“Look, I’m trying to be nice here, but you’re starting to piss me off. You go do your own shit. Get a job as a courier. I got a delivery to make.” He deliberately thickened up his very faint Latino accent and made himself sneer at the stranger.
The smile on the face grew wider and the voice became patronizing. “Julio, are you trying to get macho with me?”
“Hey, fuck you!”
The knife came out of the shadows and slashed deeply into Julio’s throat. The blood didn’t spill from the gash in his neck, it erupted. Julio dropped his package and staggered backwards, more surprised than anything else. Both of his hands moved to his throat and tried to catch the crimson waterfall that spilled from between his fingers. He knew he was cut and badly, but there was almost no pain.
No, wait, there it was, a red-hot blast of agony across his neck and throat that overshadowed the warmth running down his shirt.
Even as he fell backward, the man reached out and snatched the cap from the top of his head.
Julio looked up at the man, and choked on his own blood. He coughed and felt the spray of warmth push past his fingers again, even as more of it spilled past his lips.
The stranger slid the cap in place and picked up both the package Julio had dropped and the electronic clipboard for signatures.
“I said I didn’t want to hurt you, Julio. Not that I wouldn’t.” He shrugged and then grabbed Julio by his feet. A moment later the stranger was dragging him into the back of his own van and slamming the door.
He heard the man walk to the driver’s side and heard the rustling sounds of his jacket being taken from the back of the seat.
“Little snug, Julio, but good enough for government work.” The man was whistling as he walked away.
Julio wanted to make a comment, but his muscles weren’t working anymore. He drifted into sleep first and death a few moments later.
***
Is there anything more magical than a circus?
The Carnivale de Fantastique qualified as a circus in every sense of the word, except the most traditional. Oh, to be sure there were acrobats and clowns, there were jugglers and dancers, and on occasion there were even a few animals, but none of that had anything to do with the sort of circus that set up in tents and put out thousands of poorly printed flyers in the hopes that people would attend.
No, quite to the contrary, the Carnivale was one of the new generations of circuses, a monumental vision designed, developed and funded by major forces in the entertainment industry. The advertising budget alone would have financially crippled almost any traditional circus in existence, or let a good number of the performers retire comfortably. There were program books, t-shirts, and a dozen different other chunks of merchandise that had to be reordered from the manufacturers after damned near every weekend worth of performances. The money generated by the overpriced DVDs of the different shows The Carnivale de Fantastique had performed was enough to guarantee the backers of the show their money back with a tidy profit, and that money was nothing compared to what the show hauled in annually from touring.
The premise behind the shows, and the source of the name, came from an urban legend that had grown over the last fifty years. Alexander Halston’s Carnival of the Fantastic, to be precise. There were stories of a circus troupe that had vanished one day, never to be seen again. There was even, according to whom you talked to, some evidence that the circus had even existed. Somewhere along the way, the tale had been examined in almost every way possible. Tales of murder, talk of a mass disappearance worthy of the colony at Roanoke, and even stories of alien abductions had all come and gone over the years.
The founders of the Carnivale de Fantastique were enchanted by the stories, and so they recreated them. The least successful version of the story they told was the one that involved aliens, but most of the variations on the theme of a circus that disappeared had been met with amazing approval. This year’s entry, the Carnival of Wonders, was a rousing success so far.
Critically speaking, the Carnivale was considered art in the truest form. The reviews were almost always positive and the few that were not usually came from the sort of naysayers who hated everything they encountered. While not every performer reached a level of stardom, there were many from the current show and earlier ones as well who had become celebrities in their own right. Hell, some of the performers who’d left the oversized troupe maintained their stardom well after they’d retired and moved on to different fields of interest. There were even plans, though not solidified as yet, to take the show across the waters and hit both Britain and Europe.
The Carnivale was reinvented every year—the premise was always the same, but the stories were almost completely unique—often with entirely new casts, because the stress of performing within the neuveau circus was both physical and emotional. Sets were designed that put all but the finest displays on Broadway to shame, and the current season had required costumes that broke the one hundred thousand dollar mark, each one custom tailored to the individual performer, because the show had to be flawless.
There were two shows a night, every night, for at least three weeks, in ten major cities. That was the schedule and the producers intended to stick with it, regardless of the physical wear and tear on dancers and acrobats alike. Every part in the performance came complete with a second set of wardrobes and at least one backup performer. A sprained ankle or a broken bone would not be enough to stop the show and the cast knew it, just as they knew that each and every one of them could be replaced with a minimum of muss and fuss. Everyone was salaried and everyone also got a cut of the profits, provided they stayed through the season. Most of the serious money got divided between the performers who managed to survive until the end of the tour. That was the way the Carnivale had always been handled and despite a few attempted lawsuits by disgruntled ex-employees who had dropped out or been canned, that was likely the way it would always be handled. The performers had to sign a contract that said as much and to date no one had found a loophole on the seven-page document.
