Chapter 7: A Hell of a Night
The evening was somewhat colder than last, and Timmy pulled his wool hood tight around him. While temperature was one thing, he figured it might be best not to draw any undue attention to himself while attending the The Trachiniae. John Smith had already made it known Timmy was not his favorite person, but just as important, and in contrast, many more people in Upper Southrump had grown fond of him. The concealment would help hide him from recognition in both respects.
The walk to the Halfwit was lengthy, but Timmy refused to travel by coach. His heart still begrudged the industry for what had transpired concerning William Mudd and his pig chariot endeavor. So he moved by boot heel.
Passing by the Moors, he could see the barrel fires of the immigrant dwellings. While Sooty Stoops had its fair share of vagrants and lost souls, the Moors was also deluged with the less fortunate. Many travelers from all over the world had found the shores of Upper Southrump, each hoping this new land would offer opportunity their former was without. Some found fortune, but many more did not. It was in this shambled-shack, makeshift borough that they congregated and found shelter.
Timmy watched as a mother herded her small children into a hut, prodding them along with a whisk-less broom. He saw a grimy, bearded man rummaging through a box of spoiled provisions left on the dock. The frenzied fellow fought off a pack of rats with the chewed leather sole of a lady’s shoe. Another pair of homeless vagabonds traded fists as a moldy chunk of crust lay on the pavement between them. All in all, it was quite the depressing sight, and it brought Timmy’s mind back to his time of struggle before the Perfects took flight.
This spurred him to reach into his pocket and pull forth a handful of coins. While young Wicketts was by no means a king, he was much, much better off than he had been in the past. His success at the Rat’s Tail was paying dividends, so he took the coins and handed them to a stain-covered, apron-wearing mum standing by a pile of discarded linens. The woman thanked Timmy with all sincerity and handed a few shillings to her equally filthy little boy, instructing him to run off and buy bread and milk.
A few paces later, the original Perfect found himself in Shillings District. Many of the shops had closed for the night, their doors shut tight and signs hanging in their windows. But at the far end of the lane, there was subtle life. Light and conversation fell into the street from The Halfwit Theater. It was open and accepting patrons.
The old building had stood in Southrump for many years. It had been built as a theater from the start, and played host to numerous traveling shows over time. In recent years it had fallen into disrepair, but thanks to an infusion of investment money from a new owner, as well as a bit from John Smith himself, the entire facade had been redone. Large Greek columns held up a stately marble overhang adorned with classic low relief sculptures. Large posters depicting John Smith in full costume with The Trachiniae written above had been plastered against the pillars. An ornate marquee reading, THE ILLEGITIMATE SONS OF SOPHOCLES hung over all of it.
Timmy approached the ticket booth and paid the required entrance fee. Entering the lobby area, he was surrounded by more of the same Greek-inspired design sense. He made his way into the main hall, a stadium-like presentation room with gradually descending seating ending at the focal point of the stage. Balconies lined the high sidewalls, and an orchestral section sat roped off closest to a huge, blue, velvet curtain. The entire structure had a charm all its own, and, in better times, with a packed house, may have made for quite the splendid location to witness a show.
Tonight though, the gallery was barely a quarter full. Despite having a designated seat on his ticket, Timmy could easily take his pick from any of a number of empty spots. He chose to sit mid-station, close enough to feel the performance, but far enough away he could remain in partial shadow.
A man soon emerged from behind the curtain, carefully parting the azure tapestry. It was Leland, and Timmy slouched a bit lower in his seat so as to avoid eye contact. Leland welcomed the less-than-stellar turnout and set up the play with a brief introduction. He then walked off stage as the veil behind him slowly raised.
There, lying in sorrow at center stage, was Genny. Thick curls of golden hair intertwined with a soft sheer scarf wrapped over a pristine white dress. It gave her the appearance of a rare lotus upon a still pool of crystal-clear water. Timmy was mesmerized at the sight of her. Genny began her monologue with a powerful, yet angelic, voice. Playing the role of Deianeira, she lamented her plight in life. Every word fell like melody in Timmy’s ear. Every graceful movement proved a ballet in Timmy’s eye. He absorbed it all, immediately storing it away as cherished memory.
