19

The six-four Carl Grissom walked out from underneath the sign.

BONUS BROTHERS CARNIVAL AND AMUSEMENT PARK

His footfalls were silent on the hard-packed dirt. Some of the sign’s hand-painted letters were faded. It tilted precariously in place, and the pockmarked surface showed that it had been used for target practice.

Grissom had acquired the dilapidated property from the two so-called “Bonus Brothers” when they were deep into him for their markers. Irv and Stan Bonassa came from the circus world and, when they were younger, had been very hands-on with the amusement park, performing as ringmasters, barkers, chief cooks and bottle washers. They had owned the land, and back in the day people would come from Metropolis, Star City, and beyond to see the two-headed baby, the bearded woman, the half man-half alligator, and other assorted freakish attractions.

But times and tastes changed.

There were still those who came—teenagers who’d heard about the place from their folks, and groups like the Shriners who might book the place for a special night—but the Bonassas’ vices got out of hand. Irv liked the cards and he’d hit a streak now and then, winning big. This led to over-confidence and the chance to lose it all chasing an inside straight or full house that never materialized.

For Stan, the lonely widower, it was about the women.

Past the Ferris Wheel, dark and skeletal on the cold rainy night, and the House of Fun with its creepy clown mouth for an entrance, he stopped at the carousel, one hand in his pocket. Grissom smiled ruefully, looking at the hand-carved horses, elephants, and carriages, brightly painted not that long ago.

A product of the East End with a half-crazy alcoholic mom for a parent, he’d grown up hard. Because he was naturally good with his fists and had a quick wit, he thrived while others from the old neighborhood ended up in the graveyard or doing a bid in Blackgate. He’d been one of the top enforcers for the Galante family and, unlike the other knuckleheads he’d rolled with, he didn’t blow his money on booze and broads—well not all of it, anyway.

His chance came when he dated a chick who stripped at a club called the Lacy Pony.

The dude who owned the joint had his nose too much in the Colombian marching powder he dealt on the side. He was behind on the mortgage and Grissom had lent him the money with the appropriate vig attached. Needless to say, the man’s business habits hadn’t improved, and one day the prospect of another beating from his lender loomed large. He signed the club over to the muscle-turned-entrepreneur, and Carl Grissom became a business owner.

That didn’t mean that Grissom had cut the strings from Junior Galante. The crime boss gave him the green light to branch out. In that way Galante was able to launder money and have the girls in the club push drugs on their customers, back in the private VIP rooms.

Grissom got his cut of the action. He figured Galante would one day force him out, but when the day came he’d socked his money away. He then took on the mantle of loan shark, and did the occasional hit, if the price was right.

Stan Bonassa frequented the Lacy Pony, and Grissom got to know him. Stan had a real bad infatuation for one of the broads who worked there, went by the name of Suzi Mustang. Grissom did some checking, and found out about the brother and their holdings. He encouraged Bonassa to spend money on her in one of the back rooms, and was more than happy to get Irv into a few of the underground games around town.

So here he was, owner of a run-down amusement park, or—more correctly—part owner. Wouldn’t you know it, but an ex-cop named Gavin Kovaks had already owned a piece of the place. He’d been on the pad to Carmine “The Roman” Falcone back in the day. He’d been busted and did a jolt at Gotham State Penitentiary. When Grissom first met him on the carnival grounds, he’d taken Kovaks for some sort of broke down alkie caretaker. Well the alkie part had been right.

“Yeah, crazy how these things work out, isn’t it?” Kovaks said. He smelled like liniment and lost dreams, sitting in his little shack at the back end of the amusement park. A couple of dog-eared skin mags sat on a wobbly table, peeking out from under a dingy dishtowel. There was a poster tacked to one of the walls—Ronald Reagan, but not in the Oval Office. It was a black-and-white of him in his acting days, smiling and squint-eyed on a horse, a cowboy hat atop his head. “But as you can see, Mr. Grissom, right here in this copy of the deed, I got a five percent interest.”

“Lemme guess, the original is tucked away someplace safe.”

Goddamn Stan Bonassa didn’t tell me about this shit.

“Oh yes, sir,” Kovaks said cheerily, his goofy fur-lined winter cap cocked on his head, ear flaps down. “Got to protect that which is precious, don’t you know? Prison taught me that.” He gave an innocent grin.

“Yeah, smart,” Grissom drawled, but he knew how it was going to go. Once he found that original deed, Kovaks would be saying sayonara to his crappy little shack, permanently. He’d bury him out there near the marsh with those few others, including the newly arrived corpse delivered by Frankie Bones.

He didn’t want people to think of this as the disposal graveyard, but a buck was a buck, and Palmares offered top dollar.

“So how is it you own a piece?” Grissom said as casually as he could muster. Kovaks grinned again, and it wasn’t a pleasant look for him.

“Back when I was in harness, I got around a lot before that prick Gordon tripped me up.” He leaned closer across the small table, increasing the smell. “Stan had a thing for the ladies. He didn’t always look like a gnome, like he does now, and back then he had green lining his pockets, yeah?”

Grissom waited, resisting the urge to strangle the man.

“He got to going ’round with this contortionist who worked for him. I seen her do her stuff, and believe me she could put herself in all kinds of positions.” The grin turned into a leer.

Grissom remained stone-faced.

Kovaks shrugged. “Anywho, as you might imagine, she caught the eye of more than one guy and this leather vest, chopper type shows up at the office here one time, telling Stan in no uncertain terms he had to keep his mitts off her. The guy slapped him around some to emphasize the point. Wouldn’t you know it but ol’ Big Tiny the strongman sees this, and as he’s the protective type, so he slaps the biker around some.”

Now this was interesting.

“Knocked him around too good, and motorcycle boy cracked his head open on the corner of a table.” He sat back, spreading his hands. “Good thing the boys had come to me a time or two before, like say when the knife thrower had nicked a dutiful taxpaying citizen, and they needed the trouble to go away.”

“For a fee,” Grissom guessed.

“Um-hmm.” Kovaks paused, a self-satisfied smirk settling on his face. “But getting rid of a body, even that of a reprobate like the biker, isn’t as easy as you might think, even in Gotham.”

Grissom appreciated initiative. “So for this service, you requested a larger-than-usual payout?”

Kovaks spread his arms wide, like a priest about to give a blessing.

“It was sweet for a while,” he said. “Getting my little quarterly percentage.” He shook his head. “It was amazing, too, how much they made on popcorn and cotton candy alone. But those days are gone.”

“I see the power is still on,” Grissom said. He’d flicked on a light in what had been the main office.

“There was some money left in the operations fund, and I figured I might as well keep up with the light bill as long as possible. It’s only on in a few specific places, because you can do that with a commercial property. I’m betting we can sell the park. People always want to laugh. The right owner comes along, and who knows?” He beamed.

“You think so?” What Grissom figured was to hold onto the land long enough, and sell to a developer who would raze all this clown crap and build an outlet mall or something. Of course, if by then he had a few bodies to unearth, chop up, and burn, it’d be no big thing.

He checked his watch. He had a plane to catch to Miami.

“Oh yes, it could be a hell of a carnival again,” Kovaks said. “Wouldn’t take much to make a real go of it, I’m figuring. I’ve got a few feelers out now, you know, looking for investors.”

“Uh-huh,” Grissom said. He wasn’t convinced, but decided it wasn’t worth wasting the breath to argue. Rising, he took a last look around. “You never know, Kovaks, you never know.”