Tall Tale Tuesday: The Carnival
e’ve completed a short story over at the Carnival, called “Tales of Delgato”. The story idea came from the Coffee House’s guest poster, Squatch, and both Mr. James and I helped him out with it. I’m going to repost it here in one chunk (it’s long; you’ve been warned), so, for the thousands in attendance, and the millions watching at home, let’s get ready to ruuuuuuuumbleeeeeeee . . .
Tales of Delgato
Written By Squatch, Mr. James, and JavaElemental
It wasnt an ordinary life, he thought. Ordinary people don’t hijack trucks, extort money, or kill people for a living. Ordinary people don’t set fire to other peoples homes or places of business or relatives just because they’re told to. Ordinary people have ordinary jobs, and ordinary problems.
He was pretty sure ordinary people didn’t go missing for days, following strange music only they could hear.
He was somewhere in western Pennsylvania. Might as well be Transylvania, though. He was traipsing through a forest, moonlight shining off tendrils of fog here and there. He was a long way from home, back in Detroit, and he wondered how long he’d been following that circus music. What was it called? A nickelodeon, he thought. It made him think of merry-go-rounds and cotton candy, whatever it was, and it just wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d been hearing it for almost a year. Sometimes it was so loud, he couldn’t hear the people talking right to him, other times it was so quiet he could almost forget it was there. More and more often lately, he’d tried to find where it was coming from, and it was starting to affect his work. And that wouldn’t do.
So here he was, following the piping notes through the dark woods, and this time he wouldn’t stop until he found it. Found it, and shut it the fuck up, or his name wasn’t Robbie DelGato.
For fifteen years, he had worked for his Uncle’s business. Officially, his “uncle” Arthur DelGato had been in the construction business, mainly in asbestos removal. Unofficially, Uncle Artie ran all the organized crime that came in and out of most of Detroit. Robbie had been running his own crew for the last six years, and had become one of his Uncle’s top earners. That is, after squeezing out most of the spics, shooting a few chinks, setting up some of the more influential niggers, and generally intimidating the hell out of every other crew in the city that dealt with the unions. Since then, Robbie had become one of the fastest rising up and comers since his old man.
That was, until that fucking music had started. He lost his train of thought, he couldn’t concentrate. He’d started to forget things, little details, and Uncle Artie had noticed. Always, that music, going on and on, calling to him. It was even in his dreams, now. He would find himself standing in a wooded area, with a thick mist all around. The light would filter through the trees, and glimpses of a distant clearing could be seen off in the distance. Slowly, the music would build. It chirped merrily along, with an edge of desperate madness and longing. Faces would begin to swim before him.
A beefy man with a top hat and cane, and a look in his eyes that was anything but human. He was always smiling, but his face was lit by flames, and in the flickering light the smile seemed delighted one moment, and demonic the next. A pale woman with a face that was altogether lovely, and yet terrifying, and reminded him of ghost stories he’d heard as a kid. The kind where the dead come back for vengeance. A department store mannequin dressed in an evening gown, with blood seeping out the empty holes where her eyes should have been. A black man with a whip, surrounded by large, wild animals. The beasts and the man with the whip would stare at Robbie, their hungry smiles getting closer and closer… And then the clown. That fucking clown, with the big smile and the stench of dead meat. It reached for him with skeletal hands, and he’d awaken drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, still hearing its raspy giggle, like a death rattle.
Well, he wasn’t dreaming now. Now he was really here, in the woods and the fog, and the music was so close he almost felt like he could reach out and touch it. He’d find it. Tonight. He remembered how he had come this far…
Uncle Artie had called him at one in the morning, telling him that negotiations with their newest “business associate” had gone sour, and that it was time to carry out the contingency plan. Robbie knew what this meant. It meant the girl would have to be dealt with immediately.
He breathed a sigh and pulled on his clothes, checked his 9 mm, and collected his keys and his phone. He’d told the girl to see herself to the door, and when she’d seen the gun, she’d left quick enough. What was her name? Linda? Brenda? Didn’t matter. He’d pulled his shoes on, and the music had swelled, bringing images of ferris wheels and acrobats. He willed it away, and left the house. There was work to do.
Two hours later, he’d arrived at the small farmhouse well outside of town. The other car had been gone already, which meant that the girl’s minders had been told he was coming. Strolling around back, he found the grave already dug, a shovel waiting in the pile of dirt near the rusty old gas pig. Robbie checked the depth with his flashlight, absently humming along with the music. When he’d realized what he was doing, he stopped. He’d been doing that too much. People were starting to notice.
He opened the door to the root cellar; it had been padlocked, but he’d had the key. Arrangements had been made carefully in advance. He noticed the smell of shit, and fear. Sloppy. If her father had come through, keeping the kid in her own shit would have been rude. But he hadn’t, had he? He swept the beam of his flashlight down, and was surprised at how young the girl was. He’d expected a girl in high school or college, but looking at her now he’d guess she was barely twelve. The music swelled, and he concentrated on the job at hand. She was on the dirt floor, hogtied and gagged, squinting into the beam of his flashlight and trembling in terror. The rope had cut into her wrists and ankles, and the cuts hadn’t been cleaned or tended to. Besides the other smells, he detected the sweet reek of infection as he approached. She was whimpering softly around the ball gag, and her naked body had an assortment of bruises. He made a mental note to have a word with the minders. Unprofessional work. He took a knife off the wall, one of several on display where the girl could see them, and cut her hands and ankles free. When he helped the girl stand, she wept, and her gratitude made him tired. He hated the part where they thought he was letting them go.
The music was pretty quiet, as he’d led her up the stairs and outside. He’d got a good grip on her long dark hair, though, so when she came out into the moonlight and saw the grave he’d had no trouble keeping her from bolting. She was still gagged, but when she’d looked at him, her puffy swollen eyes had said it all for her.
Please. Don’t kill me. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please.
Robbie drew his pistol and tried to ignore the growing lump in his throat.
This ain’t right, his conscience urged, she’s a little kid!
What, it’d be better if she was thirty? The Omerta. The very oath he had sworn to his uncle, and to the Family, replied. It was almost a seperate person’s voice in his already crowded head. It doesn’t matter, it said. Robbie has a job to do.
She didn’t do anything! If anyone should be shot, it’s her father!
