TELL’EM, PAGLIACCIO!
Pop Williams rolled them out and they came snake-eyes again. He spoke eloquently and bitterly about the matter while he watched Whitey Harper pick up the two quarters and the jig next to him pick up the two dimes.
Pop reached for the dice, and then looked into his left hand to see how much of his capital remained. A dime and a quarter were there.
He tossed down the two-bit piece and Whitey covered it.
Pop rolled a five-three. “Eighter from Decatur,” he said.
“Shoot the works.” He dropped the other coin in his hand, and the jig covered. Pop whispered softly to the cubes and let them travel.
Four and a trey for seven.
He grunted and stood up.
Valenti, the daredevil, had been leaning against a quarter-pole, watching the crap game with bland amusement.
He said, “Pop, you ought to know better than to buck those dice of Whitey's.”
Whitey, the dice in his hand, looked up angrily, and his mouth opened, then went shut again at the sight of those shoulders on Valenti. Shoulders whose muscles bulged through the thin polo shirt he wore. Valenti would have made two of Whitey Harper, who ran the penny-pitch, and he'd have made three of Pop Williams.
But Valenti said, “I was just kidding, Whitey.”
“Don't like that kind of kidding,” said Whitey. He looked for a moment as though he were going to say something more, and then he turned back to the game.
Pop Williams went on out of the tent and leaned against the freak-show picket fence, looking down the midway. Most of the fronts were dark, and all the rides had closed down. Up near the front gate, a few of the ball games and wheels were still running to a few late suckers.
Valenti was standing beside him. “Drop much, Pop?”
Pop shook his head. “A few bucks.”
“That's a lot,” said Valenti, “if it's all you had. That's the only time it's fun to gamble. I used to be dice-nutty. Now I got a few G's ahead and a few tied up in that stuff—” he waved a hand toward the apparatus for the free show in the center of the midway — “and so there's no kick in shooting two bits.”
Pop grunted. “You can't say you don't gamble, though, when you high-dive off a thing like that, into practically a goldfish bowl.”
“Oh, that kind of gambling, sure. How's the old girl?”
“Lil? Swell. Blast old man Tepperman—” He broke off into grumbling.
“Boss been riding you again about her?”
“Yeah,” said Pop. “Just because she's been cantankerous for a few days. Sure, she gets cantankerous once in a while.
Elephants are only human, and when Tepperman gets seventy-five years old, he's not going to be as easygoing as old Lil is, drat him.”
Valenti chuckled.
“ 'Tain't funny,” said Pop. “Not this time. He's talking about selling her off.”
“He's talked like that before, Pop. I can see his point of view. A tractor—”
“He's got tractors,” said Pop bitterly. “And none of 'em can shove a wagon outta mud like Lil can. And a tractor can't draw crowds like a bull can, neither. You don't see people standing around watching a tractor. And a tractor ain't got flash for parades, not like a bull has.”
To circus and carney, all elephants are bulls, regardless of sex.
Valenti nodded. “There's that. But look what happened in the last parade. She gets out of line, and goes up on a parking lot and—”
“That damn Shorty Martin. He don't know how to handle a bull, but just because he's dark and you put a turban on him and he looks like a mahout, the boss puts him on Lil for the parade. Lil can't stand him. She told me— Aw, nuts.”
“You need a drink,” said Valenti. “Here.” He held out a silver-plated flask. Pop drank. “Smooth,” he said. “But kind of weak, ain't it?”
Valenti laughed. “Hundred-proof Scotch. You must be drinking that stuff they sell two bits a pint at the jig show.”
Pop nodded. “This ain't got enough fusel oil, or something.
But thanks. Guess I'll go see if Lil's okay.”
He went around back of the Dip-a-Whirl to where he'd staked the bull. Lil was there, and she was peacefully asleep.
She opened little piggy eyes, though, as Pop walked up to her.
He said, “Hiya, girlie. G'wan back to shuteye. We got to tear-down tomorra night. You won't get much then.” His hand groped in his pocket and came out with the two lumps of sugar he'd swiped from the cookhouse.
