Bacchanal Read online

  “Almost didn’t see you there,” the Negro boy said as he swung the door open. He’d have caught her toe if she hadn’t jumped back.

  Instead of moving aside, Liza lingered awkwardly, blocking the stranger’s path. They exchanged a curious glance.

  “I . . . ,” Liza began and then swallowed hard. “I was hoping there might be some work for me in your carnival. I can cook, clean, do whatever needs doing.” She left out the part about the animals—of that, she wasn’t quite so confident.

  “Afraid we don’t need any domestic help,” the redheaded man answered as he appeared at his companion’s side. “But I do invite you to come check out our show. We’ll be setting up just outside of town.”

  They parted around Liza like a stream moving around a boulder and moseyed on down the street. She watched them go, all other pleas unspoken.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHAT TREASURES LIE BEHIND THE SECOND CURTAIN

  Clay removed his hat and swiped the back of his arm across his forehead, clearing a spattering of sweat that returned almost as soon as he’d wiped it off. Always some hopeless strays with stars in their eyes, wanting to run off with the carnival. That girl’d be better off staying put. At his side, Jamey tilted his head up, drinking in the sun. “You Yankees sure can’t handle a little bit of heat.”

  “I was born in Chicago—that don’t exactly make me no Yankee. ’Sides, hard as I try, I can’t see why anybody would want to live in a swamp.”

  “Shoot, Chicago still Yankee territory last I checked. And I was born right here,” Jamey said. “Folks gone now, but it was all we knew. Read all about snow. That didn’t truck with me much neither.”

  “Guess ya got a point,” Clay said. Clay had a thin, muscular build from years of backbreaking work as a carnie. First as a roadie, a game runner, a caller. The drudgery had ended when Geneva offered him . . . well, some secrets you took to the grave. Shocking orange-red waves of hair were slicked back over his head. Try as he did to keep his hair in place with pomade, a strand or two always managed to fall forward to frame his face. Dark-brown eyes complemented his ruddy, leather-worn complexion. He wore a T-shirt and slacks held up by striped suspenders he’d nabbed from a drunk mark he’d had to drag out of the cooch tent back in Pensacola.

  They walked a ways and paused in the center of Baton Rouge, as it were, the midafternoon sun painting a wet pallor over everything. People lazed about in storefronts or dragged themselves from shade puddle to shade puddle. Even though it was closing time, no one moved quickly; there was no rush. Jamey turned around in a circle. “A lot of change since I been back last. I don’t recognize nothin’.”

  “Would have been nice to tell me that before. What do you think I brought you out here for?” Clay said. “Guess you wanted to get out for a spell on my dime, huh?”

  “The wrestler sets up shop at the edge of town,” Jamey said, ignoring the barb. “They say the show usually starts on time. He charges a nickel, wrestles one or two gators, dependin’. Boasts for the crowd a bit—he get a little extra moola that way. He wraps up real quick-like and disappears somewhere in the swamp where he live. Don’t know much more ’bout him.” This time, Jamey paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You think we gone be able to finish up here and get back ’fore dark? Maybe we ought to stay in town for the night.”

  “Naw. We need to get back,” Clay said. “Let’s see if we can grab some grub before the show. This here is your town. What’s good?”

  Jamey fingered his chin. “Well, now. Old Mr. Huff’s place is empty most days but still hangin’ on a few doors down. The boys say the food is as good as it ever was.”

  “You go on ahead—I’ll be there lickety-split,” Clay said. “I’ll have a chat with the local brass first.”

  At the end of the main drag stood a little structure made of weathered wooden slats. The mayor’s office was a shotgun building, propped up on blocks. Two front windows looked out on the street, one half-open and the other closed—as if the building had a lazy eye. An old wooden sign over the door read SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

  “Come in,” called a voice at Clay’s knock.

  When he stepped inside, he found that the sheriff shared the oblong open space with the mayor. The mayor’s “office” was to his right, official books stacked on his desk, a state flag sagging against the wall. The sheriff, a lean outlaw type with shifty eyes, occupied the left side of the room. He wore a gun at his waist, and the case behind him held two shotguns. At the rear of the room was a lone jail cell, partially covered by a curtain.

