I Want Out of the Circus, part 5
I Want Out of the Circus
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
The boys are milling around near the front of the Playhouse, waiting for Andy to pick them up and walk them to the rally.
Rally today! Siska whoops. Butcher laughs and ruffles his hair.
Try not to start anything this time, he says. Siska makes a face at him. Ryan shoves past them and elbows his way over to Brendon.
Say, Brendon, do you think we sh-- that is, do you want to bring Hobo to the rally? It might be good for him to get out of the circus for a little while... Ryan allows his voice to trail off. He feels awkward making the suggestion. Brendon just grins wide and unabashed and takes Ryan by the hand.
Let's go get him, then, Brendon declares brightly, tugging Ryan back to the stalls. We can all use the fresh air.
-----
The day of the rally is hot and what little breeze is coming off the lake is not enough to whisk the perspiration that's forming on the brows of the disgruntled workers and workless that have gathered in the lot.
Almost all of the circus boys are attending. Brendon has even brought Hobo.
Why did you bring the kid? Jepha asks.
I thought he could use some fresh air, Brendon says haughtily.
If you say so, Mike snickers. Ryan deals him a sharp elbow in the ribs without taking his eyes off the speaker.
Pa'! Hobo shouts, pointing with his whole arm.
Looks like he's enjoying himself. Some of the boys laugh. Brendon squints at where Hobo's pointing.
Pa'. Hobo repeats insistently, looking at Brendon. Bedan, bedan, pa'!
Brendon sucks in a breath and grabs Andy's sleeve with his free hand.
Andy, he says urgently. Over there. Coppers! Andy takes a look at the officers lined up at the edge of the crowd and shrugs dismissively.
Oh, them? Don't worry about them. They come to rallies sometimes. They never do anything, Andy reassures Brendon.
-----
Pete? Mika says, rubbing down the counter in Pete's favorite speakeasy as Pete saunters down the stairs. Murder! I'm surprised as anything! How did you manage to get out of that one?
What one? Pete says, sliding onto a stool. The usual, he adds, slapping his coins onto the counter. Mika slides the change back to him.
If you tell me how you got away from Johnny Lee's boys, you can have your drink for free.
What do you mean, got away from Johnny Lee's boys? Pete asks, growing irritated. Look, pally, I just want my drink. Mika hands it to him. Thank you.
Do you mean to tell me that you haven't had any trouble today? Mika says.
No, I haven't. Pete takes a long drink and wipes his mouth. Mika drops the bar rag and leans over, shoving his face in close to Pete's.
Then you're going to. Nelson was in here last night, --nearly drank me dry, I might add-- shouting about how you cheated him, set the G-men on his courier or something.
I what? Pete yelps.
Conrad, Nelson's boy, courier for Lee's gang? You've met him, you must have. Anyway, the other day, someone tips the police off as to the meeting spot where Conrad's supposed to be handing over some dope. They catch him red-handed, he pulls out his Tommy gun, they give him lead poisoning. The way I heard it, they could bury Conrad in an envelope. Now Nelson's mad. He says he's never trusted you, and he's going to get you good before you set the G-men on him, too.
Jesus! I never did a thing! Pete protests. Mika shrugs.
Nelson thinks the whole world's out to get him. Sometimes he's right.
Not today, he isn't!
Either way, you'll want to be watching your back. And your property. In fact, it might be best if you can get out of town for a while. You still running that whacky bordello? Mika asks.
Yeah; it's one of Luciano's.
Well, he'll be collecting some insurance pretty soon. No chance Lee's men will leave your circus in one piece.
Pete's eyes widen. He slams the drink down on the counter and bolts for the door, throws it open, and hurtles down the street as fast as his legs will carry him.
-----
Patrick! Pete hollers, thundering into the main room of the Playhouse. Patrick! Boys! Get down here this goddamn minute!
There is a flurry of activity as the five boys in the kitchen put aside their card game and scramble to the stage. Pete sounds like he's in the mood to start passing out punches to whoever crosses him. Patrick doesn't assemble with them. Pete runs a quick head count.
Where the hell is everyone? Pete asks sharply. There is a storm of muttering and shoving among the handful of remaining boys, none wanting to be the one to tell Pete where the hell everyone is. You, Pete says, pointing at one of them. Talk. Where is everyone?
