by
Robert T. Tuohey
I. What the Mummy Told Me
Being a private detective in NYC, you get to see a lot of weird stuff. For example, there was that daffy, rich broad who had me investigate the theft of her diamond broach. It turned out that her pet monkey had pilfered it, and then hidden it up his furtive, furry bum. Then there was that guy who committed suicide in a Laundromat dryer, and rigged it to look like his ex-wife had off-ed him. Or take that poor sap that had me tail his wife on the assumption that the little lady was stepping out with the greengrocer next-door ~ Sorry, pal, no cigar, but your chickadee does have a thing for carrots.
All this, and a whole lot more, has served to strip me of any illusions I may have had about this business – I mean this business called “life”.
So, as I say, in this whacked merry go-round, you come across more than your fair share of damaged units. Still, I wasn't prepared for the kooky caper that one Mr. James Casca wanted to drop in my lap. Of course, at the time I didn't know jack about Bozo the clown, and if I had, I would have told that old bastard to get someone else to wade around in that cesspool for him.
It was a cold February morning, and I didn't particularly relish a long drive out to White Plains just for a meeting. Why couldn't the client, I'd asked, or someone representing the client, come down to my office? It wasn't possible, Casca's secretary had informed me by phone. Her employer was unable to make the trip, she said, but insisted on a face-to-face. My 250-dollar day-fee was no problem. But, no, she couldn't divulge (“divulge”, mind you) any further details over the phone.
I-95 still had a bit of ice on it, and the overcast sky was a threatening metal gray. Even still, to see a main artery into the city damn near empty of traffic gives you an odd feeling. That was what threw me: I put my edginess down to the impending snow, and not to the case. Not to Bozo.
As the car warmed-up, I switched on my favorite blues station. Muddy came on, telling me that he had his mojo working. Well, that was one of us. I hit the highway.
What with the nice empty roads, I made good time. The driveway to the Casca mansion was a long gravel road with thick pinewoods on either side. A huge old-style stone-pillar gate, rigged up with electronic surveillance, blocked the entrance. A standard eight-foot chain-link fence spread out from the gate, enclosing what must have been an extensive property.
I came to a crunchy stop and rolled down the window, waiting for the disembodied voice. The security cam, high atop the gate, continued giving my care the once over. Obligingly, I leaned my mug out the window. A loud buzz-click sounded from the innards of the gate, and then the two massive halves rolled back.
The “driveway” was a good eighth of a mile long; I noted that every 100 yards or so the pines had been fitted with electronic eyes. Finally, a big lawn, icy-wet in the morning air, spread out in front of me. The mansion was a rambling colonial affair painted an odd gingerbread red.
As I pulled up, I immediately pegged the broad waiting on the wide porch as the one from the telephone. The voice had been young, efficient, and just this side of nutty. With her well-tailored sky-blue pants suit, impassive face backed by tight chignon, and ready clipboard, this piece of work seemed to fit the bill. Reluctantly, I snapped off the radio (Bukka White was growling Black Cat Blues ), and got out.
“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Lackawanna,” she said (confirming my hunch). She stepped from the cold porch to the even colder sidewalk, extending a delicate, well-formed hand. “I'm Grace Angel, Mr. Casca's personal secretary.”
Ever the gent, I pulled off my glove, giving her my professional once-over as we briefly pressed flesh. Yeah, definitely a bit screwy. Her shake, a nicely acquired gesture, was a good enough approximation toward normality; it was rather the green-blue eyes, slightly off-set and dilated, that let the cat out of the clinic. Probably able to recite the alphabet sideways while she balanced your checkbook, though.
As expected, the inside of the joint was loaded, but there was no pretense at interior decoration; in fact, it was more like an expensive junk shop, and way over-stocked. There were thick, old carpets strewn about, oddball lamps and chairs, books, and all kinds of memorabilia. True, all the stuff was retro in style, but otherwise, nothing seemed to match anything else. It had the feel of a well-kept museum that nobody is allowed to visit. Like you imagine the White House to be.
Following Grace Angel up the long, carpeted stairway, I absently noted that the girl had a bit of a walk. Not that it was much of a twitch, but it was the only thing alive in sight.
After a few twists and turns, we arrived at a big set of double doors; we immediately, though quietly, entered. Any sickroom, I suppose, has something of an odor – this one, however, stunk from floor to ceiling.
