Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  “Yes. Genevieve, Rowland. The other Sycs. They’re making their rounds, Toby.”

  “And they know Andrew did it?”

  “How the hell would I know? You think they let me sit in on each session? Take notes?”

  “Christ, Julian, you don’t need to be that way. I meant… it’s just hearing this…this whole thing threw me for a real loop.”

  “Not just you, Toby.”

  “All right, all right,” I say, giving him a pat. I need to get out of sight before he clues in that I’m not cooped up in my trailer like I’m supposed to be. “Look, I think I need to take some time here. Go back to my trailer for a bit and make some coffee. Christ, to think—I mean, if it is what you say it is—to think we could have been working with a murderer all this time. Holy hell.”

  “Holy hell,” Julian agrees.

  SHIFTY-EYED MEN AND WOMEN CONGREGATE IN CLUSTERS, talking in whispers to one another, hands obscuring mouths. Trailer windows are manned by snooping sentinels. Many gazes are geared toward Rowland’s trailer. Nearing my trailer, I fumble my key out of my pocket. I’m almost at the steps when Gloria approaches, her hair a frazzled mess, her eyes bordered by dark, puffy circles. “Toby,” she whispers and grabs for my arm. I flinch away. She gets the message. This time, she speaks even softer. “Toby, what happened in Baltimore?”

  I don’t answer her. It takes all the restraint I have not to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. What the hell is wrong with her? Sneaking up on me like that. Approaching me out in the open at a time like this, suspicious eyes everywhere and two cops sniffing around the place. I walk up the stairs and open my door, motioning with my head for her to follow me inside. When she enters, I reach around her and tug the door shut. “Waiting outside my goddamn trailer—what’s the matter with you? Do you have any idea how shifty that looks?”

  “I-I’m sorry, Toby,” Gloria snivels, “but I needed to know! I hardly slept a wink since you left for Baltimore. And since the police showed up this morning…” She can hardly keep herself together. “People—people are saying all kinds of things, Toby, th—”

  “About me?”

  “Well, no, no, not about you. About what happened with Andrew and that…boy. Oh, God, he was just a boy! And now…now…”

  I grab hold of her face. “Damn it, Gloria, don’t break down on me. Not here, damn it, not now. You can’t do this right now, you understand?”

  She nods yes, her hazel eyes wide, unblinking. She’s afraid of me. “Y-yes. Yes, I understand, Toby,” she says in a tremor of a whisper.

  “Now, about Rup—about that Syc biting it. He wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to be there at all. As far as I knew, it was just me and Andrew in that room. I thought it was only the two of us, you understand that? It was dark, and I thought it was only me and him, and what happened, well, what happened wasn’t supposed to happen, but things can still work out for us, all right?”

  Gloria nods.

  “As far as I can tell, the cops have pinned the murder on Andrew. I mean, hell, how could they not? It happened in his hotel room, to a fella in his bed. Hell, the poor bastard probably even ended up with some of that Syc’s blood on him. All we have to do now, me and you, is play it safe. You got that? Play it safe. We’ll have to stop hanging around each other for a while. The last thing we want to do is rouse any suspicion. Right now, as far as I can tell, Andrew is taking the blame for this. Sure, I bumped the wrong guy, but shit happens, right? We make the best of the situation—he’s taking the fall? He’s ruined? Good enough for me. But the last thing we want is to fuck that up. Last thing we need is someone noticing how close that one pretty spec girl is with the clown. The clown who has a few damn good reasons to hate Andrew and who might be sore enough to set him up for a fall. Someone notices that and then notices that the two of us jump ship at the same time? It wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots.”

  Gloria nods. “All right, Toby,” she whispers. “I can do that.”

  “I know you can.” I open the door a crack and peep outside. No one around. Gloria comes up next to me and shoves the door shut.

  “You won’t leave without me, will you, Toby? You won’t just take the money and split?”

  I pull her close and give her a long kiss. “Never,” I say once we’ve both come up for air. “Now get out.”

