The Three-Legged Hootch Dancer: Tales of the Galactic Midway, Vol. 2 Read online

  “It's my job,” said Monk firmly. “I saw him into this world, I'll see him out of it."

  “I always thought you captured him."

  Monk shook his head. “Do you know how hard it's been to get any kind of animal out of Africa since they threw the British out? No, I had his mother in my old circus act.” He reached his hand into Simba's mouth and rubbed his pale gums. “I've had him since he was born."

  Flint couldn't think of anything else to say, so he stood quietly and watched Monk stroke the dying lion. Finally the animal trainer looked up at him. “I've been thinking, Thaddeus."

  “Yeah?"

  “We're never going back to Earth, are we?"

  “I doubt it."

  “What the hell am I going to do when the other three die?"

  Flint sighed. “Why don't we worry about that problem when we come to it?"

  “You're the boss—but it's going to happen one of these days."

  Flint spent another couple of minutes watching the lion tamer and the lion, then started walking back to the Midway. Wonderful, he thought grimly. As soon as l figure out what do with a stripper who hasn't got an audience, I'm going have to deal with an animal trainer who hasn't got any animals.

  Maine and Vermont started looking better and better to him. Then Lori sought him out and tongue-lashed him for spending the past three nights with Jenny, and even his horrible two-week playdate on the outskirts of the Everglades on the Florida circuit seemed idyllic in retrospect.

  As he was passing along the Midway on his way back to the ship, he saw Stogie and Diggs standing next to the Bozo cage, engaged in animated conversation.

  “Damn it, Stogie!” he yelled, walking over to them. “How the hell many times have I got to tell you to keep away from the cage?"

  “Relax, Thaddeus,” said Diggs. “We're just entering into a friendly little wager."

  “Yeah?” demanded Flint. “What kind?"

  “My friend Max, here, has just bet me fifty dollars that I can't open this lock in less than five minutes.” He gestured to the padlock on the gate to the cage.

  “What do you know about picking locks?"

  “Nothing,” admitted Diggs. “But I know a hell of a lot about betting. I figure any man who can manipulate a deck of cards as well as I can ought to be able to totally disassemble this thing with a tie pin in under three minutes."

  “The bet's off,” said Flint.

  “Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can't bet on?” demanded Diggs. “Or have you got something better to spend fifty American dollars on in this hellhole?"

  “Just who do you suppose put the goddamned lock on in the first place?” snapped Flint.

  “You?” asked Diggs, surprised.

  “You bet your ass it was me."

  “But I thought it was just to keep the natives out,” said Diggs.

  “It was to keep him out!” snapped Flint, jerking a thumb in Stogie's direction.

  “Is that true, Max?” said Diggs reproachfully.

  “He's got no right to stop me from being a Bozo if I want to!” said Stogie defiantly.

  “Well, I'll be damned!” laughed Diggs. “You tried to flim-flam the old Rigger! What the hell do you want to practice for, Max? You'd probably drown in the first five minutes."

  “Beats the hell out of dying of boredom,” said Stogie sullenly. “You've seen Monk's lion, Thaddeus? That's me in two more weeks. Maybe nobody up here appreciates a good dirty joke, but at least let me go out as a clown."

  “When did you ever tell a good dirty joke?” said Flint. “I'm running a goddamned carnival, not presiding over some kind of suicide ceremony. You want to feel useful, start spelling the Rigger at the Psychic booth."

  “I'm an entertainer, not a con man!” snapped the old comic.

  “Where have I heard that before?” muttered Flint grimly.

  He stepped over and stood next to Stogie, lowering his head until their faces were no more than three inches apart. “Now you listen to me, you senile prima donna! Monk's going to have an empty cage in another two days’ time. If I catch you around this one again, I'm going to lock you in that one until you get all this kamikaze shit out of your system. Understand?"

  “You don't have to yell at me,” said Stogie, lowering be eyes and stepping back.