At many points, other actors would bumble their way onto the stage. Their appearance would shatter the illusion until Genny was called to the forefront once more. There was no greater distraction than the lifeless and monotone lines spoken by John Smith’s Hercules. Every moment with him on stage was like watching a goat try to knit a wool sweater, unintentionally comical and overly frustrating. On more than one occasion, someone would forget a line and stare blankly off into space until another actor uttered a cue and the show would continue. It was a horribly staccato pacing. But Genny was always there to bring the illusion back. She was a natural, and she was wonderful.
As the show concluded, the house was virtually empty. Many people had left, disgusted by the work’s sloppy and uninspired presentation. Timmy was among only a handful that remained, and for that reason, the cast bowed to an almost mocking spattering of claps. John Smith threw down his olive crown in disgust and stormed off stage. Leland and the rest followed in concert, with Genny trailing at the very end.
Overall, the Ill So-Sos proved true to their damning reputation. As a single actress, however, Genny shone wholly worthy of praise. She was lovely and magnificent, and Timmy was enthralled. He desperately wanted to speak to her, to find out what brought her to this point in her life. So as the few spectators filed out of the theater, Timmy ducked into a door near the stage. On the other side was a stairwell leading below the performance platform. Timmy descended and could hear muffled voices echoing among the dimly lit halls. He tread lightly and cautiously, moving between caveats of darkness. The voices were growing louder, and peering around a corner, the hidden Wicketts could see John Smith berating his fellow castmates.
“Horrible! An utter abomination!” Smith shouted. “Portly, can you please try to control your breathing up there?” he said, scolding the large fellow. “Your constant wheezing is like fingernails on granite. I can barely concentrate. And Leopold,” he continued turning toward the muscular man Timmy recalled from Smith’s last visit to the Rat’s Tail, “you have to work on your pro-nun-ci-a-tion. It sounds like you’re chewing marbles when you deliver your lines. I can’t carry all of you on my shoulders. You have to shine your blasted shoes, or this whole thing is shot. Damn it!”
Smith was furious. Genny leaned in and excused herself, informing Smith that she would be retiring to her dressing room to change out of her costume. Smith nodded his approval and walked off, further excoriating his co-actors as they followed like straw dolls, absorbing the endless abuse.
Timmy watched Genny entered a room not too far away. He could hear Smith’s ranting fade as the Ill So-So patriarch traveled further into the bowels of the theater. With his heart racing, Timmy made his move. Several long, swift strides brought him to Genny’s room, and he swung in as quickly as he could manage.
Genny was in the midst of removing her costume and was rightfully startled upon seeing this intruder now in her private quarters. As her mouth opened to unleash a frightful scream, Timmy removed his hood. The act of revelation quieted the starlet before she could utter the slightest shriek. The Perfect’s unique face was a dead giveaway as to his identity.
“Timmy!” Genny whispered with surprise. “How did you…”
Timmy wasted no time in bestowing his praise, “Genny, you were absolutely magnificent out there.”
“Seriously,” the enamored Wicketts continued, “your skills on stage can only be rivaled by your timeless beauty.”
Now thoroughly embarrassed, Genny responded, “Timmy you say such kind things.”
“I only speak the truth, Genny.”
Genny moved closer, looking fully upon Timmy’s face.
“It’s been so long. You look…older,” she stated while running a hand down his cheek.
“Older? Ha, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that.”
Genny’s touch was soft, as soft as he could recall from their days back at Vainville. He looked at her caring hand. Her wrist was red and bruised.
“Genny, what happened to your wrists?” he asked with utmost concern.
She pulled them quickly beneath the long sleeves of her robe and did not answer. Timmy could sense her drawing inward.
“Why are you here, Timmy?” the actress asked, hoping to change the subject.
“I read your review in The Ballyhoo. I had to see your performance for myself. I must say the written word struggles to capture your true charm.”
Genny’s lips provided a smile.
Timmy pressed further, a docket of questions in his mind.
“How did you come to be an actress, Genny? I thought you were destined to inherit your father’s importation business?”