The soft, questing tip of her trunk nuzzled his palm and took the sugar.
“Damn ya,” Pop said affectionately.
He stared at the huge dim bulk of the bull. Her eyes had closed again.
“Trouble with you,” he said, “you got temperament. But listen, old girl, you can't have temperament no more. That's for prima donnas, that is, and you're a working bull.”
He pretended she'd said something. “Yeah, I know. You didn't used to be— But then me, I wasn't always a bull man, either. Me, I was a clown once. Remember, baby?
“And now you're just an ol' hay-burner for shoving wagons; and me, I ain't so young myself. I'm fifty-eight, Lil.
Yeah, I know you got fifteen years on me, and maybe more'n that if the truth was known, but you don't get drunk like I do, and that makes us even.”
He patted her trunk and the big ears flapped once, in lazy appreciation.
“That there Shorty Martin,” said Pop. “Baby, does he tease you, or anything? Wish I could ride you in the parade, drat it. You'd be all right then, wouldn't you, baby?”
He grinned. “Then that there Shorty would be mahout of a job!”
But Lil didn't appreciate puns, he realized. And jokes didn't change the fact that pretty soon he was going to be out of a job because Tepperman Shows was going to sell Lil. If they could find a place to sell her. If they couldn't— Well, he didn't want to think about that.
Disconsolately, he walked over to the jig village back of the Harlem Casino.
“Hi, Mista' Pop,” said Jabez, the geek. “Lookin' kinda low.”
“Jabe,” said Pop, “I'm so low I could wear stilts and walk under a sidewall 'thout lifting it.”
Jabez laughed, and Pop got a pint on the cuff.
He took a swig and felt a little better. That stuff had authority to it. More you paid for liquor, the weaker it was.
He'd tasted champagne once, even, and it had tasted like soda pop. This stuff—
“Thanks, Jabe,” he said. “Be seeing you.”
He strolled back to the crap game. Whitey Harper stood up as Pop came under the sidewall.
“Bust,” Whitey said. “Keep track of those dice for me, Bill. I'll get 'em later. Hi, Pop. Stake me to Java?”
Pop shook his head. “But have a slug of what's good for what ails you. Here.”
Whitey took the offered drink and headed for the cookhouse. Pop borrowed a quarter from Bill Rendelman, the merry-go-round man, who was now winner in the crap game.
He took two come-bets, one for fifteen and one for ten, and lost both.
Nope, tonight wasn't his night.
Somewhere toward town, a clock boomed midnight. Pop decided he might as well turn in and call it a night. He could finish what was left of the pint in his bunk.
He was feeling swell now. And, as always, when he was in that first cheerful, happy stage of inebriation, he sang, as he crossed the deserted midway, the most lugubrious song he knew. The one and only grand opera song he knew.
The aria from Pagliaccio.
“—and just make light of your crying and your tears.
Come — smile, then, Pagliaccio, at the heart that is broken;
Smile at the grief that has haunted your years!”
Yeah, that guy Pagliaccio was a clown, too, and he knew what it was all about. Life was beautifully sad for a clown; it was more beautifully sad for an ex-clown, and most sadly beautiful of all for a drunken ex-clown.
“I must clown to get ri-i-d of my unhappiness—”
He'd finished the third full rendition by the time, still fully dressed except for his shoes, he'd crawled into his bunk under the No. 6 wagon back of the Hawaiian show. He forgot all about finishing what was left of the liquor.
Overhead the dim, gibbous moon slid out of sight behind skittering clouds, and the outside ring of the lot, shielded by tents from the few arcs left burning on the midway, became black mystery. Blackness out of which the tents rose like dim gray monsters in the still, breathless night. The murderous night—
Someone was shaking him. Pop Williams opened one eye sleepily. He said, “Aw, ri'. Wha' time zit?” And closed the eye again.
But the shaking went on. “Pop! Wake up! Lil killed—”
He was sitting bolt upright then. His eyes were wide, but they wouldn't focus. The face in front of them was a blur, but the voice was Whitey Harper's voice.