They're at a rally, the unlucky boy offers.
A rally, Pete repeats. We're a few hours away from a world of shit and they're at a rally. The boys murmur among themselves again.
What- what did you call us for, Pete? a brave boy pipes up.
Well, I just thought that Patrick might like to know that some of Luciano's collection men are coming into town tonight, and that some of Lee's collection men are coming over this afternoon, but I guess he'd rather be at a rally, Pete snarls.
-----
Spencer can't make out what the speaker is shouting at the assembled masses, but from the man's tone and spastic hand motions he assumes it's more of what's written on Andy's little pamphlets. To his left, Ryan is straining eagerly to hear every word the speaker is ranting. To Spencer's right, Brendon is holding Hobo, bouncing him up and down in a vain effort to keep the boy amused. It's hot, almost oppressively so, and a very bored Spencer soon finds himself drifting off into lazy daydreams.
Ryan thinks he sees Brent in the crowd, and he nudges Siska.
I don't see him, Siska says, scanning the mass of faces. Ryan looks around, but Brent is indeed nowhere in sight.
I thought-- sorry. The heat must be making my eyes go goofy, Ryan says. As the speaker finishes his speech and applause bursts out around them and the speaker launches into another lengthy oratory, Ryan keeps searching for Brent's familiar face.
Hobo wriggles unhappily in Brendon's arms, making annoyed noises that increase in volume the longer Brendon holds him. Several rally-goers around him snap for him to shut the child up.
Fine, fine! Brendon lowers Hobo to the ground, where the boy plops down happily on the filthy ground and begins tracing clumsy shapes in the dirt with his pudgy little fingers. Brendon smiles fondly.
-----
Pete's wearing a hole in the floorboards, pacing back and forth and trying to come up with a plan, when Joe strolls through the door of Pete's office twirling two sets of keys on his finger.
Pete! Is Patrick here?
No, Pete snaps.
Oh, well. I got that big job he wanted me to ask for, Joe says, shrugging and pulling out a reefer. He pats his pockets for a match as the synapses fire in Pete's brain.
Job? Big job? Pete says.
Yeah, a nice, long grift that'll keep you and yours out of town for a while. That's what Patrick asked for, right?
-----
A sudden change in the crowd's murmuring tone snaps Spencer out of his daydream. He looks wildly around, trying to locate the discordant notes. Ryan is still absorbed in the half-heard speaker's ramblings and Brendon hasn't looked up from Hobo. Spencer cranes his neck, trying to see further out into the crowd.
After a moment, he finds the added element: some of the rally-goers are talking at the armed police. They're standing at the edge of the crowd and no one in the crowd's bulk is paying them too much attention yet, but something in Spencer's guts lets him know there will soon be trouble. In this kind of heat, it's unlikely that this rally will end peacefully.
Immersed in such thoughts, Spencer is startled when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
Spencer, Patrick says, clipped. Help me round up the boys.
Patrick--
I know it's just another rally Andy's taking you kids to, but this is not a good time for you boys to be wandering in big crowds of people. I'd prefer to be somewhere we can see trouble coming. Round 'em up; let's get out of here. Patrick grabs Ryan; Ryan shakes Patrick's arm off. Patrick's eyes narrow.
A sudden outcry from up front saves Ryan from Patrick's wrath-- the speaker has just spotted the police and has decided to turn the crowd's attention to them. Spencer gets a sick feeling low in his belly as the crowd grumbles. He grabs Ryan's arm. Ryan tries to shake him off but Spencer uses the momentum to spin Ryan around. Around them, the mood turns angry, sullen, vicious. More unintelligible shouts come, this time from the policemen. The crowd's mood grows uglier.
I think we ought to head back now, Spencer says, and the first crack-crack-crack of a tommy gun rips through the overheated air. The crowd roars and collapses into chaos.
-----
Joe, I could kiss you! Pete hollers, pumping his fist in the air.
Please don't. Joe laughs as Pete does a clumsy jig on the top of his desk, nearly knocking over the battered suitcase Joe had set down there.
And we deliver to Madam Palmer? Pete clarifies.
Madam Palmer in New Orleans, three weeks from tomorrow. Not a day early and not a day late, Joe adds. She runs a tight operation, apparently, and there's not a lot of room for surprises.
But they're giving us cars? Really? Pete presses, getting back to the details of transport and down off the desk.