Not your call. Besides, she has brothers. If her Papa gets his ass in line, they’ll never end up here.
And if he doesn’t will you shoot them, too?
Yes. I took an oath, goddammit, I swore to serve the Family.
And this is the price you pay.
No. This is the price she pays. Do as you’ve been told, Robbie. You swore.
His chest became tight, and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes burned, and his pulse was racing. But his face showed nothing. The girl was shaking her head, pleading with her eyes and trying to scream around the ball gag. She was sobbing, as best she could, tears and snot and sweat and drool dripping off her face. The music in his head danced merrily along, and a face from his dreams came to mind, a memory of a man with blond hair and sideburns, a green poker visor on his high forehead. He chuckled, exhaled a plume of blue cigarette smoke, and from behind green tinted spectacles, he winked. Robbie shook his head, blotting out the dream memories, banishing the music. He had to do this! He’d sworn! He raised the gun, and leveled it at the girl’s head. She froze, and he realized she was the same age as his own daughter. She was Rebecca’s age.
What if it were your daughter, Robbie?
If you don’t do this, Robbie, it will be.
”I’m sorry, Sweetie. It’ll be quick. It won’t hurt, I promise.” He pulled the trigger. “It’s just business,” he added weakly.
The girl had a birthmark on the side of her neck, a purplish half circle. He removed it, and slipped the patch of skin into a plastic baggie. For her Papa. Then he kicked the child into her grave, where she landed face down in a heap, and began filling it in. The music swelled louder and louder as he worked, so loud he thought his skull would crack. He worked for almost an hour, gritting his teeth against the music and fighting the visions, men and women and that fucking clown dancing along to the tune behind his eyes.
Sometime there, his vision, his entire world, went starkly white, and everything was suddenly, wonderfully silent.
The next thing he knew, he was in the car, crossing the border into Ohio. He was cold, and damp, and he could still smell the foggy forest from his dreams. He could still hear the music, but it was far away, beckoning him. Calling him. Fuck it, he thought. Time to follow this through. He’d turned east, and had driven on, seeking the source of the dreams, the music.
That had been two days ago.
He reached the treeline, and looked down into a small valley. There was a carnival down there, cars parked around a big enclosed area, with lights and rides and the smell of greasy, unhealthy food wafting up to him alongside that fucking music. His clothes clung to him, dampened by the fog, and the early November breeze was chilling him to the bone.
The softly playing circus music in the distance made him even colder. At least it was coming from that carnival, though, and not from his head. Not this time.
An ordinary man would be panicking. An ordinary man with a normal life would be hysterical in the same position. But, he wasn’t ordinary, was he? He was Robbie Delgato, rising star of the criminal underworld, and a man to be feared and respected. He was what happened to ordinary people.
Besides, that music, and his dreams were telling him something. He didn’t know what it was, or why it had called him out here in the middle of nowhere. Three days ago, according to his watch, he had murdered a girl as an object lesson in accordance with the wishes of the Family. Today he was chasing what? A dream? A song in his head? A vision? Didn’t matter.
Robert DelGato was a man of wealth and influence. He fancied himself a man of culture, and he understood that there were things under Heaven and Earth undreamt of in his philosophy. Some men sought to understand these things, but Robbie had always left well enough alone. His life had been complicated enough as it was. He got his orders, he carried them out. He used enough imagination to carry them out well, and that was all. Something in that Carnival was calling to him, and he didn’t care why. He was here now, and he’d do what it took to shut it up. It wanted Robbie DelGato? Well, it’d get him. And when he was done with it, whatever he found in there, he’d haul ass back to Detroit and get on with his life.
Robbie looked up at the fat guy in the ticketbooth. He was fat, and pasty white, and had stringy blond hair that was almost white. He was wearing a white lab coat, of all things, and he looked like Humpty fucking Dumpty. Oh, Lordy. He thought of Big Nunzio, who was around four hundred pounds, and one of Uncle Artie’s best kneebreakers. People tend to forget that fat guys lift weights just by standing up and walking. The Big N was strong. No good for running or endurance tasks, sure, but strong as an ox, and almost as heavy. The pasty-faced queer in the booth was twice as big. He was wearing makeup on his eyes, and was playing with a Hello Kitty necklace of some kind. There were Kitty stickers on the glass of the booth, and little stuffed Kittys adorning every available surface. Even the cash register was pink and white, with Jap writing on the keys. Normally, that would call for a wisecrack, but this guy was twice as big as the Big N.! Robbie cleared his throat, politely. The giant egg of a man turned inside the tiny ticket booth, with some difficulty. “Yessir?” He batted his eyelashes at me, Robbie thought. Okay, fine. Don’t hurt nothing.
”Nice um… Necklace? Lanyard? Hello Kitty. Those are hard to find sometimes.”
”I know!” And then he added something in rapid-fire Japanese. Robbie grinned up at him, hoping he didn’t come out. “Are you a fan, too?”
”Nah, my little girl is, though. Rebecca.” The sign over the gate read Doctor Celestine’s Carnival of Souls, and apparently, the good Doctor took the term “bouncer” a tad literally. Geez, it’d take eight bullets to stop this guy!
”Did you bring her with you? Maybe we could trade!” His voice should have been high and girly, considering the decor and the makeup, but it wasn’t. It was deep and solid, like he had eaten Darth Vader for lunch.
”No, she’s back home in Michigan. I’m here on business.” Personal business still counts as business.
”Then who was that girl?”
”What girl?”
”The eleven-year-old brunette in the ball gag.” The big guy said, his tone mild and innocent. Robbie felt a chill at the words, though, and restrained his hand from going for his gun. Too soon. “She left this for you.”
A golden ticket popped out of a slot in the side of the booth. Robbie took it, feeling the warm metallic foil. “Did she leave a message?” His hands didn’t shake. His voice didn’t quaver. But his heart was hammering again.
”Let me check.” More awkward contortions in the tiny booth. From behind the white-clad bulk came the sound of rustling papers. Robbie considered making use of the barnlike target, but decided against it. Deal with the music first, then he could make as much noise as he wanted on his way out. The ticket guy wedged himself back facing the window, and held up a crumpled page triumphantly. “Yup, she sure did! It says ‘mmmph mmm mmmm mmmmm! PhPhPhmmmm! mmmmp.’” He scratched his pale blond head with a pink Hello Kitty inkpen. “What does that mean?”
