Stuart Kaminsky - Catch a Falling Clown

“It was most cooperative of you to come back here,” said Marish pleasantly. Then his voice turned harsh. “I am most distressed about what you did to my brother.”

“Your brother?” I asked, sitting on the sink. He backed away from me with the small gun out and sat on the closed toilet. My brother and I had once had a similar talk when he was about seventeen and I was fourteen. My older brother had given me some advice then, and I had made a wise comment. The result was a five-inch cut on my head. I had more to lose this time.

“Charles Marish, whom you sent to his death last night,” said Marish angrily.

“But he was a killer,” I answered, folding my arms.

“We have been over that,” he said. “I told you why he and I killed those people. You clearly have no sympathy or understanding. You clearly don’t understand the shallow corruption the circus represents, the squalid lives, the cheapness. The world would be better off without circuses.”

“And you’re personally going to destroy them all?”

“I would that it were possible,” he said. “But I will have to be content to carry on for my brother and do what little I can. Now …” He held up the pistol.

“Did you try to kill Emmett Kelly, or was that your brother?” I asked.

“One of our few failures,” he sighed, reminding me of the man he had impersonated.

“Why Hitchcock?” I asked quickly.

“I became an actor after the elephant accident,” he explained. “I worked in England as an extra on Jamaica Inn. A few people actually mistook me for Hitchcock on occasion. In fact, I doubled for Charles Laughton on the film. I’m afraid I shall now have to kill you.”

“Afraid?” I pushed away from the sink. The rear of my pants was wet.

“I will enjoy it,” he said.

“I think I’ll just have to deprive you of that pleasure,” I said.

He shook his head. I looked into the corner over that shaking head and fixed on the transom. Curiosity took him, but he didn’t turn.

“I’m looking at a shotgun,” I said. “Through the transom. Sheriff’s been listening to all this. His office is right next door. This toilet and the sheriff’s share a transom. Flush the toilet in there, Sheriff.”

A toilet flushed almost instantly, and Marish looked up at the transom. I went for his gun as he glanced up, and hell broke loose. I slammed his hand away and the bullet hit the wall, followed by an explosion and the shattering of the mirror as I banged into the wall below the transom. Shards of glass flew, and I covered my head.

“You crazy bastard,” I shouted at Nelson, sinking to the floor and moving my arm away from my eyes. I could see that my pants were torn by the flying glass, but I was doing fine compared to Marish, who had a deep gash on his cheek from the shotgun blast. He was looking around for something with madness in his eyes. He panted the frightened pant of a fat man. I helped him look. We were probably looking for his gun, and I wanted to find it first.

“Don’t move in there,” came Nelson’s voice. “Or I’ll fire the second barrel.”

“Nelson, no!” I yelled, spotting the gun and going for it. Marish let out a gasp and went through the door. I got to my feet, picking up a cut on my palm. I staggered out of the destroyed toilet and looked down the bar. Everyone was looking at Marish and me. Some had their mouths open. All had heard the explosion, and no one could miss the two shredded humans who had come through the door.

“Stop him,” I shouted after Marish, who was almost at the front door. He was leaving a trail of blood. No trail was needed, but my own knees weren’t doing well enough to carry me forward.

Marish put one hand on the door. Behind me from the toilet I could hear Nelson’s voice yelling, “What the hell is going on in there?”

The radio was now giving a calm male message in slow Spanish that made it clear radios were unaware of human activity. I didn’t know if Marish would get away or where he would go. I didn’t have to find out.

Emmett Kelly moved to the door and put a hand on Marish’s shoulder.

“Hold it,” he said. Marish turned, his wild bloody face showing all his hatred for the circus. The look took Kelly by surprise. He was used to a lot, but not that look of hatred.

Marish couldn’t resist. He threw a wild fat right at Kelly, who ducked and came back with a push to Marish’s chest. The fat man tumbled back over the Hijo drunk and went down in a lump.

I limped forward as Alex and Nelson came through the front door of Hijo’s with shotguns ready.

People began to scramble for corners and scream.

“Hold it,” I yelled. “Don’t shoot.”

Nelson’s eyes were wild and frightened, but they were probably no different from those of anyone else in the room, except he had the shotgun.

“It’s over, Sheriff,” said Alex evenly.

Nelson looked over at Marish and aimed his barrel at the fallen form. “Right,” said Nelson. “It’s over.”

It was at that point that my knees said the hell with it, and I crumpled to the floor, hoping for an inkwell.

When I opened my eyes after dreaming that Koko and I could fly over Cincinnati, I found the face of Doc Ogle.

“Full of holes,” came a voice behind him.

“Me?” I asked with a croak, trying to sit up.

“You and the whole damn story,” came Nelson’s voice. I looked past Doc Ogle, who had trouble straightening up. Nelson and Alex were there. I was back in the sheriff’s office on the bench.

“This man could use a hospital,” said the doc, packing something in his black bag. “Lacerations, concussion, goddamn crazy handprint on his back.”

In the cell beyond the first, I could see Marish, sitting with his head down. He turned his face toward me, and I didn’t like what I saw. The stitches didn’t bother me, but that look did. I turned away.

“I will explain it another time for you,” came Gunther’s voice. I turned my head in the other direction and saw Gunther, Jeremy, and Shelly.

“Don’t bother,” sighed Nelson. “I’ve got enough. I heard enough. Alex and I heard enough.”

“You’ll be a hero, Nelson,” I said, sitting up. “Caught a killer single-handed in a bloody gun battle. May even make the San Diego papers.”

“May at that,” said Nelson, pursing his lips.

“We’ll be happy to stay around and tell our part of this,” I volunteered. Jeremy walked over to me and gave me an arm. Hell, he picked me up.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Nelson, clearly preferring his own tale of his gun battle and whatever fantasy of heroism he was working on. “Just you and your friends pack up and get out. We don’t need you in Mirador, and we don’t need the damn circus either.”

“We’re going,” I said. Shelly led the way out, and Jeremy supported me.

“Maybe we’ll see you again sometime,” said Alex, leaning against the wall.

I tried to read through his words and couldn’t.

“Maybe,” said the Spirit of Seventy Wounds, and off we went into the afternoon, closing the door of the Mirador police station behind us.

The circus people were leaning against or loitering near half a dozen cars and trucks in what looked like a vigil. Peg and Elder spotted me first and moved in my direction. The Tanuccis were with them, and Emmett Kelly stood to the side with Agnes Sudds.

“Are you all right?” said Peg.

“Terrific,” I said.

“You look awful.”

“Maybe I don’t feel so terrific,” I admitted. “In fact, I think I’d just like to close my eyes and wake up in my bed back in Hollywood.”

“Alone?” came Agnes’ voice from behind.

“I’ll be happy to wake up,” I said, feeling something dark come over me.