He grabbed at Whitey's shoulder to steady himself.
“Huh? You said—”
“Your bull killed Shorty Martin. Pop! Wake up!”
Wake up? Hell, he was wider awake than he'd ever been in his life. He was out of bed, almost falling on Whitey as he clambered down from the upper bunk. He jammed his feet into his shoes so that their tongues doubled back over the instep; he didn't stop to pull or tie the laces. And he was off, running.
There were other people running, too. Quite a few of them. Some of them from the sleeping cars, some of them from tents along the midway where a good many slept in hot weather. Some running from the brightly lighted cookhouse up at the front of the midway.
When he got to the Hawaiian show, Pop stole a glance around behind him to see if Whitey Harper were in sight. He wasn't.
So Pop ducked under the Hawaiian show sidewall, and came out at the side of the tent instead of the front of it, and doubled back to Tepperman's private trailer. Of course, Tepperman's wife might still be there, but there was something Pop had to do and had to do quick, before he went to the bull. And in order to do it, he had to gamble that the boss's trailer would be empty.
It was. And it took him only a minute to find the high-powered rifle he was after. Holding it tight against his body, he got it under the Hawaiian show top without being seen.
And hid it under the bally cloth of the platform.
It wasn't a very good hiding place. Someone would find it by tomorrow noon, but then again by tomorrow noon it wouldn't matter. They'd be able to get another gun by then.
But this one was the only one available tonight that was big enough.
And then a minute later, Pop was pushing his way through the ring of people around old Lil. A ring that held a very respectful distance from the elephant.
Pop's first glance was for Lil, and she was all right.
Whatever flare of temper or cantankerousness she'd had, it was gone now. Her red eyes were unconcerned and her trunk swung gently.
Doc Berg was bending over something that lay on the ground a dozen feet from the bull. Tepperman was standing looking on. Someone called out something to Pop, and Tepperman whirled.
His voice was shrill, almost hysterical. “I told you that damn bull—” He broke off and stood there glaring.
“What happened?” Pop asked mildly.
“Can't you see what happened?” He looked back down at Doc Berg, and Berg's glasses caught and reflected the beam of somebody's flashlight as he nodded.
“Three ribs,” he said. “Neck dislocated, and the skull crushed where it hit against that stake. Any one of those things could've killed him.”
Pop shook his head, whether in grief or negation he didn't know himself.
He asked again, “What happened? Was Shorty tormentin' her?”
“Nobody saw it,” Tepperman snapped.
“Hm-m-m,” said Pop. “That where you found him? Don't seem likely Lil'd have throwed him that far if she did it.”
“What do you mean, if she did it?” Tepperman asked coldly. “No, he was lying with his head against the stake, if you got to know.”
“He must've been teasin' her,” Pop insisted. “Lil ain't no killer. Maybe he give her some pepper to eat, or—”
He walked up to Lil and patted her trunk. “You shouldn'ta done it, old girl. But— Damn, I wisht you could talk.”
The carney proprietor snorted. “Better stay away from that bull till we shoot her.”
Pop winced. That had been the word he'd been waiting for, and it had come.
But he didn't argue it; he knew there wasn't any use, now. Maybe later, when Tepperman's anger had cooled, there'd be a chance. An outside chance.
Pop said, “Lil's all right, Mr. Tepperman. She wouldn't hurt a fly. If she did ... uh ... do that, she sure had some reason. Some good reason. There was something wrong about that there Shorty. You should've never let him ride her in the parade, even. She never did like—” And realizing that, by emphasizing Lil's dislike of Shorty, he was damaging his own case, Pop let it die there.
There was, blocks away, the clang of an ambulance bell.
Tepperman had turned back to the doc. He asked, “Had Shorty been drinking, Doc?”
But Berg shook his head. “Don't seem to be any smell of liquor on him.”
Pop's hopes went lower. If Shorty'd been drunk, it would have made it more likely he'd been teasing the bull deliberately. Still, if he hadn't, why'd he gone by there at all?
