by Gini Koch
“Jim,” Mrs. Hudson called.
I stalked down the stairs and made for the bastard who’d dared lay hands on her form.
He was trying to push himself up, but he broke through the snow and planted his face in the powder. Good, maybe it would numb up his jaw before I gave it a whack or forty.
I kicked him in his arse and he sputtered.
“That’s the one!” someone shouted. “The blackie ol’ Jack took a hating to!”
When he would’ve called me something worse, the sound of a shovel meeting teeth told me that Slaney thought it best our new friend discontinue his talking. This did draw some attention to me, however. Attention I didn’t quite need when I was staring down the crimson tunnel of my rage at a writhing piece of trash.
“Joe, get Dandy’s back!” Mrs. Hudson called from behind.
I reached into the snow and wrapped my fingers around the scum’s throat and yanked him up to his feet. He spat in my face.
“Top o’ the mornin’, Flapjack,” I said, ignoring his salivary problems. I reached into his coat and found a loaf of bread. A couple of raw sausages. A slice of the cheese Mrs. Hudson stocked especially for Hoss.
“They’re trying to steal from us,” Slaney called.
And just as soon as the fighting started, it stopped. A roustabout took each of the tramps around the neck or arms and put them in a hold that couldn’t be broken. Play time for the big boys was over, it seemed. Which just left me standing there eye-to-sorry-eye with Flapjack Hilton.
“Jim,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Jim, back away.”
“Dandy,” Crash said calmly.
I kept my grip around Hilton’s throat tight and looked over my shoulder. Crash and Mrs. Hudson stood a few feet away. His face was placid, but hers flushed red. The fear glittering in her eyes stoked my anger and I hauled a fist into Flapjack’s face.
“Jim!” she shouted.
Crash placed a hand on my shoulder. “Dandy, let go.”
“They tried to steal from us,” I growled.
“I know.”
“And he raised a hand to Martha.”
Crash blinked, swallowed hard, but tightened his fingers on my arm. “Dandy, she’s fine. See?”
Her hand on my back was warm and comforting. At her touch the anger drained from me and I practically fell into her arms. She helped me step away from the hobo.
Flapjack grinned at me, teeth bloody. “Dandy, is it? So you’re a queer and a nigger?”
In a blur, Haus’s fist crashed into the hobo’s stomach, and a massive uppercut from the showrunner sent Hilton flying back into the snow.
IT DIDN’T TAKE long for Diamond Joe and his roustabouts to tie up the tramps and stack them by the fire. I sat on a bench, Martha at my side. With one hand she held my arm, with the other my fingers.
“What were you doing?” Crash asked me. “We have our own kind of justice here. Our own way of handling things.”
“He tried to hurt Martha. Tried to steal from her.”
“Oh, Jim,” she said. “He wouldn’t have been the first slime to do it.”
“But he’s damn well going to be the last,” I stroked her cheek, rose petal pink beneath my black hand.
Crash cleared his throat. “It seems he had some sort of vendetta against you in particular. Is there something you failed to mention?”
I shrugged. “He wasn’t too keen to help me out when I visited the boarding house, so I gave him a nudge.”
“A nudge?”
“I can be quite persuasive if I have to be, Crash.”
He smiled dryly. “Noted. Care to help me interrogate this lot before we send them off to the tracks?”
“If it’s all the same to you, Crash,” Martha piped up, “I think he’s going to sit this one out and stay right where he’s at.”
She squeezed my arm and I nodded.
“Very well,” Crash said with a bow to the lady.
He whirled around and clapped his hands together. “Slaney! Put a couple rods on the fire!”
The tramps’ eyes widened in unison.
“Gentlemen,” Crash announced, “I’m going to ask you a few questions and you lot are going to sing for me. If I like the tune, you all go home with naught but a few bruises, a few scrapes, but otherwise healthy. If I don’t... well, I’m sure someone can think of something interesting to do with your teeth.”
Diamond Joe’s heavy boots crunched up through the snow and he loomed there, a shadowy promise. With about as much effort as it takes to bat an eye, Joe hefted his sledgehammer and rested it over one shoulder.
