by Pavel Mandys
But they all enjoyed it. And that was the point.
The booze tents were overtaken by the golden youth of Prague. The dumbest kids in the smartest schools.
Don’t hesitate—visit a unique Prague attraction!
The last extended ride! Do not swing the gondolas!
Cotton candy! Dutch attractions! Enter the Haunted House!
Zombies, skeletons, murderers, and living corpses are awaiting you.
* * *
There really were corpses here. More precisely, one female corpse. Nonliving.
We walked inside the Haunted House past the cash register with a crying cashier. Her green eye shadow was running down her pudgy face. I was worried that the deluge would short circuit the electric tracks.
She lifted her head and gaped at me.
She had to know something.
They turned the lights on inside, which spoiled the effect of the phosphorescent walls of monsters. Visitors to the Haunted House drive in on one track, seated in blue and yellow carriages. They pass latex figurines splashed with artificial blood, with axes hacked in their heads and spilling guts. Most of the exhibits are turned on by the carriages themselves. They drive through mechanical slats which activate the sounds and electric motors in the skeletons and vampires. Everything bellows and brays and bobs. Everything grins—except for one girl.
A pretty, slim, and leggy girl hung in the air about thirty centimeters above the track. She was impaled on the large lever. The tracks here fork out into two circuits. The other one is used to park carriages. The wooden lever sticking out of her back was wet, and the girl was bent like a bow. The lever substituted for an arrow.
“Oh my god.” I was practically speechless.
Don Ferdinand, gray-haired, lined, and wrinkled, stood beside me. Behind him were the corpulent, once-pretty woman from the cash register and the four men from the pub. Above it all, as if sitting on a throne, was a lit-up skeleton with an artificial vulture with a hand in its beak. From behind, we were watched by a zombie with bulbs instead of eyes. On the left, the muscly Arnold, and right behind him, a curve. In the niche with the virgin with cut-out eyeballs, the wide-shouldered Hardy with his pierced boxer’s snout was dwarfing us, and beside him, blubbering Laurel with the vine of earrings was shivering. He had a small red heart tattooed on his neck, with tears running down. They were all adorned with gold chains, rings, and earrings. The rhinoceros-sized House was there, with the scar on his face. They were all there.
I kneeled down by the pool of blood. Then I looked into the girl’s face. “What was her name?”
“Rosalina.”
Rosalina was a blond girl with a dragon tattoo on her neck. Her body was lithe, butt firm, thighs like Aphrodite, with graceful hips. Rosalina could have stayed there the way she was. She would fit in with all the bizarre scenes better than the girl with gouged-out eyes. Another luxury attraction among the zombies.
Don’t hesitate—visit a unique attraction!
A Haunted House with a real dead girl!
The last extended ride . . .
And do not throw those hamburgers at the exhibits!
* * *
For goodness sake—what is that stench? Where do I know it from?
“What do you use for upkeep with all the tracks and monsters?”
“The usual—used oil. And we clean it from time to time,” Hardy answered. I inhaled the stench again. That was no oil or thinner. But it was chemical sure enough.
“She was on drugs,” I asked without a question mark.
The big boss almost took out his razor: “We are travelers, Štolba! You know us, and know that we do not do the shit non-Roma do. We are worldly!”
“I’m just asking. That’s why you hired me, after all.”
Don Ferdinand was standing among the phosphorescent and flickering figurines. To see a father above his dead daughter—that’s a vile thing that is damn hard to delete from your memory. In reality, you can never delete it, even if you used to be a cop. That’s the stupid police routine that never becomes completely routine. Demons stay with you forever. And that’s why you lose your dear ones. Friends. All of them. And your former friends then say: Look, hasn’t he always been a bit off? And cynical? And that black humor of his . . . prick.
Fuck yourselves. All of you.
It is also shitty when you tell parents something they do not want to hear. Such as that their beloved child uses meth and coke. They do not even admit smoking their own joints back when they were students.
