Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber (23 page)

“Nonsense. You'll do fine. Here, let me fix your headdress,” she says as she fiddles with the feathered thing that I wear upon my head, causing the hanging beads attached to it to brush my face. “There. Oops. There's my cue . . .”

We hear the deep throb of Eliza on the big drum—
boom chucka boom, boom chucka boom
—over and over.

“Break a leg, Jacky.”

With that, she exits through the curtain, and presently I hear her short opening remarks . . .

“Good evening, gentlemen. I hope you are comfortable and will enjoy our little show . . .”

I just know the shameless hussy is out there prancing back and forth in her own skimpy costume. Somehow that calms me, though, and I have to smile.

“
Fresh from the cold steppes of Russia to the hot harems of Morocco, from performing before the crowned heads of Europe to dancing before you tonight . . .”

C'mon, Mairead, let's get on with it.

“Without further ado, I give you Tondalayo, Queen of the Naked Nile!”

Mairead puts pennywhistle to lips and warbles that timeless snake-charmer tune. Yes, it's that same old “There's a place in France where the women wear no pants” song, but it works for this sort of thing in any language, in any land. The Shantyman picks up the sinuous tune on his fiddle, while Eliza continues the relentless jungle rhythm on the drum.

That's my cue. Higgins removes the cloak and I get down on my knees and sit back on my haunches, and cover my forward-facing self with my fans. It will be my theme—an opening flower, like. It's best if a performance has a theme, I figure.

The De Graffs pull the curtain aside, and a hush falls over the crowd as I am revealed, kneeling, in the torch light.

With my heart in my throat, I bow my head behind my top fan, eyes peering over it. The torches are not so bright that I cannot see the audience, and what I see in their shining eyes is pure male lust. Well, all right. I can handle that.

Slowly, slowly, I begin to rise, coming off my haunches to rest fully onto my knees, my hips and shoulders swaying in time to the music, my kohl-lined eyes still looking over the top of my upper fan. I try to make them smolder with unspoken promise, but I don't know if I succeed. Still, I hear a few gasps and one
magnifico!,
which has to come from Marcello, but he's a pushover and doesn't count.

I continue working my sensuous way up till I am standing on my feet. Making sure that my right hand's fan covers me from chin to crotch, I put the left hand's fan behind me. Then I begin Right Fan's slow descent till its top edge gets close to revealing my chest. At the very last moment, I quickly whip around and reverse the position of the fans such that Left Fan now covers my bum, but not my bare back. I turn my head enough to smile wickedly at the audience. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I lower Left Fan, till I sense that the tops of the feathers are just about to drop below the crack of my bum, when I turn around quickly and reverse again the fans in a blur of white fluff.

The audience draws in a common breath.

See anything, fellas? I think not. But if you did, then you have something to dream on, and I wish you the joy of it.

It is then that I loudly whisper-sing, all hot and sultry. . .

 

There's a place in France

Ver zee vicked ladies dance,

And zee dance vee do

Vill make a man out of you!

 

I snake out a white arm from behind the wall of feathers and point a finger at various faces glowing in the torch light, saying . . . 
and you . . . and you . . . and you!

They seem to appreciate the gesture, so I sing on . . .

 

I come from Mandalay-o

And I have a leetle mango!

Eef you like congo mumbo jumbo

Zen listen to zee bongos,

Eef you vant to see my mango

Zen watch your Tondalayo . . .

 

And I stretch out the
Tonda-laaaaaaay-oh!
to good effect, I think, as I hear some cheers and whistles from the mob. So, warming to my task, I give a little hip bump on each
oh! Be good now, boys.

A big lascivious wink, and then I do a reversal of the routine, fans flying about and my bare self in the middle of it all, which ends with me back on my knees again, enveloped in my faithful fans, like any frail flower surrounded by the purest of white petals . . . and then, with a final roll of the drum, it is done.

The curtain closes and Higgins emerges from the wings and wraps me once again in his big, black opera cloak. He takes my fans and retreats as the curtain parts again and I take my bows, being careful to hold the front of the cloak shut as I am enveloped by the applause.