Crash let Joe’s presence fall over the assembled tramps before he spoke again. “Now, boys. We had some trouble not one week ago. Some vandals came in, roughed up one of mine and, to put the candle on the cake, they went and ruined Miss Proust’s wedding gown hours before her nuptials. You lot wouldn’t know anything about that business, would you?”
As one, the hobo line up shook their heads. All except Flapjack.
“Why don’t you ask that darkie about it?” he sneered.
Crash kicked Hilton in the jaw. Calm, cool as lemonade, he then put his boot on the nearest bench and leaned down to inspect it. He licked his thumb and polished the toe.
“I don’t like your tone. Especially in regards to my friend over there. Other than the colors God painted him with, you got some beef with him?”
Flapjack spat out a gob of blood and glared up at Haus. “Your friend,” he said with an oozing emphasis, “came round with some yarn about him trying to help out a Maeve with her problems. Was blaming highwaymen and speaking some balderdash about signs.”
I bristled against Martha. “I never told you her name,” I growled.
“Don’t recall sayin’ you did.”
“You said Maeve.”
Flapjack’s eyes narrowed with disgust. “It’s what our ilk call young girls, ijit.”
Crash held up a hand to stall me from getting my dander up again. “He was telling you the truth. The same vandals that set on us have given a friend of ours and his young companion some trouble.”
“Ain’t you just fucking saints?”
“I might just be the angel that delivers you to God, that’s for damn certain, son.”
Flapjack stilled. Thinking about the sinister tone in my friend’s voice. “I told him what I know. Some of them are signs.”
Crash whistled. “Miss Proust! Could you bring me your dress, if you please?” He squatted in front of Flapjack. “While she’s bringing you another sign to read for me, you’re going to tell me why you decided to pay us a visit today.”
Hilton said nothing. He clamped his mouth shut and looked away from Crash with sullen defiance. From down the row, however, a timid voice popped up. “Flapjack said we’d get some grub if we knocked over this place. Got word of it from the dar—” He stopped and eyed me before continuing, “the kid at the boarding house.”
“Oh, do tell,” Crash said. “What was it worth?”
Another tramp—this one barely more than a bag of bones and ratty hair—spoke up. “Said this feller here nearly dirked him. Said if we helped him even the score we could take whatever food we needed.”
“The snow’s been rough. We haven’t had much opportunity for work or a decent meal in a long time.”
Miss Proust appeared with her sullied gown. Crash held it up before them.
“Gents, does this drawing mean anything to you?”
They nodded. The skeleton answered, “Two people under the cross, holding hands? Means they’re married.”
Crash was quiet a moment. “Last question, gents. Are any of you going to come poking your noses around my lot again if I let you walk?”
They shook their heads in a frenzy. All, of course, saving Flapjack.
“Come on,” Crash chided. “All your lads know this is bad business, friend. You wise up and listen to them. You going to come ’round my lot again?”
Grudgingly, he shook his head once.
“Ex
cellent! Mr. Slaney, do the honors of untying them. Hoss, Joseph, please make sure they keep their manners, then you three can escort them off our property.”
“On it, Boss,” Joe grumbled.
Crash put his back to the scene and sidled up in front of me. He stood there thumbing his suspenders, looking mighty proud of himself.
“What was that?” I asked, voice low.
“What was what?”
“That performance. You played him like he was your fiddle.”
He beamed.
“Never heard you bring out that one before.”
Haus shrugged. “Sometimes a mark needs Madame Yvonde. Sometimes a hardass pit boss will do the job nicely. It’s all a matter of reading him, finding his weak spot and exploiting it. Now you simply must tell me what it was you did with a knife on this fellow.”
“Found his weak spot,” I replied darkly.