Lending, but yes, really, Joe assures him. Two cars. Full of young men of the cloth eager to attend the new parish opening in a needy quarter of New Orleans. They're hoping to be considered as young ministers there. He opens the suitcase, pulls out a length of black cloth. Pete whistles.
How did the Jew mob get a hold of these? Pete says, fingering the material. The minister's robe is of fine quality--Pete's curious. There are no visible bloodstains. Joe gives him a look.
I never thought to ask.
And how many of these young, budding clergymen are attending this parish opening? Pete asks, quickly changing the subject.
Joe tells him. Pete's face falls for the barest fraction of a second before it bounces back into the relieved grin it has been displaying.
That's no problem at all, Pete hums. No problem at all.
-----
Most of the rally-goers are fleeing like madmen, but a sizeable contingent is struggling upstream to grapple with the policemen, who are firing at the legs of the crowd in an attempt at dispersal. Spencer shoves Ryan into the stream of people running away from the rally, hoping Ryan has the sense to not fall down; there are already the screams and sickening crunches of people being trampled underfoot. Spencer follows a minute later.
Brendon leans down and snatches Hobo's hand, dragging the child to his feet.
Come on, Hobo, Brendon says. Hobo, eyes still locked on his crude drawing in the dirt, slips his hand out of Brendon's and toddles back to his art.
NO! shrieks Brendon. He tries to go after Hobo but two men shove by right in front of him, blocking his view of the child and nearly knocking Brendon to the ground, and when they pass Hobo is no longer in sight.
HOBO!
Patrick catches Brendon before he can dive into the swirling crush of bodies and hauls him into the exit flow.
Let me go! ] Brendon screams, writhing in Patrick's grip. Hobo! Hobo's-- I have to get him! Let me go! Patrick ignores Brendon's outburst, hauling him out of the line of fire. The police spray another round of bullets into the crowd. All around Brendon and Patrick protesters are fleeing the area, trampling those unfortunate enough to fall.
HOBO! Brendon hollers, wrenching almost halfway out of Patrick's hold. He frantically scans the crowd, but among the pumping legs and tumbling crush of bodies there's no sign of the little boy.
They catch up with Spencer and Patrick yells for Spencer to grab Brendon's other arm. Spencer does one better, wrapping an arm around Brendon's torso and physically forcing Brendon into step with him and Patrick. Brendon doesn't stop fighting to go back. Another burst of gunfire from the police has Brendon shouting Hobo's name at the top of his lungs and trying to throw himself back into the roiling mess of anarchists.
Brendon's still struggling to break free when they reach the Playhouse, babbling Hobo's name over and over.
Patrick! Patrick, get in the car, Pete yells through the open passenger door. Put the boys in the back and get in the car.
Patrick and Spencer manhandle Brendon into the back seat of the car. Ryan is already sitting there and helps Spencer force Brendon into the middle seat. Spencer climbs in after, sandwiching Brendon between his friends. Brendon keeps trying to climb over Spencer to get back out of the car, to get back to the rally square where he might be able to find Hobo.
Patrick hurries to the front passenger seat and slides in, slamming the door behind him. Pete extends a fist through the open driver's window and pulls out, signaling for the other car to follow. They make their way through Chicago, carefully avoiding Johnny Lee's territories. It takes some time, but soon they're on the open road and Pete breathes a sigh of relief.
Brendon is hunched in on himself, sobbing quietly. Pete and Patrick ignore him. Spencer stares out the window and Ryan keeps jerking his eyes back and forth between his clasped hands in his lap and Brendon's miserable face.
The summers in Chicago are always the worst, Pete tells them, excited to be on the road. God help me, but I love this city. And it loves me. Ryan snorts in disbelief. Pete makes a rude hand gesture at the whole back seat. Hey, I said the city fucking loved me, not the fuckers who inhabit it. He looks around as they pass the city limits, drumming his fingers rapidly against the steering wheel. I'm gonna miss the sons of bitches, though. You don't get the Chicago kind of rat bastard anywhere else.
No, you don't. But we do get the kind of huge bastards coming for us with choppers because we can't make pay, Patrick reminds him. Patrick checks the mirrors again, almost compulsively. So cut the booshwash and keep driving.
