Carter flipped Mr. Vernon’s ace card over and over in his hand, wishing he knew how to find the man again. Finally, he slipped it into his sleeve for safekeeping. (He had a hidden pocket stitched into his sleeve for certain tricks. It always seemed to come in handy. Well, sleight-of-handy!)
In the colossal red-and-white tent at the center of the carnival, Bosso’s Grand Finale Show finally finished with a flourish of trumpets. The sky had turned fully black, its stars sparkling in the night like a mirror image of the little town below. As people came out of the tent, smiling and laughing and discussing the amazing feats they’d seen, Carter felt lonelier than ever. He’d been waiting a long time to get away from Uncle Sly, but he had never expected to feel so nervous. Everyone exiting the big top was with loved ones. As they passed through the exit, the crowd separated into clumps of friends and families bound for their homes.
He imagined walking toward one of the twinkling lights in the sleepy town. Once there, he’d find a cozy bed, a warm fire in the fireplace, and, most important of all, someone to say good night to him. His eyes burned. None of that would ever happen. It was far more likely that he’d be sawed in half and magically put back together.
Nobody in the crowd even noticed Carter sitting alone on the wooden fence. His stomach let out another long growl. When he saw a family toss their leftovers into the trash, his stomach grumbled even louder. While Carter didn’t like eating out of a trash can, it wouldn’t be the first time. Free food was often too hard to pass up.
Like everything else, there was a craft to it. You didn’t go after food touching the sides of the can. You also didn’t eat anything that was covered in flies. But if something was uneaten or still wrapped up—then bingo! Bon appétit!
However, this is probably not the best idea for anyone outside of Carter’s dire circumstances.
Carter peered into the metal barrel. He pulled out a bag half full of popcorn, a B-shaped pretzel, and an untouched corn dog still warm in its foil wrapper. He even found a sealed bag with half a stick of cotton candy left. Jackpot! This was today’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast.
He tucked the pretzel into his satchel. Sitting behind the big top, he devoured the corn dog and popcorn. He was licking cotton candy dust from his fingers when two massive hands grabbed him from behind.
“Gotcha!” said a deep voice.
“Let me go!” Carter cried, struggling to free himself. It was the mustached sideshow strongman. He was so strong, Carter couldn’t escape his grip. Maybe those were real five-hundred-pound weights, Carter thought.
The Walrus tossed him over his shoulder and walked toward the edge of the fairgrounds. “I said, let me go!” Carter shouted.
“Shut your trap,” the Walrus snarled. For all of Carter’s skill, he wasn’t a trained escape artist. He couldn’t get out of the strongman’s iron grip. He wrenched his eyes around, crying out in vain for help. The fairgrounds had emptied. No one was there to hear him.
On the far side of the big-top tent, away from the stringed lights, a black-and-gold-striped trailer stood alone. The crew had wheeled it down from one of the circus’s train cars up at the yard. The Walrus climbed the steps with Carter still struggling to escape, beating on the strongman’s back. The brutish Walrus knocked on the door and said, “Bahzooley bahzooley.” A lock released and a frown clown swung open the metal door.
(In case you were wondering: the word bahzooley is a nonsense word. But sometimes nonsense words can be used as passwords to open doors to secret places. Try inventing your own. It should be as nonsensical as possible so no one can accidentally guess it. See how many x’s, y’s, and z’s you can fit in!)
The Walrus plopped Carter onto his feet, and the boy gaped in awe. The inside of the trailer was like a palace, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Golden lamps adorned the polished oak walls, and Persian rugs covered the floor. A small blond monkey in a red fez sat on top of a shelf, winding a crank on a small box that played calliope music.
The Spider-Lady was draped over a maroon sofa against one wall. In this lighting, Carter could see that her extra sets of arms had almost-invisible wires connecting them to her real arms. She brought a long black cigarette holder to her red lips and blew out a stream of smoke.
Nearby, the Tattooed Baby sat not in a playpen but instead at a desk with a scale, an adding machine, and a mountain of wallets, watches, and jewels. His alphabet blocks were nowhere to be seen. After the Baby examined each item, he scribbled a note in a ledger and placed them in large bags. Each bag had a zipper and a padlock to keep it secure. He wasn’t a baby at all, Carter realized. He was just a very small man doing actual adult work!
Shocking, I know. And Carter barely managed to tear his gaze away.
On a raised platform, a very large man was tilted back in a crimson barber’s chair. His face was hidden by a steaming white towel, but Carter’s eyes were dazzled by a bright green emerald ring sparkling on the man’s left pinky finger.
Atop a stool beside him, a short frown clown stood, carefully shaving the man’s neck with a straight razor. The clown hummed “Oh My Darling, Clementine.” It sent a cold chill up Carter’s spine.
The Walrus directed Carter into the center of the room, followed by the security clown. The strongman kept him in place with one hand gripped around the boy’s neck. No one spoke.
The short clown on the platform wiped the last of the shaving lotion off the man’s face with the towel, jumped off the stool, and pulled a lever on the side of the chair with a grunt. As the chair swung upright, Carter came face-to-face with a balding man whose smile was crooked. Wide nostrils, as big as the holes in bowling balls, seemed to sniff at Carter. The man was huge, as wide as he was tall, and his presence just as big. Two green eyes seemed to stare straight through Carter, as if they could read his mind.
Carter recognized him from the painting on the side of the train car. This must be B. B. Bosso.
“What’dya want, Walrus?” the carnival owner barked. “And what’s with the kid?”
The Walrus nodded to the security clown at his side. “Your guard here told me to bring him in. He was eating out of our trash.”
“No, I wasn’t!” Carter lied.
Bosso snapped his fingers and a cigar appeared at his fingertips, his emerald ring glinting alongside it. He puffed on the cigar’s tip, and it lit all by itself. He leaned forward, his big belly blowing up like a balloon, and then released a cloud of smoke into Carter’s face.
“You a thief?”
“No! I never steal,” Carter growled. He pushed down his fear and pulled up some courage. “I found a corn dog and some popcorn in the trash. Someone threw it out. So what?”
“So you were stealing from me,” Bosso said.
“No one owns trash,” Carter said.
“If it’s in my carnival, it’s MINE!” Bosso shouted, slamming his fist onto the chair arm. The monkey stopped winding the music box and screamed at Carter too.
“Check his pockets,” Bosso said, “and his bag.”