”It means I’ve come to the right carnival, that’s what. Thanks.”
Robbie followed the music. It was a lot trickier than it sounded. He kept confusing the music around him with the music in his head, and in any case the source seemed to keep moving. He slipped into the big top, following a haunting melody, and was immediately blinded, floodlights from all directions glaring at him. He flinched back, only to feel iron bars at his back.
”Ladies and Gentlemen, Roberto DelGato! Direct from the jungles of Detroit, Michigan, this mighty killer knows no mercy, no kindness! His is the thirst for blood, the thrill of the hunt! Do not move suddenly, dear members of the audience! The DelGato is easily provoked, and this one is far from tame!” Oohs and aahs sounded, hundreds of them, and Robbie squinted against the glare. There was a sense of wide open space, and he could hear people, lots of them, whispering in the shadows behind the floodlights. A man walked by nearby, in a fedora. Robbie saw he was black, and dressed in some kind of Indiana Jones in the Banana Republic outfit. Complete with a whip. Something nearby snarled, and he looked down to his right and saw a freaking leopard smiling up at him.
Showing its teeth, anyway. “What the fuck is this?” he yelled. Who are you?”
The whip snapped right in front of his face, and Robbie covered his nose with his hand, surprised that he wasn’t bleeding. The crowd applauded, impressed. This was horseshit! He pulled his gun and trained it on the little guy with the whip. “Do that again, boy. Just once.”
”The tiger, the king of the jungles of India! But tame as a kitten, you will see!” He was still playing to the crowd, actually turning his back on Robbie, and sure enough a goddam big tiger was there by his side, purring as he scratched its ear. “How’s that, Tony? Does it feel grrrr-eeeaaat?” The crowd laughed. He snapped his whip a few times, and the tiger began running a circuit around the ring, leaping through hoops and over barricades. Robbie’s vision was adjusting, and he could make out two bears, a leopard, a lion, and one of the biggest fucking snakes he’d ever seen, a python easily twenty-five feet long. He was in the center ring, and bars surrounded the entire circle, reaching far up into the shadows high above the massive enclosure. People were packed into the stands, applauding and gasping as the act went on. He saw an door to the big cage nearby, a pale girl in a white dress waiting outside with another tiger and an honest-to-god polar bear. While the black guy with the whip was busy putting Tony the Tiger through his paces, Robbie sidled toward the door. Maybe the girl would help him get out.
The whipcrack sounded right next to his ear, and it was louder than a gunshot. “Down, boy! Back to your place!”
”Fuck that.” He raised the gun, but before he could fire it the whip cracked again, sending it flying out of the cage, where the girl caught it neatly, and curtsied, as the crowd went wild. “You goddam coon!” Robbie rushed at him. Fists, then.
”Tony! Up! Hup hup hup!” The whip cracked like machine gunfire, and Tony the Tiger was suddenly flying at Robbie. In midair, his fur faded away, his bones shifted under his skin, his face flattened and the tail shrank away to nothingness. A man, with dark skin and hair, and tiger-stripe tattoos on his arms and legs and back, slammed into Robbie. The guy looked Indian, and Robbie was reminded of that Suresh guy from that show, Heroes. But this guy was almost seven feet tall, and muscled like a pro wrestler, and he still had those freaky cat’s eyes. Robbie was so stunned by the transformation that the impact floored him, and Tony straddled him, pinning his arms to the ground, glaring at him with murder in his feline eyes. The guy with the whip leaned down, and switched off his throat mic. “My name, Mr. DelGato, is Vincente Johnson. Master Vincente to you, or just Master. I tame animals. Animals like you.” The crowd was screaming, amazed and thrilled by the change, and Vincente walked a wide circle around Robbie and Tony, waving and mugging to the crowd. His mic back on, he called out “DelGato here doesn’t think he’s an animal! Isn’t that funny?” I think he should perform for you! What do you say?” They cheered, and Tony lifted Tony right off the ground, holding him by his biceps as though he were a child.
”I’m not an animal! You sick fuck!”
”No? You hunt, to put food on your table. You kill. You defend your territory. You’re just a beast.”
”That’s not true!” But it was, and Robbie knew it. He marked his territory, he killed to defend it. He ate nice food and lived in a nice house because he was the biggest alpha male on the block. “It’s not like that!”
”Please. You’re not even a wild animal, not really. You’ve already been tamed. Tony, release him!” Robbie landed in a crouch. “Stay!”
Robbie wanted to strangle this guy. He wanted to pound his black ass into the dirt. He wanted to run toward that door, and get away, somewhere where all these people weren’t watching him. Anywhere this Vincente shithead wasn’t. But he couldn’t move.
Why couldn’t he move?
”Because I told you not to. You stay when your master says stay. You hunt when he says hunt. You kill when he says kill. You’re a wonderful creature, but you’re not the boss. Not the ‘man.’ You take orders. You’re tamed.” The mic switched off again, and Vincente leaned in, grinning a hard smile. “And that makes you mine.”
Robbie snarled at him, too enraged to speak, and was horrified at how bestial he sounded. How like an animal. Just like this guy said.
”Down, Robbie!” The whipcrack sounded in front of his eyes, and he flinched, hiding his face against the ground. Again and again, the whip snapped around his ears, at his back. He cowered, like a dog. He cried out, like a sheep. And in between snaps, he snarled, like a cat. “Down! It’s not right that you walk around like a man. It’s wrong. Bad DelGato! Bad! Four legs! Show us your tail! Down!”
The crowd was crooning, excited. Robbie was angrier than he’d ever been. How dare this guy? How fucking dare he? He was Robbie Del fucking Gato! He had killed people for less than this! The whip snapped, brushing the back of his neck and sending pain through his whole body. He growled, even as he cowered down lower, below the crack crack crack of the whip. He wanted to tear this guy apart, piece by piece! He’d make “Master Vincente” cry like a baby, even as he tore out his throat with his fucking teeth! Crack!
”Down! Bad! Don’t make a fist at me! Fists are for men! Men who think for themselves, who don’t follow orders because they’ve been trained to! Show me your paws!” Crack Crack! His hands stung horribly, and he shook them, trembling in terror, telling himself it was rage. Or maybe it was rage, and it only felt like terror. Crack! He dug his claws into the ground, getting his feet planted squarely, preparing to leap. “Bad! I said get down! Show me your face, Cat! Roar for us!” Crack!