The five of them sit in relative silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, Patrick says, Pete. There are two cars. You can't fit fifteen boys in the backseat of the other car. Where are they?
Pete takes a hand off the steering wheel to make a vague, circular motion with it.
We could only bring six boys, Joe said.
Joe's bosses said, you mean, Patrick corrects. What did you do with the rest of them?
I told them to meet us in the park, Pete says. Patrick stares at him. Pete glances over and sees his expression. What? What's wrong?
Patrick punches Pete, hard. Pete's shoulder makes a popping sound and Pete almost swerves off the road.
Fucking-- Patrick! What was that for? Pete wails. He puts his right hand on the wheel and massages his aching shoulder with his left.
You are such a skid rogue, Patrick says in disgusted disbelief.
-----
I think I can speak to you without wanting to toss you out of the car, Patrick says, breathing deeply. You can tell me the plan now.
You shouldn't hit the driver, Pattycakes. Patrick raises a warning finger and Pete rapidly returns to the topic of conversation. The plan is, we pull over once we're well out of Chicago and we all change into the clergy clothing that's in the trunk. We pretend to be these ministers, see, going to visit a brand new parish in New Orleans.
Why would we do something like that? Patrick asks wearily. What's the illogical reasoning this time? Pete grabs the back of Patrick's neck and steers Patrick in closer. He whispers to Patrick, low so the boys can't hear, exactly how much of a load of dope they're carrying.
Patrick whistles. Aces, Father Wentz. Pete laughs loudly.
I knew you'd be impressed, Father Stump.
-----
Pete's not a bad guy, Andy says contemplatively, somewhere around the border between Indiana and Kentucky. In the second car, it's Joe's turn to nap and Andy's turn to drive. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums a radio jingle.
Joe's already snoring, and boys in the back seats are nearly asleep, totally wrung out from the day's excitement. He just doesn't really pay attention to other people. It's not that he doesn't care, it's just that he doesn't know he should. He thinks everyone thinks like him, or about him, or some combination, you know? He talks with me late at night and he goes out doing I don't know what with Joe and he heaps affection on Patrick because that's what he'd like if he was us. We're not. He doesn't quite understand that, and I don't know if he ever will. Andy spits his gum out the window and pops a fresh piece in.
Mike clings to a sleeping William in the backseat as he drifts off himself. Siska is the only one paying any attention, even with the Butcher sprawled over him, mumbling in his sleep.
-----
Why are we stopping? Andy asks.
We're on a very specific schedule. Madam Palmer wants the goods to arrive on a certain day. We can't be late, but we can't be early, Joe explains. So we're going to lay low at Saporta's place in Memphis for a little while.
Who's Saporta? Siska asks.
Shut up, says Joe.
-----
Why are we stopping? Patrick asks.
Because I'm going to park on some train tracks if I don't get a chance to stretch my legs soon. I'm going whacky, Pete answers. Besides, I thought we might drop in and see Saporta while we're at it.
Who's Saporta? Spencer asks.
Shut up, says Pete.
-----
It's hot in Memphis, much hotter than in Chicago. There's a heat wave, an oppressive thing where the very air smothers anyone daring or desperate enough to walk outside. The boys in the cars are hot and cramped, but they're grateful to at least be in the shade.
They park in the driveway of a house surrounded by shrubbery. Men with guns peek out from behind the curtains at them. Men with guns greet them at the door. Men with guns are lounging around inside the house. Spencer can't stop drooling over all the firearms; he completely misses Pete's explanation of why he and the pornocircus boys are there. Spencer tunes out when one of the men with guns tells them the rules of the house and passwords and everything in favor of surreptitiously examining the man's gleaming submachine gun.
They're fed, watered, hosed down out back and then led up to real beds. Spencer tumbles down between Brendon and Ryan. He falls asleep almost immediately and dreams of triggers and freedom.
-----
Say, Pete, Patrick says groggily.
Nmph? Pete responds. Patrick rolls over to face him.
Didn't you say Joe's bosses said we could bring six boys?
Mm-hm.
Pete, you brought seven.
Siska 'n Will 're tiny, Pete says. He yawns.
You amaze me sometimes.
You love me.
Shut up and go to sleep, Patrick says quietly. You've gone whacky.
You make me whacky, Pete mumbles, rolling closer. He tucks his nose into the curve of Patrick's neck. Patrick lets him.