Especially, at that time of—
“What time is it?” Pop asked.
“Almost one.” It was the doctor who answered. Earlier than Pop thought; he must have barely gone to sleep when it happened. No wonder so many of the carneys were still awake.
The ambulance drove up, collected the thing on the ground, and drove off again. Some of the crowd was drifting away already
Pop tried again. “That Shorty was a crook anyway, Mr. Tepperman. Didn't he get hisself arrested when we was playin' Brondale a few days ago?”
“What are you driving at, Pop?”
Pop Williams scratched his head. He didn't know. But he said, “Only that if Lil did anything to him, she musta sure had a reason. I don't know what, but—”
The carney owner glowered him to silence.
“Wait here,” he said, “and keep an eye on that bull. I'm going to shoot her before she kills anybody else.”
He strode off.
Pop patted the rough hide of Lil's shoulder. “Don't worry, old girl. He won't find it.” He said it softly, so none of the other carneys would hear. He tried to make his voice cheerful, but he knew he'd given Lil only a stay of execution.
If Tepperman hadn't found that gun by daylight, he could easily get another at one of the local stores.
Somebody called out, “Better stay away from that bull, Pop.”
It was Whitey Harper's voice.
Pop said, “Nuts. Lil wouldn't hurt a fly.” Then, so he wouldn't have to yell, he walked over to where Whitey was standing at a safe distance from the bull. He said, “Whitey, what was it Shorty Martin was pinched for back in Brondale early this week?”
“Nothing. Suspicion, that's all. They let him go right away.”
“Suspicion of what?”
“There was a snatch that the coppers were all excited about. They were picking up every stranger wandering down the stem. Lot of carneys got questioned.”
“They find the guy who got snatched?”
“It was a kid — the banker's kid. Haven't found him yet that I heard about. Why?”
“I dunno,” said Pop. He was trying to find a straw to grasp at, but he didn't know how to explain that to Whitey. He asked, “Did Shorty have any enemies? On the lot, I mean.”
“Not that I know of, Pop. Unless it was Lil. And you.”
Pop grunted disgustedly, and went back to Lil. He said,
“Don't worry, old girl,” quite unnecessarily. Lil didn't seem to be worrying at all. But Pop Williams was.
Tepperman came back. Without the rifle.
He said, “Some blankety-blank stole my gun, Pop. Won't be able to do anything till morning. Can you stay here and keep an eye on the bull?”
“Sure, Mr. Tepperman. But listen, do you got to—?”
“Yes, Pop, we got to. When a bull once kills it doesn't pay to take any more chances. It wasn't your fault though, Pop; you can stay on and help with canvas or—”
“Nope,” said Pop Williams. “Beckon I'm quitting, Mr. Tepperman. I'm strictly a bull man. I'm quitting.”
“But you'll stay till tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” said Pop. “I'll stay till tomorrow.” He watched Tepperman walk away.
Yeah, he'd stay till tomorrow all right. Just let anybody try to get him off the lot, while there was a chance to save the old gal. A Chinaman's chance.
After that— Oh, hell, why worry about after that? The arcs on the midway were blurring a bit, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes. And then, because he knew Tepperman was right, and because he had to blame somebody he muttered, “That damn Shorty!” What business had Shorty to come monkeying around Lil when she was asleep for the night, and what had he done to her?
He turned to look at her, and she was sleeping as peacefully as a baby. Old Lil a killer?
Hey, wait! Maybe she wasn't! He'd argued against it, but suddenly he realized that he'd really believed, down inside, that she had killed Shorty.
But would she have? Lil had a temper, all right. But when she got mad, she trumpeted. She hadn't let out a yip tonight. Drunk or sober, asleep or awake, he'd have heard her.
He said, “Lil, didn't you—?”
She opened her little red eyes sleepily and then closed them again. Damn, if she could only talk.