The huge black panther shook off what remained of Robbie DelGato’s clothing and roared, a primal scream of rage and fury that silenced the crowd. One by one, the other great cats took up the roar, and then the bears joined in. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Vincente yelled. “DelGato, the Cat! Fierce killer, soulless beast, and obedient servant! Get him to swear, just once, and he’ll do anything you want! For the rest of his life! Cat! Run the hoops!”
It was like Uncle Artie had said it. It reached that deep into him. He saw himself stretch and leap, his claws digging deep, his tail twitching to correct his balance. He saw his fangs, his rippling muscles, but Vincente was right. He’d do as he was told. He always had. DelGato, the great panther, sailed through hoop after hoop. With each jump, he heard Master Vincente whispering.
”Burn down that shop.”
”Shoot that guy.”
”Kidnap his wife.”
”Sell those drugs.”
”Shoot that little girl.” Robbie roared again, in anguish. He hadn’t wanted to! He’d been sorry! He hadn’t enjoyed it!
”But you did it.”
The lights dimmed, and about half the animals stood up, becoming manlike. Vincente opened the cage door, and they began filing out. Robbie followed, hunched low to the ground, afraid to meet the tamer’s eyes. At the door, Vincente stopped him with a gesture. “You make me sick, DelGato. Get away from me. Get out of my sight. Don’t come back up here until you can do it on your own two feet. The whip cracked, behind him, and DelGato pounced. Soaring out of the cage, he barely noticed all the people were suddenly gone. He raced across any empty big top, and out into a Carnival of dreams and nightmares. He roared, flexing his claws, his keen eyes piercing the shadows, seeking prey.
He was one of the nightmares.
Sheila stood up, wiping away the tears in her eyes and holding tight to the tiny piece of jewelry. There had to be a way out. And she’d find it. She was a brave, smart, wonderful girl, and Gramma Emma believed in her!
Then the panther slammed into her back, grinding her face into the sawdust. Claws cut deep into her back, and it rumbled a low growl in her ear.
The panther bounded over Sheila, posting off her back and grinding her into the sawdusty dirt. The cameo spilled away as the panther landed before her. Gasping for a breath, Sheila scrambled to her knees. The panther rounded on her, snarling, showing jaws full of yellowed teeth.
A couple of feet away, the cameo glinted in the sawdust.
Sheila stared at the huge, sleek cat. It tensed, as though to pounce again, and Sheila made up her mind in a flash. She snatched at the cameo. The panther leaped. The world lit up like fireworks, the light so blinding it washed out color, leaving the Carnival a stark white scene full of chiseled shadows black as sin. There was a scream, pitched so high Sheila heard it in her teeth. She looked up, and a comet was shrieking towards the earth, leaving a vivid trail of white and yellow flames stretched out behind it. It arced overhead at super-sonic speeds, trailing bone-rattling booms. It hit somewhere to the east, and the earth rocked.
The light faded slowly, carnival sounds rising up as the light ebbed. The formerly bright and brilliant Carnival now looked drab by comparison. Sheila glanced around, and the huge panther was gone. She clutched the cameo to her chest, back aching, and stood, wary.
Delgato the Cat fled from the fire and roaring, the man-voice now small and quiet in his head, driven by instinct. He ran, stretching full out, and dove into hiding between the leathery flaps of a tent. It was dark in the tent, silent, and empty.
There was a soft sound behind him, rustling. The cat turned, seeing nothing, smelling nothing, sensing nothing. He waited. There was a whispering, like many voices speaking quietly from far away, and a . . . kind of pressure, gently, slowly building. The rustling noise came again, as though something stirred in the sawdust. The whispery voices seemed to come a few steps closer.
The cat cocked its head, listening, and in drips and drabs the words came clear, although they meant little to the feline mind. Deep inside, the dregs of the man began to hear as well, and recognize. The sawdust stirred again, and there seemed to be a darker shadow in the blackness of the corner. The darkness began to dance, slowly at first, then whirling. The pressure was building faster now. Shadow faces and figures boiled in the shadows, detailed black on black sketches as the voices whispered, painting scenes.
The shadows coalesced, drawing together as though something breathed them in, and a deep, guttural voice in the dark said, Cat, I am stained with you. Only approach, and you shall see. Are you frightened yet?
The cat stepped back, uncertain. All his senses told him that there was nothing in this tent, but inside, the man-voice shuddered and urged flight. The panther snarled at the darkness, bristling.
You fear to approach. I shall then come to you. The sawdust stirred, and a small footprint appeared, barely visible in the dimness. Another appeared just ahead of it, and shadow drifted up from the imprint, forming a long, shapely leg. Another step appeared, wafting with its own shadow. Like smoke, the shadow twisted upwards, forming legs, knees, thighs, hips, drifting higher, a waist, breasts, shoulders, now flowing down as well into arms and yet upward, forming a neck, a head, a long fall of billowing hair. The shadow form took another step, the darkness wavering outward in ripples as though the figure had stepped through a sheet of water. The dark shape colored, becoming a woman, breath-breathtakingly beautiful and perfect in every detail, skin milk-white, lips apple red, hair black as night and drifting as though there were a breeze, almond-shaped eyes of the brightest, purest ice blue. She was nude save the coat of glistening blood staining her skin.
The panther backed up a few steps more, bracing to leap, snarling. The woman raised her lovely, graceful hands, clothed in blood gloves, and motioned the cat forward while she smiled. The panther leaped with a scream. The woman stepped forward, thrusting her hand down the cat’s throat, seized it by the guts, and pulled it inside out, stepping aside as she did so. The air inside the tent rippled and shimmered, and Delgato the man tumbled past the woman, ass over elbows through the saw dust.
Ah, there you are. I had thought you were in there. Do you know who I am, yet?
Delgato shook himself, head spinning. He got to his feet on autopilot, staggering a few steps before turning around to look at the woman, peering myopically at her. He blinked a few times, his gaze finally focusing. I’m dreaming, he thought with certainty. I must be. The fucking cat show, this goddamn place. I must be.