Part 6
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
The boys are milling around near the front of the Playhouse, waiting for Andy to pick them up and walk them to the rally.
Rally today! Siska whoops. Butcher laughs and ruffles his hair.
Try not to start anything this time, he says. Siska makes a face at him. Ryan shoves past them and elbows his way over to Brendon.
Say, Brendon, do you think we sh-- that is, do you want to bring Hobo to the rally? It might be good for him to get out of the circus for a little while... Ryan allows his voice to trail off. He feels awkward making the suggestion. Brendon just grins wide and unabashed and takes Ryan by the hand.
Let's go get him, then, Brendon declares brightly, tugging Ryan back to the stalls. We can all use the fresh air.
-----
The day of the rally is hot and what little breeze is coming off the lake is not enough to whisk the perspiration that's forming on the brows of the disgruntled workers and workless that have gathered in the lot.
Almost all of the circus boys are attending. Brendon has even brought Hobo.
Why did you bring the kid? Jepha asks.
I thought he could use some fresh air, Brendon says haughtily.
If you say so, Mike snickers. Ryan deals him a sharp elbow in the ribs without taking his eyes off the speaker.
Pa'! Hobo shouts, pointing with his whole arm.
Looks like he's enjoying himself. Some of the boys laugh. Brendon squints at where Hobo's pointing.
Pa'. Hobo repeats insistently, looking at Brendon. Bedan, bedan, pa'!
Brendon sucks in a breath and grabs Andy's sleeve with his free hand.
Andy, he says urgently. Over there. Coppers! Andy takes a look at the officers lined up at the edge of the crowd and shrugs dismissively.
Oh, them? Don't worry about them. They come to rallies sometimes. They never do anything, Andy reassures Brendon.
-----
Pete? Mika says, rubbing down the counter in Pete's favorite speakeasy as Pete saunters down the stairs. Murder! I'm surprised as anything! How did you manage to get out of that one?
What one? Pete says, sliding onto a stool. The usual, he adds, slapping his coins onto the counter. Mika slides the change back to him.
If you tell me how you got away from Johnny Lee's boys, you can have your drink for free.
What do you mean, got away from Johnny Lee's boys? Pete asks, growing irritated. Look, pally, I just want my drink. Mika hands it to him. Thank you.
Do you mean to tell me that you haven't had any trouble today? Mika says.
No, I haven't. Pete takes a long drink and wipes his mouth. Mika drops the bar rag and leans over, shoving his face in close to Pete's.
Then you're going to. Nelson was in here last night, --nearly drank me dry, I might add-- shouting about how you cheated him, set the G-men on his courier or something.
I what? Pete yelps.
Conrad, Nelson's boy, courier for Lee's gang? You've met him, you must have. Anyway, the other day, someone tips the police off as to the meeting spot where Conrad's supposed to be handing over some dope. They catch him red-handed, he pulls out his Tommy gun, they give him lead poisoning. The way I heard it, they could bury Conrad in an envelope. Now Nelson's mad. He says he's never trusted you, and he's going to get you good before you set the G-men on him, too.
Jesus! I never did a thing! Pete protests. Mika shrugs.
Nelson thinks the whole world's out to get him. Sometimes he's right.
Not today, he isn't!
Either way, you'll want to be watching your back. And your property. In fact, it might be best if you can get out of town for a while. You still running that whacky bordello? Mika asks.
Yeah; it's one of Luciano's.
Well, he'll be collecting some insurance pretty soon. No chance Lee's men will leave your circus in one piece.
Pete's eyes widen. He slams the drink down on the counter and bolts for the door, throws it open, and hurtles down the street as fast as his legs will carry him.
-----
Patrick! Pete hollers, thundering into the main room of the Playhouse. Patrick! Boys! Get down here this goddamn minute!
There is a flurry of activity as the five boys in the kitchen put aside their card game and scramble to the stage. Pete sounds like he's in the mood to start passing out punches to whoever crosses him. Patrick doesn't assemble with them. Pete runs a quick head count.
Where the hell is everyone? Pete asks sharply. There is a storm of muttering and shoving among the handful of remaining boys, none wanting to be the one to tell Pete where the hell everyone is. You, Pete says, pointing at one of them. Talk. Where is everyone?
They're at a rally, the unlucky boy offers.