  THAT EVENING, ROWLAND CALLS A MEETING. EVERYONE- and I mean everyone—has gathered in the area that was used as a parking lot for the audience during our stay here. Everyone, of course, except for Rupert, who is keeping cool on a slab somewhere in the city, and Andrew, who, I have since learned, is locked up in jail, presumably awaiting trial. Rowland is standing on top of the circus-owned 1945 Ford truck, eyeing the restless crowd before him, shushing with hand gestures and probably wondering if there’s a single fish and a loaf of bread he can try anything fancy with under these odd circumstances. Gloria is standing close to the front with the other spec girls. I find a spot to stand off to the side, which I notice, too late, is right next to Genevieve.

  “Hello, Toby.” Her expression is sullen, but because she is who she is, she makes sullen look like an attractive face to be wearing. She’s wrapped up tight—crossed arms, hands hugging her sides—in a forest-green cardigan, one leg straight, the other bent, creating a form that says, Get on with it.

  “Hi, Genevieve.” I’m unable to look directly at her while I speak. I shove my hands into my pockets. “Look, I. Whatever happened in Baltimore with Andrew, I know he and I had our differences, but I hope that you’re—”

  “Whatever happened?” she says, a snide thread running through her tone. “You’re referring to the fact that my Andrew, who was going to the city under the pretense of hitting the track but was, in actuality, shacking up with—and subsequently murdering—a young man? Is that the ‘whatever’ you’re referring to, Toby?”

  I shrug. There are still a few people trickling in, joining the crowd. Rowland, looking more and more impatient, is waving for them to hurry it up. “Anyhow, I wanted to say that despite all of the bullshit that’s happened between us the last little while, I hope you’re doing all right.”

  Her body tenses and her mouth twists into a sickened line, as if a screw somewhere inside her had just been turned to its tightest. “I am not all right, Toby.” I turn to face her, and for a second, I think I notice her eyes misting over. But whether they actually do or whether I’m merely imagining it, one forceful blink returns them to their status quo. She continues, “I’m not all right at all. My…partner, who is currently sitting in a jail cell, has been sneaking around on me for God knows how long. Bringing God knows what home with him.” She looks down at her own body, moving her hands down to her hips and then looking away with a shudder before bringing them back up to her sides. “That son of a bitch has embarrassed me, he has left me without a performing partner, and for all I know, he has contaminated,” she almost chokes on the word, “me.”

  Acting purely on instinct, I reach my arm around her. She lets it rest there for a second and then pulls away from me. I turn and look across the crowd, at Gloria, who is looking back at me, but the moment our eyes lock, she averts her gaze, turning and saying something to the spec girl next to her—Carol. I think that’s her name.

  “All right, now! Okay, let’s quiet down here!” Rowland shouts. The chatter evaporates quicker than it normally would for Rowland. It’s been a long day full of gossip and hearsay. I know Rowland well enough to know that despite the grim conditions, he’s enjoying feeling like a leader right now. “I’m sure we all know what we’ve gathered here to discuss. Tragedy has befallen our little family.” He takes off his hat and bows his head. I wonder how many times he practised that bit. A few of the men in the crowd remove their hats as well, but most don’t. “Last night,” Rowland continues, “our dear Robert was taken from us—”

  “Rupert, you son of a bitch!” someone shouts up at him.

  “Rupert. Yes, I’m sorry. Excuse the mix up.
I’m under a lot of stress right now.”

  “Well, Rupert’s under a lot of ground!” another voice hollers back, getting a couple laughs and twice as many gasps. The crowd starts to shift around a bit. I notice that one of the remaining Sycs is pushing his way toward the centre, to where the voice came from. A moment later, there are more gasps, a couple cheers. The crowd continues to stir. Someone yells, “Yeah, hit the smart-ass again!” but a few seconds later, the kafuffle comes to an end. The Syc makes his way to the periphery of the group. People are patting him on the back and saying, ’atta boy, and well done.

  “That’s enough!” Rowland yells, stamping one foot on the roof of the truck. “By no means is this a time to joke around. Please, keep it together. We don’t need any fights. Not today. Now, for those of you who haven’t already heard, Rupert was killed last night in Baltimore. Many of circumstances are still unknown at this time, but—and it pains me to say this—but we do know that at the time, Rupert was in the company of Andrew.”

