Mountains of the Misbegotten, page 10
“You don’t hate skeets?”
“What sane person doesn’t? But I prefer my privacy more.”
“To hide all your scars?”
“I can hide only those that show,” she said, “but yes, and I assume you want to know about them.”
“Only if it pleases you to talk. Me, I’ve seen a lot of scars, and how they come about ain’t usually so pretty, nor even worth recalling.”
“I never took you to be a philosopher,” she said.
“I ain’t,” he said. What I am, he reminded himself, is a game warden, and still a pretty darn green one at that.
Bapcat said, “Mackley ran up a huge bill with Egerd and never paid, and when Egerd went to Mrs. Mackley, she paid cash for her husband’s debt, but had the goods delivered to Archibald’s warehouse. He in the storage business?”
“Not that I heard of, but he’s got his hands in a lot of things.”
“Was afraid of that,” he said quietly. “Looks like you might’ve been on the right track in this thing.”
“Thank you. What do you propose to do about it?”
“Got to find Mackley—otherwise there ain’t nothing to hold on to except speculation, which ain’t worth spit in a court of law.”
CHAPTER 17
Bruce Crossing
Tuesday, July 7
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Jone Gleann had told him the day before as they’d sat by the creek in bright afternoon sunlight she draped in a towel, he in his long johns. He had been getting ready to ask about her scars, but her statement had snapped him out of his reverie. “To the mountains?”
“The circus,” she said. “It may prove more informative if we start there.”
“You and me are going to the circus?”
“Neither I, nor we, just you—though I suppose you should take that scamp McIlrath with you. Don’t let him see the naked ladies; he’s already got too big an interest down those lines.”
“The circus has naked ladies?”
She looked at him. “Have you never been to a circus?”
He shook his head.
“Even better than I could hope for,” Gleann said. She stood momentarily in a sunspot, which made her leg scars flame magenta, stepped into trousers, yanked them up, twirled a towel around her shoulders like a tape, tied it off, and marched away.
•••
The circus had come to Bruce Crossing in its own small train, now parked on a siding. It was eventually bound for Wisconsin and Minnesota, Jimjim offered. The dwarf had come along on his own, as had Scales, and both men were as excited as children. They came upon a yellow tent and near it, three smaller, longer ones, like Indian sweat lodges, a sign declaring “Pellerin’s Traveling Showmen & World Menagerie of Beasts.” Painted in red letters on a white canvas banner, the sign stretched across an entrance arch. The smallest of the three tents promoted “Raree Show—Nature’s Geeks and Freaks Galore,” and the other canvas structure had signs proclaiming “Ferocious Man-Eating Beasts, Still Wild & Untamed.” The last tent advertised “Exotic Dancers” in bright red-and-gold letters, five feet high.
Jimjim said, “Stick close by me” to Scale as they neared the raree tent.
“You a’fearin’?” Scale asked.
Jimjim said, “Little folk like me sometimes get pressed into service by the likes of these, and are never seen again.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ta be feared of, if a man got Jesus in his heart,” Scale said. “I personally seen fields awash in guts and blood, and crows and vultures playing tug-of-war with men’s chitlins.”
“Our fears are each our own,” the dwarf said quietly. “Leave me to mine and you can have yours.”
“Ain’t nothin’ rankles or peeves me. I seen the elephant more’n I can count. You little fellas sure are touchy.”
“Call me Master,” Jimjim said.
Scale bristled immediately. “Damned if I will,” the Negro said, puffing up.
Jimjim grinned. “Seems we little fellas ain’t alone in the touchies.”
“What’s a raree freak?” young McIlrath asked, staring up at the sign which showed a bearded woman.
“Depends on who’s lookin’ and who’s bein’ looked at,” Jimjim said. “I’d say it’s mostly in the eye of the beholder.”
