening, couples strolled together on the boardwalk while children ran laughing across the white sand beach. In the distance, the lights of Luna Park—250,000 of them, according to Thomas—were just flickering on, though it wasn’t yet totally dark. The air was thick with smells of roasting hot dogs and buttered popcorn, all intermingling with salt air and perfume.
For a moment, Sam could forget about poor ruined Mallett and poor dead Erskine and poor General Farnum, still languishing in a jail cell. He could forget about deadly chemicals and bank robberies and monsters like Rattigan, who used people the way people used handkerchiefs. He could forget about everything he’d seen and, instead, enjoy the feel of the late-day sun on his face and the swoops and curls of the great Steeplechase Park rides, like a whole city built in midair.
“Look,” Thomas said. “See that Ferris wheel?” As usual, when Thomas got excited, he didn’t wait for an answer. “It was the very first Ferris wheel on the East Coast, and named after—”
“Where’s Max?” Sam interrupted him. Max had been, as usual, wandering slightly behind the group, as if she didn’t want to be associated with them. Every so often Sam sneaked a glance over his shoulder to make sure she was okay—casually, very carefully, so she wouldn’t see and plunge a dagger between his eyes. But she’d disappeared somewhere along the boardwalk.
Thomas turned around, scanning the crowd. He frowned. “Weird,” he said. “She was right behind us. . . .”
The boardwalk was packed with people—women in dresses and men strolling with their shirtsleeves rolled up and a thousand children carrying balloons or prizes or cotton candy. Where could she have gone?
Rattigan. The name was there, like a blade slicing through all of Sam’s earlier pleasure. He tried to push the idea away. Why would Rattigan have snatched Max alone? Besides, Max would never let herself get caught so easily. Still, he couldn’t shake a bad feeling. He would never fully be able to shake it, not until Rattigan was dead.
“Should we split up to look for her?” Even Thomas sounded uncertain.
“No need,” Pippa said.
Sam and Thomas turned to look at her. She was standing with her arms crossed with the weirdest expression on her face—like she’d just swallowed a whole peppercorn. She jutted her chin in the direction of the park. “What do you want to bet I know just where to find her?”
Sam turned in the direction Pippa indicated. Extending above the ticket booths that dominated the entrance to Steeplechase was an enormous structure that looked as if it had been assembled entirely from paper signs, cloth banners, and electric lights: a massive, asymmetrical, misshapen monster. Perched at the top of the slanted roof was a huge sign burning with rose-and-white lights: Coney Island Curiosity Show, it read.
Beneath that was another sign, this one hand-painted on heavy tarp and hastily tacked to the eaves: Featuring New York City’s Only GENUINE Human Wonders! Don’t Be Fooled by Cheap Imitations!
The creeping heat on the back of Sam’s neck turned into a full-blown itch. The Coney Island Curiosity Show, Tom and Pippa had told him, was where Howie had gone to work.
“She wouldn’t,” he said halfheartedly.
“She did.” Thomas pointed, and Sam caught a glimpse of Max’s wild tangle of dark hair among the crowd of people flowing through the entrance to the park.
“I should have known,” Pippa said, shaking her head. She started moving toward the Steeplechase gates. Thomas followed her.
“Where are you going?” Sam called after them. His concern for Max had turned quickly to irritation. No way was he following her into that mismatched dump of a place so he could watch her ogle her ex-boyfriend. Or whatever Howie was.
Pippa turned around, shooting him an exasperated look. “Come on, Sam,” she said. “Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”
He was—but only a teeny, tiny little bit. Still, faced with the alternative of standing on his own or following his friends, he crossed his arms and shuffled after them, muttering so they’d know he wasn’t happy about it.
As they approached the entrance, Sam noted that the cost of admission had been increased to a quarter. He didn’t have a penny on him—and neither, he knew, did Thomas or Pippa. He had no idea how Max had slipped in—then again, Max had a way of blending into a crowd. It’s what made her such a good pickpocket.
Thomas had obviously had the same realization. He’d stopped a few feet away from one of the ticket vendors, rooting in his pockets for money.
“Don’t bother,” Pippa said. “You’ve got nothing on you but a safety pin and a navy blue button.”
Thomas fumbled in his left pocket, extracting the button with a triumphant cry. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere.”
Pippa rolled her eyes. “Follow my lead,” she said.
Then, in less than two seconds, she transformed: gone was Pippa-the-mentalist, Pippa-the-mind-reader, Pippa-the-maybe-just-a-little-too-bossy-at-times. In her place was a scared-looking girl with a severe sweep of glossy black bangs, almond-shaped eyes, and a trembling lower lip.
“A quarter a ticket,” said the man behind one of the ticket stalls when they made their approach.
Pippa let out a noise so unexpected that Sam jumped and turned to look at her. It sounded as if she had a bullfrog caught in her throat. Then he realized she was pretending to cry.
“Please,” she said. “We’ve lost our parents. They’re still inside.”
Thomas immediately picked up on the game. “I told you,” he said. “We were supposed to meet them outside the Steeplechase ride.”