A single step inside, I actually stopped, halted not only by the stench, but also by the chaotic clutter that jammed the room. There were heaps of raggedy newspapers and magazines, busted boxes, and god knows what. Pill bottles of every description, plastic, glass, clear, and caramel-colored, from the long empty and now dusty to the just-discarded and still shiny, lay tossed about the floor. Bedpans, in various stages of reek, lay positioned with the randomness of landmines.
My guide, however, had already picked hr way across the room. I followed. In the far corner there was a big bed, atop of which lay a dirty, tangled mass of blankets. As I reluctantly got closer, I made out the figure of a mummy-like man swaddled in their depths. By the side of the bed, showing about as much emotion as a fire hydrant, sat a squat, white uniformed nurse.
Grace Angel paused a moment, glanced at the nurse as if for confirmation, and then, very business-like, proceeded.
“Mr. Casca, this is the private detective, Mr. Samson Lackawanna.”
A few seconds of dead, dusty silence passed. Somewhere within that garbage-pile of a room, I heard the faint ticking of a clock.
Then the eyes opened and stared up, directly at me. Washed-out and clouded-over blue they were, like those of a belly-up fish.
With a rattling noise, he cleared what was left of his throat. The rasp of his speech, however, was surprisingly strong.
“I hear you're the man to solve the unusual,” he croaked.
I could tell by the way he was eyeing me that he was trying to size me up; to judge for himself if I was the guy who fit his bill (whatever the hell that was). From my side, I could see he was one hard, old bastard. Rough as sandpaper, and no doubt had screwed more people in business than a veteran porno star. In short, a typical lawyer.
Of course, I didn't give a damn; my time was paid for (and that was small change to a fat vulture like this). By now, however, I just knew that there was something wrong, even by my skewed standards, with this whole set-up. So, I'd just listen to grandpa's claptrap, whatever it might be, then tell him ‘Sorry, not in my line. Best regards'.
I said, yeah, I'd nailed a number of kooky cases.
There was a pause, and then, evidently satisfied, the skull ginned at me. He gave an inarticulate grunt to the nurse, and she pulled up a chair for me.
“Sit down, Mr. Lackawanna,” he said. “I want to tell you a terrible story.”
I sat, discreetly sliding my right hand into my coat pocket, clicking on my micro-recorder. It was just a reflex; I still had no intention of taking the job. As it turned out, it was a damned good thing that I did; otherwise even I would have doubted that I had heard that bullshit right.
He had sort of managed to straighten himself up just a bit. His bald, bony head now stuck up out of the blankets like a withered, rotting turnip. It was the eyes, however, that seized your attention: they had an intense manic glow.
Well, whatever else he was, he was stone dead crazy.
“You've heard of Bozo the clown?” He looked at me keenly.
I thought I'd certainly misheard; reluctantly, I leaned a bit closer.
“How's that, again?” I asked.
“Bozo! Bozo the clown!” he hissed at me. A flush of purple rage had suddenly spread over his deathly pale features and his emaciated frame shook with effort. Immediately, the nurse stepped forward, but she was stopped cold by a single, feeble wave of his papier-mâché thin hand.
“Uh, yeah, I've heard of him,” I said slowly. “He was on TV…back in the ‘60's?”
Though the nurse had somehow or other managed to get a pill down the old boy's throat, and was now engaged in trying to find his blood pressure, he seemed all but oblivious to the woman. He was still trembling, glaring at me.
He swallowed hard, and gave me a desperate, fierce look.
“I want you to find the son of a bitch that killed Bozo!” he spat out.
Well, I thought, finally a bit of blue sky.
Seeing as local news often concerns my line of work I'm pretty well up on it. But that the guy who had played Bozo had been knocked off, I'd evidently missed. Whatever; a murder investigation was fine with me.
Maybe, I figured right off, this dead Bozo had been a relative or friend, and that was why the old nut was so worked up.
“Ok, Mr. Casca, when was Bozo killed?” I asked. Being “old school”, I'd gotten my pen and pad out and ready.
“September 30 th , 1961!” He rattled the date off with the dutiful energy of an eager, well-practiced schoolboy.
My pencil had apparently gotten caught in the loop-the-loop of the 96, and never quite made it to the 1. Again, I had the distinct feeling that somebody was trying to make a jackass out of me. I asked him to repeat the date. Nope, there was nothing wrong with my ears.