Bapcat steered the lot of them to the Beast tent, paid their admission, and took them inside. Four cages were lined up end to end: a mountain lion in one, a timber wolf in another, a fox in the third, and a crowd of open-mouth gawkers in front of the fourth cage with a sign that read “Sultan the Bear.”
The deputy game warden pushed through the crowd, using his rifle as a lever, and finally got to the iron bars. There were three men around a prone black bear.
“I done kilt thet monster dead with my magic killin’ stick,” a boy of no more than eight declared to the gathering, his little chest puffed out.
One of the men, on his knees by the animal, looked up and grinned. He wore a clown suit, but no greasepaint. “Hey, kid, maybe we ought to get the boss to hire you as our bear killer.”
The boy looked pleased. “What’s it pay?”
The crowd laughed and applauded, patted the boy’s head.
“What happened?” Bapcat asked through the bars. The reek of shit and blood was on the floor, pulling in wedges of hungry flies.
“Ain’t your business, Larry,” the man in the clown suit said.
“I know some things about animals.”
“Go on and beat it,” the man said.
But Bapcat went to the back of the cage, slid into the open door, and flashed his rifle. The three men took a step back. “I think it’s illegal to kill a bear with a stick around here.”
“That kid didn’t kill nothin’,” Clown Suit said, making a twirling motion with his forefinger near his temple. “Little booger’s daft.”
“Did too kill it,” the boy yelped and whimpered in his own defense. “Was a fierce and bloody fight. See the blood for yourselfs.”
No doubt about the blood. Big hemorrhage, Bapcat thought.
Jimjim stood by the boy. “It’s your story, son. Tell it how you like.”
Bapcat looked at Clown Suit. “What happened?”
“Started pukin’ blood outten his mouth, shittin’ all over ever’thing, keeled over dead.”
Bapcat stepped closer. Clown Suit said, “That ain’t allowed.”
The deputy warden ignored the man and squatted beside the dead animal, a male. He looked at the animal’s head, opened its mouth. All the canine teeth were gone, the rest, mere yellow nubs. There were huge amounts of scar tissue all over the animal’s body. “How old is he?”
Clown Suit again: “No idea, chum. He come aboard to perform with us two seasons back. What’s it matter now?”
“Perform how?” Bapcat asked.
“Dance, balance tricks, the old make-the-kiddies-laugh-and-piss-their-pants routine.”
“So many scars.”
“Guess he was just a clumsy kind of bear,” one of the men said.
Bapcat saw that the animal’s claws were gone and lifted one large front paw. There were burns all over the pads, bad ones, scarred over. Same on the other paw. He looked at Clown Suit for an explanation.
“Gotta find a way to make them mind,” the man said, shrugging. “Tell ’em to stand up, they damn well better stand up.”
“He loved kids,” one of the men said. “Until today.”
“So much scarring,” Bapcat said again. “Gotta be better ways.”
“In this racket, the fastest way is the cheapest way, and cheapest is always best,” Clown Suit said. “Quick results, and move on.”
“This bear fight others?”
“We’re just cirkies,” one of the men said, “not performers. You got questions, take ’em to Paul.”
“Who is he?”
“Paul Pellerin, the bossman.”
“In the big tent?”
“The big tent is called the Big Top, buddy. It’s more likely he’s in the backyard in the red wagon, getting dressed.”
“He has an act?”
Clown Suit spoke. “Ringmaster. Owners can do what they want, I reckon. America, right?”
Bapcat left his companions at the entrance to the raree tent, caught a lot of hard stares as he carried his rifle through the maze of wagons. Pellerin’s trailer was the only one painted red and the door was open. A girl in tights that barely qualified as a costume, much less clothing, was vigorously brushing a man’s thick, wiry hair.
“Pellerin?” Bapcat asked.
“I don’t know you,” the man said, not bothering to look at the door.
“I go by Lute.”
“I got a show to do here. You want work, come back after. You got skills?”
“Big animals.”
Pellerin turned in his chair, squinted out into the light, and pushed away the girl’s hand and brush. “Such as? And kindly enumerate.”