Who'd found Shorty's body, and where had Shorty been before that and what had he been doing? Maybe the answers to those questions could be important. Nobody else was asking them, either. Everybody else was going on — what did the coppers call it? — circumstantial evidence. Pop looked around for someone to ask those questions of, and there wasn't anybody there. He was alone, with Lil.
Somewhere a clock struck two.
He took a look at Lil's leg chain and at the stake it was fastened to. They were all right.
Walking softly, so as not to waken her, he picked his way through the dimness, around the Dip-a-Whirl and into the midway. On the soggy shavings of the path, he headed for the cookhouse.
Half a dozen carneys were sitting at tables or at the counter.
Whitey was there, and Whitey said, “Hi, Pop. Have cuppa Java?”
Pop nodded and sat down. He found he was sitting gingerly, as though the seat were hot, and realized it was because he was afraid Tepperman would see him here, when he'd promised to stay by the bull. But what if the boss did see him? This was his last night anyway, wasn't it? You can't fire a man who's already quit.
He made himself relax, and the hot coffee helped. He asked, “Anybody see what happened back there? I mean, what Shorty was doin' to the bull, or how come he went over there in the first place?”
“Nope,” said Whitey Harper. “Shorty was in the freak-show top just after you left. That was the last I saw of him.”
“Did he get in the game?” Pop asked. “Nope. Just watched a few minutes. Let's see; I came up here and borrowed a buck and went back. Shorty was there then, and left a few minutes later, somewhere around midnight. I dunno where he went from there.”
One of the ride-boys at the counter said, “That must've been when I seen him. Coming out of the freak-show top, and he went over toward the Ferris wheel. Pete Boucher was working on the diesel. I guess maybe he was going to talk to Pete.”
“Was he sober?”
“Far as I could see,” said the ride-boy. And Whitey nodded.
Pop finished his coffee and shambled out to look for Pete Boucher. He had no trouble finding him; Pete was still working on the recalcitrant engine.
“Hi, Pop,” he said. “They gonna shoot the bull?”
“I guess so,” said Pop. “Tepperman can't find his rifle, or he woulda done it tonight. Shorty stopped to talk to you a little after midnight, didn't he, Pete?”
“Yeah. Guess it was about then.”
“Did he say anything about the bull, or about going over there?”
Boucher shook his head. “We just talked about tomorrow, whether it's going to be a good day or not. He wasn't here long. A few minutes.”
“Say where he was going, maybe?”
“Nope. But I happened to notice. He went on across the midway and cut in between the dog stand and the geek show.
Valenti's trailer's over there, back of the geek show. I guess he was maybe heading for Valenti's trailer.”
Pop nodded. Getting close, he thought. From the trailer, Shorty must have gone direct to Lil, and no one would have seen him make that last lap of the journey. He'd have gone around the curve at the end of the midway, probably, in the darkness back of the tents.
He said, “I can't figure out why Lil — Pete, what kind of mood was Shorty in when he was talkin' to you?”
“Cheerful. Kidding around. Said he was going to be rich tomorrow.”
“He didn't... uh ... sound like he meant anything by it, did he?”
“Naw. What th' hell could he mean? Say, Pop, what are you gonna do after they shoot Lil?”
“I dunno, Pete. I dunno.”
Pop strolled on across the soggy midway, past the big tank and the eighty-foot tower from which Valenti dived once an evening. Pop didn't look up at the tower. He had a touch of acrophobia — fear of heights. Enough to give him the willies at the thought of that dive.
He went back past the dog stand toward Valenti's trailer.
It was dark, and he hesitated. Maybe Valenti and Bill Gruber, his partner, had both turned in and were asleep. Must be after two-thirty by now.
The trailer itself was a black shadow in the darkness.
Pop stood at the door, wondering whether he dared call out or knock. Maybe they weren't asleep yet.
He said, “Valenti,” softly. Not loud enough to wake anyone already asleep, but loudly enough, he hoped, to be heard if either Valenti or Gruber were in there, and still awake.