  More gasps from the crowd. Christ, what a misinformed bunch. Rowland raises his hands to shush. The crowd complies quickly. “At this time, Andrew is in police custody.” Gasps. “I know little more about any specifics beyond that, but earlier today, the Baltimore Police asked that until they have sorted out some more details, that we stay put here.” Groans. “Now, now! Come on, folks! Come on! I know it’s an inconvenience, but the police still have some unanswered questions, and I believe there are some of you that they would like to interview—not that anyone here is a suspect, but because they need help piecing a few things together and some of you may have information that could assist them. So, for at least the next few days, we will remain where we are. We have been given permission to set the big top up again and put on a show. Even though that will make for a rather lengthy stay in one location, I’m hoping that the amount of attention the case has received so far will bring big crowds out and that we’ll still be able to take in a fair share.”

  Rowland says thank you and dismisses us with a wave of his hands and the group crumbles, spreading their gossiping and grumbling in all different directions. Genevieve is no longer next to me. She’s gone, and the hell if I know when she left. A hand grips my arm just as I’m about to head back to my trailer. Rowland.

  “We need to talk,” he says in a hushed voice.

  “Do we?” I ask.

  “Yes, Toby. We do. Can you come by my office in two hours?” His expression is severe.

  “All right,” I agree. “Two hours.”

  IT'S FULL DARK WHEN I LEAVE MY TRAILER TO MEET Rowland. I spent the last couple hours—actually, more than a couple hours…Chet Rowland is a man who I don’t mind making wait—counting out the money in my trailer.

  I give three swift knocks on his door. As I wait for an answer, I hear the faint mummer of indiscernible voices from inside. A few seconds later, Rowland opens the door a crack and shoves his face out through the nearly too-slender gap. “Toby, my boy. Come in, come in.” He peers over my shoulder, then left, right, before opening the door further and stepping aside so I can come in, come in. Once I’m inside, the door is hurriedly closed behind me, the deadbolt twisted. Genevieve is sitting with her back to me. Her arms are crossed, her head tilted forward.

  “Hello,” she says without turning.

  Before I have time to say hello back, Rowland places a hand on my back and ushers me to the vacant chair next to Genevieve. I take a seat and he shuffles around to his desk and sits down opposite Genevieve and myself. “We have—” he begins, but then stops himself. He opens his desk drawer and brings out a bottle of scotch and three glasses. “Drink?”

  Genevieve shakes her head no while I nod mine yes. I notice that two of the glasses don’t look to have been cleaned properly. Each of them has lip marks around the brim. I reach across the desk and grab the clean—or I should say cleanest—looking glass for myself.

  “Allow me.” Rowland splashes some scotch into my glass, then does the same for himself. I continue to hold my glass out, and a second later he gets the idea and pours me some more. Stingy bastard.

  Rowland and I both take a drink. Genevieve sighs and reaches for the bottle and the third glass. She’s just about to pour herself a drink when she notices the lip marks on her glass. “Yuck,” she mutters and places the empty glass on the desk, slides it across to Rowland, and then takes a drink right from the bottle. “Let’s get on with it,” she says.

  “Right,” Rowland agrees, then takes a big gulp of his drink, pauses, and nods, more at his desk than anyone in the room. “Toby,” he begins, “Andrew is in some hot water. I know you know that, but what you don’t know—what no one at this circus except for Genevieve and myself know—is that even though he’s currently locked up in a jail cell in Baltimore, the two detectives I spoke with earlier today don’t expect him to be convicted of murder. Now, that’s not to say that he won’t be charged with something—there’s a mile-long list of things they could pin on him, given the…messiness of the whole situation—but what Genevieve and I learned earlier today was that the primary reason for keeping Andrew in custody at this time is for further questioning and maybe even more so for his own safety. See, although Andrew—and this information isn’t to be shared—” he leans forward and cups a hand around his mouth as if he were whispering, “although Andrew was found alone in the room with the body of Rob… er, Ra…of the deceased, the police don’t consider Andrew a suspect in the murder.”