“Mr. Casca,” I said (trying to contain my annoyance), “that's 45 years ago.”
“Forty five years, 4 months, and 5 days ago!” This given, again, in the manner of a demented school kid.
Hi eyes had opened wide, expectantly; he gave me a kind of half, knowing nod as his right hand quivered vaguely at my pad, as if I should copy down this vital “clue”.
“In the detecting game, we would call that trail cold. Real cold.” Now, I said this very slowly, trying to inject just the tiniest crack of light into the pitch black of his insanity. The effect, however, was just the reverse.
“Cold ? Cold?” he screamed. “It's my hero Bozo that's cold dead in the cold ground!”
Again with the nurse. Again with the pills. An again me wondering what the hell I was doing there.
Looking back on it, it was then, in the rush and bustle of trying to keep the old buzzard from kicking the bucket (making some inheritor, and yours truly, much happier) that I should have hit the door. But I didn't.
I would like to say it was “ethics” (“A client, no matter how cracked, has certain rights…”, and all that horseshit), but it wasn't. In those few minutes that I'd talked to him, my curiosity had begun to twitch. Well, even intuition can turn down a wrong alley now and then.
Casca picked up his narrative as if he'd never dropped it. The following is transcribed verbatim from the recorder.
“It was 1961; I was nine years old. We lived in the city then. Monday to Friday, at 3:30 PM, on the local TV station WNYC, in black-and-white, was The Bozo Show.
Every child loved that show, Mr. Lackawanna – but I loved it most of all! You see, even at that tender age, I understood that Bozo represented all that was good in this world. Uproariously funny, kind hearted, simple natured… superhuman in his humanity… In short, Bozo the Clown was a pure being.
The show was broadcast live, and audience participation was a key part. Of course, it was Bozo himself who chose kids from the audience to play in the games and help out in the skits. Prizes were always given – the most coveted being the great clown's signature on a “Bozo Buddy Card”.
Naturally, tickets were tough to obtain. Why it was even said that it was easier to get a meeting with JFK than to get into the Bozo show! Yes, you needed connections – and luck. My father, with the tremendous Casca fortune behind him, had both.
It was September 30 th … A dark, evil day… A day that should not have been. We arrived at the TV studio around 2:30, just before the show began. By nightfall, Bozo would be dead…
The world works by deception, by painting itself in the most alluring of lies. And so, of course, all began well. The famed Big Top Ring, though in fact not more than a large room, seemed to my eyes a vast, new vista. I remember flashing lights, and tremendous TV cameras rolling about. At last, the great clown appeared!
Bozo was majestic in his multi-colored polka-dotted suit. His huge red shoes perfectly matched his pointed, flame-tinged hair. And that big white face, centered with its big red honkable nose, shone forth like the countenance of an angel! Just at the sight of Bozo, the place was in pandemonium.
He immediately rushed toward the audience, yelling greetings to us, cracking ad lib jokes, lurching and staggering as he came. Bozo tripped over a box that had been strategically placed in his path, and then, incredibly, he even crashed into one of the huge TV cameras! The entire machine, the man operating it, and our hero, all collapsed to the floor in one hilarious heap. Bozo disentangled himself from the wires, stood, lost his feet, regained his feet, and finally delivered a resounding slap to the face of the still-dazed cameraman. The lackey went sprawling, and Bozo made for us again.
What a performance! What a showman! What a clown!
As soon as he reached the audience, he began choosing children for his famous Ding-Dong Game. Bozo had scooped up a pretty blond girl, perhaps nine years old, and was holding the lucky lassie tight to him, smothering her with sloppy kisses when it happened – when that terrible thing happened.
To my left stood a dark-haired, shifty-eyed little fiend and a tall, witch-like woman that must have been his mother. From the moment I had noticed the pair I had felt an instinctive dislike of them. I would have moved away if I could have, but the crowd was too packed and the excitement was too high. So I was standing right there. I witnessed the awful event.
That little bastard cursed our hero.
“Pervert!” he screamed.
I was so shocked at this insult, so incredulous, that, in utter dismay, I repeated it aloud.
But the deed was done: Bozo had heard. Slowly, he turned back toward us, putting down the fair nymphet. Somehow or other, one of his oversize, funny gloves had gotten tangled in the folds of the child's frock, and it took Bozo a moment or two to pry it loose.