There wasn't any answer. He was listening carefully, and he heard a sound he'd never have noticed otherwise. A soft and irregular breathing that puzzled him, because it didn't sound like an adult at all. Sounded like a kid. But neither Valenti nor Gruber had a kid. What would one be doing in the trailer?
That breathing wasn't normal, either, or he'd never be able to hear it, even in the dead silence of the night. But why—?
He hadn't heard the footsteps behind him.
Valenti's voice demanded, “Who's—? Oh, it's you, Pop.
What you want?”
“Is that a kid in the trailer, Valenti?” Pop asked. “Sounds like one with the croup or something.”
Valenti laughed. “You're hearing things, Pop. That's Bill.
He's got a helluva cold, along with his asthma. Wait till I tell him you thought it was croup. What did you want?”
Pop shuffled his feet uneasily. “I... I just wanted to ask you a question or two about Shorty.” He lowered his voice.
“Say, maybe we oughtn't to talk here. If Bill's sick and asleep, we better not wake him.”
“Sure,” said Valenti. “Want to go up to the cookhouse?”
“I was just there. I better get back by the bull. Let's walk over that way.”
Valenti nodded, and together they picked their way through the high, wet grass back of the tents, following, probably, the same path Shorty Martin had taken an hour or two ago. Maybe, Pop thought, Valenti could tell him—
In sight of the sleeping elephant, they stopped. Pop said,
“I'm still trying to figure out what happened tonight, Valenti.
Why Shorty came over here at all, and what made Lil grab him — if she did.”
“What do you mean, if she did?”
“I dunno,” said Pop, honestly. “Just that — well, she never done anything like that before. Pete Boucher said Shorty was heading for your trailer sometime after twelve.
Did you see him then?”
Valenti nodded. “He wanted to know if Bill and I would go uptown with him. Neither of us wanted to. Then he went on over this way; that's the last I saw of him. Last anybody saw of him, I guess.”
“Did he say why he was—?”
Pop's eyes, as he started the question, had been straining past Valenti, out toward the edge of the lot. Someone was coming from that direction, and he couldn't quite make out who it was.
And then, right in the middle of the question, his voice trailed off into silence and his eyes went wide with bewilderment.
Valenti had been lying to him. Bill Gruber, Valenti's partner, wasn't asleep in the trailer. Because it was Bill Gruber who was cutting across the lot toward them.
Valenti had lied, and there was a kid—
“What's the matter, Pop?” asked Valenti. “You look like you saw—” And then Valenti turned to see what Pop was looking at.
Bill's voice cut through the sudden silence, unconcernedly. “Hi, Pop, how ya? Finally found a drugstore open, Val. I got— Say, what's wrong with you guys?”
Valenti laughed as he turned back. “Pop, I was kidding you about—”
And those few words bridged the gap of his turning, and kept Pop off guard during the second when he might have yelled for help or started to run. And then that second was over, and Valenti's huge hand was over his mouth while Valenti swung him around.
And then, while Valenti's arm was tightening crushingly around his ribs, and Valenti's hand over Pop's mouth was bending his head backward, Pop knew what had happened to Shorty, and why. Too late now, he knew why Shorty had expected to be “rich” tomorrow. Shorty had found out that Valenti was holding the kid in the trailer and had gone to demand a cut on the ransom.
Yes, everything fell into place all at once. Banker's kid snatched at Brondale. Held, probably doped, in the trailer.
Valenti, the only man with the carney strong enough to kill, as Shorty had been killed. And as Pop Williams was going to be killed right now. So the blame would fall on Lil.
Why, when he didn't really believe Lil had killed Shorty, hadn't he thought of Valenti? Valenti, who wouldn't shoot dice because it wasn't enough of a gamble for him. Who was strong enough to wring a man's neck like a farmer would wring a chicken's. Who had the nerve to dive eighty feet into a shallow tank every day—
And only a second ago, he could have yelled. He could have waked Lil, and she'd have pulled her stake and come running.
Too late, now. That hand over his mouth was like the iron jaw of a vise. His ribs and his neck-Only his feet were free. Frantically, he kicked backward with his heels.