  “The hell I don't! Someone's got to yell at a seventy-year-old man who wants to work the Bozo cage. Hell, do you even know how to swim?"

  “Of course I do!” said Stogie defensively.

  “You sure can't prove it by me. Why don't you practice in a bathtub every once in a while?"

  “I didn't come here to be insulted!” raged Stogie.

  “No. You came here to sneak into the goddamned cage and kill yourself.” Flint paused, trying to control his temper. “Look,” he said more softly, “if you have to be a clown, why not get together with the Dancer and see if you can work on some kind of routine?"

  “With him shooting bullets all around me?"

  “You'll be safer with him than in the cage."

  The old comic lowered his head in thought. “I dunno, Thaddeus..."

  “Think about it,” said Flint. “And keep the hell away from here or you and I are going to have a race to see who kills you first."

  “I'm sorry, Thaddeus,” replied Stogie earnestly. “And I will think about working with the Dancer. It's just that ... oh, I dunno: sometimes you get a little crazy when you start feeling useless."

  “I know,” said Flint.

  He stayed and talked with them for a few more minutes, then checked with the Dancer to make sure he had given the robots some bullets so they could start duplicating them. Finally, when he had run out of chores, he grimaced and headed back to the ship and went up to Gloria's compartment.

  “Can I come in?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

  “It's your ship,” she said, never looking up from the outfit she was sewing at her vanity.

  “Not exactly,” he replied, walking over and easing himself onto her recliner chair. “But I have a feeling that Mr. Ahasuerus and I are expected to pay off the mortgage.” He lit a cigarette and she turned to him.

  “I wish you wouldn't smoke in here."

  “Sorry,” he said, looking around for an ashtray, and finally grinding it out on his boot and putting it into his pocket.

  “It's bad for your cilia,” she said seriously.

  He grinned. “That sounds like the kind of straight line you used to feed Stogie."

  She shrugged. “All right—kill yourself. See if I care. Just don't do it in here."

  “What are you working on?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

  “A new idea,” she said, holding up some red satin material. “It's a breakaway blouse."

  “What's new about breakaway costumes?"

  “See this tab?” she asked, gesturing to a small piece of material perhaps an inch square just under the armpit. “Do you think the Dancer could hit it with his knife at say, sixty feet?"

  “You want him to strip you with knives?” asked Flint, interested in spite of himself.

  “I haven't spoken to him yet. Do you think he'll be willing?"

  “He could kill you."

  “Butterfly Delight isn't afraid."

  “Maybe not, but Thaddeus Flint is. Besides, I think I've it got him a partner."

  She glared at him. “I'm not working the booths."

  “I know you're not. I've got you a new partner, too."

  “Oh? Who?” she asked suspiciously.

  “The best goddamned barker in the galaxy and points north,” he summoned in his finest carny cadence. “In brief: me."

  “What's the catch?"

  “No catch,” he replied. “It just seems that Butterfly Delight has got some friends in very high places, and they convinced me to give her one more chance. And what the hell—as long as it's a make-it-or-break-it proposition, you might as well have the best talker in the business telling these hicks what they're seeing."


  “You mean it, Thaddeus?” she asked, her face suddenly radiant with happiness.

  “Of course I mean it. But you're going to have to work alone. I can't pull Barbara and Priscilla out of the booths."

  “When do I start?"

  “What's wrong with tonight?” he said.

  “Thank Tojo for me."

  “Let's wait and see what happens. If they all walk out again, I may strangle him for you."

  “You're not half as mean as you pretend to be, Thaddeus,” she said with a smile.

  “We could lock your door and put that theory to the test,” he suggested.

  “I have to work tonight."

  “So?"

  “It's bad for the wind."

  He chuckled, shook his head, and walked out."

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  So where the hell are my cigarettes?” demanded Flint.

  “Gone,” replied Tojo. “You smoked the last of them this morning."

  “What are you talking about? I brought fifty cartons along."