  Two payoffs. Wonderful.

  “What can I do for you?” the sheriff said.

  “I’m Clay Kennel, owner and proprietor of the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival.” Clay stuck out his hand. “I’m here to see if we can set up a show for a few days to entertain the good folk of Baton Rouge.”

  The sheriff appraised Clay’s outstretched hand, and the mayor stepped up behind him.

  “You’ll need to talk to me.” He stuck out his own hand, more of a bear mitt. “Mayor Wade Hampton Bynum. Good mayor to this here fine city of ours for the last ten years.”

  “Fine town you got here,” Clay said.

  “It’s a dump,” the sheriff said, spitting something brown and slimy into a tin cup.

  Clay ignored him and turned to the mayor, who at least wanted to feign some type of propriety. “Here on business but taking in the people of your town got me to thinking. What do ya say about us pulling a wildcat? You know, do something on short notice. Wouldn’t take much for us to get set up.”

  Clay’s research had revealed the mayor was up for reelection. That meant it couldn’t hurt to bring a little fun into the city. Make people forget about the jobs he’d likely promised but, according to all the closed shops, hadn’t delivered on.

  The mayor and sheriff were probably salivating at their good fortune.

  “Well, there’s a license to operate,” the mayor said, looking up in the air and calculating with his fingers. “’Course you got your inspection and associated fees. Cleanup and swamp-preservation charges . . .”

  “Let’s say we start off with one date. Ten-dollar flat fee.” Clay looked from the mayor to the sheriff. “For the both of you. No inspection, no license. If we take a liking to the area, maybe we do a few more dates and negotiate that part later.”

  “And you own this here carnival?” the sheriff asked, a little brown spittle on his chin.

  “Down to every last fork and spoon.” The practiced lie rolled off his tongue with the ease of a pitchman’s rhetoric. There was no way a woman, let alone a Negro woman, would be allowed to handle these negotiations. Geneva had found Clay and entrusted him, and he’d never let her down. For being the much-needed white male face of the carnival, she paid him better than he’d ever made before, gave him responsibility and authority. Hell, he may as well own the carnival, since he ran everything.

  The mayor and sheriff exchanged a conspiratorial glance. “A regular P. T. Barnum,” the mayor said.

  “Barnum ran a circus.” A correction Clay had made countless times before. “I run a carnival. Two different animals.” Bacchanal did well, better than most, and Geneva provided everything they needed. But circuses were known to pull in more money—the mayor was angling for a bigger payday.

  The mayor pressed his palms onto the marred wood tabletop. “Guess they are.”

  Silence hung in the air. Clay steeled himself. As far as negotiations went, these hillbillies were pushovers, but they didn’t have to know his thinking on the matter.

  “Twenty-five dollars apiece,” the mayor said, tentative. “And, uh, you got any cooch dancers in your outfit? Might need to . . . inspect them for violations of local decency laws. Could probably get the fees down to an even twenty if you could swing in a special show for us.”

  Got ’em.

  “I’m afraid you’ve got us mixed up with some of the bigger outfits.” Clay painted a look of dejection on his face. “That much I flat out can’t
afford. Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll be moving on. I hear tell Lake Charles has a need for some entertainment such as my outfit offers.”

  He sauntered out the door and was down the steps and well on his way when the mayor and sheriff rushed out behind him. Red faced, the mayor said, “Ten dollars apiece seems a fair offer to me. As long as we still get a go at our . . . inspections.”

  Clay turned and stared them down. “Five dollars apiece. That is, if you ask me real nice.”

  After Clay and Jamey had eaten, they went to see the alligator show, which started promptly. The pit was crudely constructed, clear water rising little more than ankle-deep. The fence around the pit was only three feet high; the gator inside was eight feet of rough hide, menacing eyes, and barbed teeth. The gator snapped at the sizable jeering crowd. Clay turned up his nose at the foul mishmash of smells, where sweat met unwiped butts and mixed with fetid swamp water and smoking meat.