The ticket collector looked over each of them appraisingly. They couldn’t look less like brothers and sisters. Thomas and Pippa were roughly the same height, but Thomas was pale and blond and so freckled it looked as if an accumulation of dust had become permanently stuck to his cheeks and nose. Pippa, on the other hand, was dark and angular, with creamy skin and glossy, straight black hair cut to her chin. And Sam had at least seven inches on both of them, with a too-large nose and protruding ears and floppy brown hair.
Pippa let out another fake sob. “I don’t want to be an orphan!” she wailed. Several people swiveled to look at them and the ticket collector waved them through.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Quick, now. Before my manager sees.”
Once inside the gates, Sam paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of people strolling the avenue and lining up for the rides and waiting to take their turns at the shoot-’em-up booths. There were monstrous roller coasters arranged in ribbonlike formations, built on high wooden scaffold
ing that reminded Sam of an arrangement of bones. Above it all, the Ferris wheel turned majestically in the sky, casting them in its shadow.
But they headed straight for the Coney Island Curiosity Show, which up close was even larger and uglier than it had first appeared from the other side of the ticket booths. Flanking the entrance were hand-painted banners showing a variety of performers—dwarfs, fat ladies, dog-men, Alicia the Armless Knife-Throwing Wonder, a lasso-thrower named Tiny Tex, and, Sam was furious to see, a full rendition of Howie’s simpering smile and slicked-back hair, with his head rotated 180 degrees.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Pippa said. She pointed to a neatly lettered sign by the door, which announced the Coney Island Curiosity Show as the official home of S.U.P.E.R.I.O.R—the initials of Howie’s pompous organization, Stop Unnatural Phony Entertainers from Ruining and/or Impairing Our Reputation.
“I swear,” Thomas said, his face flushing so dark his freckles momentarily disappeared, “if I ever see that kid alone in a dark alley, he better know how to run.”
At the entrance to the freak show, a carnival barker who might have moonlighted as one of the show’s giants was perched on a sturdy three-legged stool, working the crowd, talking so quickly all of his words formed one continuous wave of sound. Sam wondered how he even breathed. Maybe he had gills and doubled as one of the performers.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Don’t be shy! You’ll be amazed! You’ll be astounded! You’ll see marvels and wonders that you will remember for the rest of your living days! This is a one-of-a-kind show, ladies and gentlemen, the only exhibit of gen-u-wine human curiosities in all of New York City—”
“Now what?” Sam said crossly. He couldn’t stop staring at that dumb poster of Howie.
This time, it was Thomas who took the lead. “Follow me,” he said.
The barker never stopped shouting, even as they approached. “Just twenty-five cents, ladies and gentlemen! You’ll see Derrick the Dog-Face Boy, a perfectly normal lad in every regard except for his uncanny resemblance to a Saint Bernard! There’s Alicia the Armless Wonder, who can perform the most intricate acts of manual dexterity using only her feet—”
“Sorry we’re late,” Thomas said breathlessly, cutting off his speech. “Should we head straight to the theater?”
The barker spluttered, as if he had to physically swallow back his words. “Late?” he said. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is we got lost, and if we don’t get changed in a hurry we’ll get roasted alive,” Thomas said. The barker was staring at him, openmouthed. “So should we head straight through to the theater? Or is there a faster way?”
The barker shut his mouth with a little click. “You’re saying you belong to the show?” he said. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Then how come I never seen you?”
Instead of answering the question directly, Thomas just turned to Sam.
“Go on,” he said, still feigning impatience. “Show him.”
“Me?” Sam squawked.
Thomas nodded, staring at Sam with a look that said don’t mess this up.
Sam had no idea what Thomas expected of him—clearly, some kind of demonstration of strength. After staring helplessly at Thomas for another half second, Sam pivoted, bent down, and grabbed one leg of the stool with his right hand. Then, with the barker still seated on it, he hoisted the stool into the air.
The barker let out a gasp, pinwheeling his arms to keep his balance. “Put me down,” he said. All the color had gone out of his face. “Right now! This very instant!”
Sam did as he was told. As soon as the stool touched down, the barker staggered to the ground.
Pippa smiled up at him. “So,” she said brightly. “Can we go in?”
“Go,” he said. His face was beaded with sweat. “But be quick about it. The show’s about to start.”
“That was genius,” Pippa whispered to Thomas as they passed into the vestibule.
He shrugged, smiling. “I learn from the best.”
The vestibule was long, narrow, and dark and lined on both sides with glass cases like the kind Mr. Dumfrey used to display his curiosities. Sam was shocked to see that all of the one-of-a-kind items that belonged to their museum weren’t, in fact, one of a kind. Because here, too, was the coonskin cap worn by Davy Crockett and the goosequill pen used by Thomas Jefferson to sign the Declaration of Independence.
Sam had always known, deep down, that Mr. Dumfrey fudged the truth about his various curiosities. But he had at least believed that Mr. Dumfrey’s lies were entirely original. Now it seemed that every unique, priceless, historical relic had its duplicate here. Except that everything at the Coney Island show seemed a little bit—well, actually, quite a bit—better.