  “We've been on the road for more than five months,” said Tojo, “and you've been under a lot of pressure."

  Flint was sitting in the mess hall, four empty beer cans lined up on the table in front of him.

  “Then have the robots make up a batch!” said Flint irritably.

  “They can't,” answered Tojo uncomfortably.

  “Of course they can,” said Flint. “Just give ‘em a butt to analyze."

  “I tried,” said the hunchback. “They refused to synthesize any cigarettes."

  “What?” exploded Flint. “How the hell hard can it be to make a goddamned cigarette? They never have any trouble making fruit juice for your friend Gloria!"

  Tojo shifted his weight.

  “I'm waiting for an answer, you goddamned dwarf!” bellowed Flint.

  “Mr. Ahasuerus told them that smoking was unhealthy,” said Tojo, trying to force the words out quickly and stammering even worse than usual as a result.

  “He did what?"

  Tojo tried to answer him, but no words came forth.

  “We'll just see about this!” snapped Flint. He got to his feet and stormed over to the elevator. A moment later he emerged on the top level of the ship, and a few seconds after that he was pounding furiously on the blue man's door.

  “Do come in, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus politely, pressing a button that caused the door to slide into the wall as Flint stalked into the room.

  “I have somebody I want you to meet,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, gesturing to a small, rotund, red-skinned being sitting on one of the couches. The visitor was dressed in a bright metallic fabric that seemed to change colors even as Flint looked him.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Flint.

  “My name is Kargennian,” said the red-hued being, standing up and extending his hand. “I work for the Corporation."

  “I'll get to you later,” said Flint harshly, turning back Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “What's all this shit about not letting the robots make up any cigarettes for me?"

  “It's detrimental to your health, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus calmly.

  “Not as detrimental as getting your head shoved up your ass, Mr. Ahasuerus!” snapped Flint. “Unless you want a demonstration, you'd better countermand that order, and fast!"

  “That is hardly the way to behave in front of our guest, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, showing no sign of emotion.

  Flint turned to face Kargennian again. “You're the hotshot efficiency expert?"

  Kargennian smiled and nodded his head slightly.

  “You tell this blue skeleton to have some cigarettes in my hands before sunset or you're going to see just how inefficient this joint can be after I go on strike."

  He walked out without another word.

  “Your partner?” inquired Kargennian dryly.

  “He's inclined to be a bit emotional,” said Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “A bit?” said Kargennian.

  Mr. Ahasuerus spent the next few minutes trying alternately to excuse and explain Flint's behavior, while Flint himself returned to the mess hall and sought out Tojo.

  “It wasn't my fault,” said the hunchback, prepared to duck an anticipated blow.

  “Shut up and listen to me,” said Flint. “He's here."

  “Who?"

  “The Corporation man. He's up there talking with Mr. Ahasuerus right now. I think,” he added wryly, “that I could have made a better first impression."

  “You didn't hit him, did you, Thaddeus?” asked Tojo, who half expected an affirmative answer.

  ’”No. I was just my usual lovable self.” He paused, lost in thought. “He must have arrived in the last hour or so, while I down here drinking."

  “I didn't see him pass through."

  “Which just goes to show that you're about as observant as the rest of these slobs,” said Flint. “Well, as long as he thinks I'm a little unbalanced, maybe we can use it to our advantage. He's pretty pudgy, and he's had a long trip."

  He nodded his head decisively, as if in approval of his train of thought. “I want you to show him every inch of the carny, Tojo."

  “When?"

  “The second he walks out of my partner's office. Don't give him a chance to rest or relax. If you get tired, have the Rigger spell you. Wine him, dine him, flatter him—but keep him going. Then pass the word that we're opening two hours later than usual tonight."

  “I assume there's some purpose to this?"

  Flint nodded. “A fat guy like him, all this activity's got to tire him out."

  “I don't see the connection."

  “I'm going to wake him up very early tomorrow morning for our meeting.

