by Ellie Marney
‘Then we should get moving. I want to get back in time to see Dad.’ I kiss Genie on the cheek. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart,’ Eugenia says, giving me a wink. She turns to her son. ‘Does she pass muster?’
Marco recovers quickly. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Look after her at Lost Souls, Marco.’
‘You know I will. Okay, let’s go.’
He holds the door for me as I exit Eugenia’s van, and again as I ease into the passenger seat of the car. Mitch continues to growl out a series of instructions right up until we’re ready to pull out. His final words come as he leans in through the rolled-down window.
‘I’ve said it already, but watch out for Cavendish,’ he warns darkly. ‘He’s a snake. Don’t expect courtesy, and don’t give quarter. But don’t exceed your brief. You’re just going in there to sniff around. Good luck.’
I give Mitch a little salute, and Marco eases the car up the road and out of the lot. Scanning for traffic, he turns us onto the main road. ‘Does this feel like we’re going on some covert spy mission, or is that just me?’
I huff out a laugh. ‘I can understand Mitch’s caution, but it does seem a little over the top.’
‘I guess we won’t know whether he was right to be concerned until we meet Cavendish. How’s your foot holding up?’
‘Fine.’ There must be too much breeze in my voice, because Marco gives me a quick glance. I throw up a hand. ‘Okay, it’s still not a hundred percent, especially in these heels. I got through the performance, though, and I just don’t have time to worry about it now. Daddy’s due for discharge tomorrow, and…I’m not ready. The van isn’t properly organised, and he’ll be bed-ridden, and I’m not sure how I’m going to do it all.’
‘You’ll delegate.’ Marco grins. ‘That’s what you should be doing. We all handled the extra stuff today and it worked out okay. Nothing caught on fire.’
‘Yes, and I’ve been meaning to thank you for that.’ I try not to make this sound rehearsed. ‘You’ve taken on way more than I expected this week, and you’ve been great at it. So, y’know…thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem.’ A small, secret smile plays across his features as he drives.
I consider whether or not to ask Marco during the car ride about what’s going on between him and Eugenia, discount the idea quickly. This truce has been going well. Marco really has lightened my load this week, and he seems to be in a curiously good mood today, after last night’s abrupt departure.
I don’t want to spoil this tenuous rapport we’ve developed, especially not right now, as we’re about to confront the carnival’s main competitor. We’ll need to have each others’ backs if Cavendish is as antagonistic as Mitch and Genie have led me to believe.
The trip is only twenty minutes across town, but the traffic is sufficiently bad that it stretches out to thirty. Just before we arrive, Marco runs through the ‘mission objectives’.
‘So we get in, find out about the walkie-talkies, grill Cavendish a bit, and make a quick exit.’
‘You got it.’ I check my makeup in the mirror on the underside of the sun visor. ‘But let’s not assume, because Cavendish acts like an asshole, that he’s guilty. Apparently acting like an asshole is his default position.’
‘Sounds like a real prince,’ Marco mutters, as we swing past a sputtering neon sign that announces our arrival at the Circus of Lost Souls.
The lot is in a decommissioned junkyard. There’s no Spiegeltent–the show is run in a massive warehouse that rises ahead of us. Much of the lot décor expands on the junkyard theme: flattened car bodies make a stacked wall on either side of the tall corrugated-iron gates, and engine parts are suspended on poles and wires on either side of the winding road in. A garden of radiator flowers grows near the car park, with wire sculptures and red Balinese flags snapping all around. The overcast sky glowers above it all.
I see a couple of roustabouts–this circus’s equivalent of Mitch’s mech yard boys–walking towards the warehouse, but there are no other cars in the parking area: Lost Souls doesn’t run a matinee. What it does run is an on-site bar and a midnight show, every Friday and Saturday night, that goes until two in the morning. Cavendish has always appealed to a more edgy, adult demographic. The vibe here is definitely more Titty Twister than Family Fun.