That suited Elizabeth Montenegro just fine. As one of the leads in the show, she was guaranteed to make a ridiculous amount of money, and the performances, while demanding, were not likely to cause her any permanent injury as long as she remembered to stretch before and after every show. She’d had a harder workout when she was one of the minor characters in Cats when it ran on Broadway.
The worst of it was the down time, because as much as she might wish that someone else had to pack her outfits and prepare for the next town, the Carnivale didn’t work that way. When the shows were done in one town, she had to inventory everything and pack it herself. She might get help actually transporting it, but her costumes and all of their accessories were her responsibility.
She was elbow deep in the costume for the final scene of the play, the “Ice Princess” costume, with all of the glittering arcs of sequined metal and foil streamers. It wasn’t a delicate costume, none of them were, but it still had to be handled carefully.
Elizabeth carefully wrapped the cape, sliding foam rubber inserts in between the long streamers and the two sweeping shoulder pads that made her look like something from another planet. The audience always ooed and ahhed when it was all said and done, but she still thought the costume was atrocious.
The last of her packing materials were in place and she was just sliding the cape into its carrying case when the knock came at the door to her dressing room.
Elizabeth sighed and frowned. She didn’t want to be disturbed and little ticked her off as quickly as interruptions during her down time. “Who is it?” She tried to keep the bitchiness out of her voice, but only half-succeeded.
“Special delivery, Ms. Montenegro.” She stood up quickly. The last six months had garnered her a total of two stalkers and as a result, no one was informed about which dressing room was hers unless they had a legitimate delivery. There were only two packages she was expecting, one from her mother and one from her dealer.<
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“Can you tell me who the package is from, please?” she spoke calmly, but did a nervous dance on her side of the door. She needed a quick fix before they left town. Just something to keep her calm when she got on the plane, because she hated flying.
“It says it’s from ‘Nana Montenegro,’ ma’am.”
That was exactly what she wanted to hear. Her hands quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open. The man on the other side was no one she’d seen before, but Julio normally sent the packages by legitimate couriers so that wasn’t exactly a surprise for her. He stood a little less than six feet in height, and was as lean as he was tall. His hair was slicked back and half buried under a cap that advertised the local delivery service, and his face was handsome enough, not that she was looking, with a friendly smile, a broad nose and the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen.
He handed her the package without hesitation and presented a clipboard with a signature sheet and a pen attached.
Elizabeth scribbled her signature down on the paper and smiled briefly at him as she slid the small box into her jeans pocket. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” His voice was a purr.
She stared at him for a moment. He was…unsettling. Despite his pleasant demeanor, there was something about him that gave her the creeps. Still, there were matters of decorum to consider. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the two folded dollar bills she kept there for just such situations.
“Here you are. Have a nice day.” The bills were proffered and she stood facing him. No way in hell was she going to turn her back on him.
The deliveryman looked at the bills for a moment and his lips stretched out in a smile. “That’s very sweet of you.” He took the bills and held them up for her to see. They trembled lightly between his index finger and middle finger for just a moment, and then simply vanished.
She smiled, pleased by the cheap parlor trick.
“Neat. You have to practice that a lot?”
“These days it almost comes naturally.” His hand turned around, so that the palm was to her, and then turned again so that she could see the fine, dark hairs on the back of his hand. He turned his hand a second time and there was a shining flash of metal held between his fingers.
Elizabeth barely had time to be surprised before the blade pressed against her face. “Now, let’s you and me step into your dressing room and have a little talk, hmmm?”
She felt the cold metal slide softly across her cheek and down to her neck and shivered from top to bottom. “Unnn?”
“No talking. Not yet.” The pressure increased, and she took a step back into her room. The man followed, giving her no chance to escape.
After he’d entered the room, he closed the door and locked it.
“Please, don’t hurt me.” Her voice cracked and her knees were trembling.
“Shhhh. Don’t speak until spoken to. Don’t make a noise.” His smile grew broader. “If you play nicely we can both forget all about this in a little while, and I won’t have to carve your pretty little face off of your skull.”
She almost nodded her head and then realized it would be a bad idea.
“We’re going to have a talk, Elizabeth. I’m going to ask you questions, and you are going to answer them truthfully.” His voice stayed soft and low, but despite his smile, she could feel the hatred coming from him like heat from an oven. He kept pressing her backward and she kept going, horrified by the idea of what the blade against her neck could do.
“What do you want to know?”
The cold blue eyes that stared at her glittered.
“Well now, we have a lot to discuss. Let’s get started, before anyone interrupts us.”