A rally, Pete repeats. We're a few hours away from a world of shit and they're at a rally. The boys murmur among themselves again.
What- what did you call us for, Pete? a brave boy pipes up.
Well, I just thought that Patrick might like to know that some of Luciano's collection men are coming into town tonight, and that some of Lee's collection men are coming over this afternoon, but I guess he'd rather be at a rally, Pete snarls.
-----
Spencer can't make out what the speaker is shouting at the assembled masses, but from the man's tone and spastic hand motions he assumes it's more of what's written on Andy's little pamphlets. To his left, Ryan is straining eagerly to hear every word the speaker is ranting. To Spencer's right, Brendon is holding Hobo, bouncing him up and down in a vain effort to keep the boy amused. It's hot, almost oppressively so, and a very bored Spencer soon finds himself drifting off into lazy daydreams.
Ryan thinks he sees Brent in the crowd, and he nudges Siska.
I don't see him, Siska says, scanning the mass of faces. Ryan looks around, but Brent is indeed nowhere in sight.
I thought-- sorry. The heat must be making my eyes go goofy, Ryan says. As the speaker finishes his speech and applause bursts out around them and the speaker launches into another lengthy oratory, Ryan keeps searching for Brent's familiar face.
Hobo wriggles unhappily in Brendon's arms, making annoyed noises that increase in volume the longer Brendon holds him. Several rally-goers around him snap for him to shut the child up.
Fine, fine! Brendon lowers Hobo to the ground, where the boy plops down happily on the filthy ground and begins tracing clumsy shapes in the dirt with his pudgy little fingers. Brendon smiles fondly.
-----
Pete's wearing a hole in the floorboards, pacing back and forth and trying to come up with a plan, when Joe strolls through the door of Pete's office twirling two sets of keys on his finger.
Pete! Is Patrick here?
No, Pete snaps.
Oh, well. I got that big job he wanted me to ask for, Joe says, shrugging and pulling out a reefer. He pats his pockets for a match as the synapses fire in Pete's brain.
Job? Big job? Pete says.
Yeah, a nice, long grift that'll keep you and yours out of town for a while. That's what Patrick asked for, right?
-----
A sudden change in the crowd's murmuring tone snaps Spencer out of his daydream. He looks wildly around, trying to locate the discordant notes. Ryan is still absorbed in the half-heard speaker's ramblings and Brendon hasn't looked up from Hobo. Spencer cranes his neck, trying to see further out into the crowd.
After a moment, he finds the added element: some of the rally-goers are talking at the armed police. They're standing at the edge of the crowd and no one in the crowd's bulk is paying them too much attention yet, but something in Spencer's guts lets him know there will soon be trouble. In this kind of heat, it's unlikely that this rally will end peacefully.
Immersed in such thoughts, Spencer is startled when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
Spencer, Patrick says, clipped. Help me round up the boys.
Patrick--
I know it's just another rally Andy's taking you kids to, but this is not a good time for you boys to be wandering in big crowds of people. I'd prefer to be somewhere we can see trouble coming. Round 'em up; let's get out of here. Patrick grabs Ryan; Ryan shakes Patrick's arm off. Patrick's eyes narrow.
A sudden outcry from up front saves Ryan from Patrick's wrath-- the speaker has just spotted the police and has decided to turn the crowd's attention to them. Spencer gets a sick feeling low in his belly as the crowd grumbles. He grabs Ryan's arm. Ryan tries to shake him off but Spencer uses the momentum to spin Ryan around. Around them, the mood turns angry, sullen, vicious. More unintelligible shouts come, this time from the policemen. The crowd's mood grows uglier.
I think we ought to head back now, Spencer says, and the first crack-crack-crack of a tommy gun rips through the overheated air. The crowd roars and collapses into chaos.
-----
Joe, I could kiss you! Pete hollers, pumping his fist in the air.
Please don't. Joe laughs as Pete does a clumsy jig on the top of his desk, nearly knocking over the battered suitcase Joe had set down there.
And we deliver to Madam Palmer? Pete clarifies.
Madam Palmer in New Orleans, three weeks from tomorrow. Not a day early and not a day late, Joe adds. She runs a tight operation, apparently, and there's not a lot of room for surprises.
But they're giving us cars? Really? Pete presses, getting back to the details of transport and down off the desk.