The woman tsked ruefully, shaking her head. All this time I have walked at your side, your secret lover, your friend and ally, and you know me not? For shame, Delgato. I fear I am your friend no more, however, for others have summoned me forth. Would you care to meet them? She raised her arms, palms up, fingers clawed, and more footsteps burst into the sawdust, spewing forth their own shadows. There were dozens. Perhaps hundreds. Many of them gained familiar faces. Renaldo, owner of the liquor store that Delgato had burned to the ground for failing to pay protection money. Bennie the Gimp, who had not paid his tab in the Don’s bars. Devon, who had cheated the Don in a gun deal, and Michelli who had snitched and Brenneski and Bobby Wincoat and wives and husbands and children, and, oh God, the little girl, still naked and bruised and puffy-eyed with tears, and grinning.
He hitched in a breath, but the scream was too big – it stuck in his throat. He staggered back, heart slamming like a jack hammer in his chest. They advanced, flowing by the woman as she laughed. He could hear their voices – you killed me killed me beat me killed my wife killed my kids burned my home – and some were burned and some were bruised and some were missing half their heads and they were all ghostly silver shades, their hands like iced knives as they plucked and tore at him. The woman laughed, and the little girl grinned at him, and finally the scream made it out of his throat as he turned to flee. The horde chased him as he burst out of the tent, eyes bulging, heart pained in his chest, beating so fast and hard he could barely feel the pause between thuds. He pounded down the empty midway, the whole stretch empty and gray-toned except for the silvery horde, silent save their voices. They called and clawed at him and blood flowed hot down his back, through his hair. He ran with his arms covering his head, ducking, trying to dodge, gasping and gagging for breath. Pain stabbed his side, a runner’s hitch, and their whispery voices filled his ears, accusing, damning, and the little girl’s maddened giggles.
He glanced up, skidding to a stop as the woman flowed up from the earth before him, her face a beautiful rictus of perfect rage, her fingers like claws as she snatched at him. Her laugh was like thunder. I am Wrath, Robert Delgato. You lived by me. And now . . . you will die by me.
He stumbled in the dirt, the ghosts breaking like waves around her, and scrambled left, weeping, slipping to his knees, clawing his way back up. He ran blindly, barely seeing the rickety wooden doorway ahead, their voices chasing him onward – you killed I died my home my store please mister please don’t hurt me no more –
The gaping, jagged doorway swallowed him up into calliope-filled darkness and the hordes flowed up against the walls, howling impotently. Wrath walked up to the doorway, leaving bloody footprints in the earth behind her. Shhh, my friends, do not fear. She stood back, staring up at the building, made of raw, rotting boards and rusting nails, looking like something a child had built of junk. Over top the door, in running black paint, it read, “The Labyrinth”. The ghostly shapes swirled around like smoke as they faded. He’ll get his. She laughed her thunderous laugh as she turned, walking through the fading swirls of silvery smoke, melting into the darkness until she, too, was gone.
The midway stood silent and empty and gray. In the cold breeze, a paper cup rolled through the dirt. After a long silence, the screaming began, echoing up out of the mouth of the Labyrinth.
Robert Delgato fell through the darkness and tumbled across a rough wooden floor, fetching hard up against a wall. It knocked the breath out of him, and the spike of a nail caught his shoulder and opened him up. He sat, knees curled up against his chest, panting, shoulder burning, fresh, hot blood trickling under his shirt. His hands ached and his back, all across his shoulders, up the back of his head and down past his hips sizzled with pain. He hitched in a breath, and the tears came. It was dark, and he was hurt and cold and bleeding, and his eyes welled and burned. Tears trickled down his cheeks in the cold, quiet darkness, and he sobbed.
And still, in the back of his mind, he could hear the piping calliope that had led him here, that had infested his dreams and finally his waking mind. He sobbed in time to the carnival song.
A voice said, “Shhh. Shhh, now Robbie. It’s just the dark, now. Ain’t no reason to be scared of the dark, is there? Look here.”
He knew that voice. It was the somber, masculine voice of his father. He looked up, and light burst with a gentle click.
He was laying in his bed, in his room. It was a typical kid’s room. There were toys, and a baseball bat and glove propped next to his homework desk. His father’s pencil sketches decorated the white walls – funny clowns and pitchers in mid-throw, batters at bat and a football player, ball crammed under his arm, head down and other hand out, running, Captain Hook and Peter Pan . . .
The light was his bedside lamp, nestled in amongst a boy’s treasures littering the bed stand, the debris of a young boy’s life – marbles and action figures, mostly. The light touched the room, a dim yellow glow, and his father sat on the edge of the bed, near the foot, as he always did when he came in, and he wore his trousers and his heavy boots, and the work shirt, drifting over the man’s long arms and strong shoulders, up to the face lost in the shadows where the dim lamp did not reach.
“See Robbie?” His father’s voice was, as always, thoughtful, serious, roughened with cigarettes and occasional drinking. “Nothing in here to be scared of.”
“No, Pop.” Said Robbie, huddled under his blankets.
His father stood up, leaning over him, his callused hands wiping the tears off his son’s face. “You want a glass of water, Robbie?”
“Yeah, Pop.”
“C’mon, then. I bet there’s some of your mom’s pie downstairs, too.” He took his son’s small hand in his own large paw, helping the boy out of his bed. His little bare feet his the carpet and he shivered in his Batman pajamas. Hand in hand, they walked out of his bedroom, into the hallway, with its cold hardwood floors and arcing shadows. It was dark again out here as they left behind the pool of warm yellow light.
The hallway seemed very long.
They passed a dark room, the door of which was a tall, gaping mouth. Robbie and his father stopped, looking at it. There had been no room here in this hall, in the home of his childhood. He looked up at his father, face a paler shadow in the dark. There was a sound in the strange room, a piping sound, the calliope.
Robbie was terrified.
“Son?” His father looked down, and Robbie could see the sparkle of his father’s eyes.
“Yeah, Pop?”
“I think you need to look in here.”
Robbie stared into the darkness. It was hot in there, and he knew his father was right. This is just a dream, he thought, but he was scared anyway. “Can you come with me, Pop?” He asked, gripping his father’s warm hand more tightly.
“Sure, Robbie.”