At the end of the long vestibule a sign pointed them through a set of heavy curtains toward the theater. This, too, made the Odditorium at Dumfrey’s Dime Museum look sad and small. The ceiling was gilded with gold leaf and painted on every square inch to depict the fantastical scenes that would, presumably, soon play out on the stage: a strongman bending an iron pipe in two; a contortionist arching her back so far she could peer through her legs; an alligator man with a long snout and sharp, vicious teeth. The chairs were covered in actual velvet—not just brushed felt, repeatedly patched and covered over with shoe polish, like the chairs at Dumfrey’s. The stage dazzled with footlights and headlights and spotlights and sidelights. And it was packed. All the seats were taken, and a good portion of the crowd was standing, craning to get a better view of the stage.
It didn’t take long to find Max. She was standing just behind the last row of chairs, arms crossed, glowering at the stage. When Thomas, Pippa, and Sam finally pushed their way over to her, she barely glanced in their direction. As if she’d known, all along, they would follow.
Sam’s annoyance came rushing back all at once. “Couldn’t miss the chance to see your boyfriend?” he whispered sarcastically, squeezing in next to her.
Max turned, narrowing her eyes. “You know,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “if you’re jealous, you might as well say so.”
The word—jealous—hit Sam like a two-ton ice block to the chest. “Jealous?” he repeated. His voice rose to a squeak. “You think I’m . . . I’m not jealous. No way. Of Howie? Why would I ever be—?”
But at that moment the lights dimmed and several people hushed him. Sam was glad, at least, that in the darkness, no one would be able to tell that he was blushing furiously.
The show began. Another barker—not the one who’d nearly stopped them outside—strolled onto the stage, dressed like a circus ringmaster, in striped pants and a top hat. He had large protruding front teeth and a black mustache, slicked and curled to perfection, which gave him the look of a particularly well-groomed rat.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen”—even his voice was somehow ratlike: silken and hoarse at the same time—“to New York City’s only true sideshow.” Several people whooped and called and stamped their feet. “Don’t be fooled, ladies and gentlemen, by imitators and pretenders. Don’t be taken by impostors.” His eyes swept over the crowd and landed on Sam, and Sam had the brief, paralyzing fear that he’d been recognized. “Ours are the only true curiosities in New York. One hundred percent authentic, natural-born monsters.” More people were clapping and stamping their feet, laughing, calling for the monsters.
Sam now felt as if the ice were in his body, in his blood.
They came one by one to the stage: Derrick the Dog-Face Boy, whose entire chin and brow were covered in stiff, bristly hair; a pair of dark-haired conjoined twins who must have been only eight or nine years old; a humongous twelve-year-old wearing a cowboy outfit, advertised as Tiny Tex, the Texas Fatboy, who with several flicks of a wrist lassoed first the hat off an audience member’s head and then the lipstick out of his wife’s hand.
The strongman was named Trogg, and roughly the dimensions of a water buffalo. However, although Trogg did indeed bend iron pipes onstage,
eliciting applause from the crowd, Sam was pleased to see that he did not bend them into any animal shapes, which was Sam’s particular specialty. (Iron rabbits were his favorite.)
Trogg lumbered offstage to various cries of “Bravo!”
Then Howie the Human Owl was announced.
Sam’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t seen Owl-Boy since late summer, when Howie had been thrown out of the museum in disgrace after the discovery that he’d been attempting to drive the place out of business for a month. But Howie hadn’t changed. He had the same black hair, practically lacquered in place, the same cold blue eyes, the same jaw that looked as if it had been chiseled by a sculptor attempting to render perfect human proportions. Most of all, he had the same smile, halfway between a sneer and a smirk, that made Sam want to drive his fist straight through the roof of Howie’s mouth.
As a hush once again fell on the crowd, Howie positioned himself with his back toward the audience. Then, with no warning, he pivoted his head around completely so his chin was positioned directly between his shoulder blades and he was once again grinning into the spotlight. The crowd burst into appreciative applause. He repeated the trick, this time swiveling his head in the other direction, and then held up a hand for quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and”—his eyes landed on Sam then, and Howie’s expression changed slightly, becoming narrower and meaner, so he looked not like an owl, but a hunting falcon—“old friends.” He half snarled the word, and Sam knew they’d been spotted. “Allow me to introduce New York’s premier knife-thrower.” This time, Howie was staring at Max, and Max made a low growling noise and started to move for her pocket, before Thomas held her back.
“It isn’t worth it,” Thomas whispered to her.
“A tragic story turned to one of triumph,” Howie said, “Alicia was orphaned at a young age after losing both arms to the same factory accident that killed her parents.” The audience murmured their shock and sympathy. One woman actually dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Max rolled her eyes. “Cruelly abandoned to the streets, Alicia survived only by learning to feed herself with her feet. The day she learned to twirl spaghetti with her feet was the proudest of her life.”
The Fearsome Firebird Page 12