  A tall, well-muscled man circled the crowd, collecting money and admonishing them not to throw things at the gator or get too close. “We won’t be held responsible for any loss of limb, folks!” he called out to the anxious crowd.

  The alligator wrestler was a large, barrel-chested man wearing a one-piece bathing suit. He swung his arms wide, pounded his chest, and gestured. He flexed his muscles in a deep bend reminiscent of the carnival’s strongman, Bombardier. The crowd, lowly, dusty, and dead eyed, came to life, cheering him wildly. Clay recognized the same thing in his customers. Folks who were down and out had only a few options: booze, sex, entertainment. None of them filled an empty belly, but they could take the edge off.

  Clay dropped a dime into the hat for him, and Jamey folded his arms, skeptical. They often did this type of scouting for Geneva, and more often than not, they ended up finding fakes or charlatans who couldn’t do half what they claimed. Geneva had a strange set of requirements—it wasn’t only about the act. She had to get a sense of the person, as if there were something more she was looking for.

  After the wrestler had dispensed with the gesturing and prancing, he leaped into the pit. He and the animal tussled something fierce. He antagonized the gator, grabbing at its tail and giving it a good yank. Mud and water splashed the crowd, but if anything bothered them, they didn’t show it. Some even cheered on the gator. Despite themselves, Clay and Jamey perked up. They exchanged an excited glance, and before long, they were joining in the cheering and jeering.

  The wrestler scrambled onto the animal’s back and tucked an arm under its mouth, putting it in a headlock. He gestured to the crowd—grinning a smile devoid of his two front teeth.

  “He’s a good one, sure ’nuf!” Jamey said.

  “Yeah,” Clay said. “I think we got one. Folks are going to love—”

  The gator’s tail lashed out, projecting its body forward and toppling the wrestler, who fell with a gigantic splash. The gator’s massive jaws hinged open and clamped down on the man’s midsection. The crowd gasped and screamed with the wrestler.

  But a girl, the same one who had waylaid them in town, shoved her way forward. Agitated shouts quieted, and the crowd cleared a path as she stepped through the gate.

  Jamey started, looked to Clay. The girl focused her gaze on the gator, her concentration as steady as his convictions had been before he’d met Geneva.

  “What the hell is this?” Clay said, looking at Jamey. “Part of the act?”

  “No, I sure don’t think it is,” Jamey said.

  The alligator stopped its thrashing and released the man. Blood painted the water an obnoxious red like the gash in the man’s side. The crowd remained parted around the girl, while the gator lumbered to the front of the pool—its eyes almost ashamed. Clay and Jamey, along with the rest of the crowd, were transfixed. If Clay hadn’t taken leave of his good sense, something the girl did had actually saved the man. Suddenly the alligator wrestler was forgotten, replaced by someone wholly unexpected.

  The man who had been collecting the money finally snapped out of it. “Well, shake a leg, help me get him out!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A CHANGE OF FORTUNE

  Liza almost fainted with relief. She’d done it. She’d saved the alligator but now struggled to understand what she’d done differently. She had simply sent the gator an image she hoped would calm it: a group of alligators sunning themselves on a sandy riverbank. Murky green waters with tasty hidden treasures awaiting nearby. The animal spun away from its target as it sent Liza images of its own, the long life it had lived. The swamp animals and people it had harassed. The eggs grown to life and those lost. It had opened its maw, let out a gasp of swamp-tainted breath, and waddled into a corner like a chastised puppy.

  The alligator wrestler had been dragged bleeding and semiconscious from the pool, and the crowd had dissipated with only a spattering of taunts and barbs. And the two strangers from earlier—the handsome one and his redheaded friend—had seen the whole thing.

  She’d steeled herself for more when the redheaded man removed his hat, stepped forward, and offered his hand. He introduced himself as Clay Kennel and his companion as Jamey Blotter. His words lingered in her head like a treasured passage from one of her pulp magazines. That’s some trick you got there. Should’ve said something about it before. If you’re ready to blow this swamp trap, we’d like to make you an offer to join the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival.

