I Want Out of the Circus, part 6
I Want Out of the Circus
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Spencer, Jesus! Patrick yelps at seven the next morning. You've got a stain the size of the Pier on the back of your robe!
Spencer shucks his clerical cloth back off and turns it around to see for himself. He whistles.
Wow. Are those bits of brain?
How did we miss this yesterday? Patrick shakes his head. We'll just have to find another set. Hmm. Maybe buy a new one? he says, thinking aloud. We did say we were going to lay low in Memphis for a few days, and it's not as if we're spending anything on lodging,
Brendon, do you think this looks like brains?
Then again, one of the bootleggers might know where we could get something, Patrick considers. It's not as if we aren't going to see them anyway.
Brendon, those are definitely brains, not bloody vomit.
Ryan, Ryan! He's wrong, right? Those aren't bits of brains, right?
Boys! Patrick says. The three stop talking and turn to him expectantly. Get dressed and get in the car-- no, Spencer, don't put that back on. You'll borrow William's robe. I'm going to see if we can't get you a new set, without a stain.
-----
Oh, Pete. I'm glad I caught you, Saporta says, stopping Pete at the bottom of the stairs at eight. Alex, make sure nobody's listening.
What's your story, morning glory? Pete asks.
Johnny Lee's boys got into Memphis a few hours after you did. Somebody tipped them off. Pete gapes like a dead fish. Just thought you should know. My advice to you is to stick close to the house. No place safer south of the Mason-Dixon than my place, except for maybe Madam Palmer's, Saporta concludes. He strides down the last three steps and flips his hat off the rack by the front door. I'm going for a walk. Got some errands I need to do. I'll see you this evening.
-----
At ten o'clock Pete scrubs at the back of his neck with an anxious hand. Did anybody see Patrick? he asks again, just in case the answer is different than last time.
A general chorus of no's and who's-Patrick's and not-since-last-night's is not the answer Pete was hoping for, but it's the same answer he's gotten the last four times he asked about Patrick and it's the answer he gets this time, as well. Saporta's men, Mike, and Siska aren't as concerned as Pete is, and Pete can't understand why.
William shuffles into the kitchen, yawning.
I saw him, Pete. He took my robe so Spencer could wear them out.
Out? Pete yelps. He bounds across the room and takes William by the shoulders. Where? Where?!
Ouch! The bootleggers we're supposed to contact. Ow. Let go!
Fuck! Pete shouts. He scrambles around, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and sliding it on. Fuck, fuck, fuck! they hear as he runs through the living room and out of the house.
What was that all about? William asks. One of Saporta's men shrugs.
I know from nothing. I did see Saporta talking to him this morning. Maybe he said something that got your boss worried. He sounds unconcerned. The little knot of dread in William's stomach loosens. Here, we have toast if you want some, the man offers. William joins them.
-----
Sisky, William says, throwing open the door to the bedroom. I need to--
A shirtless Siska and one of Saporta's men (fully clothed) break apart hastily.
It's not what it looks like, Siska says quickly. Saporta's guard rolls his eyes.
It's exactly what it looks like, he snorts.
Shut up, Suarez! Siska hisses. William walks briskly over to his side of the bed and grabs a particular bundle of clothing. He leaves the room without a word.
Oh, damn. Siska tugs his shirt back on.
What, was he your--? Suarez leaves the end of his sentence dangling.
No, Siska says. But he's still possessive. He hurries after William. Suarez follows Siska, sighing at the strangeness of Northern boys.
-----
I'm going for a walk, William says, his bundle firmly under his arm. Don't wait up.
Will, wait, Siska pleads.
Have a swell walk, just don't slam the-- Suarez winces as the door bounces heavily into the frame. --door.
William changes behind the hedges in the yard, stuffing his shirt and trousers under the shrubbery. The wind ruffles the hem of his dress as he flees into town.
-----
Johnny Lee's men had been waiting for Patrick at the bootlegger's downtown distillery.
Shit, shit, shit! Patrick swears, stomping heavily on the gas. In the back, Brendon presses his shirt to the bullet wound on Spencer's arm. Spencer's uninjured arm is petting Ryan's head gently; Ryan's still out cold, though the bump where the pipe connected with his skull is growing to an impressive size. Shit! Patrick sees some of Lee's men stream out of the distillery behind them.
The car rattles as bullets spray the back. Everyone conscious ducks. Spencer's nose is practically on top of the bump on Ryan's head. It's turning technicolor; Spencer hopes they live long enough to put a cold press on it.
-----
William is totally lost in this new city, but he finds he doesn't mind in the least. He flirted with a street vendor and got some scraps for his lunch, and he's full and feeling good. He's wandering aimlessly up one bright street and down the next, not looking for anything in particular, when he hears a voice raised in raucous song:
If you promise me, I'll be your man. If you promise me, I'll be your man. Oh, I'll love you the best I can. Stick to the promise that you made to me...
William whirls around to see a handsome man strolling down the sidewalk a block behind him with a bulge in the breast pocket of his clean, sharp suit. His hat is tilted at the same rakish angle that always makes William weak in the knees.
Stick to the promise that you made to me. Oh, stay away from Johnny Lee, the man croons. William slinks back toward him.