“Yes,” Ferdinand answered, “that’s what I’ve hired you for.” He spoke concisely and clearly. I like this type of person even if today they’re considered living fossils. I am an old policeman who gave up his badge nine years ago. I am a tyrannosaurus with a Glock and a jackknife. I try to be fair. And that vexes quite a few people.
“Do you have your own doctor of some sort?”
“He’s behind you.”
I turned. The planks creaked. Ah, that was the guy with a scar on his face. Typical MD. He wore a violet hoodie with an English flag and the inscription, Cambridge.
“I am a doctor.”
“I know. You’re House. I’m eager to see what outstanding medical school you graduated from.”
“Fuck you. What can I do for you, Mr. Clever?”
“You know . . . time of death, signs of violence, rigor mortis.”
“Everything I put together is here.” He handed me a tablet.
I whistled. I skimmed with my finger. I nodded my head. “Good, doctor. Very good, House.”
* * *
I was looking over the face of the olive-skinned girl. Not even the terrible grin on her face could detract from her beauty. But it was as if the beauty—even postmortem—was still experiencing a brutal, slow death.
They took Rosalina off the lever. Do you know that feeling when you’re taking the chicken and tomatoes and bacon slices off a skewer? Taking a human off a skewer is worse.
The girl was lying down between the tracks, and should the carriages with visitors drive around, she’d become a horror star. She was wearing a sexy minidress or nightie (I don’t have a good grasp on this area), as if she’d been getting ready for a hot tub or bed.
“Okay, then. Let’s roll, people.” I got up from the cadaver. Some turned away. And hunched.
Ferdinand lifted a hand loaded with rings and bracelets. All gold. And he beckoned me.
Everybody froze.
“I need to know where you were at the time of the murder,” I began. “Do not ask, Why me? I don’t care about that bullshit. I want your alibi, and if anybody tells me that he was jerking off in the caravan or that some girl can swear you were together that evening, you’re very unlucky.”
“How come?” House asked. “The testimony of any witness is valid, unless they’re family.”
“Bravo, doctor.” I turned toward him and rubbed my fists. They cracked.
“That Cambridge is rather silly.” I walked up to him. “Lean toward me. So that I can whisper something to you.”
The travelers watched me with suspicion. Ferdinand nodded to the doctor. The scarred guy tilted toward me.
“So that you understand,” I couldn’t whisper, “to me, you are all one family. Clear? You’re gypsies, right? And you’re very proud of it. So what now?”
“So we’re one family, our alibis are not valid, and we’ll try to tell you what you are looking for,” Arnold spoke up from the back.
“Thanks, Hulk.”
“Do you know what I like about you, Štolba?” Ferdinand said.
“My honest face?”
“How delicately you communicate with people who have just lost their sister, daughter, and cousin.”
“Yup, I am excellent at that.” I lit another Marlboro. “Apropos, Ferdinand,” and now I really softened my voice, “why do you suspect your family? Anybody from the outside could have done it.”
Ferdinand hugged me around my arms and took me a bit farther away from t
he group. “Could have. But the house was closed the entire day for maintenance. Only us who are standing here were there,” he whispered.
I nodded my head and thought of the girl. That lever was stuck in my head. And a peculiar wound in her belly. And scuffed palms.
“House, can you?” I gestured as I walked back to Rosalina.
The guy with colorful tattoos kneeled down beside me. He waved away the smoke from my cigarette and lit his own.
“What do you think about that hole in her belly?” I asked.
“Peculiar, irregular. As if somebody kept moving her around on the lever. And then here, the straight cut. They jerked her sideways or something? I really have no idea.”
“To move and twist the girl—there could even have been two of them. It’s better to murder in pairs.”
“Two murderers?” Ferdinand took the floor. He looked over his family members—Laurel and Hardy glanced at each other. Laurel burst into louder sobs and Hardy became even more vexed.
“Maybe a murderess.” I sat down in a carriage. “These days, women demand the same jobs as men.”
Almara, the cashier, snorted.
“There could have been two of them who lifted her and impaled her on the lever,” I continued. “Or one big guy; a giant of a man.” I looked around me.