Unmoving, she stood in front of Bozo, her big blue eyes staring up at him in wonder. Bozo, however, was staring straight ahead, straight at us. I saw that the inner mouth of his wide painted smile was now no longer smiling. The audience had suddenly fallen silent.
“Who said that?” asked Bozo. His voice was not the usual high-pitched hilarity, but more of a growl.
Now, some months prior to this, I had been awarded, by mail, the rank of “Bozo-Buddy of the First-Class”. I had the certificate, signed by the great man himself, on my bedroom wall. I knew all the rules of the Bozo-Buddy Club by heart; they were my code. And the number one rule was: Be Loyal to Bozo!
My duty was clear. I pointed to the vile son-of-a-bitch next to me.
“He did, Bozo!” I shouted.
Decisively, the great clown stepped forward. I remember how he loomed over us. Bozo reached out to snatch up the pint-sized devil – maybe he intended to shake some sense into the punk, slap him around a bit. I wanted Bozo to beat the daylights out of him! But he never got the chance - the witch-woman stepped in.
“Back off, Bozo!” she screeched.
From there, the situation… rapidly deteriorated. Who hit who first, or who pulled off whose wig first, is lost in a nightmarish blur. Bozo, the witch-woman, and a child or two, fell to the floor in a knot of punching, kicking, and scuffling.
The sight of our hero being assaulted was horrific, unthinkable…it caused something to snap in your mind. Spontaneously, a dozen fist-fights broke out among the children, and this caused yet another dozen. Naturally, the mothers joined in, as well. Hair-pulling, clawing, and cursing like truck drivers, there were suddenly cat-fights all over the floor. Some of the audience even vented their rage on the studio equipment – props, TV cameras, an unfortunate old janitor – anything they could lay their hands on was smashed…
I, however, took no part in this madness. I stood in shock, paralyzed, watching the melee. Then, unaccountably, I was being attacked! My mother's Irish blood immediately rose to the occasion, and she swung into the fight. In between blows, she pulled me under her skirt. I clung to her leg like a baby marsupial, my head poking out from under her dress.
Somehow, mama managed to slug our way to the exit. As she dragged me out the door, Bozo's Big-Top looked like a madhouse gone on a barroom brawl.
However, the most dreadful was yet to come.
That night, on the six o'clock news, it was reported that Bozo was dead. He'd been hit by a bus…”
Here Casca lapsed into a dull, staring silence. I clicked off my micro-recorder.
Well, it wasn't a bad story. True, it had as many holes as a termite riddled house – but, still, if you looked at it in a demented sort of way, yeah, it made sense.
Still, I couldn't see where I fit into it. Some clown kissing a midtown Greyhound just ain't in my line.
“Yeah, Mr. Casca, that story's as dicey as a shredded crossword,” I granted. “But what do you want me to do with it?”
His eyes widened out like coffee saucers. Quick as a rattler, he shot a bony index finger out at me.
“You find that little son-of-a-bitch that cursed Bozo!”
The tone of his voice was something like a rusty hacksaw being racked over rough cement. Anyway, not only did it give me the creeps, but I thought it a damn curious request.
“What the hell for?” I asked.
A look of awe and anger spread over the old coot's features.
“I need to know if divine justice exists,” he hoarsely whispered.
“How's that?”
“God, Mr. Lackawanna, god!” he croaked loud as a big bullfrog. “If god exists, he will have punished that bastard!”
“And if not?” I asked point-blank.
The old man stared up at me, past me, through me. He began to laugh, and then to choke, and then to choke with laughter, finally lapsing into yet another, even more violent, fit of lung-wrenching cough-gags.
Well, I had had enough; I made for the door. I was a few steps down the hallway when I felt Grace Angel tugging at my coat-sleeve.
“So, you'll take the case, Mr. Lackawanna?” she pleasantly asked.
Yeah, this broad was cracked. Must be mass insanity around here, I thought.
“Honey,” I said flatly, “you haven't got a case.”
She smiled indulgently. “Just treat it as a missing person case.” She pulled a small piece of paper off her clipboard and handed it to me. It was a check for $3500.
“For ten days work, Mr. Lackawanna: my employer simply wants to know what happened to the boy who cursed Bozo.”
