Part 46 (2/2)

Please, thought Bud Schwartz, not on national TV. Not with little kids watching.

But before anything terrible could happen, Willard Scott adroitly steered the conversation from firearms to a tropical depression brewing in the eastern Caribbean. Joe Winder was able to slip away when the weatherman launched into a laxative commercial.

On the path to the Cimarron Saloon, Charles Chelsea and the burglars heard howling behind them; a rollicking if m.u.f.fled cry that emanated from deep inside the globular racc.o.o.n head.

”Aaaahhh-oooooooooo,” Joe Winder sang. ”We're the werewolves of Florida! Aaaahhh-oooooooooo!”

The smoke from Moe Strickland's cigar hung like a purple shroud in The Catacombs. Uncle Ely's Elves had voted unanimously to boycott the Jubilee, and Uncle” Ely would honor their decision.

”The cowboy getups look stupid,” he agreed.

The actor who played the elf Jeremiah, and sometimes Dumpling, lit a joint to counteract the stogie fumes. He declared, ”We're not clowns, we're actors. So f.u.c.k Kingsbury.”

That's right,” said another elf. ”f.u.c.k Mr. X.”

Morale in the troupe had been frightfully low since the newspapers had picked up the phony story about a hepat.i.tis outbreak. Several of the actor-elves had advocated changing the name of the act to escape the stigma. Others wanted to hire a Miami attorney and file a lawsuit.

Moe Strickland said, ”I heard they're auditioning up at Six Flags.”

”f.u.c.k Six Flags,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling elf. ”Probably another d.a.m.n midget routine.”

”Our options are somewhat limited,” Moe Strickland said, trying to put it as delicately as possible.

”So f.u.c.k our options.”

The mood began to simmer after they'd pa.s.sed the joint around about four times. Moe Strickland eventually stubbed out the cigar and began to enjoy himself. On the street above, a high-school marching band practiced the theme from 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey. Filtered through six feet of stone, it didn't sound half bad.

One of the actor-elves said, ”Did I mention there's a guy living in our dumpster?”

”You're kidding,” said Moe Strickland.

”No, Uncle Ely, it's true. We met him yesterday.”

”In the dumpster?”

”He fixed it up nice like you wouldn't believe. We gave him a beer.”

Moe Strickland wondered how a homeless person could've found a way into The Catacombs, or why he'd want to stay where it was so musty and humid and bleak.

”A nice guy,” said the actor-elf. ”A real gentleman.”

”We played poker,” added Jeremiah-Dumpling. ”Cleaned his f.u.c.king clock.”

”But he was a sport about it. A gentleman, like I said.”

Again Moe Strickland raised the subject of Six Flags. ”Atlanta's a great town,” he said. ”Lots of pretty women.”

”We'll need some new songs.”

”That's okay,” said Moe Strickland. ”Some new songs would be good. We'll have the whole bus ride to work on the arrangements. Luther can bring his guitar.”

”Why not?” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. ”f.u.c.k Kingsbury anyhow.”

”That's the spirit,” Moe Strickland said.

From the end of the tunnel came the sound of boots on brick. A man bellowed furiously.

”d.a.m.n,” said one of the actor-elves. He dropped the nub of the joint and ground it to ash under a long, curly-toed, foam-rubber foot.

The boots and the bellowing belonged to a jittery Spence Mooher, who was Pedro Luz's right-hand man. Mooher was agitated because none of the other security guards had shown up for work on this, the busiest day of the summer. Mooher had been up all night patrolling the Amazing Kingdom, and now it looked as if he'd be up all day.

”I smell weed,” he said to Moe Strickland.

In this field Mooher could honestly boast of expertise; he had served six years with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration until he was involuntarily relieved of duty. There had been vague accusations of unprofessional conduct in Puerto Ricoa”something about a missing flash roll, twenty or thirty thousand dollars. As Spence Mooher was quick to point out, no charges were ever filed.

He shared his new boss's affinity for anabolic steroids, but he strongly disapproved of recreational drugs. Steroids hardened the body, but pot and cocaine softened the mind.

”Who's got the weed?” he demanded of Uncle Ely's Elves.

”Lighten up, Spence,” sighed Moe Strickland.

”Why aren't you s.h.i.+theads up top in rehearsal? Everybody's supposed to be there.”

”Because we're boycotting,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. ”We're not going to be in the d.a.m.n show.”

Mooher's mouth twisted. ”Yes, you are,” he said. ”This is the Summerfest Jubilee!”

”I don't care if it's the second coming of Christ,” said Jeremiah-Dumpling. ”We're not performing.”

Moe Strickland added, ”It's a labor action, Spence. Nothing you can do.”

”No?” With one hand Mooher grabbed the veteran character actor by the throat and slammed him against a row of tall lockers. The actor elves could only cry out helplessly as the muscular security officer banged Uncle Ely's head again and again, until blood began to trickle from his ears. The racket of bone against metal was harrowing, and amplified in the bare tunnel.

Finally Spence Mooher stopped. He held Moe Strickland at arm's length, three feet off the ground; the actor kicked spasmodically.

”Have you reconsidered?” Mooher asked. Moe Strickland's eyelids drooped, but he managed a nod.

A deep voice down the pa.s.sageway said, ”Let him go.”

Spence Mooher released Uncle Ely and wheeled to face...a b.u.m. An extremely tall b.u.m, but a b.u.m nonetheless. It took the security guard a few moments to make a complete appraisal: the damp silver beard, braided on one cheek only; the flowered plastic rain hat pulled taut over the scalp; the broad tan chest wrapped in heavy copper-stained bandages; a red plastic collar around the neck; one dead eye steamed with condensation, the other alive and dark with anger; the mouthful of s.h.i.+ny white teeth.

Here, thought Spence Mooher, was a b.u.m to be reckoned with. He came to this conclusion approximately one second too late, for the man had already seized Mooher's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and twisted with such forcefulness that all strength emptied from Mooher's powerful limbs; quivering, he felt a rush of heat down his legs as he soiled himself. When he tried to talk, a weak croaking noise came out of his mouth.

”Time to go night-night,” said the b.u.m, twisting harder. Spence Mooher fell down unconscious.

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