Genny laid her sheer scarf overtop the shoulder of a headless mannequin.
“John got me involved,” she answered.
That immediately led Timmy to a question of even more prominent ponderance in his mind.
“John Smith? I have to say, he does not strike me as someone a woman of your character would normally associate with.”
Timmy watched as Genny moved one hand overtop the hidden wrist of another. Her eyes cast a low glance and her face drew less vibrant. Wicketts could sense it was a touchy subject.
“John has done much for me,” Genny replied.
“But he seems like such a misfit, a first class toad of the slimiest order.” Timmy did not hold back his view.
Genny Jenkins once again looked Timmy Wicketts in the eye. Their gazes locked, and Timmy could feel his emotions for the woman stirring and bubbling to the surface like molten magma.
“As you said, Timmy, you do speak the truth,” the lovely lass admitted with a serious tone.
Just then, the pair could hear voices approaching from outside the dressing room door. The audio was increasing in both volume and clarity.
“John and the rest are coming back!” Genny said with worry. “You have to go!”
She ushered Timmy toward the door as he once again drew his hood high.
“But Genny, I have to know. I have to know what happened. I have to know what you see in him,” he pleaded.
Pulling a key from her pocket, she slid it into Timmy’s grasp.
“Take this. It will let you into the theater. Come again, during the day, before our next show, and find your way to my room once more. Stow away here until I enter to dress for the next performance. I’ll come earlier, and we can talk once more. Now go!”
Genny opened her dressing room door and shoved Timmy out. He threw one last glance in her direction before bolting off into the shadows just as Smith and his posse rounded the corner.
Outside once more, Timmy clutched the key with elated vigor as he walked the night streets of Shillings District. Seeing Genny again added a skip to his step, and, despite the falling temperature, his energized heart gave him warmth.
Time passed quickly as he played back their dialogue and planned what he would say upon seeing her again. Before he knew it, he was back at the Rat’s Tail, entering to another boisterous Nursing Spirit post-performance party.
The men were gathered around, arms raised in salutation.
“To Francis Dinkyworth,” Bugs proclaimed, “a man of soft speech yet mighty performance. His portrayal of Lily tonight was spot-on and of sturdy delivery. Three cheers!”
Everyone roared thrice for Francis, honoring him for a job well done. Timmy snatched up a cup as well and joined in the praise while making his way over to Bugs and Francis.
“So it went well?” Timmy asked.
“It did,” Bugs answered, giving Francis a supportive nudge.
“It was exhilarating,” Francis commented. “I was so nervous backstage, but once I got out there, it just flowed. Before I knew it, the curtain was falling and the applause was exploding.”
“Great to hear, Francis,” Timmy said with relief.
“Yes, we had a share of people ask about you after the show,” Bugs said to his friend, “But otherwise, it couldn’t have gone smoother. How about you? How did the performance go? Did you see Genny?”
“The performance was rubbish. We needn’t worry about the Ill So-Sos gaining favor amongst the theatergoers of Sooty Stoops. Smith was a boorish hack. It was pathetic. But Genny,” Timmy’s voice grew kind, “she was angelic, highly-skilled and beautiful. After the show, I snuck into her dressing room. I had to know what transpired in her life to bring her to such a point. Before she could answer, Smith returned and I had to disappear into the night.”
Timmy then pulled the key from his pocket.
“But this will give me another chance to find out. Genny wants me to sneak back in before their next show so we can talk at greater length.”
“Again?” Bugs questioned with annoyance. “Why doesn’t she just meet you at another time? Maybe you two could sit and converse over a cup of tea.”
“It doesn’t appear to be an option. There’s something about John Smith that keeps Genny guarded, withdrawn. I need to find out what it is, and meeting her in her room is my only opportunity.”
Timmy then looked toward Francis. “You think you have another performance in you, Mr. Dinkyworth?”
“Assuredly, Master Wicketts,” his understudy replied with confidence.
“Then we shall plan the same.”
Happy it had been decided, Timmy threw his arms around his friends and led them to the bar for another round of brews. Bugs was less enthused.