“Bear, buffalo, elk, deer, some big cats.”
“Bears. Trick or scrap?”
Assuming scrap meant fighting, Bapcat said, “Whatever’s needed.”
“Luke, right?” Pellerin said.
“Lute.”
“Right—Lute. Come back after the show.” He slapped the girl on the behind.
“Babs, baby, I gotta see John Robinson, so make sure this fine fella gets it free, okay?”
“But Paul . . . ?” she said in a questioning tone.
“That ain’t no request, baby. Take care of the man. The whole thing.”
“You mean . . . ?” she asked, pouting.
“Are you deaf? You know what I mean. Go on now, git.”
The woman took Bapcat’s arm and tried to lead him away, but he balked. “Is the bear supposed to fight today?” he asked the big boss.
“Nah, that’s for other times and other places, you know, special events out in the gauze. Babsy, get him moving.” Pellerin suddenly stood up. “Wait! You know anybody can lay hands quick on a live bear? Word is there’s lots of them up in the high country.”
“Depends,” Bapcat said. “Scrap, or something else?”
“All of it, I hope.”
“Trained then, not untrained.”
“Word’s raw, pal. We got the guy here can teach it what it needs to do.”
“Who’s that?”
Pellerin turned away, said over his shoulder, “Ain’t got the job yet. Go with Babs—it’s on me. She’s clean as soap, just had her doc check yesterday. I won’t tolerate no social problems in my troupe.”
The woman took Bapcat’s arm again. “I got a tent,” she said. “It ain’t no caravan, but I keep it clean, and I reckon it’s nice enough to roll around.”
“I’m with friends,” Bapcat said, stopping.
The woman studied him. “If the boss says it’s on him, bring them, too. Chava for one, chava for all.”
Bapcat did not know the word, but had no problem figuring out the meaning. “One’s a kid.”
“How old?” she asked.
“Not nearly old enough,” Bapcat said.
“What do I tell the boss?”
“The truth: that I politely declined.”
“Mister, ain’t nobody ever politely declined my pussy.”
“Tell him you gave me all I wanted and I went to see the show.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I sure could use me a break.”
“Tell me something,” Bapcat said. “Who is Pellerin’s animal trainer?”
“Himself. He’s too damn cheap to pay anyone else.”
•••
Bapcat rejoined the others and Jimjim asked, “Saw you were over by the circus boss’s joint. You thinking about a new job?”
“It’s always good to keep an open mind,” Bapcat said.
“The people in this outfit breaking any laws?” the little man asked.
“Don’t know,” Bapcat said, which was true, but the burn scars on the bear’s footpads were disturbing, which came as a surprise to him. He’d killed countless animals over the years, bears included, but he had never felt this way before. He supposed this meant something, though at this point he couldn’t say exactly what.
Over the past year he had worked quite a bit with Houghton County assistant prosecutor Roland Echo, and a friendship had developed. Echo was prosecutor Tony Lucas’s lifelong friend, and what Judge O’Brien once called a real backroom, keep-his-mug-out-of-the-newspaper type. Echo was the real legal brain in the county office, and what he didn’t know, he would dig like a hungry dog to find.
“Hey!” Mac yelped, pointing at a sign: “EXOTIC DANCERS—ADULTS ONLY.”
“You’re too dang young to ogle kootch, boy,” Scale said.
“Kootch?” the boy asked.
“You make my point for me,” Scale said, smiling slightly. “Kootch is pussy.”
“Please,” the boy entreated.
Jimjim said, “Happens sooner or later for all of us.”
Bapcat shrugged. Jimjim was right. They all paid and went inside. The boy’s presence was unremarked upon, much less challenged.
There were three women on a foot-high stage, and they performed one at a time. The last one was the youngest of the three, and the most animated by far, though all of them had wiggled and jiggled until they sweated their skins to a bright red glow.
