Stuart Kaminsky - Catch a Falling Clown

“No,” said Elder. “Sandoval came in to check on the cats and saw the cage open. Only one cat had gotten out. The other one stayed.”

“Someone opened up the cage,” Sandoval said with a broad gesture. “Why would someone do such a thing? I need that cat for my act. He can do a rollover …”

“Is he dangerous?” I asked, gripping Peg’s hand.

“Of course,” said Sandoval with indignation. “What is the point of working with cats that are not dangerous? I am an artist, not a sideshow trick.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Sandoval,” said Elder, putting his hand on the performer’s shoulder and looking into his eyes. “You’ve got to keep your act going tonight till I tell you to stop. Do it twice if you have to. We’ve got to have time to catch the cat.”

“Without the rollover?” Sandoval complained.

“I’m afraid so,” said Elder seriously.

Sandoval shrugged and gave a show-must-go-on smile, turned, and hurried out of the tent.

“Chances are the cat will stay nearby,” said Elder, looking at me and Peg. “Well, let’s look. His name is Puddles, but he doesn’t answer to any name. If you find him, let out a yell and get something between you and him.”

“No accident, was it?” I asked.

“You kidding?” said Elder. “Whoever did it pried the damn lock off. Now, let’s find Puddles.”

I found puddles a few feet away, but finding Puddles was another story. Actually, it’s this story.

“Why do they call the lion Puddles?” I asked, moving into a nearby tent. “I thought lions were called things like Rajah or King.”

Peg followed me into the tent. There was a single light overhead, a not-many-watts yellow bulb. It looked like a dressing tent.

“Some animal trainers give their lions and tigers names to be respected,” Peg explained. “Maybe just to remember to respect them. Others give them nicknames like Puddles to make them seem less frightening.”

Something moved in a corner behind an open trunk. I pushed Peg and tripped. “Out,” I yelled.

“Nothing here,” came a voice from behind the trunk, and Agnes Sudds emerged with a red-spangled cap on her orange head.

I got up, prepared to keep my distance from her and determined not to ask about Abdul.

“If I find him,” she said, looking back, “Abdul will hold him till help comes. Don’t worry about me.”

Since I hadn’t been worrying about Agnes, I didn’t say anything. I wondered if Gunther was hovering somewhere nearby, watching her.

When Agnes was gone, I called, “Gunther” softly.

“His name is Puddles,” said Peg when Gunther appeared, and I explained quickly about the plan to tail the prime suspects. Peg said nothing. It wasn’t bright enough to see her eyes clearly, but something troubled her. Maybe she wondered if someone, me, was trailing her.

“Now, wait …” I began but didn’t get far because someone ran into the tent, panting. It was Shelly. He went to a nearby coil of rope and sat down with one hand over the approximate area of his heart.

“Lost … him,” he wheezed. “Saw …, you … come … in … here … and …”

The distinct nearby roar of a very large animal stopped Shelly, who looked around the tent in fear. Sweat had drooped his eyebrows. “What?” he asked, trying to stand. The coil was too low. He sat back down again.

“Quiet,” I said. “It’s Puddles.”

“Puddles?”

“The lion,” Peg whispered, looking into the darkness.

“I don’t see his cage,” Shelly whispered, getting the idea.

“He escaped,” said Peg. “Someone let him out.”

Shelly stood up with several “damns.” The next proud roar was louder than the last one and definitely in the tent. Agnes and Abdul had either done a rotten job of lion searching or had let us walk into a pride of lions.

Shelly’s glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and he didn’t see the wooden chair near the door. He tumbled over it and let out a yell of fear.

“My faithful retainer,” I said. Nobody laughed, not even Puddles, who came bounding out from behind a stack of boxes to see what we were making so much noise about. Puddles was big. His teeth were big, his orange-black mane was big, and he was standing about ten feet in front of me. I reached behind me while I looked at him in the dim light and tried to grasp the chair. It wasn’t there, and Puddles took a step toward us.

“The chair,” I said very quietly. Someone, certainly not Shelly, who I could hear going, “Uh … uh … uh …” at the entrance, handed me the chair.

“She’s afraid,” said Peg. “Look at her eyes.”

Puddles’ eyes were yellow with black hatred in their centers, and they were getting bigger and bigger. I put the chair between me and Puddles.

“I’ll try not to frighten her,” I said with what I hoped was bitter sarcasm. It probably came out more like hysterical fear.

Puddles swiped at the chair with a paw and let out a growl. I held onto the chair.

“That’s part of her act,” Peg whispered.

“What’s the next part?”

“You put the chair down and stick your head in her mouth,” Peg explained behind me while Shelly switched to, “Oh no … oh no … oh no.”

“I think I’ll improvise instead,” I said, bringing the chair in front of me. Puddles cocked her head and looked puzzled. This was not the act, and I was not the trainer. She had latched onto something familiar in unfamiliar territory, but I wasn’t playing the game.

“I am not putting this chair down and sticking my head in her mouth,” I said through my teeth.

“Toby, do it, for God’s sake,” whimpered Shelly.

For a wild fraction of a second, I lost all fear. Once a woman in Pomona, or it may have been Palm Springs, told me she had jumped from a roof without planning to do it, just because she found herself looking down and suddenly lost touch of what it would mean. One thing that saved me from the jaws of Puddles was Puddles’ mouth. It was open and full of saliva and teeth.

“I’m not putting my head in that mouth,” I cried.

“I put my hands in worse mouths than that every day,” Shelly pleaded.

“Forget it, Shel, or do it yourself.”

Puddles took a tentative swipe again, but it didn’t have the showmanship of the first swing. It didn’t even have a roar.

“She’s making up her mind, I think,” said Peg.

“I’m going to hit the sonofabitch in the head with the chair. When I do it, run like hell,” I said, trying to smile reassuringly at the lion who looked into my face. I was probably uglier than the lion, but she seemed curious.

“That’s a stinking plan,” shrieked Shelly.

“I have none better,” I said, raising the chair slowly. “Get ready, Peg.”

“Toby,” she said, clutching my arm. “You could hurt her.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I really hope so.”

Puddles seemed to understand something of what was going on. She opened her mouth, bared her teeth, roared and eliminated the last of the space between us. The chair should have come down in her face, but I knew it was still up in the air, maybe floating up there with my hands and arms attached. A marvel of the universe.

“Stop that,” came a voice from behind me as Puddles was about to eat my cheek. When the voice hit, Puddles took one step backward, hesitated, and looked as if she were going to spring.

“I said stop,” shouted the blond lion tamer Sandoval, stepping to my side. The lion backed up two steps and growled.

“Chair,” he said in a confident voice. “Hand me the chair quickly.”

I pleaded with my arms to respond, and they did. I thanked them and watched the trainer step forward, driving Puddles back.