“How are those old bastards?” Johnstone asked with a false, chummy smile.
“Dead,” Carver chirped. Johnstone’s face went pale. “Brant and Colburn walked into a rebel ambush, and Karlov was shot while he was filling out paperwork in his car.”
“Well, that’s—” The showmaster coughed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, yes, a real shame, all of it,” Carver shrugged. “Anyway, my department got to wondering how rebels keep sneaking up on us, so we started digging around for a pattern, and can you guess what we found?” He tapped one of Johnstone’s gold buttons with the end of his finger. “You, sir!”
“No.” Johnstone tried to take a step back, but he tripped on the curb. “No, no, I don’t know nothing about no rebels.”
“Really?” Carver consulted his notebook again. “Records show that you employ civil deviants almost exclusively, with the exception of those poor ugly folks you charge people a dime to gawk at.”
Johnstone crawled backwards, muttering, “You got it all wrong, Inquestor. I’m true and blue. I was trying to help these ungrateful wretches.”
Carver took another crunch of his apple. “Tall-Me raided a hospital not too long ago, and this looks an awful lot like his haul. What do you think, fellas?”
Just then, Inquestors Pierce and Victorin materialized out of the darkness.
“Is this that rebel circus plot he was after?” Victorin asked his idle companion.
Pierced yawned. “Maybe. Could be. I don't think I attended that briefing.”
“Right out in the open! Right in the middle of Nieuwestad during the Freedom Festival!” Carver clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Sounds awfully cocky. Sounds like something Tall-Me would do.”
“I ain't Tall-Me!” Johnstone cried. “It ain't me!”
“I thought Cleo was the cocky one.” Pierce used his handkerchief to clean off a spot on the dusty trailer to lean against. “What was that whole deal with you and her at the prison, anyways? I overheard the Chief talking to the Director about it.”
Carver went for a case which he had set on the ground by the trailer. “I'll tell you over drinks at The Office sometime. For now, let’s focus on this little pickle right here.”
He tossed the applecore over his shoulder and knelt to open the case, revealing a lustrous Thompson submachine gun. His arms fell limp at his sides.
“I still love that woman,” he murmured to himself, petting the blued metal. “I love her. I love her! I want to marry her.”
Victorin whistled. “Nice chopper. That's not standard issue.”
Carver clasped his hands together and sent up a prayer of gratitude before he got back to his feet. Fumbling with the heavy drum magazine, he returned to the terrified man backed against the wall. “I apologize, Mr. Johnstone.” He leveled the gun at his hip. “You were saying? There’s a perfectly good explanation for all the red-windowed ladies in your employ and the sixty pounds of opioids stashed in your popcorn?”
Pierce was watching with interest now. The possibility of bloodshed always stirred him from his drowsy state. “An honest misunderstanding, I'm sure.”
“Wish I had a parrot feather every time I heard that line.” Victorin pocketed his gloves and cracked his knuckles.
“Back off, Vinny,” Carver snapped, pushing him back with one arm. “And put your gloves back on, ‘cause I got this. Johnstone was just about to tell me that these drugs did not come from the hospital that Tall-Me raided.”
Johnstone needed something, anything, he could use to distract the inquestors. He looked for the injured girl, but she was long gone. “I don't know nothin’ about no hospital,” he blubbered helplessly. “Listen, you want something good? Something powerful? I didn’t tell Karlov, but I’ll tell you. The Marram Issa is right here—”
“I don’t want your lies,” Carver cried. “I want Tall-Me to pay for everything he’s stolen from me!”
Johnstone bolted, and the other two inquestors groaned.
“You don't really think he's Tall-Me, do you?” Pierce asked lazily as he watched the showmaster run away. “He only barely, vaguely, fits the profile.”
“No, not really.” Carver pulled back the charging bolt and gave an involuntary shudder of satisfaction. “I was just hoping he’d run.”
Had Johnstone gone in the opposite direction, he might have found cover behind the trailers or someone's back stoop. In his inebriated state, he chose the route that ended at a solid brick wall where there was nothing to protect him and no way even the worst marksman in the country could miss.
“Oh, yes! Please run!” Carver cackled maniacally, unleashing a cacophonous barrage of .45 caliber bullets down the alley.
Pierce stood with a stretch and shut the doors to the drug trailer. “Do you think we can get credit for this bust, too?” he shouted over the racket.
“I doubt it.” Victorin wiggled his gloves back onto his giant hands, watching the carnage. “Marcus Carver always has to be the hero.”
This story is like the mosaic teacup that René made for Amandine: what started as a piece of junk unearthed from garbage was carefully cleaned and repaired to become the story it is now. It took a lot of time and a lot of help to get here, and I wanted to thank everybody who gave me and this story a chance.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank everyone who has been there since the very beginning. Thanks to my husband, Mike, who always believed in Threadbare, even back when it was half an idea sitting on an old thumbdrive. I’d like to thank my kids for being so patient after so many late dinners. Thanks to my mom, Christine, for reading my first draft and being Coronado’s first fangirl. Thanks to my grandmother, Joann, for giving me writing tips and for learning Google Docs just so that she could help me with my first edits. Thanks to Matt, Ashlynn, and Valerie for the earliest version of Threadbare’s cover. Thanks to Safford Library, Yuma Library, and the Clark County Libraries for supporting this book by including its earliest version in your collections.
Thanks to Tam Francis for teaching me so much about America in the 1940’s and for writing my first glowing review on her blog, The Girl In The Jitterbug Dress. Piles and piles of gratitude to my editor Eva Cervantes for enduring late nights and headaches on account of me and this book. Thanks to Rachel Garcia and Reyanna Jarell for shooting the beautiful new cover, and to Sage and Brian for letting them smear fake blood and soot on you!
Finally, I’d like to thank electroswing and the amazing community of eccentrics that surround it. (Especially you, Faith In The Glitch. I don’t know anybody else on the planet who’d be so cool about taking a total stranger to Coney Island.) In a way, this book is a sort of vintage remix, too. Threadbare didn’t truly begin to take shape until the day I first heard a clip of Parov Stelar’s “Chambermaid Swing” on a drive home from work. From there, the book seemed to write itself. Caro Emerald’s “Tangled” and Postmodern Jukebox’s cover of “Creep” wrote Sangria. Inquestor Carver was born from Caravan Palace’s “Beatophone” and Wolfgang Lohr’s “Black Coffee.” Hours and hours of artists like Boogie Belgique, ProletR, Skeewiff, Jamie Berry, and Peggy Suave projected each scene as vibrant as a Baz Luhrman movie in my brain. I adore every one of you for keeping the beauty of the past alive in your music.
Threadbare- The Traveling Show Page 28