  It didn’t take Liza long to clear her things from the old boardinghouse. She grabbed her satchel and stuffed in a couple items of threadbare clothing and underpants, serials scavenged from the trash, the family photograph her father had given her, and the amulet—the only thing her silent, detached mother had ever given her.

  She was leaving Baton Rouge for good. And just as Mrs. Margaret had taught her, she hadn’t appeared overly eager at the offer. She’d even managed to negotiate her pay.

  Mrs. Shippen was skeptical. She’d sneered, “If living by yourself here ain’t bad enough, now you go running off to some carnival? A woman! You’ll be back, and don’t think your room will be sitting here waiting for you.”

  Liza smiled at the sad little woman bent from the years, face hardened into the same ugly expression she’d had since her husband ran off with that prostitute from New Orleans. “One thing for sure, Mrs. Shippen. Bet you’ll still be here, now won’t you?”

  She left the woman standing in her room—her old room—as she hightailed it downstairs and stepped outside to see her escape in the form of Clay and Jamey standing beside a truck, right in her grasp. She raced down the steps, ignoring the small crowd that had gathered around them.

  “Eliza Meeks, you’ll need to come with me.” The sheriff stepped out from the crowd, alongside the bandaged alligator wrestler, supported by two other men. The boardinghouse door opened, and Mrs. Shippen stepped outside. She smiled at Liza and tossed a small pouch to the sheriff.

  Liza froze. Questions swirled in her head, but when she opened her mouth, all that escaped was a groan.

  “What’s going on here?” Clay said as he and Jamey elbowed their way forward.

  “The freak’s a goddang thief,” the alligator wrestler spat.

  “Lies from the mouth of a no-’count drunk,” Liza shot back with a sharpness she didn’t really feel.

  The sheriff took her by the arm. Mico screeched before she quieted him with an image of her hand over his tiny mouth. “She stole the wrestler’s take after the accident. Got a witness to the fact. Bet she caused the gator to go feral, too, but unfortunately can’t prove that. Our good Mrs. Shippen found this here pouch in the girl’s room. Don’t need much more proof than that.”

  “Menace!” someone in the small crowd hissed.

  “Highfalutin thief!” shouted another.

  Murmurs rose as the sheriff led Liza down the street toward the jail. She finally got her voice. “I did no such thing, and you know it!”

  “Tell that to that pouch full of coins,” the wrestler said, wincing in pain.

  The walk to the jail wa
s all too short. She knew these people had been waiting for the right chance to punish her, and they had no trouble with lying to ruin her. Her heart sank.

  And when the jail door closed and locked behind her, she fumbled onto the bunk and wondered whether she should ask them to set Mico free. She watched with some satisfaction as the wrestler hurled curses at the sheriff when he told him he’d have to keep his money as evidence.

  As the wrestler exited in a huff, the redheaded man from the carnival stepped inside.

  “Looks like we got ourselves what they call a quandary.” Clay strolled over confidently to the sheriff.

  “How’s that?” the sheriff asked.

  Clay counted off the issues one finger at a time. “You got my potential new act locked up back there. We got a show to put on, one I paid you for already, and don’t expect I’d be obliged to do it without what I come for. We’ve agreed to accommodate your request for a special inspection of the cooch show. And the good people of Baton Rouge are already expecting some entertainment. Your alligator show is done for. Seem to me, you need me more than you know.”

  The sheriff glanced back at Liza, and she averted her gaze. She dared not hope.

  “Let’s take a walk,” the sheriff said.

  As soon as the door shut, a rat scurried into her cell. Liza yelped and backed into a corner but in the next instant set aside her foolishness and settled her thoughts around the rodent. The image: the keys the sheriff had tossed onto his desk next to her satchel. The rat, however, was not quick to agree. It sent a message of its own: a raw, painful hunger. It wanted . . . Mico!

  That wouldn’t do, so she promised it something else to eat. She didn’t exactly like rats, with all their scurrying and leaping, but when this one sailed through the air, landed on the desk, and snatched up the keys, she didn’t even flinch.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A TOUGH ACT TO FOLLOW