“Very persuasive indeed.”
eleven
AFTER ALL THE hubbub with the tramp gang coming in, most folks around the camp had some energy to burn. Thankfully there was still a wedding to be had. Martha took off in the big ol’ truck with a few others for the sake of stocking up her kitchen for the feast and to ward off any future famine due to another snowfall. While they was off running for supplies, there was still the fact of the bride and groom needing their carousel. Slaney, Diamond Joe and many of the strongest backs on the lot turned their attentions to the massive storage shed wherein the attractions of the Wonder Show slumbered. A couple of the show’s firebugs took it upon themselves to help clear the land by breathing like dragons over the snow. I don’t know that the act of breathing on it did any better a job of dispersing it than a simple campfire would’ve done, but the pyroheads seemed to enjoy themselves muchly. And I’ve found it best to let them have their fun lest I get scorched one way or another.
It was a lively day for our sleepy little circus. Lively indeed.
I looked in on my patient, to find Mr. Mars grumbling about the pain in his side, though I was pleased to see that his sutures were healing just fine. Just to be on the side of caution, I changed his dressings. Didn’t want him to come down with some smelly infection for his wedding.
Come mid-afternoon, the carousel’s skeleton—consisting of eight or so wedges meant to be put together like pieces of a pie, and a slew of rails, cables and poles—had been excavated from storage, and the woman of my heart returned to make everyone a hearty dinner.
Out by the fire that night, the dancing was infectious. Don’t know if the morning’s visit and subsequent brawl brought out the celebration in people, or if it was just a bug that longed for spring and warmer times, but everyone in the camp came out to revel in the joy of music and moonshine. I saw the Professor getting on with a bally broad, sharing a hip flask, and spinning her round and round to one of Crash’s gypsy reels. Maeve sat by the fire laughing with one of the younger jugglers, eating taffy from a tin he’d offered her. Hell, I even let Martha pull me up for a reel or two. We danced about as well as a one-legged man can with a comely dwarf, but managed not to fall over one another.
I laughed, whirling her around one more time. As I sat I brought her down on my lap. “You are light on your feet, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Oh, don’t start with the ‘missus’ again, Jim. I was getting to enjoy you calling me Martha.”
“You’ve never told me; where is ol’ Mr. Hudson?” I asked.
“Gone to Heaven with half his platoon.”
I nodded. “Long time,” was all I said.
“Long enough.”
Martha laid one on me then, full and slow. Her breath blew into me like the kiss o’ life, sweet and languid as warm honey. A minute or a year later, she pulled away, a smile twinkling in her eyes.
She slid off my lap and took both of my hands in hers. “Come on,” she urged.
We walked to her tent and she drew back the flap. Before I followed her in, I looked over my shoulder. Had anyone seen us? Did I particularly care? There, over the fire, I caught Crash’s eye. His grin was sad, but he gave me the barest of nods.
I dipped into the tent and let the flap fall behind me. In the weak light of a single lantern, I found Martha. My arms wrapped around her, hands feeling those soft curves, and we danced a different kind of waltz together, me and the missus.
SHAMBLING OUT OF Martha’s tent the next morning, I beamed brighter than sunlight. Martha’d been up and cookin’ for a bit already. Long enough that most of those not too hungover had made their way to the fire for breakfast. The lot smelled of eggs, bacon and a roast of coffee that set my mouth to watering.
Some of the roustabouts had come and gone from Martha’s cart. From across the camp I heard their hammering, the rhythmic chant-song as they worked on erecting the carousel. It was little more than a wide, fat pole sticking up from the ground yet, but already some of the sledge-gang worked to bring over beams and wires.
Anyone not working was by the cook fire. I looked around the assembled mass of folks and noted one conspicuous absence.
“Where’d Crash get off to?”
Martha passed me a plate, and nibbled on a square of toast. “He walked himself into town this morning.”
“He say why he was going?”
She shook her head, russet curls falling across her eyes. “Nope. And I didn’t ask. Might be trying to check up on our guests from yesterday. Or he might be puttin’ an ear to the ground to make sure them tramps don’t sully our good will with the town.”
“Alone? Man could get himself killed.”