Marco helps me out of the car, and as we walk towards admin–signposted with a graffiti arrow on a car door–he scans the lot with a gimlet eye. ‘Have you ever seen a show here?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve been to this lot before, with Dad. But he was very emphatic that the show was something I probably didn’t need to see until I was older. Then, once I got older, he and Vas Cavendish were at loggerheads, so I didn’t think visiting would be a smart move.’
‘Right.’ Marco rakes his hair as he walks. ‘I remember those rumours.’
‘That they ran a cooch show here? I know there’ve always been burlesque artists on the roster, but I can’t imagine how Cavendish would’ve been able to keep a cooch show under the radar.’
‘So there’s no truth to it?’
‘He never denied the rumours outright. So what’s more likely is that Cavendish wants to give the impression he once ran a cooch show…’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘…which actually tells you a lot about the guy before you even get to know him.’
Marco makes a face.
We’ve passed onto the path to the manager’s office, which is made of a mosaic of old license plates. It gives the place a certain ‘jail-riot’ feel. It’s also hell in heels–Marco has to steady me with a touch at my waist.
‘So, any ideas how we should approach this?’
The warmth of his hand is disconcerting, and I have to focus to consider the question. ‘I’m tempted to say that you should lead negotiations, because Cavendish is a genuine old-school carnie, and I know he has certain fixed ideas about women. But then I think–screw it. Cavendish will just have to deal.’
‘In that case, you should definitely lead.’ Marco gets a gleam in his eye. ‘If Cavendish is put out by the concept of negotiating with a woman, he might get sloppy. Which could work to our advantage.’
I grin at him. ‘Marco Deloren, you schemer.’
‘I’d have a hard time negotiating with you.’ He surveys me quickly, top to bottom. ‘You look distractingly fantastic. But let’s see how Cavendish fares. We present a united front–you open and I’ll back you up. Ready?’
Marco thinks I look fantastic? It takes me a second to recover my chill. ‘Uh, ready.’
We’ve arrived. I suck in a breath when Marco squeezes my waist briefly, releases.
I knock, and the door is pulled open seconds later by a very large, bald guy in trousers and black leather braces over a white undershirt. He’s wearing a bowler hat set at a rakish angle and his biceps look bigger than my head. This guy is definitely a strength performer, when he’s not standing in as the butler.
I don’t bother with preliminary greetings. ‘Fleur Klatsch and Marco Deloren–we’re here to see Mr Cavendish. We have an appointment.’
Butler Guy just grunts and pulls the door wider. I assume this means we’re to enter, so I sail inside. We’re led along a dark corridor, which is a bit tight and squashy, until we get to a dull-lit room that looks like the set of a poker scene in a mafia movie.
Across a green baize table, Vas Cavendish sits talking to a guy in a cheap-looking suit. Both of them are holding tumblers of whiskey on ice, the bottle nearby. They break off conversation when Marco and I walk in.
Cavendish looks like an ageing snake-oil salesman. Last time I saw him, he was a whippet-thin guy with loud fashion sense and a curled moustache, but that was nearly eight years ago. He’s still got the moustache, but he’s gained a few pounds, and his silky red shirt and brylcremed hair seem like the stylings of a man clinging to the flash
y glamour of his youth as his body slouches towards late middle age.
‘Oh, right. It’s the Klatsch crew.’ Cavendish makes a sour face at me. Cheap Suit Guy moves to take up position behind his boss as Cavendish reaches across the table for the bottle, pours a refill. ‘If you’re here to ask about who’s strafing your show, I got nothing to tell you except it wasn’t me.’
Neither Marco nor I have been offered seats, and Vas has opened the conversation with a sledgehammer. If the man hasn’t got the manners to observe the social pleasantries, I can at least take the high road. ‘Nice to meet you again, Mr Cavendish, even under less-than-pleasant circumstances–’
‘“Mr Cavendish”–well, that’s sweet. You’re Terry’s kid, huh? Yeah, I remember you.’ Cavendish rakes me with his eyes. Before I have a chance to get squicked out, he does exactly the same thing to Marco, with a nasty grin. ‘And you’re Genie’s boy. Clean-shaven, too–that’s a nice contrast.’
