Magician (14 page)

I groaned.

Tiller’s eyes went to the rear view.

“Don’t look now, but there’s a patrol car back there.”

“You’re kidding. And us with no penguins?”

“I wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd. He’s coming up on us pretty quick.”

“Odds are it’s Deputy Cale, from last night. I guess we should just play it cool.”

They drove along at Tiller’s preferred speed of 50 miles an hour, and the police cruiser overtook them. The two cars were alone on the highway. The blue lights on the patrol car came on.

“He’s pulling us over,” Tiller said incredulously, and steered the car over toward the shoulder.

The other vehicle flashed by, his blue lights still going. It was Deputy Cale. He nodded at us and hit his siren. The patrol car accelerated out of sight.

“That son of a bitch is just messing with us.”

“Simmer down, Tiller. It’s over. The guy had his fun. Let it go. Maybe now we can stay out of his way.”

“The last thing I need is some punk rookie trying to spook me,” Tiller grumbled, his joking good humor gone.

I stared after the disappearing patrol car.
I hope we’ve seen the last of Deputy Cale for a while. We could use some help, not interference.
 

We rode for the rest of the way in silence.

Tiller grunted after a while, and nodded toward a fading sign that stood by the road:
Hanging Gap, four miles.
He turned off onto a gravel road and drove slowly, raising a huge cloud of dust.

A few minutes later we arrived at Hanging Gap. It had been a big place, once. The people who lived there now had made a valiant attempt to resurrect it to its former glory, but it was obvious that the population wasn’t very large.
 

Tiller parked in front of a building that was obviously an old saloon. A hanging sign straddled the main street. It was a white banner, and painted in blood red letters was the legend:
Welcome to Inspiration.

“I thought the place was called Hanging Gap,” Tiller mused, scratching his beard. He looked genuinely puzzled.

“Maybe the locals decided to rename the place something a bit more inviting.”

“This looks like one of those old Western towns you see on television,” Tiller mumbled.

“Well, tie your horse next to the watering trough and let’s go in,” I said, which drew a laugh from Tiller.

We got out of the car and stood there, looking around. Someone had done some renovation, that much was obvious. Just who had done it wasn’t evident from the empty streets.

“Okay, Tiller, let’s go find somebody.” We walked down the street, side by side.

“Feels like we ought to be facing down bad guys,” Tiller chuckled.

“Soon enough,” I replied. I stopped suddenly. “Wait just a second. Do you hear that?”

It was sound of someone singing, coming up the street from the other end, where a big building sat a distance from the other structures. It looked newer, its modern sheet metal construction oddly out of place amid the crumbling splendor of the Old West boomtown. As we drew nearer, I recognized the song as the opening stanza from a musical I’d seen in college.

Once in the highlands,
 

The highlands of Scotland,
 

Two weary hunters lost their way . . .
 

“Brigadoon?” I questioned Tiller aloud. He shook his head in amazement. The two of us walked up to a metal fire door bearing a plaque:

The Proscenium Ballroom

Dedicated to Wayne T. Claeren, our first Mayor.

Abruptly, the singing died away, and was replaced by the sound of the restless wind, sighing through the windowless buildings up the street.

“You gonna knock?” Tiller asked me, stepping to one side.

Frowning, I rapped hard on the door. There was an excited murmur inside, and after a beat a slight, girlish-looking woman opened the door. She was dressed in a pink leotard, her long black hair in a ponytail. She turned and chirped in a high, lively voice, “I think it’s the police.”

Immediately other faces crowded in behind her.

“They sure look like cops,” a short man in a jester’s cap snorted.

“Not the black guy, he looks too nice,” a tall, redheaded girl in a yellow leotard advised.

“Let me through, let me through,” someone in the back shouted.

An older man came to the door. He was somewhat tall, thin, and balding, and looked rather respectable. He was nattily attired, right down to a silver watch fob and waistcoat. There was even a tiny yellow flower in his lapel.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, with a hint of a smile. He had lively blue eyes that gave his gave a mischievous quality. The girls in leotards pressed in on either side of him, smiling secretively.

“I—um . . . ” Tiller began.

“What my eloquent friend here is trying to say is, we’ve been driving a while.”

“Of course. Where are our manners? Come inside. Libby, Traci, get these gentlemen something cold to drink. Mr. Pyle, see to it they are seated.”

The interior of the place was that of a theater, proscenium style. There were more people inside. The well-dressed man walked animatedly in front of us. He obviously held some sort of authority.

“First of all, let me welcome you to civilization. This town is still officially known as Hanging Gap, but we long to be rid of that accursed appellation. ‘Inspiration’ is the new name, as you see from the sign. We have petitioned the Governor, and soon we will re-name the town officially. In any case, and whatever its name, I am Wayne Claeren, the Mayor.

“These fine people are members of the world famous Kushner Brothers Circus troupe, which is one of three circuses that our humble town is currently hosting in the off-season. Inspiration will one day be the new Mecca for the off-season carnival crowd. But all that is neither here nor there. I digress. How might I be of service to you two gentlemen?”

A very short, redheaded man with a misshapen face was leaning against a piano that was also serving as a bar. An older woman with piercing black eyes was seated on the stool. There was a big, bald man up next to the stage, talking to a small man who was also dressed in a leotard. I looked hard at the big man. He was too old, his head brown and sleek like a seal’s, not the white, bullet-shaped cranium of Samson Fain.

“Pleased to meet you, Your Honor. My name is Roland Longville. I’m a private investigator.” We shook hands.

“And you sir?”

“Mr. Claeren, very nice to meet you. Tiller’s the name.” The two men shook hands.

Claeren’s eyes twinkled. “And a policeman, I see, by your tie pin.”