She quickly excused herself, returning to Casca's tomb. A non-descript monkey in a butler's get-up led me back to the front door.
It wasn't until I was driving back to the main gate that the real weirdness of the thing began to settle on me.
The radio reception was crap, but I could make it out - it was Robert Johnson doing “Hellhound on My Trail.”
II. Uncle Sam Goes Fishing
A professor of media studies at NYU confirmed the essentials of Casca's story; the details, however, were still like muddy oil. Yeah, Bozo had gotten into a hefty beef with somebody in the audience that day, and the rhubarb did turn into a riot. But as for who exactly said or did what, nobody knew jack. Next, when the audience had been cleared out by security, Bozo and the show's producer did go a round, with the upshot that the clown hit the door, either quit or fired. Still all clowned-up, Bozo goes around the corner and starts tying on a good one at some dive called Charlie-O's. After a couple hours in his cups, Bozo weaves his way back out onto 42 nd and Broadway, and here he takes a one-way ride on the front-end of a cross-town bus.
Bozo's real name, I find, was Arthur (Arty) Dodge.
When I asked the prof if he could tell me anything about the heckling story, he laughed and said it was all an urban myth. He did remember something about a string of ex-wives, though. After digging around in some files, he produced a list of three names.
Now, when you got nothing, and you still ain't going to fold, it's easy to take a shot in the dark.
My computer search rapidly informed me that the first two Mrs. Bozos were now in that Big Top in the sky. The third was still kicking in a nursing home in Brooklyn Heights.
I called the joint and asked to speak to Stella Edgley. After a moment's pause, the receptionist informed me that all the residents were at lunch. In that case, I asked, could you tell dear old Aunt Stella that Uncle Sam would be around for a visit? Yes, around three. The pleasant woman penciled in my appointment.
I went down to the deli and got a thick ham and chess, with a couple of Dill pickles on the side, and a black coffee. I pulled out my flat, pocket chess set and tried to play through an endgame I was working on. But I couldn't see that the thing went anywhere. Everything ended in a dead draw.
III. Unmasked?
I rolled my jalopy into the clean, efficient parking lot of Sunny-Side Seniors around a quarter-till. The receptionist and the lobby were a nice match: both were well-kept and vacant. Third floor, room 303.
My whole set-up was pretty damn thin. First, “Aunt” Stella might be batty. Or if she could talk, maybe she wouldn't. Or if she did spill, it might amount to nothing but sentimental mush about her long-flattened clown. All of which meant it was back to the old blackboard for me – and I was fresh out of chalk.
As soon as the nurse introduced me (“You're Uncle Sam has come to see you, Stella.”), she squeak-turned and waddled back to her front-desk. Stella, thin and frail-looking, gazed up at me silently, her wrinkled brow furrowing a bit.
“Do I know you?” she asked. Her voice was child-like and quite clear.
“No you don't, Stella,” I said, sitting down. “You see, I'm writing a book on clowns.”
Her eyes narrowed at this, intensifying. She leaned forward, examining me closely.
“Clowns?” she repeated.
“Yes, Stella, I think you – “
“Yeah, I was married to that son-of-a-bitch,” she said quickly. “Now, what do you want to know?”
In my game, you've always got to be ready for these kinds of sudden curves or fast drops. Imagine a drunk quarterback on roller-skates, and I think you'll get the gist.
“Tell me about the day he died.”
“He got whacked by a bus,” she said with a thin dry, smile.
“Was he drunk?”
“Three sheets.”
“How come?”
Stella cut her eyes at me and pursed her lips derisively. “Who's clowning who, mister?” She paused a moment, regarding me like a moron. “That day there was a big fight on the set.”
“Why? Who started it?”
Stella sighed, suddenly weary and disgusted, and sat back in her chair. “You don't know much about Arty, do you?” she asked pointedly. Before I could answer, she said, “What with his constant boozing, countless broads, and all those little bastards running around down there, there were more fights under the Big Top than at Madison Square Garden. Arty was the ringmaster of that mess. His biggest kick was keeping everybody on edge, just ready to go for the other guy's throat. He thought it was a scream.”
Well, old Stella's angle on Bozo was a far shot from crazy Casca's – not that I gave a tiny rat's ass. My objective in this wild clown chase was as simple as it was tricky: I.D. the punk who dissed Bozo, and find out what happened with him.