Two nights later, Timmy made quick work of the journey to the Halfwit Theater. Neither The Royal Perfects nor The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles had performances the previous day, so his excitement in meeting Genny again had been building for many drawn-out hours. During that stretch, Wicketts tried his best to write and work on new story ideas, but his mind always drifted back to Ms. Jenkins. She was all he could think about.
With hood in place, Timmy walked into the shade of a side alley adjacent the theater. It was late afternoon and the cast of the Ill So-Sos would be preparing for that night’s show very soon. He needed to make his way to Genny’s room and hide before they appeared.
In the alley was a secondary entrance, less obvious than the main one, and a portal that Timmy prayed would be opened by Genny’s key. With the snap of a latch and the clink of a lock, the door popped ajar and the Bastard Babyface slid inside. The entrance had landed Timmy on the bottom floor of the building, just down the hall from Genny’s room. He hurried to her door and used the key again, smiling with success as it opened. After entering, he crept into a large blanket box and lowered the lid. All that was left was the wait.
Minutes later, Timmy began to hear voices and footsteps moving about outside the room. The So-Sos had arrived, and peeping through a knothole in the maple trunk, he could see the door handle turn and click. Genny walked in and immediately scanned the room for her expected visitor.
As she closed the door behind her, Timmy popped up from his hiding place like a human-sized, jack-in-the-box. He was boyishly buoyant and smiling.
“Timmy!” Genny shouted as quietly as she could muster.
“I thought that was a cozy little spot,” the hidden friend stated.
“Smith and the rest are running through their lines. They’ll be busy for hours.”
“That means we have more than enough time for you to enlighten
me. Genny, please tell me how you and Smith came to be.”
Genny hadn’t told the tale in very long time. She had almost forced herself to forget how it even transpired. But there, with a sympathetic and willing ear thrust out before her, she released her chained memories and spoke of things long since locked away.
Taking a seat upon a lavishly upholstered armchair, Ms. Genevieve Jenkins revealed the details. As Timmy already knew, Genny had planned to help run her father’s importation business with an eye toward future ownership. She loved that type of work, dealing with people of foreign lands and valuing cultural treasures. It was exciting and interesting. Genny had learned much of the trade while working with her father between semesters at school. Her father gave her inside knowledge on the tactics of the deal and how to properly assess the authenticity of artifacts and artistic works, but he was steadfast in his insistence that she also obtain a formal education in related matters. During the summers, she learned a lot, alongside another apprentice by the name of John Smith.
John was hired by Genny’s father to help part-time in the storeroom. Over the years, Mr. Jenkins had taught him much more, slowly promoting him to greater responsibility. After John graduated from the Upper Southrump Academy for Theater Arts, Genny’s father offered him a steady position as an assistant manager. John Smith’s passion was tied to the stage, but his common sense jumped at the opportunity. He accepted.
Smith was only a few years older than Genny, and the two would travel about town between duties at the store. Once, over a lunch of lemon loaf and crumpets, John told Genny how he dreamed of becoming the greatest actor in the world. All he lacked were the funds needed for promotion. He said that while his job at the importation parlor paid fine, he had no desire to be her dad’s lackey for all eternity. He believed his fame and fortune was in the theater, and it was his birthright to claim.
It was also at this time that he began making unwanted advances toward Genny. She had considered him a friend and nothing more. Her heart was tied to an unknowing boy from school. But when Smith’s attempts were repeatedly rejected, he became nasty toward her and even more resentful of Genny’s father.
Shortly after Genny’s graduation, and the start of her full-time employment at the store, John Smith began to engage in shady dealings. Among other things, he started to shave shillings from the store records, pocketing them for himself. The height of his treachery was revealed when he presented a customer with an original sketch of The Wedding of the Virgin. Her father had procured it from a dealer in Italy and was selling it to a collector at a hefty profit. Smith was in charge of the exchange.
At first glance, nothing seemed to be amiss, until constables showed up at the parlor a couple weeks later with a warrant for Mr. Jenkins' arrest. He had been accused of forgery and underhanded business practices. The customer who had purchased the sketch had discovered it was not a real work of Raphael Sanzio. Mr. Jenkins pleaded his innocence, but to no avail. When pressed, John Smith revealed no knowledge of the fake’s origins, and stated that he was only doing as his employer told.