Say, who's Johnny Lee? William asks. The man eyes him up and down before answering.
Well, aren't you cute as a bug's ear? he says, doffing his cap. Now, Johnny Lee's a real pill of a gangster. He runs out of these parts, but he runs a good slice of the dope market up north.
He goes to sling an arm around William but pauses just before he makes contact. May I do you the honor of escorting you? Johnny Lee and his gunsels have been known to make trouble for dishes like you.
William accepts and the man's arm wraps around William's waist like it was made to fit there.
May I ask the name of my escort? William says. The man winks at him.
I'm not usually one for names, he replies. A thought occurs to William and he freezes.
You're not Johnny Lee, are you? The man laughs in reply. He extracts his arm from William's waist so they can turn to face each other.
My name's Gabe, he assures William. He clasps William's hand and shakes it. Pleased to make your keen acquaintance. I'm terribly sorry, but I have some urgent business to attend to. Where would you like me to escort you?
William gives him directions to a music shop not too far from Saporta's house. William is not quite ready to trust Gabe with the knowledge of where he and his friends are staying. Gabe seems wonderful, William tells himself, but so did Tom.
-----
Pete! Patrick yells, helping Brendon carry Ryan through Saporta's front door. Saporta! We've got trouble!
Saporta's out. So's Pete. What happened? Suarez asks from the parlor, disentangling himself from Siska.
Johnny Lee happened, Spencer says. His boys are about five minutes behind us.
-----
I just met the best man in the United States! William announces, practically dancing back in through Saporta's front door. Suarez grabs him and shoves him toward the basement stairs. What's--
Johnny Lee knows y'all are here, Suarez says. We just don't know when he'll follow. Basement's probably safer for you boys. Siska's down there, he adds.
William disappears into the basement. Suarez heads back to his post.
-----
Pete makes it into the house a bare minute before Johnny Lee's hired guns do.
Patrick! Is Patrick here? Pete shouts at the nearest Saporta underling.
Yeah, yeah, Mr. Stump's here. Suarez shoves a tommy gun at Pete. So make yourself useful; we're getting some real ugly company any second now.
-----
The air explodes with gunfire and the curtain dances as the window next to Pete smashes. Patrick grabs Pete around the waist as the latter falls and hauls him away from the broken window. Pete's got a hand clamped to his shoulder, but no blood is seeping through his fingers, so Patrick settles Pete on the floor by his feet. Pete shuffles so his ankle brushes Patrick's.
Patrick is too busy to notice, preferring to concentrate on lifting up the barest corner of the curtain without getting his face shot up. Through the misshapen peephole Patrick creates, he can see eight men with choppers. Two of them are already dead. One is splayed on the hood of the car, bent backwards from the force of the shots that killed him, with the gun hanging limply from the strap around his chest. The other is facedown in the hedges, still clutching his Tommy gun.
Two of them are firing at the lower floor of Saporta's house and trying to make their way forward while the other four are firing up at the second floor. As Patrick watches, one of the gangsters outside gets shot in the chest and falls. The gangster next to the dead man lets out a wild yell and shoots through the killer's window.
There's a scream from upstairs and frantic shouting-- Suarez leaves Pete and Patrick and dashes up the stairs.
Hold 'em off, boys! he hollers.
Shit, Patrick swears as he flips the curtain back down. He brushes some of the glass aside and sits down beside Pete. A bullet ricochets off the hall mirror and Patrick flinches.
Hey, Patrick, Pete says.
What?
I bet you a kiss we live through this.
Patrick punches him. He punches Pete on his uninjured shoulder, though, so Pete counts it as a victory.
-----
--and then the sixth one got clipped and the last two ran off, Joe concludes. He moves aside as Suarez and Blackington carry a wounded man into the kitchen, then returns his full attention to the hall telephone. Pete says to request some trigger men. Yessir, Saporta has trigger men, but he doesn't have-- Six? Thank you, sir. Yes, that should be enough.
-----
William can't close his eyes without seeing Gabe's face plastered across the inside of his lids. He gives up trying to sleep at about midnight and pads down to the kitchen for a snack. He passes Pete curled around Patrick in the parlor without comment and makes for the pantry.
He's buttering himself a thick slice of bread when he hears someone come into the kitchen behind him.
Hey, there. Mind if I have-- William spins around before the intruder can finish.
Gabe? William says.
You! Gabe says. You're staying here?
Of course I'm staying here. What are you doing here?
This is my house!
It's Saporta's house.
I'm Saporta. Gabe Saporta. Gabe extends his hand. Pleased to make your keen acquaintance. Might I, Gabe says, show you to my room?
-----
Gabe fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, snoring softly with his long arms entwined around William.
William, half-alseep himself, thought it was quite nice. He soon found himself enjoying the first pleasant dream he'd had since he joined the circus.
-----
It's going to take two days to get the hatchetmen down here, Joe says. I know, I know we were only going to stay here for a few nights, but do you think you could see your way clear to letting us stay here until they get here? Pete wheedles. With things as they are, I don't want to risk the dope or my boys anywhere else in the state.
I'll make you a trade, Saporta offers.
Deal!
I want William, Gabe says simply.
What? yelps Pete. Are you out of your mind? He's one of my best boys!