They stepped in. A soft glow came up, as though the walls were shining, but the walls drifted out from the door and faded towards the back, as though they had stepped into a large panorama box. They were looking out at a play yard, and Ugly Mitchell was standing there.
Robbie remembered Ugly Mitchell. Mitch was twice the size of the other second graders, because Mitch was four years older, and still in second grade, and this was back in the years where they just held the dumb kids back until they finally got the point. Robbie let go of his father’s hand, looking back. His father nodded reassuringly. “Go on, son. I think you have to. I’m right here.”
Ugly Mitchell stood there, and now Robbie could hear the play ground sounds, and in the distance, he could see the old brick school, too far away to be any safety, and he could see the kids playing on the recess equipment, also too far away. Mitch glared down at him. “Gimme your lunch money, douche.”
“No.” Said Robbie.
“Why you gotta always make this so hard, douche?” Mitch grumbled, cracking his knuckles. He cocked one ham-sized fist back, as he eventually did every Thursday morning during the first recess, and Robbie looked up at the older boy. His face was a mash-up, one eye perpetually black, crumpled nose, wide, heavy lips.
Why was his eye always black? Robbie wondered. His nose looks broken. For the first time, Robbie wondered why Mitch always needed his lunch money. He wondered what Mitch did the other four days of the week. Well, there were other kids who were scared of Mitch, too, right? Maybe those other kids just didn’t fight as much as he did. Maybe those other kids just gave Mitch their money.
The ham-sized fist came whistling down, and Robbie felt a strong hand on his shoulder, yanking him back. The scene froze, Ugly Mitchell in mid-swing, and Robbie looked up at his father’s worried face. His father looked out at the scene, hand still on his boy’s shoulder. “Who is that, Robbie?”
“That’s Mitch, Pop. He used to beat me up. For my lunch money.”
The father looked down at the son, upset written large in every line of his tanned face. “Why didn’t you say?” He exclaimed.
Robbie looked down, scuffing his big toe along the line where wooden floor turned to playground dirt. “Always thought I’d take him next week, Pop.” He looked up. His father’s eyes had narrowed as he studied the bigger boy.
“I know his dad.” Robbie’s father said thoughtfully. “He worked at the factory with me. Mean old drunk, looked just like that, too. We had to fire him.” He looked down at his boy.
Robbie looked out at the bully, eye black, broken nose, and saw that the bigger boy’s clothes were worn and dirty, and saw that for all his size, the boy was thinner than he should be. He looked up at his dad, and Pop looked sad. “Poor kid.” Pop said softly. “Wish you’d just said, Rob. We could have given you extra money for him.”
They stepped out of the room, and walked further down the hall, and to the left, was another large, arcing door. They looked at each other, and stepped through this door as well. This panorama lit up as well, and Robbie saw that they were a little further along in years now, and there were lockers, and two young, skinny boys, one wearing glasses and the other’s face spotted with early acne, stood, looking worried, next to the lockers. They were holding their books up to their chests.
Robbie looked down, and saw that he was wearing shoes, and pants now. He looked up at his dad’s curious face, which wasn’t as far away, now. Robbie stepped forward, taller and a little older now, and the two boys looked up at him.
“Hi, Rob,” said the one with glasses, his voice nervous. His eyes glanced at Rob, then quickly away.
I learned my lesson, didn’t I? The strong prosper, the weak suffer. Rob thought, as he heard himself speak the words, “Hey, Mike, Don. How you doing?”
“Good. Good. Um.” Said Mike. “Um, listen. I, uh, I ain’t got no money today. My Mom, she, uh –” He went off into a little laugh, glancing and looking away again, “She made my lunch today. But you could have that!”
Rob considered this. “I guess I could. What did she put in it?”
“You know, the usual. Baloney, and, um, an apple.”
“Oh. I don’t really like baloney. What about you, Don?”
Don looked down at his books. Don never had money. “Peanut butter.” He told his books quietly, wincing.
Rob shook his head. “Well, I kind of already have a lunch. I needed the money, guys.”
“What did you need the money for, Robbie?” Came his father’s voice, and the scene froze. Robbie looked back. His father stood there, hands spread in confusion. “What were you doing, Rob?”
Rob looked down at the floor. Here, it was school tile, speckled and pebbled. He glanced up at his father’s expression of dismay, and looked back down at his feet, clad in good shoes that his father had worked hard to buy for him.
“Son?” His father’s voice was more stern, now.
“I took their money, Pop.” Robbie said softly.
“But why? We gave you money.”
Robbie shrugged, hands in his pants pockets, not looking. He felt about an inch tall, worthless, with his father looking at him like that. “Wanted more.” He finally mumbled, pinned by his father’s gaze.
His father shook his head, turning from the room.
Rob hurried to catch up, face burning hot and shamed. They stepped out, and directly into another room, and Robbie hurried ahead of his father, hoping to block what was coming, and only added himself into the scene. Here it was, the store, a department store, and his mother trailing just ahead of him as they walked through the store, and here was Robbie, just Rob now, a little older, and a little bigger, and glaring at his mother’s back as she retreated from the toy section, her words still ringing in his ears. “I said no, Rob. Your birthday’s coming, you don’t need that.”
And there was Rob, standing in his big coat, staring at the G. I. Joes and Thundercats. He reached out, plucking Duke from the shelf, and tucked him under his coat.
His father stepped into the scene and his mother froze halfway down the aisle. “Rob!” He exclaimed. “Put that back!” He caught his son by the shoulder. “Diane! Di, come see what –”
His father stared at the frozen figure of his wife, and then down at his boy, whom he had by the arm. He reached into his son’s coat, pulling out the Joe. He looked at his son, brows hedging down toward hurt, confused eyes. “We bought you this one.” Pop stared at the little action figure. “For your birthday.” He set it back on the shelf.
Rob’s eyes burned. He blinked, and wetness slipped down his cheeks. “Didn’t want to wait, Pop.”
“What were you thinking? We raised you better than this!” He gave the boy a little shake, pulling him back out of the scene. They stepped out into the hall, Pop still holding Robbie by the arm, and another door waited for them, light already shining out from the frame. “What next son?” Asked his father, voice strained.
Rob shook his head.