And Lord help me, I love it so!

Then the curtain falls again, and I retreat through my wagon's door, to collapse onto my bed, gasping.

“Well done, Miss,” says Higgins. “A credit to the art of erotic dance—high in promise but low in actual delivery. Very crafty. A glass of wine for your surely dry throat?”

“It is, indeed, Higgins, and thank you,” I answer, rising to a sitting position and taking the glass. As I raise it to my lips, I hear Rigger O'Rourke outside, taking up the chant yet again
“
. . . 
she walks, she talks, she crawls on her belly . . .”
and I groan and stand.

“Break a leg, Miss? I believe that is the term.”

“Tell 'em she died with her fans on, Higgins,” I say, and head back out.

 

We had a decent crowd for that first performance, a full house for the second, and standing-room only for the third and subsequent shows.

The word does get around.

We go to five shows a night, and the public comes from all around. We are a success!

 

The principals of the Montessori and Mattucci FinancialDivision are in my wagon, as is our usual habit after we close down for the night, all sitting around gloating over the take—three solid nights, five shows a night! To say nothing of the regular take from the circus acts and midway attractions. There must be two thousand dollars on the table, in coin or in paper money. Higgins, of course, counts the take and enters the amount into his ledger. Rigger O'Rourke sits by the door, a large pistol on his lap, taking some refreshment, his boots up on the frame of my bed, where Mairead and I sit in a state of high girlish hilarity. I have ceased putting on the Russian accent with Rigger, but not with dear Marcello, as it amuses me to do it, and he is not one to trust with a secret.

We are going to turn south, and Higgins will be heading north in the morning, taking Mairead with him. I will hate to see her go, so I am enjoying my last night with my wild Irish Sister.

I sit with cloak fastened at neck, hands clutching the front tightly closed, both of us giggling.

“I really think you enjoy doing that dance, Jacky,” she teases.

“Well, I do like giving one hundred percent when in performance,” I reply primly. “Besides, you don't seem to mind prancin' around on the wings, shaking your bum. Hey, maybe I'll have you do it next time, see how you like it. Surely you know the routine by now.”

“Sure, and I know I'd do it better than you if I did.”

I give her a shove. “You're too fat. They'd see too much. You'd get arrested.”

“Aye, and you're skinny as a stick. They don't see enough. Don't know why they even bother squintin' at your scrawny tail.”

“Ah, but if you trotted yourself out there and did your duty to this fine circus, then husband Ian would surely beat the living hell out of you when he discovered that his lovely wife had been doin' a little hoochy-koochy dancing on the side. Hmmm?”

“My Ian's never laid nothing but a lovin' hand on me,” she says, shaking her red mop. “But my father would just as surely do the job for him. Right after he killed you for getting me into it in the first place.”

“Ha! That he would! I can feel Liam Delaney's strong hand on my poor bottom right now! Him roaring ‘I should have never had nothin' to do with that Jacky Faber back on that damned
Dolphin
! Nothin' but big sorrowful eyes and a whole pack of trouble!'”

I collapse backward, choking with laughter.

“Och, but wouldn't it've been Mr. James Fletcher's hand that would be comin' down on that well-deserving British tail?” says Mairead.

I sit back up.

“Well, maybe it would . . .” I say, considering his past history in that regard. “But maybe it would not,” I continue in a wicked sultry voice, “
after
I gave him a
private
performance. A very private one.”

“If I might intrude on this charming display of schoolgirl merriment . . . I would feel much better, Miss,” advises Higgins, “if you had a more secure place to keep the circus treasury.” Rigger nods agreement, but I am not convinced as to the wisdom of that.

“Now, Higgins, I have traveled with a band of Roma, and took personal instruction from Queen Bubya Nadya Vadoma, bless her old Gypsy soul . . .”

He has separated the money into stacks of coins and paper money. He has at hand a properly sized leather bag into which he dumps the coins. The bills are placed in a separate wallet and then thrust into the same bag, the sturdy drawstring tightened and taut.