Mr. Jenkins was prosecuted and imprisoned, and the store was closed and sold off. Genny had no other family and no other means. That’s when John extended her an offer. He planned on starting an acting company called The Illegitimate Sons of Sophocles and hoped that Genny would join him. He had saved and, as Genny later came to discover, stolen enough money to get the venture started, and he knew that more capital was to come once it was off the ground. Without another plan, a naïve Genny agreed.
One evening, while sitting in Smith’s flat, the two shared ideas on what the new troupe would perform. At one point, the sly Smith excused himself. Genny kept occupied by perusing his domicile. On the bookshelf, she noticed a tome containing the Theban plays. She pulled it down, and much to her surprise, an old sheet of parchment fell from its pages. When she picked it up, she was aghast. It was the original Raphael sketch, the true and authentic version. Before she could say a word, Smith clutched her by the wrist. Twisting her about, he snatched the drawing away with a white-gloved hand and tossed Genny to the sofa.
The criminal then revealed his dastardly deeds. He readily admitted he had been stealing money from the store and was using it to pay an associate in exchange for wonderful forgeries. Smith took purchased pieces of art from the acquired collections, had duplicates made, and then sold the duplicates to customers while keeping the originals for himself. Later, he hawked the authentic pieces on the black market for a hefty return. He planned to do the same with the Raphael sketch, all in an effort to fund his up-and-coming theater company.
Genny was horrified. Smith’s selfishness had cost her father’s freedom. She threatened to take the case to the authorities. Smith laughed. Dangling the sketch between two gloved fingers, he mentioned that his bare fingerprints had never touched the paper, nor any other work, but Genny’s now had.
A case could easily be made that she was the thief, not himself, and if dusted by investigators, the proof would be made evident. He further threatened that if Genny wanted to test the theory, he had made several devious and deceitful contacts in the black market that in turn had connections to villainy currently imprisoned alongside Genny’s father. If he was so motivated, he could contract a vicious assault, and Genny’s father’s incarceration would easily become a death sentence.
Genny was without words. Smith’s threats held her captive. From that moment on, she did whatever he asked. She performed in his plays, was his womanly escort everywhere, and was herself sentenced to a life of indentured servitude. Smith was so paranoid and possessive that he had a painful habit of dragging and yanking Genny everywhere by the wrists. When she was forced to sleep next to him at night, he bound their arms together with handcuffs. This was the cause of the constant reddening and bruising on her lower forearms. Only when she was left to her private dressing room did Smith leave her side.
Timmy desperately tried to digest the woeful account. It was unfathomable that a woman as tender as Genny could be forced to endure such circumstances. His mind searched for a solution, but Genny spoke before he could rationalize one.
“Timmy, you mustn’t say a word to anyone,” Genny beseeched. “If you did, and rumor got out, Smith would undoubtedly think I had something to do with it. He would spare little time in condemning my father.”
Genny began to weep. Confiding in someone had helped relieve a modicum of the stress she had harbored, but retelling the tale brought the whole nightmare back to the forefront. In recent times, she had almost convinced herself the relationship with Smith was for the best. He was providing her all that she needed—a home, food and clothing. His polluted wealth even afforded her luxuries. But now, sitting there with Timmy, she knew it was a terrible sham of a life.
Timmy leaned in and embraced Genny. She hugged back with emotion, sobbing as her grip around him tightened. The moment then shattered into a million slivers of glass. The dressing room door swung open and John Smith stood in the entrance.
“Genny,” he said, not looking directly at her at first, “I was wondering if tonight…”
Smith’s words abruptly ended. He was now glaring with anger at Genny and Timmy. With haste and great dander up he called out to his brothers, yelling, “Sons! Sons!”
Within seconds, the lot had arrived at his side. The menacing gang slowly entered the room, Smith red-faced and salivating at the forefront.
“Timmy Wicketts, you cunning cur! You thought you may lure away our cherub; convince her to join your detestable Perfects? You are a fool! I told you to keep your distance, but you apparently scoff at my words. That is a mistake you shall never make again!”