And I'm one of your best friends, and I know I run some of the best safe-houses on both sides of the border, Gabe counters. Madam Palmer knows that too. So if you want to keep things all swell, you'll give me William.
Fine, Pete grumbles. Gabe waits expectantly. What, do you want me to make you sign for him? It's not like you're buying a new car.
William's even better.
Jesus, you're dizzy for the kid. Pete shakes his head. If it makes you feel better, I can have Patrick write up a contract and you can tear it up, how's that?
-----
What are those pieces of paper? William asks, pointing at the floor where Gabe hadn't quite cleaned up everything.
They're not on the way to the bedroom, Gabe answered. His words were muffled slightly by his efforts to give William a large hickey on the graceful curve of his neck. So they can wait.
William sighed happily, tilting his head back.
Aces.
-----
Up, up, up! Pete clapped his hands next to Ryan's ear. We have the trigger men and it's time to pack up the cars. You're riding with Brendon and Spencer and Joe and two very nice men named Bob and Frank.
-----
We call it a Chicago typewriter, Bob says as Spencer runs his hands along it. Brendon presses himself further into Ryan, not wanting to be near the gun. Joe is high as a kite and staring out the window bemusedly.
Chicago's pretty famous, Frank calls from the driver's seat. A lot of things are named after Chicago.
Really? Ryan pipes up. Finally, a topic he's interested in.
Sure, Frank says with a grin in the rearview mirror. Chicago typewriters make Chicago lightning, which'll get you in a Chicago overcoat quicker than you can take a piss. Frank grins wider at the expression on Ryan's face. Ain't language a beautiful thing?
-----
Say, you're pretty good with a gun, Spencer says to Bob one hot night when they're killing time in small slices in some backwater southern town too small to have gangsters.
Do you want to be good with a gun? Bob asks. Spencer's eyes gleam and his fingers twitch--towards Bob or the Tommy gun, Bob isn't sure. Spencer restrains himself and slides his eyes up under his lashes to meet Bob's gaze.
I'm pretty good with guns already. Spencer sidles closer, sliding his hand down Bob's arm. I'll show you if you show me.
Bob lifts Spencer's fingers off.
No. Not like that, Bob chides gently.
Hurt and something else, rage or helplessness or frustration, flit across Spencer's face before it locks back into his usual, carefully constructed expression.
Fine, Spencer says. It comes out a lot more smoothly than he'd ever have thought possible. He turns on his heel and gets all of three steps away before Bob's hand is at his elbow, whirling him back around.
First rule, Bob says, kissing him chastely on the cheek, you have to listen to what I say, because tommies are nothing to fool around with. Now, here, this is the safety catch. Here's what you do to take it off...
-----
Siska, Butcher, Mike, and Andy ride with two gunmen named Ray and Jon. Ray keeps things professional, treating Andy and the three pornocircus boys like any other mark he's guarded in the past. Jon extends the same treatment to Siska and Butcher and Andy, but Mike makes eyes at him during stops and Jon is but a mortal man.
After the first time it happens, Ray and Jon have a quiet chat before they pack the boys up and head out for another leg of the journey.
From then on, Ray rolls his eyes but doesn't offer any other sign he notices Jon and Mike sneaking off when they pull over for the night.
-----
Pete and Patrick are riding with two gunmen, Gerard and Mikey, who turn out to be brothers.
Gerard's the talker, but Mikey seems to have an almost supernatural ability to pick up information. Even in the sparsest of small hamlets they stop in Mikey manages to find the farmer that will let fourteen strangers, six of them armed, stay the night in his house and barn.
The time in this car is passed pleasantly; Gerard knows Madam Palmer and is delighted to share stories about her. Gerard isn't the best storyteller Pete's ever heard, but his enthusiasm more than makes up for his occasionally awkward phrasing.
In his heart of hearts, Pete can admit to an ulterior motive for encouraging Gerard's stories. Gerard is the type to throw himself into everything he does, so when he's in the heat of an anecdote he frequently takes both hands off the wheel to gesture expansively. Whenever Gerard does so Patrick gets horribly nervous and clutches at whichever of Pete's limbs is closest. Pete really does try to wipe the smug satisfaction off his face before Patrick notices.
-----
If it's all the same to you, Andy says to Pete the day before they reach New Orleans, I think I'll stay here.
Aces, Pete replies. They leave Andy in the company of the three fellow anarchists they'd all met in the speakeasy. He doesn't look back.
-----
Thanks to a meticulous planing session between Pete, Joe, and Mikey, the three cars arrive at Madam Palmer's on the scheduled day.
The cars roll up to the curb outside the speakeasy in a neat line. The hired guns get out first, scanning the street, but things are quiet at eight in the morning in this part of town. The area they're in is mostly abandoned, with few legal tenants still occupying the street and most of the buildings taken over by squatters. No one is outside but the hired gunmen.
They gesture for the others to exit the cars. The boys gather on the curb as Pete, Patrick, and Joe go into the two drug-carrying cars and uncover the dope hidden under the floor and in the seats. They stand back, looking expectant. Nothing happens.
Well, don't just stand there! Pete scolds the boys. Start unloading. We're on a tight schedule here; Madam Palmer wants us out of town by noon.
