Calamity Jayne Rides Again (11 page)

I managed to laugh, grateful for the trooper's nicely timed humor.

"Didja hear about the blond coyote who got stuck in a trap, chewed off three legs, and was still stuck?" a voice rang out.

My head snapped back. Any time I hear a blonde joke, I have that reaction. But this time, the blonde joke was broadcast over
a very distorted loudspeaker. I looked around, confused. "What the—?"

"What do you call a really smart blonde? A golden retriever. Why do blondes have square breasts? They forget to take the tissues
out of the box. How can you tell if a blonde's been using the computer? There's Whiteout on the screen. How can you tell if
another blonde's been using the computer? There's writing on the Whiteout. What's a blonde behind the wheel called? An airbag.
Two blondes in a car? Dual airbags."

I searched for the source of the insults, somehow feeling they were directed straight at me. A crowd was gathering around
a dunk tank in the northeast corner of the midway. I read the sign above the enclosure. "Bobo the insult clown," I read.

The crowd parted, and I caught a look at the insult-spouting Bobo. I blinked several times, rubbing my eyes with one of froggie's
feet. I stared at the clown sitting on the board over the water tank. The red shirt, the yellow polka-dot pants, neon green
hair ... I felt the corners of my mouth curl upward in a smile.

Bobo, the psycho clown, was trapped in a chain link prison and there was no way out except through one hunky trooper, Nimrod,
and me.

CHAPTER 10

"Hmm. Sounds like the clown
has
met you before, Calamity. Sure you didn't date him at one time?"

Under other circumstances, Townsend's remark would have prompted a carefully chosen comeback, but my delight at finding the
clown at a distinct disadvantage and with a certified member of the law enforcement community by my side, convinced me to
let it pass.

"High and dry! The great Bobo! I'm high and dry! Yoohoo! Blondie! Why do blondes put their hair in ponytails? To cover up
the valve stem!"

I took a tentative step forward. The clown appeared to be looking right at me, but it was hard to tell, since he was wearing
those absurd red sunglasses.

"Yeah, you, blondie. The one with the hair you need a curry comb to get through. You ever heard of Frizz Ease?"

The crowd responded with laughs. Several folks pointed in my direction.

I put a self-conscious hand to my hair, discovering springy curls that had broken free of their gelatinous prison. The damned
clown was taunting me.

"Why can't blondes put in light bulbs?" the clown continued. "They keep breaking them with the hammer."

The crowd went crazy with that one, slapping their sides and looking to see how I was taking the ribbing.

"Yep. Definitely an old boyfriend," Townsend remarked, and I turned to him.

"Oh, really, Einstein? So, you don't notice anything about that particular clown that's out of the ordinary? Nothing at all?"

Townsend studied me. "Don't tell me; let me guess. He's the clown you say accosted you this morning. The one who used a trolley
pulled by a John Deere as his getaway vehicle."

I nodded. "That's right, it's him. Down to the same dopey face paint, polka-dot pants, and green wig."

Patrick Dawkins gave me a puzzled look. "What's all this about a clown?" he asked. I hurriedly explained.

"So you see, it's not Frankie after all. Someone else wants Uncle Frank to sell out," I told them. "And that clown was their
messenger."

"And you're absolutely certain this clown is not your cousin?" the trooper asked.

"Absolutely positively," I assured the peace officer.

"I'm high and dry here! The great Bobo. High and dry! Hey, blondie, why'd the blonde leave a coat hanger in the back seat
of her car? In case she locks her keys in the car. The great Bobo is high and dry! Why did the blonde drive into the ditch?
To turn the blinker off."

I took a couple more steps toward the clown cage, and the crowd parted to provide a direct path from me to the red-and-white
bull's-eye fastened to the front of the chain link enclosure. I felt like Moses in that
Ten Commandments
movie, minus the staff. And the beard, of course.

"High and dry and gonna stay that way. Hey there, blondie. Step right up and defend blondes everywhere. Or are you scared?"

This huckster was using all my buzzwords to best advantage.

"Just ignore him, Tressa," Taylor said. "You don't want to make a scene here."

I considered my baby sister's advice—for about a tenth of a millisecond.

"Tressa," Townsend warned. I shoved Nimrod into his arms and advanced on the impertinent clown.

"You have a problem with blondes?" I asked. "Or just this blonde in particular?"

"I'm high and dry! The great Bobo! What's black and fuzzy and hangs from the ceiling? A blonde electrician!"

I'd finally taken all of this clown's particular brand of non-humor I could hack.

"Two cannibals are eating a clown," I yelled. "One turns to the other and says, 'Does this taste funny to you?'"

"Oooh," the crowd emoted.

