Jonah Man (20 page)

A barker in a worn cadet jacket stood out front bellowing a list of attractions. The Inspector held up his badge, said he needed to speak with one of the performers. The man directed him to a second entrance off the alleyway; from there, a stagehand led him into a cellar crowded with cubicles fashioned from cloth scrims.

This one’s his, the stagehand said, sliding back a curtain. Jonson’s son sat on a wooden barrel, dressed in his underclothes, outfitting an old pair of English Brogues with a new set of laces. He didn’t look up.

I have a message from your father, the Inspector said. He won’t be able to make it tonight.

The boy nodded, said nothing.

You don’t seem surprised.

The stagehand snickered.

I’ll be all right, the boy said.

Yes, your father told me. Don’t you want to know where he is?

I know already.

What else do you know?

About what?

About how your father earns his living?

He earns it onstage. Same as me.

I understand, the Inspector said. Would you do me a quick favor? Would you smile?

Smile?

I’d like to see your teeth.

The boy set down his shoes, pinched his lips and held them back while the Inspector leaned forward.

All clear, he said. It seems odd, though, that you didn’t ask why I would want to see your teeth. Perhaps you knew
that already, too?

He exited the cellar, walked a block in the direction of his apartment, then turned back.

The acts went by quickly. A hobo told jokes while sawing his wife in half, a small child ate knives while levitating a foot off the stage, a contortionist disappeared inside a wooden bucket. The Inspector wanted to applaud, but he couldn’t help seeing the wire that held the boy in the air, couldn’t help noticing that when the strong man dropped his weights they made no sound. Instead of feeling transported, the Inspector found his attention focusing inward. He was not, he thought, that different than the people onstage. Like them, he appeared skilled but was not expert in anything. An expert would be able to predict the outcome of his actions. The fact that the Inspector solved one case meant nothing when the next one arrived.

It was Jonson’s son who brought his attention back to the stage. The boy could sing, dance. From atop his barrel, he executed acrobatic maneuvers at a speed the Inspector would not have thought possible. Jonson, with his curved spine and bloated abdomen, had spoken the truth at least one time: his son was more than half their act.

The air was beginning to cool; the moon, perfectly halved, hung as though designed to light this street. The Inspector heard a single pair of footsteps echoing toward him from behind. He stopped, turned.

Sir, a man said, the toes of his shoes now abutting the Inspector’s, they ain’t told the truth.

Who’s that?

Them at the bar.

The man squinted, kicked the ground, scratched at the acne
rising from his beard.

All right, the Inspector said. OK. Let’s talk.

He took the man’s elbow, tugged him toward the nearest alley.

That boy was there.

I figured as much.

Last night.

OK.

He sang.

Quiet now, the Inspector said. We’re almost there.

The man planted his feet, shook himself free.

I’m trying...

Walk, the Inspector said, grabbing the man’s collar. Hurry now.

But already he heard a woman’s heels striking the wooden platform behind them.

Arney, she called.

The Inspector turned, held up his hand, exhorting her to come no further.

Arney, Audrey said, I’ve been looking for you.

Her spirits seemed livened by alcohol. She’d applied her make-up, pulled a blond wig tight over her scalp.

Arney, stay with me, the Inspector said.

Audrey stepped between them, knotted her arms around Arney’s waist.

I got some time before I start work, she said.

Yeah, Arney said: confused, ashamed. She reached up, kissed his cheek.

Audrey, the Inspector said, this isn’t the way.

Do you have any time, Arney? she said.

The Inspector stared past her.

I can protect you, he said. The arm of the law reaches far.

Yeah, Audrey said. But Arney and I ain’t far. Are we, Arney?

Arney allowed her to take his hand, allowed himself to be led away.

That evening, he opened the door to his room to find Mavis standing there with a plate of smoked turkey and mashed potatoes in one hand, a brim-filled glass of milk in the other. He stepped aside, waved her in.

I ought to have brought a tray, she said.

Nonsense, the Inspector said.

She set the glass and plate atop the dresser.

Do you have a moment? he asked.

I suppose I do, she said.

Good, I need your help.

He glanced into the hall, shut the door. Mavis smiled: a coconspirator.

You’ve lived in this town a long time? he said.

Lord save me, yes, she said. Ed helped lay those rail tracks. He made it this far, then wouldn’t go farther. Wouldn’t go back, either. Like something spooked him.

There are things I need to know.

Such as?

Who, besides you and your husband, owns the property in this town?