“Detective Sergeant, actually.”

“Well, It is a pity you weren’t here a moment ago. You two gentlemen just missed a rousing rendition of Brigadoon, led by our diminutive friend Conrad, here, with the ever-lovely Miss Holmes on piano.” The dwarf and the woman at the piano smiled and nodded. Claeren rubbed his hands together in a gesture of exhilaration.

“My, my, a private eye and a police detective. And what could the two of you possible be detecting in our humble town?” The others all moved forward a step. It was vaguely menacing and surreal at the same time. I half-expected Mayor Claeren to spray us with laughing gas from the flower in his lapel.

Hanging Gap’s where weirdoes congregate,
I seemed to remember someone saying.

“We’re from Birmingham. We need to question a man about something that happened there, a long time ago. He might have some information we need. There’s a reward involved.”

“Birmingham? All the way over in Alabama?”

“That’s right.”

“If you came this far, there must be some money involved, all right.” Claeren nodded toward Tiller. “But you sir, are a policeman. Isn’t there a conflict of interest?”

“I’m, um, on a leave of absence,” Tiller sputtered. “I worked this case several years ago, and I’m assisting Mr. Longville.”

“I see.” His Honor, the Mayor Wayne Claeren, stroked his chin and draped his right arm around Libby. Suddenly he swatted her on the rear end and stepped back, his arms out to the side.

“Well let’s get right down to the nitty-gritty. Who’s the man you’re looking for?”

“Samson Fain. He’s big man. Looks a lot like your friend over there, shaved head and everything. No mustache, though. He might be working as a clown, or a magician.”

“I see. And what has Mr. Fain done?”

“He’s not wanted,” I offered diplomatically, skirting the question. “We just need to ask him some questions.”

“Of course.” Mayor Claeren drew up very close to me. “Rest assured, I realize the need for secrecy. I shan’t attempt to pry into the details. However, you appear to me to be a man who commands respect. Let me know if we can be of assistance.”

Claeren jabbed a finger dramatically into the air. “While in Inspiration, Mr. Longville and Mr. Tiller are to receive full hospitality and cooperation,” he announced.

“Full cooperation!” several of the assemblage echoed.

“As for me, I would love to stay and learn more of your exploits, Mr. Longville. The life of a private investigator must make for strong meat. However, I’m off to a meeting of county selectmen. In a mere two days, the fine new city of Inspiration is to host its first fair. Several notable egos will be in attendance, whom I must now go stroke.”
 

The Mayor paused as if for dramatic effect.
 

“In my absence, the very capable Mr. Pyle here,” he indicated the man in the jester’s hat, “shall be of assistance to you in any way you may require. Mr. Pyle is the deputy Mayor. But I must tell you, although you may very well find a few clowns around, I don’t believe we currently have any magicians here in Inspiration.”

He bowed as if to an audience, and went out the door that bore his name on the outside. I was reminded of the Champion home, with its Wonderland-like air, and Georgia’s strange, affecting parents. Traci bounced nimbly forward and took my arm, Libby smiled and followed suit with Tiller’s. Now, Mr. Pyle assumed authority, with the blasé air of a bartender.

“So, what’ll it be gentlemen?”

“Do you folks have a records department or something similar?” Tiller asked in a voice that was all business.

“We do indeed. Libby, show Mr. Tiller to City Hall.” The girl curtsied and escorted Tiller out.

“And you, Mr. Longville. What could we do for you?”

Gee, wizard, I’d like a brain.

“Where are the rest of the circus personnel?”

“We’re set up on the flats north of town. Everything’s out there. Most of us are either living here in town, or on the train.”

I looked at Traci. “That sounds pretty big. I’d like to have a look around, if that’s allowed.”

She smiled and nodded. “Sure, like Mayor Claeren said, full cooperation is what you’ll get from us. Just please don’t gawk. This is down time.”

“I promise.”

“Nice scar.” Traci’s fingers trailed the long crescent-shaped scar that ran from my right eye to the corner of my mouth. “I like men with scars.”

“Well, I’m glad. But the man who gave it to me wasn’t very nice. Hey, aren’t you gawking now?”

She gave me a toothy grin. “Sorry. Is this Fain a man like that? Like the man who gave you the scar?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

You big flirt. What would Viv think about all this?

The three of us walked down the main street and took a left. We strolled between the ancient buildings, some in complete collapse, some others in various stages of restoration. Traci kept a steady grip on my arm.

We came to the end of the street and a wide, open space beckoned. It had to be a hundred acres; in bygone days, it might have served as a large corral. Several big circus tents were pitched there now, and more were being set up.

Over to the right, outside of the circle of tents, was a large fueling station where big trucks were being gassed up by the roadies. On their sides were painted the logos of the various circuses.

“Tah dah!” sang Pyle, pride is his voice. “The Inspiration parade ground, Gibtown of the future. The fair is setting up now, and it’s going to be one hell of a show. We’ve got the Los Diablos Carnival setting up over there . . . and the Kushner brothers are over there.” He made gestures like a ringmaster, which, I decided, was probably exactly what he was. “And over there, the Daring O’Donohues, the Irish trapeze artists.”

“Gibtown?” I looked at Traci. “What’s Gibtown?”

“He’s talking about Gibsontown, Florida. That’s been the traditional winter home for circuses and carnivals for about a hundred years. But a lot of carnivals work down in South America, or up in Canada nowadays. There was a need for a new, more westerly wintering spot.”

“So Mayor Claeren had Inspiration made to order?”

“Oh, no. The mayor didn’t set all this up. But I guess you could say it was his vision.”

“Just what kind of man is the Mayor?”

“Beats me. He just showed up one year. People have a way of doing that out here. They say he used to be a college professor, somewhere back east.”