Smith snapped his fingers in the direction of Leopold, his well-built kinsmen.
The brawny man lumbered forward. The room was crowded and small, and Smith and his boys stood firmly between Timmy and the only exit. The nervous Wicketts stepped right and left as Leopold matched his evasive moves. He then took a misstep, an
d Leopold grabbed him by the lapel and yanked him into a crushing body blow. Timmy fell like a rock. The shot had stolen his wind.
He could say nothing as the hyenas pounced. The whole gang unleashed hell upon Timmy, kicking and punching with furious damnation. It was the early days of Vainville all over again.
Timmy could hear Genny’s voice in the background imploring them to stop. Smith’s words shouted her down as Leland held her at bay. More strikes landed heavy. More boot heels found soft flesh. Young Timmy Wicketts’ world went black.
Meanwhile, Bugs and the other Perfects had wrapped up another fine performance. Francis once again proved fully adequate, if not exceptional, on stage. The rest had done their parts to precise effect, and the audience had branded the night another success.
The after-party was as jovial as any, but as the night wore thin, Bugs wondered where Timmy was. It was growing later by the moment, and Timmy had promised he would not miss the post-show festivities. On the other hand, Bugs reasoned, Timmy was a big boy, a man who survived on the streets for months. There was no need to worry about it.
The next morning however, Bugs did worry, and now to an even greater degree. Timmy was still nowhere to be found. Bugs asked the other members if anyone had seen or heard from their friend, and not a single one had. With panic creeping into his mind, he decided they must search Upper Southrump until they found him. This was unlike Wicketts, and Bugs could no longer fight off his dreadful feelings.
The squad divided into several pairs, each tasked to search a different neighborhood of Southrump. They headed out with determination and the understanding that they would meet back at the Rat’s Tail by noon.
Upper Southrump was a city that had grown like a vine. There was little to no order in its sprawling layout. Shoots simply branched off and twisted their own paths through homes and businesses. It made for quite the labyrinth of cobblestone and hidden nooks, taking much time to search thoroughly.
Brock and Pantaloons were given the Moors to comb. With boats and vessels lining the port, Timmy could have conceivably been in the hull of any of them. It was a daunting and difficult proposition to gain entrance to many of the ships. Some captains were none too eager to expose their valuable, or questionable, cargo to men they did not know. Pantaloons, having experience in the matter, talked his way aboard many, but the result yielded no Wicketts. It was slow going.
In Shillings, Bugs and Smirks went store-to-store inquiring about Timmy. They carried along a portrait of the boy-faced man and did their best to speak to everyone they passed. Shillings being Shillings, there was quite a lot of people to ask, but not a single soul could swear to have seen Timmy.
Romeo perused the Central District. He had been there many times before, visiting the wealthy lady clients of his past. He had connections and used them, but to little effect. There was not a lead in all of Central.
Finally, Francis, flanked by Lancelot, rummaged through the trash and congestion of Sooty Stoops. The area had more hidden alleys than any other part of town. It also had an abundance of homeless. While many lacked all their faculties, they spent a lot of time out in the weather. If Timmy had passed through at some point, someone may have witnessed it. Unfortunately, that theory was not producing results. Many knew of Timmy, but none could attest to his whereabouts.
Francis and Lancelot were at a loss. Walking by Squatters Row, they eyed the vagabonds lining the sides of the road, making sure to stop and inquire with each one. At one spot, they came upon a heap of a hobo with a wool blanket lying overtop his slumbering frame.
“Sir?” Francis asked in his high-pitched tone. “Excuse me, Sir?”
The man did not move.
“Hey, buddy,” Lancelot shouted with greater conviction, “we’re looking for a friend.”
Again, the miscreant was motionless.
The pair looked at one another in frustration. Lancelot then reached down and drew back the blanket with annoyance.
There, severely beaten and bruised, was Timmy Wicketts. His face was swollen and purple, his arms limp and lifeless. Except for the shallow breath passing from his cracked and bleeding mouth, one might mistake him for a week-old corpse.