“Ain’t you learned a thing about Crash yet, Jim?” Her smile twinkled over me. “No one but the Devil himself will take Crash Haus from this world, and even then he’d probably convince Ol’ Scratch to let him stay around for another song or two. He does this from time to time,” she assured me. “Wanders off for a night or a week. Always comes back nary a hair missing from his pretty little head.”
I looked down at my plate and for the first time in months I wondered if I’d done right, quitting my Pinkerton days and taking up with Sanford Haus and his travelling show.
“Always something new to learn, isn’t there?” she asked.
I nodded. “Just when I think I got it all figured out...”
Martha’s laughter was light and fresh. “Got the life figgered out? Or him?”
“The life. Him. Myself. Everything.”
“Jim Walker, you listen good to me,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “You listening? Cause I’m about to lay the greatest secret on your ears, alright? This secret is so precious that it’s been sought after by the crowned heads of the world. Solomon kept this one locked in his deepest tunnels with a stockpile of gold and jewels. You ready? You listening?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She brought her lips to my ear, her breath fluttering over my skin. “No one’s got it figgered out, love.”
“That so?” I asked.
Martha dipped her forehead. “That’s so.”
I cast my gaze over the lot, thinking about the score of people I’d met and come to regard as friends. People who’d made room for me. Thrown punches for me. And this woman who held me together when I thought little else would.
“Y’all seem to have some wisdom that common folk don’t. And dammit all if you don’t seem happy and complete without even raising a finger to try.”
“None of us knows what we’re doing, Jim. We’re living the life because it’s the one that accepts us. A dwarf like me wouldn’t do well as a townie. Here, the folks don’t give a piss about my stature. They smile at me and are grateful when I serve up something hot.”
“But Crash...”
“Let me tell you summat about Sanford Haus,” she said. It was the first time I’d heard any of the crew call him by his given name. “He came to us a few years back, and though he never said as much to me, it was written plain as paint on his face that he felt like a fish out of water in the other world. The one with all the rules and taboos. The
world that tells you who you can and cannot be, based on who you was born to, or how your skin looks, or if you measure up to some new meaning of ‘normal.’ He didn’t belong there and it ate at him. Like a poison. Made him sour. Until he did something about it. Sanford stepped off of the ride he was on and Crash jumped into a new one. One where he could decide for himself what kind of man he’d be, and what he’d do with the time given him on this earth.
“Here,” she continued, “no one gave a good goddamn if he had money or some high-and-mighty status. Only that he could carry his weight and offer something to the show.”
“And what do I offer?” I asked.
“Besides the sweetest ass this side of the Mississippi?” Martha pinched my cheek. “You’re a damn fine camp medic, Jim. And you pitch in when you can. Not to mention you’ve been a good influence on the Boss.”
“Really? He seems just as ornery as the day I met him.”
“He is at that,” she grinned. “But he’s happier. I think Crash sees some of himself in you. You come from the same world. While he’s made a good spot for himself with us, I think he gets lonesome from time to time. You help him out with that just by being your wonderful self.”
I brought her fingers to my lips and laid a whisper of a kiss over them. “You’re too good to me, Martha.”
“Darlin’,” she purred, “I ain’t begun being good to you yet.”
twelve
I STOPPED INTO my wagon long enough to confirm that Crash had gone walkabout, and to grab a change of clothes before heading back to spend the day with Martha. I’d tried to get a hand in, but Diamond Joe made a very blunt point that while my eagerness was appreciated, I’d likely just get in the way. As I watched ’em go, I realized Joe was too right. Those roustabout boys knew their trade and worked in a rhythm I’d yet to learn. So, after checking in on Mr. Mars again, young Maeve and I played a hand or two of rummy, all the while listening to the clatter coming from the growing carousel.
She soon took off with Phin, the lad I’d seen her with by the fire, and spent time with his family. Good folks, they were. The Tynker clan had a whole passel of kids just her age, give or take. On stage, the group act did acrobatics and juggling with fire. Phin, his brother and two sisters welcomed Maeve to spend time with them. She even tried her own hand at juggling, though she started simply, with a couple of colored balls.