Chapter Five

Russell was late. Of course. The rising temperature under the big top fueled Hank’s temper into a simmer. Where was the boy, and why had Hank agreed to watch him? He would rather supervise Spartacus than the egotistical, uncooperative teenager.

Hank and his team set up the animal chutes and tested every junction. All secure. He was about to leave his capable men to their task when an unduly cheerful voice called a greeting from the bleachers above.

“I’m here.” Russell clambered through a section of chairs about five rows above the ground. When he jumped, he knocked off a chair, which landed on the chute and rang it like a bell. “Wow,” Russell said, dusting sawdust from his hands, “they really ought to fasten those things down.”

The falling chair had narrowly missed Hank, who heated past his boiling point. He grabbed Russell, shoved him against the iron bars of the chute, and pressed his forearm across the boy’s throat. “You’re a menace and a fool!”

A couple of Hank’s men pulled him off, but no one restrained Russell. His punch landed squarely in Hank’s gut, doubling him over. His men released him immediately, and Hank launched himself at Russell, tackled him to the ground, and wrestled him onto his back. He sat on top of Russell, prepared to beat the idiot senseless, when Eddie came on the scene and uttered an epithet not suitable for polite company.

“Break it up.” Eddie grabbed Hank’s collar and yanked, but Hank’s bulk stopped the smaller man from hauling him to his feet. Hank got up and stood as immovable as a wizened oak in a virgin forest. The boss man pointed at Russell, saying, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put until I tell you to get up.”

“He jumped me!” Russell’s defense was drowned out by the protests of Hank’s crew, who all spoke at once.

“Quiet!” Eddie’s command took immediate effect. He turned to Hank and poked him in the chest. “What are you doing? I said watch the nitwit, not beat him to a pulp.”

Hank bit his tongue. His actions spoke for themselves.

“In less than three hours, eight thousand people will fill this tent.” Ashes from Eddie’s cigar dropped into the sawdust, and he stomped on the spot where a curl of smoke rose. “We aren’t ready, and I don’t have time to be a referee.”

“But Mr. Vermeer—” Russell whined like a two-year-old.

“Shut up, Segal. You’re nothing but trouble. I never should have hired you in the first place.”

“Whatever Hank told you is a lie.” Russell got up and advanced on Eddie.

A mistake. Eddie not only stood his ground, he stepped forward. “What do you think he said?”

Russell fell unnaturally silent.

“I thought you’d clam up.” Eddie took a deep draught of his cigar and puffed out white smoke. “Hank’s not the boss. I am. After the matinee, you and me are going to have a talk. You’ll be lucky if you still have a job.”

“But—”

“No buts, boy. Get to work. If I see you loafing, you’ll be fired on the spot.”

Russell didn’t move.

A wave of red rose up Eddie’s neck and crested in his cheeks. It crashed onshore. “Do you need another slap? Get moving!”

Russell spurted curses like blood from a severed artery. He got in Hank’s face and said, “I’ll get even. Just you wait.”

Hank released a sigh as Russell stalked to the exit and left. It would have been better for everyone if Eddie had simply fired Russell on the spot.

“You all have jobs,” Eddie said to the men. “Do them.”

The show over, the men muttered as they resumed their work. Chutes still needed to be deployed at the southwest exit for May’s act.

“Webb. A minute.” Eddie chomped his cigar and folded his arms across his chest.

Hank wouldn’t explain himself. Nor could he, really. He wasn’t prone to violence, but Russell brought out the worst in him.

“I don’t trust that jerk any farther than I can throw him. I gave you an assignment this morning, and I want you to keep at it. If you or any of your men spot Segal doing anything suspicious, I want to know right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eddie headed for ring one, and Hank hurried to catch up to his men. He informed them of Eddie’s order, and each one pledged to watch out for Russell.

But how much could eight pairs of eyes do to spot one immature, deranged boy among a horde of thousands? The hair on the nape of Hank’s neck stood on end because he knew the answer.