I see Marco’s jaw twitch, but his gaze remains calmly on Cavendish. ‘Miss Klatsch and I are here because–’
‘I know why you’re here.’ Cavendish waves the comment away. ‘You two make a cute couple, but like I said, I got nothing to tell you. You obviously got a problem, but hey–your problem, your deal. Hope you sort it out, but it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Nothing to do with you? Really?’ I try to skewer him with my glare, but he’s slippery.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Cavendish laughs, and Cheap Suit Guy snorts in the background. Cavendish really likes an audience. He waves his hand, and the whiskey sloshes in his glass. ‘Why would I wanna make trouble like that for Lost Souls? That sort of shit, it’s bad business for everybody.’
‘From where I’m standing, you have a fair bit to gain from “bad business”,’ I say pointedly.
‘How long did it take you to come up with that theory, huh? You been working that little brain of yours, sweetie? I bet that hurt.’ Before I can even baulk in reaction, Cavendish continues. ‘Next time Terry wants information, tell him to man up and come himself, instead of sending his kid.’
I take a step forward involuntarily, but Marco edges in front of me. ‘Terry Klatsch is still in the hospital, so I guess you’re stuck with us. But you seem to have plenty to say about what’s happening on Klatsch’s lot–any more insights you’d like to share?’
Cavendish narrows his eyes. ‘You’ve got a smart mouth, boy. Stuck up, too. Just like your mother. Oh, sure, she acts all high and mighty now, with her fancy outfits, but she came from dirt, same as me.’
Marco’s cheeks flush with that high rosiness he gets when he’s angry. ‘We’re not here to talk about my mother–’
‘She ever tell you about working here on my lot?’
‘What?’ When I glance over, Marco looks like he’s been gut-punched.
‘Of course she didn’t. Genie’s a coward. She never tells nobody. But I gave her a start when she was nothing.’ Cavendish sips his drink, waves a dismissive hand. ‘But sure, we’re not talking about that. So let the record show–not me, not anyone on this lot, not anyone connected to my carnival, had anything to do with Klatsch’s troubles. You wanna think it was me? That’s your hang-up. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
I’m glancing at Marco’s pale, frozen face, and Mitch’s words are bouncing around inside my skull: Cavendish is a snake. Well, you can skin a snake. You just have to grab it at the right spot.
‘All right, Mr Cavendish, I think we’re done. Thanks for your time.’ I turn in my uncomfortable kitten heels, then make a quick turn back. ‘Oh, when should I let Detective Pang know he can call on you for a statement?’
‘You’re sending the cops here?’ Cavendish frowns.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ I make my expression careless as I recycle his phrase. ‘I mean, we called the police straight after Dad’s accident. Now they want to speak to other carnival folk. Just tell me a time and a day. If I’m going to direct the police onto your lot, you should probably tell me when it’s convenient for you.’
‘You goddamn…’ Cavendish’s face purples. ‘Don’t direct ‘em here!’
‘I’m afraid that’s not really up to me, Mr Cavendish. It’s a police matter, now.’ I look appropriately saddened. ‘But perhaps I can tell them to just call you direct to make an appointment? It seems like that would save everyone a lot of trouble.’
‘You little…’ Cavendish slams his whiskey glass down on the baize, and his expression turns ugly. ‘Fine. Call the cops. And while you’re at it, you can tell your Daddy I hope he enjoys living without his spleen.’
My whole body stiffens, goes cold, and I stumble back.
Marco steps forward to fill the gap. His eyes are glittering dangerously. ‘I think we’re done here. Cavendish, it’s been…educational. We’ll be in touch. And don’t bother calling your butler–we’ll see ourselves out.’
His hand on the small of my back steers me towards the door, the dark corridor beyond. My legs are shaking, but I make myself move.
Cavendish calls from behind us. ‘Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out! And honey, you let me know if you ever get sick of your Dad’s unit. We got plenty of spots open for attractive ladies like yourself!’
I pull up short. Before I can do a fast swivel and storm back into Cavendish’s office, Marco grabs me firmly. His hands are warm around my waist.
‘Don’t turn around.’ His words are gritted out. ‘Absolutely do not turn around. He wants your reaction. Just keep walking.’