Mike is the first to step forward and grab a bag of dope from the pile inside the car. The others line up behind him. Patrick instructs them to take the bags into the speakeasy and then come out again for more, and to be quick about it. He walks up to the door with Mike and knocks.
There's no answer. Patrick knocks again. Still no answer. Glancing back at Pete, Patrick shrugs and tries the handle. It comes off in his hand. His stomach swoops in trepidation as he pushes the door open.
Inside, the speakeasy is littered with bodies, broken glass, and overturned furniture. Several of the windows on the side of the house are broken and the floor is sticky with spilled alcohol and blood. Stools are broken and scattered all over the first floor and the body of what used to be a man is sprawled across the bar, still clutching a gun.
Patrick absorbs all this in seconds and curses violently. He draws his pistol. He picks his way through the debris and cautiously climbs the stairs. The second floor is more of the same. In one room, Patrick spots Madam Palmer's body. At the end of the hallway, half-buried under a male corpse, is the body of Gabe's go-between, Vicky T.
Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupts outside. Patrick tenses, listening.
He hears another rattle of gunfire. This time, it doesn't stop. He spins around and plunges back downstairs and outside, shouting for Mike to take cover.
It's too late; Mike is already on the ground and bleeding copiously, coughing up blood and mucus and leaking blood and air from lungs punctured by a round of lead.
Patrick doesn't pause. He keeps running and throws himself behind one of the cars. He finds himself next to Frank. Frank peers through the car's broken front window and lets off a spray of bullets. Patrick looks around wildly, trying to pinpoint everyone's location.
Brendon and Ryan are behind the next car over, clinging to each other in abject terror as the tire they're crouched near is ripped to shreds by a well-aimed burst of ammunition. Bob and Spencer are behind the same car. Spencer has somehow found a gun and is shooting alongside Bob. Patrick hears a choked scream and sees a man topple off the balcony of an apartment across the street; the look of glee on Spencer's face at his successful shot is downright frightening.
Patrick leans forward to try and see around the four of them and nearly gets his head shot off. Frank yanks him back flush with the side of the car.
They're on the upper floors. Frank hisses the reprimand, firing again. Stay fucking close.
Pete, Patrick says frantically. Where's Pete? They both duck as a spray of bullets shakes the car.
I don't know, Frank snaps. He loads a fresh magazine into his tommy gun. The window above Patrick's head shatters under a direct hit and he drops his pistol and throws his arms over his head as glass rains down on him.
A large piece slices deep and wide into his forearm. He tugs it carefully out, wincing, and tries to sponge away the blood with the hem of his shirt. Suddenly, Pete's there, tearing a strip from his sleeve to press against Patrick's gash. Patrick grabs Pete's shoulder with his good hand.
They fucking waited for us, Pete, Patrick snarls. There are bodies all over the place inside--dead at least a day or two, by the smell-- Pete, Jesus, it's a fucking massacre.
It's a fucking massacre out here, too, Pete tells him grimly. Two guns-- Ray and Jon, I think-- are dead already, Joe's got lead poisoning too, and Mike--
I saw Mike, Patrick interrupts. They look back at the house. Mike is still alive, painfully, horribly alive.
Jesus, Pete says. That's-- that's not right. Patrick picks his pistol up from the ground. He's surprised at how steady his arm is. He aims carefully and pulls the trigger. Mike spasms once, then falls still.
Patrick avoids Pete's eye.
MIKEY! Gerard howls to the left, past Spencer and Brendon and Ryan and Bob. There's a long stretch of firing from his position at the windows, and then fire from his position ceases completely. NO!
Frank glances down the line of cars and pales.
Shit.
He tucks his tommy gun under his arms and flies from car to car until he's behind Gerard's. Frank aims a heavy round at their rivals. Having bought a few seconds, he steps around Joe's cooling corpse and dives out from behind the car and seizes Gerard around the waist, dragging him back to safety. Gerard tries to bring Mikey back with them, but Frank won't let him.
Mikey is flung prostrate in the road, stomach shot open, sobbing his brother's name.
Gerard, for God's sake, don't! Frank hollers, straining to keep Gerard behind the car.
He's my brother, Frank! My fucking brother! Gerard shouts back, tears streaming freely down his face. No! Let--fuck, let fucking go!
Let him go, Frank, Bob says, appearing right next to them.
What the hell, Bob? Frank sputters. Bob pries Frank's hand off Gerard's arm.
Let him go; Lee's sons of bitches are all dead. Fight's finished.
Oh, says Frank. He releases his grip on Gerard's other arm. Gerard stumbles over to Mikey, crying, and pulls his brother's head into his lap.
Everyone left alive stands up slowly, all trapped in varying degrees of shell-shock. The street is still abandoned.
What now, Pete? Patrick asks quietly, looking from the dead gunmen to Joe's body to the heartwrenching tableau of Frank and Gerard and Mikey. He looks at Spencer holding the tommy gun with a gleam in his eye and at Ryan and Brendon huddled together. He looks at Mike's torn-up body and looks at Pete's worn face. What the hell are we supposed to do now?
Memphis, Pete replies promptly. We'll go back to Memphis, just to sell the stuff to pay the Purple Gang. Then, Pete says, sliding a warm arm across Patrick's shoulders, you and I are getting out of the circus.
The End.