Not much. Not much at all.

Evelyn’s early-morning energy flagged. Lunch was no less busy than breakfast. If anything, the line of people waiting to be served had grown longer. Excessive noise inside the diner drowned out almost all conversation, so Darla had ceased calling out orders. Instead, she carried them to the window with steps as weary as Evelyn’s.

The bell over the door jangled incessantly as customers came and went. The hands on the clock above the Coca-Cola advertising sign crawled toward noon. Three servicewomen clad in khaki uniforms were taking “the pause that refreshes.” Evelyn could use one of those about now. Good luck getting Charlie to agree to it.

“Aunt Evie!” A familiar voice penetrated Evelyn’s drudgery. Lily and the family waved cheerfully from inside the door. Evelyn, weighed down under a tray carrying six plates toward the corner booth, could only smile in response.

“Aunt Evie, we want to sit at your table!” All eyes turned toward Lily, but the girl never blushed. She preened.

Evelyn delivered food to a group of snooty patrons, including a state senator’s wife, Mrs. Gillette. She’d had no compunctions playing the “I’m a very important person” card the minute she sat down. The woman wasn’t Bess Truman, for goodness’ sake.

“Miss.” When Evelyn didn’t respond right away, the odious woman snapped her fingers. “Are you listening to me?”

Evelyn had been taught not to hate anyone, but intense dislike was permissible, right? She forced her mouth to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I ordered this sandwich on toasted bread.” Mrs. Gillette peeled the slice of Charlie’s famous homemade sourdough bread off the top of her tuna salad sandwich and dangled it like a fishing worm from a hook. “Does this look toasted to you?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll ask for a replacement right away.” Evelyn sneaked a glance toward her family, where Jamie squirmed in Bill’s arms, pointing at Evelyn and wailing like a police siren. To a toddler, hugs delayed were hugs denied.

“How long will that take?” Mrs. Gillette pushed her plate away. “My party received VIP tickets for the circus matinee, and we will already be late because of this infernal crowd.”

“I’ll put a rush on your order.”

“You’d better.” Mrs. Gillette smoothed her Lana Turner curls even though every hair was glued down by pomade. The style looked ridiculous on a woman old enough to be the starlet’s mother. “My husband is a state senator, and he could make health inspectors shut this place down.”

Not likely. Charlie kept a spotless diner. Evelyn dared anyone to find a speck of dirt. Nevertheless, fleeing a battlefield when there was no hope of victory was an honorable retreat. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have it to you right away.”

Evelyn slithered through the crowded aisles to the kitchen and hoped Charlie was too distracted by profits to be grumpy. She passed close enough to Jamie that he ratcheted up his screams, but she couldn’t take a detour to quiet him. She leaned in through the kitchen window and hollered above the din, “Tuna salad on toasted sourdough, and give it wings.”

Charlie gestured toward Jamie with his spatula. “Shut that kid up.” He put bread into the toaster and jammed down the lever.

Evelyn left her tray on the shelf below the window and scooted over to her family. The minute she relieved Bill of his tiny burden, Jamie rested his head against her shoulder and tried to tug a tawny curl from beneath her hair net.

“I’m sorry, S-s-sis.” Bill tried to take Jamie back, but the child clung even tighter. “This was a bad idea.”

“We wanted to surprise you, Evie.” Helen reclaimed Jamie after a little struggle, but his cries had softened to whimpers. Still, he reached for Evelyn, and her heart wept. “The cafeteria was swamped, and since you were working—”

“It’s such a nice thought. But you see how crazy things are here. I’m afraid if you wait for a table in my section, you’ll be late for the show.”

Charlie rang the service bell. “Order up!”

“We’ll make do with food from the midway.” Bill pecked a kiss on Evelyn’s cheek, and asked, “How about a hot dog, Lily?”

