The McCone Files (9 page)

He nodded. “Do they ever have concerts going at the same time at both?”

“Sure,”

“It must really echo off these hills.”

“I imagine you can hear it all the way to Port Chicago.” Port Chicago was where the Naval Weapons Station was located, on the edge of Suisun Bay.

“Well, maybe not all the way to Chicago.”

I smiled at the feeble joke, thinking that for a clown, Fitzgerald really didn't have much of a sense of humor, then allowed him to lapse back into his moody silence.

When we arrived at the pavilion, the parking lot was already crowded, the gates having opened early so people could picnic before the show started. An orange-jacketed attendant directed us to a far corner of the lot which had been cordoned off for official parking near the performers' gate. Fitzgerald and I waited in the car for about fifteen minutes, the late afternoon sun beating down on us, until Wayne Kabalka's Seville pulled up alongside. With the manager and John Tilby were two women; a chic, fortyish redhead, and a small dark-haired woman in her twenties. Fitzgerald and I got out and went to them.

The redhead was Corinne Kabalka, her strong handshake and level gaze made me like her immediately. I was less sure about Nicole Leland; the younger woman was beautiful, with short black hair sculpted close to her head and exotic features, but her manner was very cold. She nodded curtly when introduced to me, then took Tilby's arm and led him off toward the performers' gate. The rest of us trailed behind.

Security was tight at the gate. We met Roy Canfield, who was personally superintending the check-in, and each of us was issued a pass. No one, Canfield told us, would be permitted backstage or through the gate, without showing his pass. Security personnel would also be stationed in the audience to protect those clowns who, as part of the show, would be performing out on the lawn.

We were then shown to a large dressing room equipped with a couch, a folding card table and chairs. After everyone was settled there I took Kabalka aside and asked him if he would take charge of the group for about fifteen minutes while I checked the layout of the pavilion. He nodded distractedly and I went out front.

Stage personnel were scurrying around, setting up sound equipment and checking the lights. Don had already arrived, but he was conferring with one of the other KSUN jocks and didn't look as if he could be disturbed. The formal seating was empty, but the lawn was already crowded. People lounged on blankets, passing around food, drink and an occasional joint. Some of the picnics were elaborate—fine china, crystal wineglasses, ice buckets, and in one case, a set of lighted silver candelabra; others were of the paper-plate and plastic-cup variety. I spotted the familiar logos of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Jack-in-the-Box here and there. People called to friends, climbed up and down the hill to the restroom and refreshment facilities, dropped by other groups' blankets to see what goodies they had to trade. Children ran through the crowd, and occasional Frisbee sailed through the air. I noticed a wafting trail of iridescent soap bubbles, and my eyes followed it to a young woman in a red halter top who was blowing them, her face aglow with childlike pleasure.

For a moment I felt a stab of envy, realizing that if I hadn't taken on this job I could be out front, courtesy of the free pass Don had promised me. I could have packed a picnic, perhaps brought along a woman friend, and Don could have dropped by to join us when he had time. But instead, I was bodyguarding a pair of clowns who—given the pavilion's elaborate security measures—probably didn't need me. And in addition to Fitzgerald and Tilby, I seemed to be responsible for an entire group. I could see why Kabalka might want to stick close to his clients, but why did the wife and girlfriend have to crowd into what was already a stuffy, hot dressing room? Why couldn't they go out front and enjoy the performance? It complicated my assignment, having to contend with an entourage, and the thought of those complications made me grumpy.

The grumpiness was probably due to the heat, I decided. Shrugging it off, I familiarized myself with the layout of the stage and the points at which someone could gain access. Satisfied that pavilion security could deal with any problems that might arise there, I made my way through the crowd—turning down two beers, a glass of wine, and a pretzel—and climbed to the promenade. From there I studied the stage once more, then raised my eyes to the sun-scorched hills to the east.

What a great way to enjoy a free show, I thought. The sound, in this natural echo chamber, would easily carry to where the watchers were stationed. How much more peaceful it must be on the hill, free of crowds and security measures. Visibility, however, would not be very good….

And then I saw a flare of reddish light and glanced over to where a lone horseman stood under the sheltering branches of a live oak. The light flashed again, and I realized he was holding binoculars which had caught the setting sun. Of course—with binoculars or opera glasses, visibility would not be bad at all. In fact, from such a high vantage point it might even be better than from many points on the lawn. My grumpiness returned; I'd have loved to be mounted on a horse on that hillside.

Reminding myself that I was here on business that would pay for part of the new bathroom tile, I turned back toward the stage, then started when I saw Gary Fitzgerald. He was standing on the lawn not more than six feet from me, looking around with one hand forming a visor over his eyes. When he saw me he started too, and then waved.

I rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing out here? You're supposed to stay backstage!”

“I just wanted to see what the place looks like.”

“Are you out of your mind? Your manager is paying good money for me to see that people stay away from you. And here you are wandering through the crowd—”

He looked away, at a family on a blanket next to us. The father was wiping catsup from the smaller child's hands. “No one's bothering me.”

“That's not the point.” Still gripping his arm, I began steering him toward the stage. “Someone might recognize you, and that's precisely what Kabalka hired me to prevent.”