They walked into the light, and –
Rob was older now, teen-aged, already failing school. And this . . . “No . . . “
His father stared into the hospital room, at himself, older and more frail, laying in the bed. “Oh.” His father said, softly. “Oh.” He looked over at his boy. “It was the –” His hand went up to the pocket of his work shirt, where the pack of cigarettes rested. He took them out, looked at them. “Oh.” He put them back slowly, face white, and looked at his son. They backed out of the room, and a light went on behind them. They turned.
It was a funeral. At the same time, they both said, “Oh, no,” and watched as wife and mother collapsed over a coffin, weeping. They turned, stumbling back out into the hall. All went dark.
They stood together in the dark, Pop’s heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. It was quiet for awhile.
Finally, “What is this place, son?”
“I don’t know, Pop. I think . . . “ Robert Delgato swallowed hard. “I think it might be hell, Pop.”
They walked on, and the trappings of his childhood hallway faded, leaving only a barren, wooden corridor, lit now by naked, dusty bulbs handing from frayed cords. They gave only enough light to bring the shadows, deep and dark. Another door loomed large on the left. The two men looked at each other, father searching the son’s face. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled in a sad smile. “You look good, son. Did you get through college?”
Robert looked away. “No, Pop.”
The smile faded, leaving his father only sad. “Your mom had to use the college money, then.”
Robert shook his head. “No, Pop. I just didn’t go.” His voice trailed off.
“You got married? Job at the factory?” His dad said hopefully.
“No, Pop.”
The light in the room went on, bathing them in a frosty glow. They both looked, and Rob walked forward, to meet the two hard men in nice suits.
“Rob.” Said the bigger man, nodding by way of greeting.
“Bruce.” Rob said back. He was a little nervous. His palms were sweaty. He brushed his hand over his pants before shaking the man’s hand. They were standing in a small, neatly appointed parlor. Nothing lavish, just little touches of tasteful wealth everywhere the gaze turned. “Am I in trouble, Bruce?”
Bruce tilted his head towards the open door. It led into the office. “The Old Man wants to see you.” The other man stood next to Bruce, silent, radiating menace like sweat.
Robert moved into the office, and his father followed along behind him.
The Old Man stood by his desk. He was seventy if he was a day, a man with a big gut and barrel chest perched on weakening, spindly legs, leaning on a walker, dressed in slacks and a golf shirt. His hair was iron gray, and his face still sharp under the sags of wrinkles. “Robert!” He cried out, voice strong, jovial. “How the hell are you? Come on in, come in.” The Old Man began crippling around his desk, to his chair. “Give me a hand here, Robert. Christ, getting old is a bitch. Hold that chair there for me.”
Robert went around the desk, and held the chair for the Old Man, who carefully, and with a grimace, got himself lowered into it. “There we go, there we go,” he said, shoving the walker aside. “Have a seat, Rob.” He said, gesturing across the desk.
Rob went back around the desk, sitting in the chair. Somewhere behind him, his father stood, silent, watching.
“How’s the wife? What’s her name? Reana?”
“Yes, sir. Real good, sir.” The sirs got tacked on automatically, whether he meant to say them or not. The Old Man was the kind of guy you sirred and mistered, no matter how well you knew him.
“She had that kid yet?”
“Pretty soon, sir. Another month.”
“Good, good! Glad to hear it!” The Old Man rubbed his hands together. “Christ, Rob, you look nervous. Settle down. About that Vandrego business last week.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bad business, that. Building burned to the ground, wife and two kids in it. Shit.”
“Yes, sir. Very bad, just like you asked.”
“Good, good. That was good work. Hard goddamn work, isn’t it.” The Old Man’s eyes were a watery blue, but still sharp, hard, like diamonds glinting in a pool. “But you get it done.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Robert. I like you. You do what you’re told.”
“Thank-you, sir.” Robert said, uneasy. Dealing with the Old Man was a lesson in walking on egg shells. You never knew what was going to set him off.
“I want you to do me a favor, Rob. I got a crew in the south side, those lazy bastards aren’t putting out like I need. I want you to take them over.”
Holy shit, it’s a promotion. Rob marveled. “Sir?”
“Are you deaf? Shit. Marden’s running it now, he comes in next. I’ll deal with him. You’ll be taking orders from Bruce, you hear?” He shook his head, crab-faced and sour looking. “Goddamn Marden, skimming off the top. Ungrateful bastard.”
Robert wasn’t sure what to say to that. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
“Your wife making those cookies this year? My kids liked ‘em.”
“Oh, yes sir. Every year.”
“Good, good. Too sweet for me – goddamn doctor says I have to watch my sugar. But my boys liked ‘em.”
“We’ll make some extra, sir.”
“Good! That’s real sweet of her. You get on out of here, now. You’re a busy man.”
“Certainly.” I am now, Rob thought, awed. South side was a lot of money. He could add on to the house, get that car Reana wanted.
“You tell Reana I said hello, now. Give her a kiss for me. And take her somewhere nice this summer, goddamn it. I heard about last year. Niagara Falls? Christ, you can do better than that, Rob. You should take her up to New York, see some shows, take her shopping. My wife used to love doing that.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good, good. Good to see you.” He waved towards the door, and froze, eyes still glinting.
“Oh, Robert, what did you do?”
Robert turned to look at his father, who was standing in the shadows of the office, shoulders slumped, eyes closed. Robert felt his triumph in the promotion turn to ash in his mouth. “Pop, I – I –” He what? What could he tell his father? How did you explain the robberies that turned to shootings, following the orders, making the money? It was a job, just like any job, and . . .
His father shook his head, turning his back on his son, stepping out of the office. Robert scrambled up to follow. “Pop! Wait!” He darted out into the bare wooden hall, and saw his father, a few steps ahead, turning into the next room as it lit up. “Wait, Pop!” He turned into the room, and –
The little girl was huddled in the corner, bloody, naked, weeping.
“Oh, God, no, “ Robert said, stepping past his father. As he walked by, he saw the look of horror on his father’s face.