Lily’s favorite words. She squealed and tugged on her father’s hand. Bill tucked her under his arm and cleared a path through the crowd with his broad shoulders. Helen followed, offering Evelyn a little wave goodbye. Jamie started crying again and still reached for her. Evelyn’s vision blurred with tears, but she watched their progress until they disappeared around the corner.

“I said, order up. Get a move on, Evelyn.” Charlie spun the order wheel and started preparing food on the next ticket.

“You should be glad I’m not going with them.” Evelyn snatched up Mrs. Gillette’s sandwich and plonked the plate on her tray. “You promised me the day off.”

“Promises and pie crusts are made to be broken.” Charlie flipped three burgers, pressed them on the hot grill with his spatula, and topped them with cheese.

They sizzled, but so did Evelyn’s temper. Charlie might have a repertoire of pithy sayings he trotted out on occasion, but he should be grateful Evelyn also remembered proverbs her mother had taught her. A fool’s wrath is presently known: but a prudent man covereth shame.

Evelyn was no fool. She’d not make her wrath known today.

But she made no promises about tomorrow.

“Take your men and check the setup under the stands. Find any crooked jacks and straighten them up. Then get in position. The matinee starts in an hour.” Eddie barely stopped walking as he gave Hank his marching orders.

This aberration from the crew’s procedures caused creepy-crawlies on the back of Hank’s neck. Leonard Aylesworth—the man usually in charge of the canvas and seats—had gone to Springfield, Massachusetts, with the advance team. “Seat men” returned dropped items to patrons in the seats above and put out small fires caused by people who flicked cigarette butts through the convenient openings. Everyone’s routines were a little out of whack, and only eight seat men were on duty—not enough in Hank’s estimation.

Hank’s propmen, although a little aimless because of their ignorance, did their best. They straightened up a few jacks, but like Hank, they really didn’t know what else to do.

“Hey, boss.”

Hank trotted toward the man who called him.

“How do I put this out?”

A smoldering cigarette lay in the sawdust, creating a ghostly wisp of smoke. The stands were empty right now, but employees also had the bad habit of tossing still-burning butts aside with no regard for safety. Hank’s lips formed a hard white line. Why couldn’t smokers be more careful?

Hank searched for a fire extinguisher, but there wasn’t one. Where were they? He grabbed a nearby bucket of water and doused the spot. Handing the vessel back to his man, Hank said, “Go refill this at the water truck and put it back where it was.” He should tell Eddie the fire extinguishers weren’t in place. With seat men in short supply, they would need more than a few buckets of water.

“There you are.” Blinko pushed a man aside and grasped Hank’s elbow. “Come on. You’re late.”

“Late for what?”

“You haven’t clowned in this much heat yet, have you?” Blinko blinked.

A drop of perspiration fell from Hank’s nose. “No, but I’ll make it.”

“Yeah. But your makeup won’t if we don’t add an extra layer of powder. We don’t have much time, so get a move on.”

Hank turned supervisory duties over to Clyde, his most experienced man, and hurried toward the performer’s tent with Blinko. He looked for Eddie along the way to mention the fire extinguishers but never saw him. As soon as he ducked into the tent, a gaggle of clowns in character hustled him toward the dressing area, clucking, honking, and creating their usual hubbub. Every thought of finding Eddie fled Hank’s mind, chased away by layers of grease paint, powder, and padding.

Under the bleachers lay an empty wooden bucket, tossed aside by a propman who’d hurried away for an alleged crisis involving the animal chute. Nearby, two more cigarette butts glowed in the sawdust.

But most troubling of all, the sidewall of the tent near the men’s room sported a charred spot which slowly grew larger, spreading like a herd of black beasts consuming a wheat field. Excited patrons—mostly women and children—took their seats, oblivious to the danger lurking beneath them, which wafted into the stifling air on wisps of gray smoke. When it burst into open flame, it would dance like a bally girl clad in orange sequins.

Spartacus wasn’t the only monster attending the circus that day.