  “They don’t?” I reach for my drink and notice that my hands went and turned into a set of balled fists. I unclench them. My fingers have a slight shake to them as I take the glass. I drink a quick mouthful and then place my hands on my lap, out of view.

  “No,” Rowland continues. “From what I understand, they think that someone had broken into the room with the intent of killing Andrew as well as, um—”

  “Rupert,” Genevieve jumps in.

  “Yes, with the intention to kill the both of them.”

  I nod. I nod because I don’t think I can speak.

  “Now, all in all, the detectives were pretty tight-lipped on the matter. I guess they have to be, don’t they? But they did tell me that they have a suspect—or maybe they’d said person of interest—they’re searching for. Apparently, a number of people had spotted Andrew and his companion at some nearby dive that was a known hangout for men with…er, those kinds of tastes. A few other patrons of this place had told the detectives that there was a man harassing Andrew and company outside the bar as they left for the night. Insults were hurled, threats were made, and the three of them got into a tussle. Anyway,” Rowland waves his hands, “the question is, where does this leave us? For starters, as you know, we are stuck here until the police have finished their investigation. They didn’t make clear to me whether that was because they still wanted to interview some of the folks here, or what, but whatever the reason, we are stuck here for a bit. The other matter that I need to address is the fact that while we are here, we need to be working. Right now, we should be on route to Philadelphia. After Philly, we’re scheduled for three nights in New York. None of that is happening now. We’re creeping toward the end of our touring year, and, I’ll be frank, if we don’t take in some serious money, we are collectively fucked. So, we need to be drawing crowds here for what I hope and pray is only a few more days, and we need to do this while one half of our headliners is imprisoned. Do you see where I’m going with this, Toby?”

  The onslaught of information is too much for me right now. I feel like there’s a traffic jam in my head. A few seconds walk by. Rowland gives me a funny look. “Toby, what I’m getting at is we’re in a real tight spot. I’ve always been able to count on you to do what’s best for the show, and, well, I guess that’s what I’m asking of you right now. I need the two of you to headline the show. For at least a few nights. Now,” Rowland holds up his hands in a defensive gesture, “I know you two are not on the best of terms, but I’m asking you, I’m begging you to find i
t in your hearts to either sort things out, or at the very least set it aside for a little while and do what we—what everybody here—needs you to do.”

  No one speaks for a minute. Genevieve has knotted herself up further. Hunched forward, her arms crossed tighter, her legs overlapping. She is looking away from me, at the wall. Rowland has found something fascinating to look at on his desk. I’m still at a loss for words, so I take another drink. Genevieve recoils at the noise my now-empty glass makes when I place it down in front of me. Because we haven’t heard enough from him tonight, Rowland starts up again. “I forgot to mention that you will both be very well compensated for all this.” Look at him, talking like the bunch of us have all just agreed on something. He eyes my empty glass and continues, “Genevieve, I should mention, has already agreed to participate, Toby. She does have a condition, mind you. Genevieve requires—”

  “I can speak for myself, damn it.”

  Rowland holds up his defensive hands again and Genevieve unknots herself and sits up straight in her chair. It’s a funny thing to think of at the moment, but it dawns on me that anytime I’ve seen anyone else straighten up from a sitting slouch, they always do it in a sort of wiggling shuffle. When Genevieve does it, though, it’s in one graceful movement. For the first time since this secret little rendezvous started, Genevieve turns and looks me in the eye. “Toby, I don’t know what to make of this whole situation. I don’t know where I’ll be two months from now, but Rowland has…persuaded me to stick it out here for the remainder of the touring year. And to be fair, I owe this circus that much.”

  Rowland nods appreciatively.

  “If that means performing with you,” she continues, “well, then that’s that. I’m not willing to forgive and forget, but I’m willing to set our troubles aside temporarily if it means keeping the show on its feet. I have one condition, though. I need you to be stone-cold sober the entire time. That mouthful of scotch you took a minute ago? That’s your last drop until we’re done. If you can’t accommodate that, then forget it.”