Author's notes and suchlike things, if you are interested.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Spencer, Jesus! Patrick yelps at seven the next morning. You've got a stain the size of the Pier on the back of your robe!
Spencer shucks his clerical cloth back off and turns it around to see for himself. He whistles.
Wow. Are those bits of brain?
How did we miss this yesterday? Patrick shakes his head. We'll just have to find another set. Hmm. Maybe buy a new one? he says, thinking aloud. We did say we were going to lay low in Memphis for a few days, and it's not as if we're spending anything on lodging,
Brendon, do you think this looks like brains?
Then again, one of the bootleggers might know where we could get something, Patrick considers. It's not as if we aren't going to see them anyway.
Brendon, those are definitely brains, not bloody vomit.
Ryan, Ryan! He's wrong, right? Those aren't bits of brains, right?
Boys! Patrick says. The three stop talking and turn to him expectantly. Get dressed and get in the car-- no, Spencer, don't put that back on. You'll borrow William's robe. I'm going to see if we can't get you a new set, without a stain.
-----
Oh, Pete. I'm glad I caught you, Saporta says, stopping Pete at the bottom of the stairs at eight. Alex, make sure nobody's listening.
What's your story, morning glory? Pete asks.
Johnny Lee's boys got into Memphis a few hours after you did. Somebody tipped them off. Pete gapes like a dead fish. Just thought you should know. My advice to you is to stick close to the house. No place safer south of the Mason-Dixon than my place, except for maybe Madam Palmer's, Saporta concludes. He strides down the last three steps and flips his hat off the rack by the front door. I'm going for a walk. Got some errands I need to do. I'll see you this evening.
-----
At ten o'clock Pete scrubs at the back of his neck with an anxious hand. Did anybody see Patrick? he asks again, just in case the answer is different than last time.
A general chorus of no's and who's-Patrick's and not-since-last-night's is not the answer Pete was hoping for, but it's the same answer he's gotten the last four times he asked about Patrick and it's the answer he gets this time, as well. Saporta's men, Mike, and Siska aren't as concerned as Pete is, and Pete can't understand why.
William shuffles into the kitchen, yawning.
I saw him, Pete. He took my robe so Spencer could wear them out.
Out? Pete yelps. He bounds across the room and takes William by the shoulders. Where? Where?!
Ouch! The bootleggers we're supposed to contact. Ow. Let go!
Fuck! Pete shouts. He scrambles around, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and sliding it on. Fuck, fuck, fuck! they hear as he runs through the living room and out of the house.
What was that all about? William asks. One of Saporta's men shrugs.
I know from nothing. I did see Saporta talking to him this morning. Maybe he said something that got your boss worried. He sounds unconcerned. The little knot of dread in William's stomach loosens. Here, we have toast if you want some, the man offers. William joins them.
-----
Sisky, William says, throwing open the door to the bedroom. I need to--
A shirtless Siska and one of Saporta's men (fully clothed) break apart hastily.
It's not what it looks like, Siska says quickly. Saporta's guard rolls his eyes.
It's exactly what it looks like, he snorts.
Shut up, Suarez! Siska hisses. William walks briskly over to his side of the bed and grabs a particular bundle of clothing. He leaves the room without a word.
Oh, damn. Siska tugs his shirt back on.
What, was he your--? Suarez leaves the end of his sentence dangling.
No, Siska says. But he's still possessive. He hurries after William. Suarez follows Siska, sighing at the strangeness of Northern boys.
-----
I'm going for a walk, William says, his bundle firmly under his arm. Don't wait up.
Will, wait, Siska pleads.
Have a swell walk, just don't slam the-- Suarez winces as the door bounces heavily into the frame. --door.
William changes behind the hedges in the yard, stuffing his shirt and trousers under the shrubbery. The wind ruffles the hem of his dress as he flees into town.
-----
Johnny Lee's men had been waiting for Patrick at the bootlegger's downtown distillery.
Shit, shit, shit! Patrick swears, stomping heavily on the gas. In the back, Brendon presses his shirt to the bullet wound on Spencer's arm. Spencer's uninjured arm is petting Ryan's head gently; Ryan's still out cold, though the bump where the pipe connected with his skull is growing to an impressive size. Shit! Patrick sees some of Lee's men stream out of the distillery behind them.
The car rattles as bullets spray the back. Everyone conscious ducks. Spencer's nose is practically on top of the bump on Ryan's head. It's turning technicolor; Spencer hopes they live long enough to put a cold press on it.
-----
William is totally lost in this new city, but he finds he doesn't mind in the least. He flirted with a street vendor and got some scraps for his lunch, and he's full and feeling good. He's wandering aimlessly up one bright street and down the next, not looking for anything in particular, when he hears a voice raised in raucous song:
If you promise me, I'll be your man. If you promise me, I'll be your man. Oh, I'll love you the best I can. Stick to the promise that you made to me...
William whirls around to see a handsome man strolling down the sidewalk a block behind him with a bulge in the breast pocket of his clean, sharp suit. His hat is tilted at the same rakish angle that always makes William weak in the knees.
Stick to the promise that you made to me. Oh, stay away from Johnny Lee, the man croons. William slinks back toward him.
Say, who's Johnny Lee? William asks. The man eyes him up and down before answering.