“That's real useful,” I said, playing along, pretending to make a few notes. “But I need the lowdown on that fight. Happen to know anybody who could help me out on that?” I produced a shrug with innocent look. I couldn't judge whether the old battleaxe was buying it, though. Evidently, she was a bitter as week-old coffee on the subject of Bozo-Arty.
For a long moment she said nothing, simply regarding me with silent contempt. But I held on, trying to stare her down, guileless look pasted on my mug. Her face was wrinkled up like she was sucking on a lemon.
Finally, she spit it out. With a vague gesture of her bony wrist, she said, “You might try Saul Laubscher.”
I repeated the name, confirmed the spelling, and asked where I might find this person.
“Mr. Clown-Book-Writer,” she nastily intoned, “you are one sorry excuse.” The old bat was getting on my nerves, but I held my poker-face. “Saul was our floor-manager,” she breathed with disgust. “And I guess he's still over in the Bronx, if he ain't in the graveyard yet!”
I had all I needed. I curtly thanked her and made to leave. She looked up at me, incredulous, like I had pulled the chair from beneath her.
“Is that it? It that all?” she stammered.
“Yes, Stella, thank you,” I quickly said, and headed for the door.
I didn't look back, but even as I entered the hall, all the way down to the elevator, I could hear her screeching.
“Bozo was a bastard! You put that in your book, you clown!”
IV. Don't Start Me Talking…
As it turned out, Saul was no longer among the quick. His daughter, however, was. Priscilla Laubscher, 52, was working as a purchasing agent for a swanky women's clothing chain, uptown.
Ditto my remarks on playing with nothing, I got her on the phone and fed her my clown-book spiel. Surprisingly, she burst into pleasant laughter; said she really didn't remember much about it. What little she did recall had been recounted to her by her mother (who had died some years back). If I wanted, I could stop by her office tomorrow, she was busy at the moment ordering panties from China. I said I certainly would.
I was tired of shadow boxing with Bozo's ghost. You've got to know how to rest between rounds. I called Maxine, and then met her at Sonny Boy's, our favorite restaurant. We had a couple of thick steaks, mashed potatoes with southern gravy, steamed broccoli, and fried onion rings. For dessert, I forked up a generous wedge of apple pie, while the little lady had vanilla-peach ice cream. Demitasses followed.
Maxy and I strolled a few blocks, enjoying the brisk winter air, then took a cab back to her place.
You can lay this down as “Sam's Law”: The combo of a good woman, a decent dinner, and the Delta blues can kayo damn near any problem in this world.
V. Case Cracked
Priscilla Laubscher, who insisted that I call her Pri, told me that she was in woman's underwear – had been all her life, in fact. Funny broad. She asked me why I was writing a book about clowns and I said you wouldn't believe what writers got to do these days.
Then we got down to business. Pri told me flat-out that she didn't actually remember most of it herself, but she knew it verbatim nonetheless as she had heard her mother reel it off so many times. I had the distinct feeling that I was missing something, but I just let her talk. When I finally figured it out it was like Bozo had blind-sided me with one of his whipped cream pies.
“Well, when Bozo picked me up, everything was fine, if you can call it that,” she started. “Of course, every kid in the joint was bouncing up and down and screaming like a lunatic, that weird Big Top music was blaring, and these tremendous TV cameras were rolling all over the place and dragging a ton of tangled wires behind them.” Pri laughed and shook her head. I was about to fall off my seat, but I held on, kept my trap shut, and let her go on.
“Mom said she wasn't afraid of Bozo hurting me or anything like that, but you know he was so tall in those goofy platform shoes and he had such a way of stumbling around, she thought he might drop me. So she yelled to me ‘Pri!', but just then my brother, who was standing next to mom and gaping like a moon-struck fool at his little sister being hugged and kissed by Bozo, sort of lurches forward. Somebody pushed him, I guess. Now, mom yells ‘Bert!' and grabs him.” Pri took a breath; she was a bit flushed with the excitement of the telling.
No doubt I was vaguely pale, like when you can just barely glimpse that left hook out of the corner of your eye, and then it slams you in the ear and drops you on your ass.
“Yeah, that's when the fit hit the sham,” Pri said with eyebrow wryly cocked.
“Some pencil-necked little geek, standing right next to my mom, suddenly screams ‘Pervert!' at Bozo!” Pri looked as me, her dark, beautiful eyes as astonished and mystified that moment as they had been some 40 years ago.