"Tressa, what are you doing?" Taylor asked.

"Just having a little harmless fun with the clown here," I replied. Before I moved in for the kill, that is.

"How'd the blonde break her leg raking leaves? She fell out of the tree."

"What do you have when there are fifty clowns buried up to their necks in horse manure?" I countered. "Not enough manure!"
The crowd cheered, and I kept my pace steady as I walked toward the cage.

"What did the blonde customer say to the buxom waitress after reading her nametag?" The clown stopped, put a hand on his chin,
and cocked his head to one side. "'Debbie,'" he continued in a Valley Girl voice. "'That's cute. Like, what did you name the
other one?'"

Judging from the boos and hisses, the crowd was starting to turn my way.

I advanced on the clown cage. "If three clowns jumped from the double Ferris wheel at the same time, who would hit the ground
first?" I hollered.

"WHO CARES!!!" the crowd roared. I suddenly understood the rush Leno and Letterman felt nightly.

I was now less than a yard away from the front of the cage.

"Hey, blondie!" Bobo was obviously not done. "Do you know why most blondes don't breastfeed? It hurts too much to boil their
nipples."

"That's it! Drown the sucker, blondie!" I heard a woman—obviously also blonde—yell.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, then moved close enough to the chain link to touch it with my nose.
I slid my hands up the side of the fence, grabbed hold, and stuck the bill through the wire. "Did you hear about the clown
who messed with Calamity Jayne?" I whispered. The clown and I stared at each other.

"They found his legs over there," I continued in a soft, nasty voice, "his arms over there, and his balls..." I hesitated.
"His balls were found in bucket number three."

I saw Bobo's Adam's apple bob up and down several times in succession. I dropped the five bucks in the cage, raised my hand
and punched the bull's-eye with a closed fist. Down went the great Bobo into the murky depths of his watery trough.

The crowd went wild.

I looked on as the clown floundered, seeking his footing and struggling to stand. He finally managed to get to his feet, and
something about the way he moved, the shape of his hands, the size of his ears—real, not fake— made the breath hitch in my
throat. I found myself blocking out the hurrahs of the crowd and focused, instead, on the saturated soul slipping about in
front of me.

When he turned his head, his oversized sunglasses now floating on the top of the water, I found myself looking directly into
two sad, wet brown eyes. At least I hoped it was water trickling from the corners. I felt like I'd just been gut-kicked by
my Appaloosa quarter.

"Holy shite, Frankie," I whispered. "Is that you?"

The clown turned away from me and fumbled around, resetting his precarious perch above the water.

"Frankie?"

He climbed back on his board, water dripping from his face and streaming from his clothes, and stuck his soaked sunglasses
back on his nose.

"We can't talk now," he hissed, covering the microphone fastened to the side of his cage. "You'll blow my cover. If you haven't
already." He drew his head back and sneezed.

"Cover? What's going on, Frankie? Why are you dressed up like a carnival clown, and why did you threaten me earlier?"

He sneezed again. "What are you talking about? I haven't seen you since that first night in the trailer. That's why, when
I saw you on the midway, I had to get your attention. So, I started telling the blonde jokes. I knew that was sure to get
a reaction. I know what's been going on with Dad's businesses," he said. "And don't think I don't know everyone believes I'm
responsible. I hear the cops are even looking for me. That's why I'm dressed as a clown. It's the perfect disguise to go deep
undercover at a fair. They're always on the lookout for temporary Bobos, so they don't ask a lot of questions. There's a quick
turnover in this job. I can already see why."

I raised a brow.

"Swimmer's ear and general crotch discomfort," Frankie explained. I made a face. "But you wouldn't believe all the stuff I've
heard. Still, we can't talk here. We've already attracted too much attention. I just hope Taylor and Townsend haven't recognized
me."

"Or mentioned it to the trooper on Taylor's right, who's holding an assortment of fair prizes and has been on the lookout
for you since yesterday," I agreed.

Frankie's Adam's apple did another up-down number. "Trooper? You're dating the trooper who wants to run me in?"

I shook my head. "We're not dating," I explained. "Just hanging out. Frankie, bud, we've got to talk. Your mom's worried sick,
and your dad is more bent out of shape than those balloons clowns twist into animals." I looked at him. "You haven't learned
to do that yet, have you?" I asked, thinking balloon animals were the only cool thing about clowns.

"No! And we can't talk now. Meet me at the sky glider. Nine sharp. Come alone. No cops. Now get out of here!" Frankie urged,
sounding like an actor in some hokey gangster flick.

"But, Frankie—"

"Now!" my cousin said in a strangled voice. "They're coming this way!"