Well, aren't you cute as a bug's ear? he says, doffing his cap. Now, Johnny Lee's a real pill of a gangster. He runs out of these parts, but he runs a good slice of the dope market up north.
He goes to sling an arm around William but pauses just before he makes contact. May I do you the honor of escorting you? Johnny Lee and his gunsels have been known to make trouble for dishes like you.
William accepts and the man's arm wraps around William's waist like it was made to fit there.
May I ask the name of my escort? William says. The man winks at him.
I'm not usually one for names, he replies. A thought occurs to William and he freezes.
You're not Johnny Lee, are you? The man laughs in reply. He extracts his arm from William's waist so they can turn to face each other.
My name's Gabe, he assures William. He clasps William's hand and shakes it. Pleased to make your keen acquaintance. I'm terribly sorry, but I have some urgent business to attend to. Where would you like me to escort you?
William gives him directions to a music shop not too far from Saporta's house. William is not quite ready to trust Gabe with the knowledge of where he and his friends are staying. Gabe seems wonderful, William tells himself, but so did Tom.
-----
Pete! Patrick yells, helping Brendon carry Ryan through Saporta's front door. Saporta! We've got trouble!
Saporta's out. So's Pete. What happened? Suarez asks from the parlor, disentangling himself from Siska.
Johnny Lee happened, Spencer says. His boys are about five minutes behind us.
-----
I just met the best man in the United States! William announces, practically dancing back in through Saporta's front door. Suarez grabs him and shoves him toward the basement stairs. What's--
Johnny Lee knows y'all are here, Suarez says. We just don't know when he'll follow. Basement's probably safer for you boys. Siska's down there, he adds.
William disappears into the basement. Suarez heads back to his post.
-----
Pete makes it into the house a bare minute before Johnny Lee's hired guns do.
Patrick! Is Patrick here? Pete shouts at the nearest Saporta underling.
Yeah, yeah, Mr. Stump's here. Suarez shoves a tommy gun at Pete. So make yourself useful; we're getting some real ugly company any second now.
-----
The air explodes with gunfire and the curtain dances as the window next to Pete smashes. Patrick grabs Pete around the waist as the latter falls and hauls him away from the broken window. Pete's got a hand clamped to his shoulder, but no blood is seeping through his fingers, so Patrick settles Pete on the floor by his feet. Pete shuffles so his ankle brushes Patrick's.
Patrick is too busy to notice, preferring to concentrate on lifting up the barest corner of the curtain without getting his face shot up. Through the misshapen peephole Patrick creates, he can see eight men with choppers. Two of them are already dead. One is splayed on the hood of the car, bent backwards from the force of the shots that killed him, with the gun hanging limply from the strap around his chest. The other is facedown in the hedges, still clutching his Tommy gun.
Two of them are firing at the lower floor of Saporta's house and trying to make their way forward while the other four are firing up at the second floor. As Patrick watches, one of the gangsters outside gets shot in the chest and falls. The gangster next to the dead man lets out a wild yell and shoots through the killer's window.
There's a scream from upstairs and frantic shouting-- Suarez leaves Pete and Patrick and dashes up the stairs.
Hold 'em off, boys! he hollers.
Shit, Patrick swears as he flips the curtain back down. He brushes some of the glass aside and sits down beside Pete. A bullet ricochets off the hall mirror and Patrick flinches.
Hey, Patrick, Pete says.
What?
I bet you a kiss we live through this.
Patrick punches him. He punches Pete on his uninjured shoulder, though, so Pete counts it as a victory.
-----
--and then the sixth one got clipped and the last two ran off, Joe concludes. He moves aside as Suarez and Blackington carry a wounded man into the kitchen, then returns his full attention to the hall telephone. Pete says to request some trigger men. Yessir, Saporta has trigger men, but he doesn't have-- Six? Thank you, sir. Yes, that should be enough.
-----
William can't close his eyes without seeing Gabe's face plastered across the inside of his lids. He gives up trying to sleep at about midnight and pads down to the kitchen for a snack. He passes Pete curled around Patrick in the parlor without comment and makes for the pantry.
He's buttering himself a thick slice of bread when he hears someone come into the kitchen behind him.
Hey, there. Mind if I have-- William spins around before the intruder can finish.
Gabe? William says.
You! Gabe says. You're staying here?
Of course I'm staying here. What are you doing here?
This is my house!
It's Saporta's house.
I'm Saporta. Gabe Saporta. Gabe extends his hand. Pleased to make your keen acquaintance. Might I, Gabe says, show you to my room?
-----
Gabe fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, snoring softly with his long arms entwined around William.
William, half-alseep himself, thought it was quite nice. He soon found himself enjoying the first pleasant dream he'd had since he joined the circus.
-----
It's going to take two days to get the hatchetmen down here, Joe says. I know, I know we were only going to stay here for a few nights, but do you think you could see your way clear to letting us stay here until they get here? Pete wheedles. With things as they are, I don't want to risk the dope or my boys anywhere else in the state.
I'll make you a trade, Saporta offers.
Deal!
I want William, Gabe says simply.
What? yelps Pete. Are you out of your mind? He's one of my best boys!