The boy said nothing until they were back outside. “I like that last kootchie’s things the best,” he announced.
“Things?” Bapcat asked.
“Like Sister Jone’s, only hers are a whole lot bigger!”
Bapcat thumped the top of the boy’s skull with his forefinger. “How do you know that?”
“All us boys like to watch you two in the stream.”
“I’d better not catch you,” Bapcat said finger-thumping the boy one more time.
“We ain’t seen no circus yet,” the boy complained, changing subjects.
“I guess you’ve seen more than enough,” Bapcat proclaimed. “See too much stuff like that, and your brain becomes oatmeal.”
“No it don’t,” the boy insisted.
“Where do you think all them freaks you seen today come from?” Jimjim asked.
“The bearded lady and melted-face man?” the boy asked.
“Whole dang lot of them,” Bapcat said.
Bapcat sent his company back to Lake Mine, and with them gone, found himself a place to sit in the shade and think, the rifle across his lap keeping people away. There were few patrons, which reinforced his earlier curiosity about why the circus would stop at such a drip-drop burg as Bruce Crossing, when Bergland was said to be much larger, more level, and just up the tracks.
•••
Back at the red wagon, show over, Bapcat was greeted by Pellerin and another woman, this one the youngest from the kootchie show. Pellerin said, “Babs says you’re queer, which is jake by me. You like that flavor, we can find some around here. Seems like it’s everywhere these days.”
“The job,” Bapcat said.
“You got bona fides?” the boss asked.
“I ain’t sure,” Bapcat confessed.
“Means experience.”
“Trapper, miner, soldier, cowboy.”
“All laudable, but I refer to cirky work. The rest ain’t worth squat.”
“Just animals,” Bapcat said.
“Live or dead?”
“Both.”
“Bears, specifically?”
“Both alive and dead,” Bapcat said.
“How you catch ’em alive and whole—pits and nets?”
“Business secret.”
Pellerin smiled. “You got a price?”
“Depends on what you want.”
“A big-ass bear is what I got to have. If it ain’t tamed enough to go out in the ring, fine by me, but he’s gotta hate dogs the way a Mick hates Prods. Am I making myself clear here?”
Bapcat nodded. “There ain’t a wild bear alive that likes dogs.”
“Good to hear. So how much, and, more to the point, how soon?”
“Rut season right now,” Bapcat explained. “Boars are cranky and looking for sows. Makes them cover a lot more ground in their search, which makes them a lot harder to catch now than in the fall, when all they got on their minds is food.”
“Sort of like us,” Pellerin said, “pussy overriding all else.” He tickled the kootch and she laughed out loud. “I need me that bear now,” he said.
“No can do,” Bapcat said. “Where’d you get your last one?”
“Boughten off some ghillies in Texas, who said they got him from a fella up in north Arkansas. Told me he was ten and I could expect maybe twenty working years out of him.”
“Not ten,” Bapcat said. “Much older. What teeth haven’t been pulled are ground down to stubs. What did you feed it, rocks?”
Pellerin grinned. “How the hell I know what bears eat? I’m the boss, not no damn bear hand. See here, I got a problem; are you gonna help me solve it?”
“I’m trying, but fall’s the best I can do.”
“Ain’t good enough, and you still ain’t given me no price to mull.”
“What did you pay for the dead one?”
“Paid five hundred, and I was fucked.”
“You ever buy from a zoo?”
“Where you think Sultan come from? Zoo in Fort Worth.”
“And they said they got it up in Arkansas?”
“As a cub, they claimed, a prevarication I now suspect, like his age. Point is, I got to have me a bear before we roll into Wisconsin. Bears are big draws up here in the North Country.”
“What’ll you do without one?”
“Don’t know for sure,” Pellerin said. “Ask around, I guess. Was you serious about fall?”
“I can be for a thousand.”
“A head?”
“Two fifty a foot,” Bapcat joked. “The head’s free. How many you want?”