Originally, she told him, the railroad owned it all. The railroad created the town, but they were quick to see their mistake. They sold the hotel to Ed, the rest to a real estate company out of New York.

And your Sheriff? the Inspector asked. Your husband said that he passed. How?

A vagrant slit his throat, she said. Someone he brought in
for the night, most likely out of kindness. Sam was an old man. Now there’s just me and Ed.

And there’s been no one to take his place?

Who would want the job? Mavis said. Before last night, the only murder we had was our Sheriff ’s.

According to the man who worked the kiosk, the boy had attempted and failed to board the previous night’s train. The Inspector thanked him, stepped outside. For a while he was the only one waiting. A single electrolier lit the platform. On the opposite side of the tracks he could make out creosote brush, a brace of ocotillo cactuses. The air was cool, the sky crowded with stars.

A man in a borsalino hat mounted the platform, stood at the far end smoking a clove cigarette through an opera-length holder. Soon afterward, the performers arrived, the adults carting their luggage on dollies, the children trailing behind. Swain was not among them.

He felt the train’s vibration before he heard its whistle. Moving to the edge of the track, he saw the headlight approaching but could not distinguish the cars from the black landscape. He stepped back as it pulled in. The full train was barely longer than the platform, a commuter rail making provincial stops between larger stations. He watched the performers haul their belongings onboard, watched the shopkeeper sprint from the kiosk and exchange sacks with a man in a belltop hat.

The Inspector walked to the lead car, showed the conductor his badge.

Mind if I take a quick pass through? he asked.

Anything I should worry about?

I just want to make sure someone didn’t get by me.

The only light came from the lamp outside. Apart from the show people, most of the passengers were asleep, lapped in coats or blankets with hats pulled over their eyes. They were all either shorter, taller, thicker, or fatter than the boy.

He nodded to the conductor, then lingered for a moment, searching up and down the tracks as the train pulled away. When he turned around, the man in the borsalino hat was still there, smoking. He took a last drag, tossed the stub onto the tracks, returned the holder to his blazer pocket and started toward the street. The Inspector followed, watched him climb into a two-tone Sports Phaeton and drive off.

Next morning, he found Swain back amongst the rubble, sifting and digging, alternating between rake and shovel. The Inspector stood on the periphery, called hello. Swain’s skin shone yellow-sulphur against the soot.

I thought you’d be gone, the Inspector said.

Why would I be?

Your colleagues have left.

They aren’t my colleagues anymore, he said.

You resigned?

It was a long time coming.

In that case, we should celebrate. May I buy you a drink?

At this hour?

The day is hot already. A moment out of the sun would do you good.

Swain hesitated, searching for an excuse. Finding none, he set aside his rake, waded through the wreckage.

Splendid, the Inspector said.

They walked to the bar in silence, the glass storefronts candent in the morning sun, the surrounding foothills boasting their fullest range of blues and greens. Perkes greeted them from behind the zinc, gestured to the table the Inspector had occupied with Audrey.

Tonic water? he asked.

Coffee. Black. And a mimosa for my friend.

Let me guess—on your tab?

Please.

You’re not drinking? Swain said.

Perkes, the Inspector called, a pinch of scotch in my coffee.

They discussed the local climate while Perkes prepared their order, Swain eyeing the Inspector, trying to discern a motive, the Inspector smiling, attempting to appear as though he had none.

I’m sorry for the loss of your venue, the Inspector said. Given the size, it must have been quite an establishment.

I never saw it even half full.

Perhaps they will build one of a more appropriate stature.

Maybe, Swain said. It won’t matter to me either way.

Right, the Inspector said.

Their drinks arrived. The Inspector ran a finger around the lip of his cup, watched Swain tilt his head and swallow. Swain was not, the Inspector thought, so far gone as Jonson: beneath the feigned resignation, there was something he continued to want for himself.

If I may ask, the Inspector said, what was the issue with your colleagues? Why was your departure long in coming?

I’d had enough, Swain said.

Of?

Swain sniggered.

Of dickering over my spot on the bill, he said. Of split weeks and sleeper jumps. After a while, a man stops hoping.

I understand.

I doubt it, Swain said.

The gruffness of his tone gave the Inspector pause, made him wonder if he did in fact understand.

My own abilities have been questioned, he said. I’ve seen
people advance at my expense. Before long, you begin to internalize the doubt. You’re right to make a break. There is such a thing as a corrosive environment.

Swain scratched his scalp with his hook, lifted his glass, set it back down without drinking.

You won’t believe me, he said. But I played the Majestic once.