“. . . And I know how to hide stuff. Find stuff, too.”

However, I do not get to hide anything . . . including myself, as two shotgun barrels are thrust into the open door.

I gasp in astonishment. Wot?

“Is this a private party, or may we also attend? My small friend here thought we might not be velcome,” hisses Herr Udo von Arndt, smiling through his teeth as he and Emil Mussler enter my wagon. “O'Rourke! Put the pistol on the floor. I see it is not cocked, so you can do nussing. However, one false move and I shall shoot that girl over there and her chest shall match her hair. Emil! Tie up the girl! No, not that one! The Russkie, idiot!”

“Yes, boss,” says Mussler, von Arndt's slimy little underling, leaning his gun against the wall and advancing on me, a short length of rope in his fist.

“You. Russian bitch. Get up. You're coming with us.”

“What?” protests Higgins. “What for? You've got the money! Why take the girl?”

I shrink back and try to disappear.

“Sit down, big man,” he says, “or I shall blow your leg off.” Higgins sits. “I vill explain to you as soon as my man has accomplished his simple task. Move, damn you!” Emil is hurried in said task by his master's boot.

Thus encouraged, Mussler puts down his shotgun and reaches over and grabs me by the throat and drags me forward. The dwarf is small, but his hands are huge and his arms are strong. I have no choice but to follow along. As he ties my hands in front of me, the front of the cloak falls open and I am exposed.

“Ha! The harlot has no clothes. Good. Nussing to dispose of if she goes to the tigers.” Satisfied with the dwarf's progress, the obviously self-satisfied von Arndt goes on to explain.

“It is because I haf need of a hostage, and the so-called owner of this circus vill do,” he continues. “You see, there are four roads leading out of here, and I could be taking any of them—to Boston, to Philadelphia, to New York, toBaltimore. I know your man O'Rourke here will attempt hot pursuit and I can't shoot you all, much as I would enjoy that. If he happens to choose the right road, I'll need a hostage. If I notice anyone following me out of here now, I will kill her. My tigers are very hungry. Hear them roar?
Very
hungry, as they haf not been fed for several days. They will devour the wretch in a moment, with no trace, except for a bit of blood, which any investigator would assume was drippings from the horse meat the tigers usually eat. Except the drippings will have come from her. A lovely thought, hmm
?
And don't forget that both Mussler and I are well armed. I am telling you all this so you will think twice about following me. Understand?” He points the barrel of his shotgun at Rigger's forehead.

Rigger says nothing to that, but merely glares at the German, his eyes full of level rage.
This ain't over yet, you kraut-eating son of a bitch!

Seeing that Emil Mussler has finished tying my hands, von Arndt growls, “Goot. Go out and bring the wagon to the door. Now.”

As the little man sidles out the door, the German places his hand on the fat money bag—
And could we have made it any easier for the rat bastard?—
saying with a big smile, “Ah,
ja,
dis
gelt
vill hold me in very goot stead, wherever I go.”

Having made his point, von Arndt waves his barrel around by way of emphasis, pointing it in each remaining face in my once safe and comforting little wagon.

He picks up the end of my tether and hauls my despairing self roughly out the door and into yet another dark and fearful night.

 

Udo von Arndt has planned well. The dwarf brings the tiger wagon neatly up to my door and I am thrown onto the driver's seat between him and the mastermind of this plot. Unlike the usual position of the low seat of a buckboard, these circus wagons have the seats placed up high so that the one sitting there can make sure that all below is secure. What I can see as I look back is a small, three-foot-square hatch, with latch, which I know is used to drop raw meat down to Hans and Fritz, 'cause no one wants to open one of the bottom doors to feed that angry pair.

Von Arndt takes the reins, and we are off.

It gives me a shiver to think of myself disappearing down that hole, but I've got other things to think about . . .

We have not rumbled more than five miles down the highway when we come to a crossroads and von Arndt takes the right turn, which I know leads to New York. The road is hard and the wagon will leave no tracks that can be traced.