“Arrangements had been made carefully in advance.” He told his father, noticing the smell of shit, and fear. Sloppy. If her father had come through, keeping the kid in her own shit would have been rude. But he hadn’t, had he? He swept the beam of his flashlight down, and was surprised at how young the girl was. He’d expected a girl in high school or college, but looking at her now he’d guess she was barely twelve. The calliope music swelled, and he concentrated on the job at hand. She was on the dirt floor, hogtied and gagged, squinting into the beam of his flashlight and trembling in terror. The rope had cut into her wrists and ankles, and the cuts hadn’t been cleaned or tended to. Besides the other smells, he detected the sweet reek of infection as he approached. She was whimpering softly around the ball gag, and her naked body had an assortment of bruises. He made a mental note to have a word with the minders. Unprofessional work. He took a knife off the wall, one of several on display where the girl could see them, and cut her hands and ankles free. When he helped the girl stand, she wept, and her gratitude made him tired. He hated the part where they thought he was letting them go.
The music was pretty quiet, as he’d led her up the stairs and outside. He’d got a good grip on her long dark hair, though, so when she came out into the moonlight and saw the grave he’d had no trouble keeping her from bolting. She was still gagged, but when she’d looked at him, her puffy swollen eyes had said it all for her. Please. Don’t kill me. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please.
Robbie drew his pistol and tried to ignore the growing lump in his throat.
This ain’t right, his conscience urged, she’s a little kid!
What, it’d be better if she was thirty? The Omerta, the very oath he had sworn, replied. It was almost a separate person’s voice in his already crowded head. It doesn’t matter, it said. Robbie has a job to do.
She didn’t do anything! If anyone should be shot, it’s her father!
Not your call. Besides, she has brothers. If her Papa gets his ass in line, they’ll never end up here.
And if he doesn’t will you shoot them, too?
Yes. I took an oath, goddammit, I swore to serve the Family.
And this is the price you pay.
No. This is the price she pays. Do as you’ve been told, Robbie. You swore.
His chest became tight, and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes burned, and his pulse was racing. But his face showed nothing. The girl was shaking her head, pleading with her eyes and trying to scream around the ball gag. She was sobbing, as best she could, tears and snot and sweat and drool dripping off her face. The music in his head danced merrily along, and a face from his dreams came to mind, a memory of a man with blond hair and sideburns, a green poker visor on his high forehead. He chuckled, exhaled a plume of blue cigarette smoke, and from behind green tinted spectacles, he winked. Robbie shook his head, blotting out the dream memories, banishing the music. He had to do this! He’d sworn! He raised the gun, and leveled it at the girl’s head. She froze, and he realized she was the same age as his own daughter. She was Rebecca’s age.
“What if it were your daughter, Robbie?” Came his father’s voice, soft, at his side.
“If I don’t do this, it will be.” Robert answered, quietly. The scene froze. He turned to look at his father.
His father wasn’t there anymore. In his place stood a large man, large like a blacksmith, dressed in a burgundy tuxedo, leaning on a dragon-headed cane, a black silk top hat perched at a cocky angle on top of flowing red hair. He smiled through his neatly trimmed goatee. The brim of the top hat put his eyes in shadow, and fire burned in his darkened pupils, flickering. The glow made his smile friendly and demonic in turns as it flared and dimmed. “What now?” He asked.
Robert looked back at the frozen scene, letting the girl’s hair drop out of his fist. “Now I shoot her. And kick her into the grave.”
“Yes. Or do you?” Asked the man in the silk top hat.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s your choice, Robert. Your choice to embark down this path, your choice to listen to the music, your choice that stands you here, your choice that kills this girl.” The man tucked his cane under his arm, taking a Nat Sherman out of an inside pocket. He cupped his hands around the end of his cigarette as he placed it in his mouth, and a small flame burst to life in his palms, lighting the cigarette. The flame died, and smoke plumed upwards. “You could let her live. You could take your wife, and your children, and run. Start somewhere new. Be someone else. Right here, just like this. Put the gun down, Robbie. Go downstairs, and have some of your mother’s pie with your father. When you’re finished, you could leave out the front door of your old home, and start all over again. It’s your choice.” The man in the silk top hat looked over his shoulder, out the door.
Robert followed his gaze. Beyond that door, he could again see the hallway that led down the stairs, into his mother’s kitchen. He thought his father might be sitting down there, at the kitchen table, possibly slicing out pieces of pie. He thought there might even be glasses of milk for each of them, waiting.
The man in the silk top hat put his cane back down, tip resting between his feet, hands in white gloves folded on top of the sterling dragon’s head.
Robert looked back at the frozen girl. Her father had screwed up, and she had a price to pay, and that wasn’t his fault. He was just doing what he’d been ordered to do, what he had once swore to do. He had taken a solemn oath to serve the Family, and what kind of man was he if he couldn’t follow his oath? All the happy fairy tale lunacy in the world couldn’t change the oath. He lifted the gun and fired.
The man in the silk top hat flinched.
The girl toppled. She was flat. All along the side of her, Robert could see the corrugated pattern of cardboard. He looked around, at walls painted to resemble a moonlit forest, a dark patch painted on the floor, a piled carpet made to look like grave dirt, a globe light hanging in the corner. He looked at the man. The fire in his eyes flared, and he withdrew the cigarette from his mouth, blowing spoke in a stream that floated upwards. He stepped aside, gesturing to the door with one hand.
Staring at him, Robert stepped out into the now-barren hall. It was deep with shadow, and there was a familiar shape striding down the hall towards him. He raised the gun and fired, the sound loud as thunder in the tight space. The thunder rolled away, and he heard giggling coming from the figure. It advanced relentlessly under a bare bulb, lighting his face in demonic shadow, a face white with greasepaint, leering smile painted red around jagged teeth, bulbous nose wrinkled as it grinned hungrily at him. It came on, shoulders hunched, bald head gleaming briefly as he passed back into darkness. The clown continued to giggle as Robert emptied the gun, and then let it fall. Warmth flowed down his legs as the clown picked up speed, hands coming up in claws, giggles growing higher in pitch. He flashed from light to darkness, light to darkness, closer, unyielding and howling laughter. Robert stepped back, turning, feet moving, but not fast enough, never fast enough to escape the clown. Hands came down on his shoulders, spinning him, and he was staring into the clown’s mad eyes as he shrieked laughter down into Robert’s face, and finally Robert began to scream, and scream, and scream.
Dr. Celestine stepped out of the room, ducking as an arm flew by his head. He glanced over at the carnage, hearing the screams dwindle to panicked gurgles, and shook his head sorrowfully, sighing. “There’s just no saving some people.”
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 United States License.