“Oh, Wayne's been a worrywart about that. No one's going to recognize anybody after all this time. Besides, it's common knowledge in the trade that we're not what we're made out to be.”

“In the trade, yes. But your manager's worried about the public.” We got to the stage, showed our passes to the security guard, and went back to the dressing room.

At the door Fitzgerald stopped. “Sharon, would you mind not mentioning my going out there to Wayne?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“Because it would only upset him, and he's nervous enough before a performance. Nothing happened—except that I was guilty of using bad judgment.”

His smile was disarming, and I took the words as an apology. “All right. But you'd better go get into costume. There's only half an hour before the grand procession begins.”

The next few hours were uneventful. The grand procession—a parade through the crowd in which all the performers participated—went off smoothly. After they returned to the dressing room, Fitzgerald and Tilby removed their makeup—which was already running in the intense heat—and the Kabalkas fetched supper from the car—deli food packed in hampers by their hotel. There was a great deal of grumbling about the quality of the meal, which was not what one would have expected of the St. Francis, and Fitzgerald teased the others because he was staying at a small bed-and-breakfast in the Haight-Ashbury which had better food at half the price.

Nicole said, “Yes, but your hotel probably has bed-bugs.”

Fitzgerald glared at her, and I was reminded of the disapproving tone of voice in which he'd first spoken of her. “Don't be ignorant. Urban chic has come to the Haight-Ashbury.”

“Making it difficult for you to recapture your misspent youth there, no doubt.”

“Nicole,” Kabalka said.

“That was your intention in separating from the rest of us, wasn't it, Gary?” Nicole added.

Fitzgerald was silent.

“Well, Gary?”

He glanced at me. “You'll have to excuse us for letting our hostilities show.”

Nicole smiled nastily. “Yes, when a man gets to a certain age, he must try to recapture—”

“Shut up, Nicole,” Kabalka said.

She looked at him in surprise, then picked up her sandwich and nibbled daintily at it. I could understand why she had backed off; there was something in Kabalka's tone that said he would put up with no more from her.

After the remains of supper were packed up, everyone settled down. None of them displayed the slightest inclination to go out front and watch the show. Kabalka read—one of those slim volumes that claim you can make a financial killing in spite of the world economic crisis. Corinne crocheted—granny squares. Fitzgerald brooded. Tilby played solitaire. Nicole fidgeted. And while they engaged in these activities, they also seemed to be watching one another. The covert vigilant atmosphere puzzled me; after a while I concluded that maybe the reason they all stuck together was that each was afraid to leave the others alone. But why?

Time crawled. Outside, the show was going on; I could hear music, laughter, and—occasionally—Don's enthusiastic voice as he introduced the acts. Once more I began to regret taking the job.

After a while Tilby reshuffled the cards, and slapped them on the table. “Sharon, do you play gin rummy?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let's have a few hands.”

Nicole frowned and made a small sound of protest.

Tilby said to her, “I offered to teach you. It's not my fault you refused.”

I moved my chair over to the table and we played in silence for a while. Tilby was good, but I was better. After about half an hour, there was a roar from the crowd and Tilby raised his head. “Casey O'Connell must be going on.”

“Who?” I said.

“One of our more famous circus clowns.”

“There is really quite a variety among the performers in your profession, isn't there?”

“Yes, and quite a history: clowning is an old and honored art. They had clowns back in ancient Greece. Wandering entertainers, actually, who'd show up at a wealthy household and tell jokes, do acrobatics, or juggle for the price of a meal. Then in the Middle Ages, mimes appeared on the scene.”

“That long ago?”

“Uh-huh. They were the cream of the crop back then. Most of the humor in the Middle Ages was kind of basic; they loved buffoons, jesters, simpletons, that sort of thing. But they served the purpose of making people see how silly we really are.”

I took the deuce he'd just discarded, then lay down my hand to show I had gin. Tilby frowned and slapped down his cards; nothing matched. Then he grinned. “See what I mean—I'm silly to take this game so seriously.”

I swept the cards together and began to shuffle. “You seem to know a good bit about the history of clowning.”

“Well, I've done some reading along those lines. You've heard the term
commedia dell'arte
?

“Yes.”

“It appeared in the late 1500s, an Italian brand of the traveling comedy troupe. The comedians always played the same role—a Harlequin or a Pulcinella or a Pantalone. Easy for the audience to recognize.”

“I know what a Harlequin is, but what are the other two?”

“Pantalone is a personification of the overbearing father figure. A stubborn, temperamental old geezer. Pulcinella was costumed all in white, usually with a dunce's cap; he assumed various roles in the comedy—lawyer, doctor, servant, whatever—and was usually greedy, sometimes pretty coarse. One of his favorite tricks was urinating onstage.”

“Good Lord!”

“Fortunately we've become more refined since then. The British contributed a lot, further developing the Punch and Judy shows. And of course the French had their Figaro. The Indians created the
Vidushaka
—a form of court jester. The entertainers at the Chinese court were known as
Chous
, after the dynasty in which they originated. And Japan has a huge range of comic figures appearing in their
Kyogen
plays—the humorous counterpart of the
Noh
play.”