Francis and Lancelot wasted little time. They quickly constructed a makeshift gurney from a few discarded boards and the wool blanket. Then, with the speed of Mercury, they raced off to the infirmary. Francis helped the nurses and doctors get Timmy into a bed while they took note of his condition and prepared treatments. Lancelot raced back to the Rat’s Tail to await the rest of the group and inform them of the situation.
Biting his nails, Lancelot conveyed the message to each Perfect pair as they returned to the tavern. The last to arrive were Bugs and Smirks.
“He was beaten pretty badly,” Lancelot told Bugs as the rest of the men stood by with concern. “I’m not sure what will happen now.”
Bugs grit his teeth. A vile anger was seething in his belly. It was palpable and bitter, like the dead taste of burnt meat. He paced back and forth as the rage built inside him.
“It was that damn degenerate Smith!” he shouted. “I know it was! He planned it all along!”
Several of the Perfects were at a loss, unsure of what plan Bugs was referring to.
The maddened Harrington continued. “Okay, someone’s going to need to tell Goldhand our show will be postponed.”
Lancelot accepted the duty. Bugs then snatched up his coat and headed for the door.
“The rest of you, head on over to the infirmary and see if you can make use of yourselves. I’m going to pay the Ill So-Sos a little visit.”
“I’m coming with you,” Brock insisted, stashing a bottle of vodka in his satchel.
As the Perfects split up, Brock and Bugs hailed a carriage. No words were spoken between them. Brock simply uncorked the liquor and the pair traded guzzles.
By the time they reached the Halfwit, the bottle was empty. Bugs leapt from the coach as Brock tossed the driver some coin. The theater was not open to the public yet, but Bugs would not be denied, banging forcefully upon the main doors. When no one answered, he grabbed a nearby cinder block that had been discarded by the roadside and slammed the thick slab off the locked entrance. It chipped the varnish and splintered the wood. He then raised it overhead and drove it with anger into the bronze door handle. The whole mechanism bent and cracked, falling to the ground as the door swung open.
Bugs rushed inside, Brock shoulder to shoulder with him. They burst into the main stage area throwing the doors asunder. The impact echoed like thunder throughout the hall. At that moment, the Ill So-Sos were on stage running through rehearsal. The sudden, violent appearance of Brock and Bugs brought an immediate halt to that.
“Smith!” Bugs shouted with rage. “We know what you did!”
Smith played the fool. Smiling like a demon, he replied, “Mr. Harrington, I have no idea what you are referring to.”
This only served to anger Bugs more.
“I know it was you and your clowns that attacked Timmy! You bastards knew you couldn’t compete with him on stage, so you tried to best him through brutality! You even used that harlequin Genny to lure him in!” Bugs continued to shout and spit while pointing toward the woman in question.
Genny looked away, tears welling in her eyes.
“Mr. Harrington, you have quite the nerve coming here, damaging my theater, and spewing that unfounded filth,” a smug Smith replied.
“Quite the nerve!” Bugs shouted as he lunged toward the stage.
Smith took a step back as Leopold, Portly, Leland, and Thomas Tinderbox readied for a fight. Brock, despite his pugilistic past, knew when the numbers weren’t right, and he grabbed a hold of the storming Bugs.
“That’s right, Mr. Bullsock, be the man of reason,” Smith cockily stated. “Save your misguided friend a beating even greater than that served to Mr. Wicketts.”
Bugs shouted uncontrollable obscenities upon hearing Smith’s coy admission. He was never as rabid as he was at that
moment. Brock struggled to hold him back, but eventually, his larger mass won out. The liquor-fueled Bugs began to lose his steam, and Brock slowly pulled him away, back toward the theater entrance.
“Another time. Another time,” Brock whispered to his enraged ally.
Eventually, several rows of seating away from the stage, Bugs regained some of his composure. Brock eased his grip and the two Perfects slowly headed toward the exit. That’s when Bugs laid down the gauntlet. It was a point of pure emotion and one of absolute no return.
Yelling toward the stage, Bugs shouted, “John Smith, I challenge you to a duel!”
Smith’s face went blank as his peons looked on in shock.