And I'm one of your best friends, and I know I run some of the best safe-houses on both sides of the border, Gabe counters. Madam Palmer knows that too. So if you want to keep things all swell, you'll give me William.
Fine, Pete grumbles. Gabe waits expectantly. What, do you want me to make you sign for him? It's not like you're buying a new car.
William's even better.
Jesus, you're dizzy for the kid. Pete shakes his head. If it makes you feel better, I can have Patrick write up a contract and you can tear it up, how's that?
-----
What are those pieces of paper? William asks, pointing at the floor where Gabe hadn't quite cleaned up everything.
They're not on the way to the bedroom, Gabe answered. His words were muffled slightly by his efforts to give William a large hickey on the graceful curve of his neck. So they can wait.
William sighed happily, tilting his head back.
Aces.
-----
Up, up, up! Pete clapped his hands next to Ryan's ear. We have the trigger men and it's time to pack up the cars. You're riding with Brendon and Spencer and Joe and two very nice men named Bob and Frank.
-----
We call it a Chicago typewriter, Bob says as Spencer runs his hands along it. Brendon presses himself further into Ryan, not wanting to be near the gun. Joe is high as a kite and staring out the window bemusedly.
Chicago's pretty famous, Frank calls from the driver's seat. A lot of things are named after Chicago.
Really? Ryan pipes up. Finally, a topic he's interested in.
Sure, Frank says with a grin in the rearview mirror. Chicago typewriters make Chicago lightning, which'll get you in a Chicago overcoat quicker than you can take a piss. Frank grins wider at the expression on Ryan's face. Ain't language a beautiful thing?
-----
Say, you're pretty good with a gun, Spencer says to Bob one hot night when they're killing time in small slices in some backwater southern town too small to have gangsters.
Do you want to be good with a gun? Bob asks. Spencer's eyes gleam and his fingers twitch--towards Bob or the Tommy gun, Bob isn't sure. Spencer restrains himself and slides his eyes up under his lashes to meet Bob's gaze.
I'm pretty good with guns already. Spencer sidles closer, sliding his hand down Bob's arm. I'll show you if you show me.
Bob lifts Spencer's fingers off.
No. Not like that, Bob chides gently.
Hurt and something else, rage or helplessness or frustration, flit across Spencer's face before it locks back into his usual, carefully constructed expression.
Fine, Spencer says. It comes out a lot more smoothly than he'd ever have thought possible. He turns on his heel and gets all of three steps away before Bob's hand is at his elbow, whirling him back around.
First rule, Bob says, kissing him chastely on the cheek, you have to listen to what I say, because tommies are nothing to fool around with. Now, here, this is the safety catch. Here's what you do to take it off...
-----
Siska, Butcher, Mike, and Andy ride with two gunmen named Ray and Jon. Ray keeps things professional, treating Andy and the three pornocircus boys like any other mark he's guarded in the past. Jon extends the same treatment to Siska and Butcher and Andy, but Mike makes eyes at him during stops and Jon is but a mortal man.
After the first time it happens, Ray and Jon have a quiet chat before they pack the boys up and head out for another leg of the journey.
From then on, Ray rolls his eyes but doesn't offer any other sign he notices Jon and Mike sneaking off when they pull over for the night.
-----
Pete and Patrick are riding with two gunmen, Gerard and Mikey, who turn out to be brothers.
Gerard's the talker, but Mikey seems to have an almost supernatural ability to pick up information. Even in the sparsest of small hamlets they stop in Mikey manages to find the farmer that will let fourteen strangers, six of them armed, stay the night in his house and barn.
The time in this car is passed pleasantly; Gerard knows Madam Palmer and is delighted to share stories about her. Gerard isn't the best storyteller Pete's ever heard, but his enthusiasm more than makes up for his occasionally awkward phrasing.
In his heart of hearts, Pete can admit to an ulterior motive for encouraging Gerard's stories. Gerard is the type to throw himself into everything he does, so when he's in the heat of an anecdote he frequently takes both hands off the wheel to gesture expansively. Whenever Gerard does so Patrick gets horribly nervous and clutches at whichever of Pete's limbs is closest. Pete really does try to wipe the smug satisfaction off his face before Patrick notices.
-----
If it's all the same to you, Andy says to Pete the day before they reach New Orleans, I think I'll stay here.
Aces, Pete replies. They leave Andy in the company of the three fellow anarchists they'd all met in the speakeasy. He doesn't look back.
-----
Thanks to a meticulous planing session between Pete, Joe, and Mikey, the three cars arrive at Madam Palmer's on the scheduled day.
The cars roll up to the curb outside the speakeasy in a neat line. The hired guns get out first, scanning the street, but things are quiet at eight in the morning in this part of town. The area they're in is mostly abandoned, with few legal tenants still occupying the street and most of the buildings taken over by squatters. No one is outside but the hired gunmen.
They gesture for the others to exit the cars. The boys gather on the curb as Pete, Patrick, and Joe go into the two drug-carrying cars and uncover the dope hidden under the floor and in the seats. They stand back, looking expectant. Nothing happens.
Well, don't just stand there! Pete scolds the boys. Start unloading. We're on a tight schedule here; Madam Palmer wants us out of town by noon.