Lending, but yes, really, Joe assures him. Two cars. Full of young men of the cloth eager to attend the new parish opening in a needy quarter of New Orleans. They're hoping to be considered as young ministers there. He opens the suitcase, pulls out a length of black cloth. Pete whistles.
How did the Jew mob get a hold of these? Pete says, fingering the material. The minister's robe is of fine quality--Pete's curious. There are no visible bloodstains. Joe gives him a look.
I never thought to ask.
And how many of these young, budding clergymen are attending this parish opening? Pete asks, quickly changing the subject.
Joe tells him. Pete's face falls for the barest fraction of a second before it bounces back into the relieved grin it has been displaying.
That's no problem at all, Pete hums. No problem at all.
-----
Most of the rally-goers are fleeing like madmen, but a sizeable contingent is struggling upstream to grapple with the policemen, who are firing at the legs of the crowd in an attempt at dispersal. Spencer shoves Ryan into the stream of people running away from the rally, hoping Ryan has the sense to not fall down; there are already the screams and sickening crunches of people being trampled underfoot. Spencer follows a minute later.
Brendon leans down and snatches Hobo's hand, dragging the child to his feet.
Come on, Hobo, Brendon says. Hobo, eyes still locked on his crude drawing in the dirt, slips his hand out of Brendon's and toddles back to his art.
NO! shrieks Brendon. He tries to go after Hobo but two men shove by right in front of him, blocking his view of the child and nearly knocking Brendon to the ground, and when they pass Hobo is no longer in sight.
HOBO!
Patrick catches Brendon before he can dive into the swirling crush of bodies and hauls him into the exit flow.
Let me go! ] Brendon screams, writhing in Patrick's grip. Hobo! Hobo's-- I have to get him! Let me go! Patrick ignores Brendon's outburst, hauling him out of the line of fire. The police spray another round of bullets into the crowd. All around Brendon and Patrick protesters are fleeing the area, trampling those unfortunate enough to fall.
HOBO! Brendon hollers, wrenching almost halfway out of Patrick's hold. He frantically scans the crowd, but among the pumping legs and tumbling crush of bodies there's no sign of the little boy.
They catch up with Spencer and Patrick yells for Spencer to grab Brendon's other arm. Spencer does one better, wrapping an arm around Brendon's torso and physically forcing Brendon into step with him and Patrick. Brendon doesn't stop fighting to go back. Another burst of gunfire from the police has Brendon shouting Hobo's name at the top of his lungs and trying to throw himself back into the roiling mess of anarchists.
Brendon's still struggling to break free when they reach the Playhouse, babbling Hobo's name over and over.
Patrick! Patrick, get in the car, Pete yells through the open passenger door. Put the boys in the back and get in the car.
Patrick and Spencer manhandle Brendon into the back seat of the car. Ryan is already sitting there and helps Spencer force Brendon into the middle seat. Spencer climbs in after, sandwiching Brendon between his friends. Brendon keeps trying to climb over Spencer to get back out of the car, to get back to the rally square where he might be able to find Hobo.
Patrick hurries to the front passenger seat and slides in, slamming the door behind him. Pete extends a fist through the open driver's window and pulls out, signaling for the other car to follow. They make their way through Chicago, carefully avoiding Johnny Lee's territories. It takes some time, but soon they're on the open road and Pete breathes a sigh of relief.
Brendon is hunched in on himself, sobbing quietly. Pete and Patrick ignore him. Spencer stares out the window and Ryan keeps jerking his eyes back and forth between his clasped hands in his lap and Brendon's miserable face.
The summers in Chicago are always the worst, Pete tells them, excited to be on the road. God help me, but I love this city. And it loves me. Ryan snorts in disbelief. Pete makes a rude hand gesture at the whole back seat. Hey, I said the city fucking loved me, not the fuckers who inhabit it. He looks around as they pass the city limits, drumming his fingers rapidly against the steering wheel. I'm gonna miss the sons of bitches, though. You don't get the Chicago kind of rat bastard anywhere else.
No, you don't. But we do get the kind of huge bastards coming for us with choppers because we can't make pay, Patrick reminds him. Patrick checks the mirrors again, almost compulsively. So cut the booshwash and keep driving.
The five of them sit in relative silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, Patrick says, Pete. There are two cars. You can't fit fifteen boys in the backseat of the other car. Where are they?