Life On The Road: Part One
I was what, maybe sixteen when I left home. There were a lot of reasons, but mostly it was because there was no work in town that didn’t involve being in a factory or mill for most of the day. We’d been away from the farm for three years or so and I’d seen what the factory did to my father. It ground him down and sapped away his strength a little at a time. Sometimes I thought it was leaving the farm that did him in, really, but other times I knew better. It was the backbreaking work and the knowledge that it wouldn’t get any better. It would never get any better.
He wasn’t an old man. Neither of my parents were old. I think my old man was nineteen when he got married, but he was looking closer to sixty by the time I packed a few sets of clothing and took off. And the reason for it was obvious to me. He was working himself to death in order to pay the bills and keep a roof over our collective heads. Not even to get ahead of the game, just to make ends meet.
He came home six days a week, seven sometimes, if there was extra work to be had, smelling of molten metal, that had fused its odor to his clothes and his skin alike. There were days when, as soon as he was done with his shower, he’d sit in his favorite chair with a hand held mirror and pick the black spots from his skin, particles of hot metal that had burned themselves onto him. You can see why a day or two of that would put a man in a bad mood, right?
Well, it left my father worse than bitter. It left him defeated. After a while I think he was just going through the motions. He’d always been a proud man, and losing the farm had been a bad blow, but believe me, he changed when he went to work at the foundry.
Now and then when I talk about him I think I’m too harsh. He wasn’t a bad sort. He just wasn’t really built for fun. My father’s idea of a good time was a Sunday visit to the church, followed by a picnic in the back 40, and then a few hours of chores before dinnertime. I guess I’d have been the same way if I’d been through the Second World War and depression before that. Most of his generation seemed to be that way, at least to my eyes. That probably changed later.
He didn’t beat us, he didn’t do any of the things I’ve heard tales about over the years. He was just stern. Sometimes that’s enough to make you dislike someone. I loved my father, but it’s fair to say we never had the chance to be friends. I guess that can only come later in life, and I wasn’t around when that time could have or should have come around.
So after we left the farm, I only stayed around long enough to know I couldn’t bear the idea of being like my father. Even that revelation took a while. I told myself I was leaving to help the family, to make sure that they could pay the bills on time, and to make damned sure my little sister didn’t end up living on the streets.
I left a note for Millie. Don’t ask for the exact words, because you won’t get them. They were for her and her alone.
After I hid the note beneath Millie’s pillow, I slipped out of the house and moved away like a thief in the night.
I’d planned on heading for New York, to try my luck as an escape artist. I thought if it worked for Houdini, I could go the same route.
Fate had other plans.
Chapter Two: Looking for Millie (Part Two)
I could have driven, or taken a plane. I could have even walked it in a pinch. Instead, I took a Greyhound Bus headed for the old stomping grounds and almost had a stroke when I heard how much people pay for the privilege.
I didn’t pay it. I almost never pay.
Ever been on a bus for a long distance trip? It ain’t living in the lap of luxury. I’ve been in worse places, but some truths are universal: put enough losers in a confined space and at least one of them will go it without deodorant. My old buddy Burt Calhoun told me that simple fact, and he was right.
Home. It’s an interesting word, isn’t it? Four little letters that are almost as filled with complexity as the word ‘Love.’ If home is where the heart is, than I have had several places I could have called home and all of them have been taken away from me at one time or another. But the one that mattered the most right then was not the farm where I grew up, but the last ramshackle house where I saw my family before I ran away. Where I gave Millie a good night kiss and promised I’d come back when I could and bring her a pony, a life worth living. For me home w
as first and foremost where I saw my little sister, right up until the time I never saw her again.
She was all I thought about on that bus trip. Well, that and the loser without the deodorant. He’s a story for another time, though. Not really important to the tale aside from the fact that he distracted me and later, when everything else was taken care of, I decided to make him my latest hobby.
Checking out the old home front seemed like a nice idea, anyway. The old neighborhood was gone. Not changed, but completely eradicated. Some of the street names were the same, and the geography of the roads was similar, but the tenement buildings and run down houses I’d known had been destroyed and replaced by bigger houses that had been around long enough to get threadbare, shiny new condominiums and a few shopping centers. There wasn’t even enough left to get nostalgic about.
I think I stared at that damned street for close to an hour. I know at least one of the people in the house that stood where my home used to be peeked out the window a few times and frowned at me, her mouth pulled into an ugly expression as she contemplated whether or not I might be dangerous. Believe me, she didn’t know the half of it.
I didn’t feel like enlightening her, either, so I finally decided to leave. There wasn’t much she could have told me, nothing she could have found in her attic that would have helped me find Millie, anyway.
You know what the problem with going away for fifty years is? The trail you want to follow is half a century old. How many feet had walked down the sidewalks, how many cars had cruised down Sullivan Street since last Millie had been there? I don’t think I could count that high on a bet.
So I had nothing except a name, and I needed to find out what had happened to my sister. Not an impossible challenge, but I have to tell you, it sure as hell seemed that way.
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