It takes all my self-control, but I do it. I walk through the corridor, out the door of the manager’s office, down the path covered with license plates… I slip a little on the metal surface, but Marco has my body tucked against his. I can feel the growl in the back of my throat.
But once I’m in the car, with the reverberation of the engine humming through me, my anger peters out. All I’m left with is a formless, smarting ache in my chest. Sundown is coming on, and the inside of the car is dim and cold.
Marco turns the car out of the lot and puts the heater on. ‘Put your hands in front of the vent.’
I sit for a moment and feel the vinyl of the car seat under me. ‘He’s right, you know. Dad lost his spleen in the accident. I had to sign the papers for them to operate–’
‘Fleur.’ Marco reaches across the transmission and takes my nearest hand. ‘God, your fingers are freezing. Here.’
He holds my fingers in front of the vent for a few seconds. By the time he takes his hand away to focus on driving, I can cup the vent by myself.
We drive in silence–Marco seems to be concentrating hard on getting us as far from Lost Souls as he can manage in the shortest amount of time. But after about five minutes, he indicates and pulls over, puts the car in neutral.
‘What?’ I look over. ‘What is–’
I jump when Marco smashes his fist against the rim of the steering wheel. He does it again, then a few more times, until his fist is reddened and he’s breathing hard.
‘Sorry. Ow. Fucking hell.’ He shakes out his hand. His colour is high, and dark strands of his hair have fallen across his brow. Then he turns to me. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?’
I swallow. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Did you know my mother had history at Lost Souls?’ His face looks lost as well, when he says that.
‘I had no idea.’ I frown. ‘I mean, Mitch told me he didn’t want Genie to meet with Cavendish. I didn’t know why. I assumed it was because of the feud. But Eugenia has never said anything about it.’
‘We argued once.’ Marco’s expression is bitter. ‘She said I didn’t understand the things she’d done to make me a home…’ His mouth twists as he exhales. ‘I’m sorry, this isn’t all about me. Are you okay? You can’t let that stuff Cavendish said get to you.’
‘I don’t.’ I d
o, but I’m not going to think about that now. I focus on the vent. ‘Cavendish was mouthing off. I just didn’t like hearing him talk about Dad that way. I can put up with any old crap if it’s about me–’
‘Don’t say that.’ Marco’s rough voice cuts me off. His eyes scan over my face. ‘Don’t ever say that. You deserve as much respect as your father.’
I blink, break free of the intensity of his look. ‘I’m fine. It took me by surprise, that’s all. Genie told me Cavendish was a pig, but I didn’t understand what she really meant.’
‘I guess we don’t need to wonder anymore if he ever ran a cooch show on his lot.’ Marco’s cheeks are still flushed. ‘Goddammit.’
‘Hey.’ I put my hand on his, as he squeezes the steering wheel. ‘It’s just words. And y’know what’s even weirder? I think Cavendish was telling the truth. I don’t think he’s the saboteur.’
‘Because if he was, he’s the kind of guy who’d brag about it.’ Marco nods, lets his head roll back. ‘Remind me never to go visit Cavendish again. I really don’t want to be arrested for assault.’
‘Noted.’ I watch the vulnerable line of his throat as he swallows.
He tilts his head forward again. ‘And I saw it, Fleur. The roustabouts when we first arrived, and the guy with a bowler hat–they all had walkie-talkies clipped to their belts.’
‘Were they–’
‘No.’ He sighs. ‘Not the same make or model at all.’
‘Okay. Well…that’s good, then. We can cross Cavendish off the list.’
He turns in his seat, to face me fully. ‘I’m sorry I ever took you there. I’m sorry you had to put up with that–’
I put my fingers to his lips without thinking, and the action quiets him immediately. ‘It’s okay. Just…take me home?’
He doesn’t say anything, only turns back to face the steering wheel. He puts the car in gear, pulls into the traffic. I sit in the passenger seat in my lovely ensemble, thinking of Cavendish’s words about my father, and comforting myself with the remembered sensation of Marco’s lips against my fingers.