Dueling was still an acceptable and time-honored tradition of conflict resolution in Upper Southrump, and once the proposition was laid out, there were only two options. Either the indicted had to accept the duel without hesitation, or they would be forced to admit their fault and be subject to all rules of law pertaining to such crime.
Smith knew this, and responded with an unwavering voice. “I accept. Pistols at dawn.”
The choice of weapon was at the whim of the accused.
“The Greens then,” Bugs replied, stating the chosen location of the duel, as was custom.
An exchange of glaring hatred was shared between the adversaries and nothing more was said. Bugs turned with a resolute mind and walked away as Brock followed. Outside the theater, Brock’s concern became apparent.
“Bugs, a duel? What are you thinking?” the ex-boxer questioned with worry.
“Something had to be done, Brock. If Smith were allowed to get away with this, there’d be no limit to the schemes he could employ at the peril of the Perfects. It had to be this way.”
“You’re liquored and mad, Bugs. Your tongue spoke before your mind could answer. There has to be another way,” Brock insisted.
Bugs knew that once a duel had been set, there was no turning back. He fully accepted that the wheel of fate was now in motion.
“I know what I’m doing,” the staunch Perfect affirmed.
Soon it was evening, and Bugs sat upon a stool at the edge of Timmy’s hospital bed. The room was drab and fittingly sterile. The setting sun cast a fading light upon Timmy’s bandaged head and face. The Ill So-Sos had done quite a number on Wicketts. He was sleeping soundly in a drug-induced state of rest.
The Perfects had been taking turns standing watch over their battered friend. Smirks was there. He was on duty for the previous hour and was filling Bugs in on what the doctors had said.
“They aren’t sure what will happen. The doctors told us Timmy suffered some broken bones and internal injuries. Their main concern is the head trauma. With the swelling, they just can’t evaluate the extent. The one thing working in Timmy’s favor is his madidus facies.”
Bugs shot his pal an odd glance, unsure of what he was referring to.
Seeing Bugs’ confusion, Smirks clarified. “His soft face, you know the disease that makes him look so young? Apparently, it also gives his flesh significantly higher elasticity and an improved ability to heal. It’s quite remarkable how the doctor explained it.”
The news cushioned the grim medical assessment somewhat, adding a dose of optimism to the unfortunate situation. With any luck, Timmy would pull through just fine and Bugs was only hours away from ending the entire ordeal permanently. By the conclusion of all events, things may actually turn out for the better, or so Harrington hoped. Smirks bid his friends goodbye and left his post.
Moments later, Timmy groaned and turned his head, at which Bugs shuffled his stool closer to the patient’s side. Wicketts was stirring, struggling with consciousness.
“Timmy,” Bugs whispered, “Timmy.”
Timmy only moaned between labored breaths.
“Timmy, what happened? Smith did this, didn’t he?”
Timmy’s eyes opened briefly, and he smiled upon seeing the blurry, yet familiar vision of Bugs’ face.
“Yessss,” Timmy uttered softly.
“I knew it,” Bugs growled with relief, having already taken the extreme action he did earlier in the day. “That harpy Genny lured you there. It was all a setup.”
Before Timmy could spit out another word, he was taken once more by sleep. The short conversation provided Bugs all the validity he needed. He sat back on the stool and crossed his arms. Things had indeed spiraled to a point he could never have imagined. It was a twisting string of events that seemed to follow an increasingly perilous path.
Tomorrow morning, as the sun devoured the morning fog, Bugs would hold his very life to the test. His mind began to play reels of his past, images and scenes of love and hate. Stories of fond memory and broken dreams read like a play, and it was all performed on the stage of his inner psyche.
He could see his father first showing him how to seal a jam jar tight and sturdy, and he heard the words of his mother begging him good fortune on his trip across the sea. He saw the dirty faces of fellow beggars, their toothless frowns shouting nasty words as he tried to make his way on the streets of Upper Southrump.
Then there was the recollection of all the fun and frivolity these past few months had brought, the great times shared under the moniker of Perfect. It was an interesting tapestry Bugs Harrington had woven, and God willing, tomorrow would not see the final stitch.
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The Royal Perfects Page 7