I turned to look and, sure enough, Townsend, Taylor, and Patrick were making their way in my direction. The former two looked
pee-ohed, big time. The latter was merely confused. Why do I have that effect on men so frequently?

"What are we gonna do?" Frankie asked, and sneezed again.

I watched as Townsend elbowed his way through the crowd, Nimrod in his arms.

"Think, think!" Frankie urged.

I looked at Frankie and back at Townsend, who was getting closer and closer. Thinking under pressure was not my strong suit.
(All right, all right. Thinking period. Geez, you guys are a tough audience.)

"Ah—ah—"

Before Frankie could "choo!" I punched the bull's-eye lever. Townsend stepped up beside me. Over Townsend's shoulder I saw
a submerged Frankie, who apparently planned to remain that way until I left or water filled his burning lungs, whichever came
first I grabbed Nimrod from Townsend and clamped a hand around his arm, dragging him away from the dunk tank and over to where
Patrick and Taylor were waiting.

I released Townsend and observed three pairs of eyes fixed on me with what-the-hell-just-happened? expressions.

"Uh, gee, sorry about that, guys," I said with a sheepish grin. "Wrong clown."

Bleary-eyed but fortified by a large coffee and an extra-large bag of Dottie's donuts—hey, don't judge me—I headed to Frankie's
designated meeting place the next morning, feeling nothing like Woodward or Bernstein.

I was sipping coffee and chewing my tenth donut (though, who's counting?) when I observed a character sliding along the Channel
8 stage off to the left of the Sky Ride. I stared. The guy looked like he'd walked straight off the set of a Roy Rogers rerun.
Dressed in a red-and-white-checked Western shirt with an open collar and a red bandanna fastened around his neck, his up-to-his-armpit
jeans were stuck into a pair of tall, tan cowboy boots. A white Stetson with a rather large feather trim sat atop dark blue-black
hair that fell to his shoulders. The cockeyed cowboy looked first one way, then the other, before darting across the gravel
road in my direction.

"Good," he panted. "You came alone. I had to be sure."

I stared. "Frankie?"

He placed his fingers on the brim of his hat. "Ma'am," he said.

"What's with the get-up?" I asked, noticing he'd even taken the time to fashion a braid on either side of his face.

"I can't wear the Bobo face all the time. I'm beginning to break out."

"Don't you know the idea of undercover is to blend in?" I asked. "Not shout, 'Look at me, I'm a freak of nature!'"

He took a look down at his clothing. "What do you mean? This is Western attire. We live in Iowa. You know. Cows. Horses. You
wear a cowboy hat all the time."

"When I'm riding a horse," I told him. "As I recall, the last time you were on a horse you got dizzy and had to be helped
down by the fire department."

"I had a severe ear infection complicated by inner ear syndrome caused by allergic rhinitis," he said. "Besides, that's the
idea. Who's gonna expect to see
me
dressed as a cowboy?"

"Cowboy? You look like one of those guys featured on a how-to-learn-line-dance video," I replied. "For goodness sake, Frankie,
at least untuck your pants," I said, bending down to yank his pants out of his boots.

"Call me Garth," he said, and I stopped.

"Huh?"

"Call me Garth. That's my undercover cowboy name."

I finished with "Garth's" boots and started on his waistline. "You're taking this undercover stuff way too seriously, bud,"
I said, yanking his trousers down to a less nerdy level.

"My pants are dragging the ground now," Frankie complained.

"Exactly," I replied.

"Let's go," he said, and I looked at him.

"Go where?"

"On the Sky Ride, of course. It's the only place we can talk without the possibility of being overheard. Besides, who would
be looking for me on a ski lift ride?"

I shook my head. "I dunno, Frankfurter—I mean Garth," I substituted when I saw his peeved look. "Aren't you afraid of heights?"

"I'll be fine as long as it keeps moving," he said. "Now come on. We're burning daylight."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you, Garth," I said. "And make sure if you hurl, you don't hit anyone below. I guarantee
you
that
would get someone's attention in a hurry."

Frankie handed the operator fare for two round-trips, and we waited as the ride came in behind us and scooped us off the ground.
We appeared to be the only early morning customers. Everyone else was either in bed, eating breakfast and reading the Sunday
paper, or attending the nondenominational church service held in the pavilion. Gram enjoyed attending the service every year.
I usually accompanied her. Following the service, we were generally first in line for the Methodist Church pancake-and-egg
breakfast. Okay, so Gram always got a coughing spell that forced us to leave the service a bit early so we could be first
in line for the pancake breakfast. I figured being a senior, she was entitled to a good place in line. And as her devoted
granddaughter who accompanied her when I could have slept in, I deserved a perk, too.

"So, did the trooper seem suspicious last night? Did he have questions?" Frankie asked.