  That ought to take some of the starch out of him. Oh—and try to get a little cotton candy into him, maybe a hot dog. Something his system's not used to."

  “If you say so,” shrugged Tojo. “Are you sure you don't want someone else to show him around, though?"

  “Why?"

  “You know—the way I talk."

  “He'll have to concentrate that much harder to understand you,” said Flint.

  He paused. “By the way, you were always a heavy reader. Did you bring any books with you?"

  “Of course."

  “You don't mind if I borrow a couple?"

  “Help yourself."

  “Thanks.” Flint stared at him. “Well?"

  “Well what, Thaddeus?"

  “Aren't you supposed to be hanging around Mr. Ahasuerus’ office waiting for this guy to come out?"

  Tojo opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and shuffled off to the elevator. Flint went to the hunchback's room, picked out a couple of books, tucked them under his arm, then went to Billybuck Dancer's quarters and knocked on the door.

  “Come on in,” said the Dancer, and Flint entered.

  The room reminded him a lot of the Dancer's trailer back on Earth. The walls were covered with old tintypes of Wyatt Earp and Ben Johnson and Bat Masterson and Johnny Ringo and scores of other Western lawmen and outlaws, with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Dancer's parents sitting on one bedtable, and a picture—Flint couldn't tell if it was a photo or a print—of a young woman in a gingham dress on the opposite table. There were no books, no tapes, no records in the room, nothing but a pair of very plain chairs—the Dancer had ripped his recliner out and requested a hard wooden chair in its place—and a bed that seemed never to be slept in. The covers were wrinkled, as if a body had occasionally laid down on them, but Flint's guess was that next time the Dancer crawled under the blanket and sheet would be the first.

  “What do you want, Thaddeus?” asked the Dancer in his pleasant Texas drawl.

  “I need a little help,” replied Flint.

  “You've already borrowed all my liquor,” said the Dancer gently.

  “I need some information."

  “Ain't nothing I can tell you, unless you want to know about shooting
or knife-throwing."

  “Let's talk about Indians,” said Flint, walking over to one of the chairs and sitting down.

  The Dancer shrugged. “Suits me."

  “Ever see a war dance?"

  “Dwight Eisenhower was President when I was born, Thaddeus,” replied the Dancer with a smile. “You ain't heard of an awful lot of Indian uprisings since then, have you?” He took a knife out of his pocket and started flipping it into the air. “That all you wanted to ask?"

  “I've got more."

  “Shoot."

  They spoke for another half hour. Then Flint returned to his own room, sat on his bed, propped himself up against the headboard, and started skimming through the books he had taken from Tojo's room. He toyed with making notes, but decided that he spoke better off the cuff, so when he finished them just before twilight he placed them back in the hunchback's meticulously-ordered bookcase.

  He stuck his head out the airlock, saw that Tojo was escorting Kargennian around the Midway, and nodded in approval. Then he called Gloria on the ship's intercom system and told her that she wouldn't be performing for another two hours.

  “Will these be satisfactory?” said a voice behind him, and turned to find Mr. Ahasuerus standing there, holding a huge container filled with cigarettes.

  “Thank you,” said Flint sardonically.

  “The pleasure is mine,” replied the blue man with dry irony.

  “How's the hotshot doing?” asked Flint, taking the container from him.

  “Tojo has been showing him the Midway for the past few hours,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “I understand that we won't be opening for another two hours."

  “That's right."

  “Is there any particular reason?"

  “None that you have to concern yourself with,” replied Flint. “I suppose Kargennian wants to have a long talk with the pair of us after he's had a look around?"

  “That is correct."

  “Six o'clock tomorrow morning."

  The blue man flashed his teeth. “You've never gotten out of bed before noon in all the time I've known you, Mr. Flint."

  “Just giving my all for the company,” said Flint with a smile.

  “You hope, of course, to wear Kargennian down,” observed Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “The thought had crossed my mind."

  “To what purpose?"