The wide-shouldered House beside me, Arnold the hulk, and Hardy the pit bull all stopped liking me. Pity.
“But we still do not have the most important thing. That which is more important that any of your alibis,” I pondered.
Ferdinand Goodwill Traveler dropped his head into wrinkled palms. “Shit.” He must have thought about this from the second he found his daughter. I looked at him and he nodded. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Štolba, would you like dinner?”
“Do you have meat?”
“Always. We are hunters, after all.”
“Maybe you still are, Ferdinand. The rest of us—we hunt only in supermarkets.”
He just shrugged his shoulders.
We went outside. Among the moving crowd, there were about fifteen people standing around the Haunted House.
Ferdinand stopped. “Motive?”
I nodded: “A dead girl in a haunted house—there could be motives enough for three horror movies.”
“For me, it is enough that you find the one.”
* * *
The caravan reminded me of a hotel suite, including the leather chairs and a plasma TV taking up half the wall.
“Štolba, one more thing about my family.” Ferdinand handed me a plateful of food. It was spicy, meaty, and intoxicating, and it came with fresh bread. God, I thank you for the bounty. “They were all moving around the house all day long. They had all sorts of work they had to do in there, but to be clear—the back of the house is made of sheet metal, corrugated iron, and an asphalt roof. Anybody who wants to could get inside.”
“For now I would concentrate on those who were demonstrably there, Don. And if everything fails, then you will keep the money. To suspect a random visitor of murder—especially since all of you were moving around, and Emanuela was at the register—that’s idiotic. To find that shithead in one evening among the millions of Prague residents—that I really cannot do.”
“I understand. But one of the neighbors could have killed her too. On one side, there’s a Russian merry-go-round and autodrome, and on the other, there’s a chain carousel,” Ferdinand protested, even if he didn’t believe all that much in what he was saying.
“What about those druggies from the fountain? There’s a whole lot of them. Wasn’t Rosalina selling them drugs?”
“What drugs?”
“Methadone, meth—whatever you call it.”
“Štolba, we are carnival people. We have our carousels, shooting galleries, and centrifuges. And rum and beer and cigars.” He leaned on the table with his hands and the veins on his arms stood out. Above him, the Virgin Mary clasped her hands. She cried over baby Jesus on a 3-D Chinese painting in a flower-patterned frame.
“The girl was not using drugs,” he uttered, resigned, into the emptiness. “And I have already told you enough.”
“Can I finish this marvelous food?”
“Bon appétit.”
He was watching me with his gray eyes. I felt like he was reconnecting my brain synapses and altering my perception. The circus Dalai Lama engulfed me with his eyes.
“Štolba, try to find other motives. Could you?” The wise eyes had suddenly lost their color as if he had rinsed his eyeballs in paint thinner.
“Jealousy, cheating, money, extortion, competition, business, risk, drugs, or revenge,” I mumbled more or less to myself.
“Would you like seconds?” He got up from the chair.
“If I can . . . it’s delicious.”
“The real Hungarian goulash. And by Hungarian, I mean Hungarian.”
* * *
“Doctor, where were you at the time of the murder?”
“What do you mean, Mr. Snooper?” House was angry. Something was off with him.
“What was your relationship with the girl?”
“Uncle. So what?”
“Did you love her?”
“Probably not.” He rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Of course I loved her. Always! Can you understand that?”
“I’m starting to. You loved her the way only an uncle can love his sweet, young, but mature niece.”
He nodded, wiped tears with the back of his hand, and snorted. And then he got it. “You snooping shithead, what do you—”
“Dare to suggest?” This time I got vexed. “I dare to interrogate you because your niece was murdered. Should I note that you have no alibi?”
“I was in the menagerie,” he said, calming down.
“And your witnesses are trained monkeys? Or zebras?”
“Shit—do you have any idea how messy it is in a circus during each performance?”
“I actually do have an idea. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“Laurel was there with me.”
He left. He couldn’t even slam the door, so he settled with breaking the cane that belonged to a poor zombie.