Pete takes a hand off the steering wheel to make a vague, circular motion with it.
We could only bring six boys, Joe said.
Joe's bosses said, you mean, Patrick corrects. What did you do with the rest of them?
I told them to meet us in the park, Pete says. Patrick stares at him. Pete glances over and sees his expression. What? What's wrong?
Patrick punches Pete, hard. Pete's shoulder makes a popping sound and Pete almost swerves off the road.
Fucking-- Patrick! What was that for? Pete wails. He puts his right hand on the wheel and massages his aching shoulder with his left.
You are such a skid rogue, Patrick says in disgusted disbelief.
-----
I think I can speak to you without wanting to toss you out of the car, Patrick says, breathing deeply. You can tell me the plan now.
You shouldn't hit the driver, Pattycakes. Patrick raises a warning finger and Pete rapidly returns to the topic of conversation. The plan is, we pull over once we're well out of Chicago and we all change into the clergy clothing that's in the trunk. We pretend to be these ministers, see, going to visit a brand new parish in New Orleans.
Why would we do something like that? Patrick asks wearily. What's the illogical reasoning this time? Pete grabs the back of Patrick's neck and steers Patrick in closer. He whispers to Patrick, low so the boys can't hear, exactly how much of a load of dope they're carrying.
Patrick whistles. Aces, Father Wentz. Pete laughs loudly.
I knew you'd be impressed, Father Stump.
-----
Pete's not a bad guy, Andy says contemplatively, somewhere around the border between Indiana and Kentucky. In the second car, it's Joe's turn to nap and Andy's turn to drive. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums a radio jingle.
Joe's already snoring, and boys in the back seats are nearly asleep, totally wrung out from the day's excitement. He just doesn't really pay attention to other people. It's not that he doesn't care, it's just that he doesn't know he should. He thinks everyone thinks like him, or about him, or some combination, you know? He talks with me late at night and he goes out doing I don't know what with Joe and he heaps affection on Patrick because that's what he'd like if he was us. We're not. He doesn't quite understand that, and I don't know if he ever will. Andy spits his gum out the window and pops a fresh piece in.
Mike clings to a sleeping William in the backseat as he drifts off himself. Siska is the only one paying any attention, even with the Butcher sprawled over him, mumbling in his sleep.
-----
Why are we stopping? Andy asks.
We're on a very specific schedule. Madam Palmer wants the goods to arrive on a certain day. We can't be late, but we can't be early, Joe explains. So we're going to lay low at Saporta's place in Memphis for a little while.
Who's Saporta? Siska asks.
Shut up, says Joe.
-----
Why are we stopping? Patrick asks.
Because I'm going to park on some train tracks if I don't get a chance to stretch my legs soon. I'm going whacky, Pete answers. Besides, I thought we might drop in and see Saporta while we're at it.
Who's Saporta? Spencer asks.
Shut up, says Pete.
-----
It's hot in Memphis, much hotter than in Chicago. There's a heat wave, an oppressive thing where the very air smothers anyone daring or desperate enough to walk outside. The boys in the cars are hot and cramped, but they're grateful to at least be in the shade.
They park in the driveway of a house surrounded by shrubbery. Men with guns peek out from behind the curtains at them. Men with guns greet them at the door. Men with guns are lounging around inside the house. Spencer can't stop drooling over all the firearms; he completely misses Pete's explanation of why he and the pornocircus boys are there. Spencer tunes out when one of the men with guns tells them the rules of the house and passwords and everything in favor of surreptitiously examining the man's gleaming submachine gun.
They're fed, watered, hosed down out back and then led up to real beds. Spencer tumbles down between Brendon and Ryan. He falls asleep almost immediately and dreams of triggers and freedom.
-----
Say, Pete, Patrick says groggily.
Nmph? Pete responds. Patrick rolls over to face him.
Didn't you say Joe's bosses said we could bring six boys?
Mm-hm.
Pete, you brought seven.
Siska 'n Will 're tiny, Pete says. He yawns.
You amaze me sometimes.
You love me.
Shut up and go to sleep, Patrick says quietly. You've gone whacky.
You make me whacky, Pete mumbles, rolling closer. He tucks his nose into the curve of Patrick's neck. Patrick lets him.
Part 6