Frantically, he tried to make some sort of noise loud enough to wake Lil or to summon other help.
One heel caught Valenti's ankle, hard, but then the shoe fell off Pop's foot. He still hadn't taken time to tie them on after that desperate rush to get out of bed and hide Tepperman's rifle.
As the crushing pressure around his ribs tightened, he tried again to yell. But it was only a faint squeak, not so loud as their voices, which, in normal conversation a moment ago, had not disturbed the sleeping elephant.
Help, adequate help, ten feet away directly in front of him — but sound asleep.
And Valenti was standing with his legs braced wide apart. Pop couldn't even kick at the ankles of the man who was killing him. He tried, and almost lost his other shoe.
Then, in extremity, a last, desperate hope.
He kicked forward, instead of backward, with all that remained of his strength. And at the end of the kick, straightened his foot and let the shoe fly off.
Miraculously, it went straight. Lil grunted and awoke as the shoe thudded against her trunk.
For just an instant, her little eyes glared angrily at the tableau before her. Angry merely at being awakened, in so rude a manner.
And then — possibly from the helpless kicking motions of Pop's bare feet, or possibly from mere animal instinct, or because Pop had never hit her — it got across to her that Pop, whom she loved, was in trouble.
She snorted, trumpeted. And charged forward, jerking her stake out of the ground as though it had been embedded in butter.
Valenti dropped Pop Williams and ran. There's a limit to what even a daredevil can face, and a red-eyed, charging elephant is past that limit. Way past.
Pop managed to gasp, “Atta girl,” as Lil ran on over him, with that uncanny ability of elephants to step over things they cannot see. “Atta girl. Go get him” — as Pop scrambled to his feet behind her and wobbled after.
Around the Dip-a-Whirl and alongside the Hawaiian-show top, and Valenti was only a few yards in front, toward the midway. Valenti ducking under the ropes and Lil walking through them as though they were cobwebs. She trumpeted again, a blast of sound that brought carneys running from all parts of the lot and from the cars back on the railroad siding behind it.
There was terror on Valenti's face as he ran out into the open of the midway. Death's hot breath was on the back of his neck as he reached the area in the center of the midway where stood the tank and the diving tower. He scrambled up the ladder of the tower, evading by inches the trunk that reached up to drag him down.
Then Tepperman was there, and the carney grounds cop with a drawn revolver in his hand. And Pop was explaining, the instant he had Lil quieted down. Somebody brought news that Bill Gruber was back of the Hawaiian-show top, out cold.
Running, he'd apparently taken a header over a tent stake and smacked into a prop trunk.
Doc Berg started that way, but by that time enough of Pop's story was out and Tepperman sent him to Valenti's trailer instead. No hurry about reviving a man who was going to burn anyway; the kid came first.
The cop yelled to Valenti to come down and surrender.
But Valenti had his nerve back now. Pop had a hunch what was going to happen next, and made the excuse of taking Lil back where she belonged. He did it while Valenti was thumbing his nose at the cop, and before Valenti poised himself on the diving platform — over the drained, empty tank eighty feet below.
“Smile, then, Pagliaccio, at the heart that is broken—”
Pop Williams's voice, off-key and cracking, but plenty loud, preceded him along the path from the lot to the carnival cars. It was almost dawn, but what was that to a man who'd been told by the boss to sleep as late as he wanted to sleep.
And who'd been given a ten-buck advance on an increased wage and had spent it all. Scotch wasn't bad stuff, after all, although it took a lot of it.
Whitey was with him, and Whitey had tried Scotch, too.
Whitey asked, “Who's this P-Pally-achoo you're yowling about, Pop?”
“A clown, like me, Whitey. Di' I tell you Tepperman's gonna let me ride Lil in th' parade, in clown cos-coschume?”
“Only fifty times you told me.”
“Oh,” said Pop, and his voice boomed out again.
“Change into humor all this sor-row unspoken—”
A beautiful sentiment, no doubt, but not quite true. He hadn't been happier in fifty years.