* * *
“I didn’t do anything,” Laurel teared up, twisting his mouth the same way as his namesake from silent comedies.
Oliver Hardy muscled up beside him. Stooped, obstinate, ready to attack. Like I said—a pit bull. “Apparently, you can be quite heavy in your dealings with others,” he remarked.
“You heard well. And just between the two of us—has anybody asked you anything?”
Hardy took out his switchblade. The blade came out.
“Should I aim at your belly or head?” I asked. I didn’t even take out my Glock.
“No! No more violence!” Laurel howled. He was either drunk or high, which worked for me.
“What are you yapping about, you stupid idiot?” I did not say this—Hardy did.
“How much violence have you experienced today, kid?” I smiled at Laurel.
“Well . . . that . . . like . . . when sweet Rosalina was impaled. Here . . . everywhere.” He spread his hands. “I was always worried about her . . . And now this.”
“And why didn’t you defend your sweet Rosalina?”
Hardy hissed, and if he had a scar on his face, it would surely have become an incandescent red.
“Let him be, you fuck.”
I turned to him. If he wanted to, he could sweep the monkey cages with me. But that’s not the point. Whoever is stronger is never the point. “Hardy, you know what?”
He leaned over and put his large hand on my shoulder. He was as menacingly quiet as possible.
“Har-Hardy, he’s aiming at your balls,” Laurel stammered.
In the weak lighting, the Glock was almost impossible to see. Hardy couldn’t stand me; I couldn’t stand him.
“Do not slow down my investigation,” I whispered. “Do not get in my way, ever. Do you understand?” I put the Glock back in its holster. The angular guy bl
inked and nodded.
“And now, kid, tell me—why didn’t you help your Rosalina when you were so afraid for her?”
“Because . . . because I couldn’t!” The boy looked desperately at Hardy.
“He wasn’t in the Haunted House. He was with me, in the menagerie,” Hardy answered for him.
“With House? Well, there were quite a few of you, like at a funeral.”
“Oh go fuck yourself. And you, come with me, bro.” Hardy hugged Laurel and started to leave.
“So—together again, right?” I looked at Arnold. A man bigger than the Petřín Tower and as majestic as the Charles Bridge at full moon. He was glaring at me, vibrating lashes and protruding ears. “Can you cut down the sack depicting a hanged man?” I asked him.
He didn’t cut it down. He jerked it and tore down the rope from its nail in the ceiling.
“And now throw it on the lever. It’s about three meters from here, right?”
He flung the sack and struck home, right on the metal lever. The sack slid on it down to the floor. “I do this at every performance. Do you want me to fling you there too?”
“Not to forget—where were you at the time of murder? And do not tell me the menagerie.”
“We had a break. Before, I was lifting our acrobats, and after the break I went to lift weights. Rubber ones. Inflated.”
“Where were you during the break?”
“I went to the caravan for a pick-me-up.”
“You were alone in the caravan, I assume.”
“No. I have Ornella there.”
I scratched my nose.
“A turtle,” he added.
“Well, thanks for your help, Arnie.”
“What?”
“Send Madam Cashier here.”
“And that’s it? After flinging the sack and Ornella’s alibi?”
“That’s it.”
* * *
I went out to gather my thoughts. I lit a cigarette and watched the hustle and bustle all around. The Industrial Palace towered above the caravans, centrifuges, carousels, and swans. It was lit by a million bulbs. The structure, with its art nouveau design, was a slap on the ass to all the curlicue Parisian buildings. Even our Eiffel on Petřín is prettier, only scaled down to one-third size. And nobody can compete with our fairy-tale Industrial Palace. Not even the castle from the Disney logo. Damn, we have the most beautiful world kitsch. And in front of it, every year until the end of times, eternal: Matěj’s humming carnival. And I, instead of sipping beer from a plastic cup and eating a sausage with mustard at a kiosk, investigate the murder of a girl. A few more things I needed to ask occurred to me. I went back to the Haunted House—to the cash register.