I, however, no longer had any illusions. She continued.
“Well, I can't tell you why – maybe it was the tone of the yell, or maybe the look on Bozo's face when he turned around – but whatever it was, the place went dead silent. I swear, even that horrid music stopped. So, Bozo says, ‘Who said that?' Now, get this, the punk who yelled it, points at my brother and says, ‘He did, Bozo!' It's a good thing Bozo was holding me so tight or I would have fallen over – or went for the throat of that little lying bastard.” Pri paused, still visibly moved, after all these years, by the injustice of it.
“But before I could say a word, Bozo had dropped me, and had walked straight up to Bert and was going to say something. But mom, who never really liked clowns, anyway, stepped in and says, ‘Whoa, Bozo!' Then everybody started swinging.” Pri shrugged her shoulders, and then took a sip of coffee.
That should have been it – the whole shebang explained. But it wasn't. Pri still had another bomb to drop. And it was a mother.
“It was after the fight that mom met Saul, who became our step-dad. It had been about a year before this that our father had been killed in Vietnam. In fact, because Saul stood up for mom against Bozo, Bozo went storming out of the studio all in a huff. Well, you know what happened after that: Bozo got crooked to the gills and then got whacked by a speeding bus.” My informant sighed. “Kind of funny how things turn out, huh?” she concluded.
I'll say. On this side of the board you've got a rich kid with an enlarged vocabulary, diminished hearing, and a mania for Bozo. On the other side, you've got a looker with a dislike for clowns, a recently deceased husband, and a couple off kids in tow. And the center-piece, fitting it all together, is Bozo.
“I'll say,” I said.
VI. Great
I sat on these revelations for the next week, unsure of what to do with them. I whiled away my time between the chess club and the boxing gym, wondering what to tell Casca about the boy who killed Bozo…
Sure, I could give it to him straight. I don't think he could take it, but I could give it. Or I could just “forget” a few details here and there, ending up with a smoothed-out version the old crackpot could carry to the grave with him. Finally, there was the option of just saying nada: Sorry, Mr. Casca, I didn't find a damn thing.
All these alternatives stunk as bad as day-old road-kill. I guess the only difference among them was which one had the more maggots on it.
It was at the end of the week that Grace Angel rang me up, asking me if I had anything. I don't know why, but I said, yeah, I got something. She said it was just in time then, and I should come out to the mansion immediately. Casca was about to kick it for good.
Great, I thought.
VII. What I Told the Mummy
Grace Angel again met me at the door. This time, however, her actions were of an even more vague character, and her eyes even more dilated. Evidently, by the way she shimmered in front of me, whatever it was that she used to keep from slipping over the edge completely she was using a bit more. Just inside the door I was introduced to the pill-pusher (a Dr. Croaker, I seem to recall), who tersely informed me that the patient had only a few hours to live, was weak, and at times incoherent. In short, make it short.
“Gotcha, Doc,” I said, nodding to Grace. I followed her dreamy wiggle up the stairs.
The room was as dark and dank as ever, but this time I found Casca camped out in an oxygen tent; I think he had a few more tubes sticking into him as well.
The corpse-to-be was roused, and I stuck my head into the hermetically transparent seclusion of the clear plastic enclosure. He looked up at me, recognition only slowly coming into his clouded eyes.
“Did you find the boy who killed Bozo?” he rasped, apparently in as right a mind as he had.
“I did,” I said.
His eyes widened, and feebly he tried to lean up.
“He's dying. He was a lawyer,” I said.
Casca's wrinkled features now twisted in puzzlement.
“A liar?” he asked.
“He's old, dying, and a lawyer,” I uselessly repeated.
“A dirty, old liar…” he mused. His voice was no more than a whisper, but it held a fine, hard edge of wonder – and the faintest hint of dark laughter.
Before I could say another word – but indeed what could I have said? – he patted my arm, dismissing me.
~
That evening, by special delivery, I received the fat bonus check I'd been promised; it was counter-signed by Grace Angel. In an attached note she thanked me for my services, informing me that Casca had passed away quietly some three hours after I had spoken to him.
Of course, it could be said that I perpetuated the illusion. But truth is relative, and only illusion is real. I have no illusions about that.
I put the check in my pocket, and called Maxy.
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