Mike is the first to step forward and grab a bag of dope from the pile inside the car. The others line up behind him. Patrick instructs them to take the bags into the speakeasy and then come out again for more, and to be quick about it. He walks up to the door with Mike and knocks.
There's no answer. Patrick knocks again. Still no answer. Glancing back at Pete, Patrick shrugs and tries the handle. It comes off in his hand. His stomach swoops in trepidation as he pushes the door open.
Inside, the speakeasy is littered with bodies, broken glass, and overturned furniture. Several of the windows on the side of the house are broken and the floor is sticky with spilled alcohol and blood. Stools are broken and scattered all over the first floor and the body of what used to be a man is sprawled across the bar, still clutching a gun.
Patrick absorbs all this in seconds and curses violently. He draws his pistol. He picks his way through the debris and cautiously climbs the stairs. The second floor is more of the same. In one room, Patrick spots Madam Palmer's body. At the end of the hallway, half-buried under a male corpse, is the body of Gabe's go-between, Vicky T.
Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupts outside. Patrick tenses, listening.
He hears another rattle of gunfire. This time, it doesn't stop. He spins around and plunges back downstairs and outside, shouting for Mike to take cover.
It's too late; Mike is already on the ground and bleeding copiously, coughing up blood and mucus and leaking blood and air from lungs punctured by a round of lead.
Patrick doesn't pause. He keeps running and throws himself behind one of the cars. He finds himself next to Frank. Frank peers through the car's broken front window and lets off a spray of bullets. Patrick looks around wildly, trying to pinpoint everyone's location.
Brendon and Ryan are behind the next car over, clinging to each other in abject terror as the tire they're crouched near is ripped to shreds by a well-aimed burst of ammunition. Bob and Spencer are behind the same car. Spencer has somehow found a gun and is shooting alongside Bob. Patrick hears a choked scream and sees a man topple off the balcony of an apartment across the street; the look of glee on Spencer's face at his successful shot is downright frightening.
Patrick leans forward to try and see around the four of them and nearly gets his head shot off. Frank yanks him back flush with the side of the car.
They're on the upper floors. Frank hisses the reprimand, firing again. Stay fucking close.
Pete, Patrick says frantically. Where's Pete? They both duck as a spray of bullets shakes the car.
I don't know, Frank snaps. He loads a fresh magazine into his tommy gun. The window above Patrick's head shatters under a direct hit and he drops his pistol and throws his arms over his head as glass rains down on him.
A large piece slices deep and wide into his forearm. He tugs it carefully out, wincing, and tries to sponge away the blood with the hem of his shirt. Suddenly, Pete's there, tearing a strip from his sleeve to press against Patrick's gash. Patrick grabs Pete's shoulder with his good hand.
They fucking waited for us, Pete, Patrick snarls. There are bodies all over the place inside--dead at least a day or two, by the smell-- Pete, Jesus, it's a fucking massacre.
It's a fucking massacre out here, too, Pete tells him grimly. Two guns-- Ray and Jon, I think-- are dead already, Joe's got lead poisoning too, and Mike--
I saw Mike, Patrick interrupts. They look back at the house. Mike is still alive, painfully, horribly alive.
Jesus, Pete says. That's-- that's not right. Patrick picks his pistol up from the ground. He's surprised at how steady his arm is. He aims carefully and pulls the trigger. Mike spasms once, then falls still.
Patrick avoids Pete's eye.
MIKEY! Gerard howls to the left, past Spencer and Brendon and Ryan and Bob. There's a long stretch of firing from his position at the windows, and then fire from his position ceases completely. NO!
Frank glances down the line of cars and pales.
Shit.
He tucks his tommy gun under his arms and flies from car to car until he's behind Gerard's. Frank aims a heavy round at their rivals. Having bought a few seconds, he steps around Joe's cooling corpse and dives out from behind the car and seizes Gerard around the waist, dragging him back to safety. Gerard tries to bring Mikey back with them, but Frank won't let him.
Mikey is flung prostrate in the road, stomach shot open, sobbing his brother's name.
Gerard, for God's sake, don't! Frank hollers, straining to keep Gerard behind the car.
He's my brother, Frank! My fucking brother! Gerard shouts back, tears streaming freely down his face. No! Let--fuck, let fucking go!
Let him go, Frank, Bob says, appearing right next to them.
What the hell, Bob? Frank sputters. Bob pries Frank's hand off Gerard's arm.
Let him go; Lee's sons of bitches are all dead. Fight's finished.
Oh, says Frank. He releases his grip on Gerard's other arm. Gerard stumbles over to Mikey, crying, and pulls his brother's head into his lap.
Everyone left alive stands up slowly, all trapped in varying degrees of shell-shock. The street is still abandoned.
What now, Pete? Patrick asks quietly, looking from the dead gunmen to Joe's body to the heartwrenching tableau of Frank and Gerard and Mikey. He looks at Spencer holding the tommy gun with a gleam in his eye and at Ryan and Brendon huddled together. He looks at Mike's torn-up body and looks at Pete's worn face. What the hell are we supposed to do now?
Memphis, Pete replies promptly. We'll go back to Memphis, just to sell the stuff to pay the Purple Gang. Then, Pete says, sliding a warm arm across Patrick's shoulders, you and I are getting out of the circus.
The End.
Author's notes and suchlike things, if you are interested.