Clown Girl - Monica Drake [105]
“Like, how big?” I said.
“How big what? It’s not like I checked out the guy’s goods—he hasn’t ponied up the bills yet.” She hooked her thumbs under the armholes of her tank top and gave a snap.
“I don’t want to see his goods,” I said. “I mean, how big’s the cash? What kind of money?” The more fast money I made, the sooner I’d surprise Rex, impress him with a bankroll, and the sooner we’d start our life together.
I needed to get Rex out of the neighborhood before he found out more than he wanted to know—or more than I wanted him to know.
Crack said, “I tell you, the guy’s giving money away. We’ll get one rate up front, get him to buy a few drinks, then renegotiate scratch as the night goes on…No lie, Sniff. What’s this about?” She poked a finger into the scorched mound of the Pendulous Breasts.
I shrugged. “That? I call it the Juicy Caboosey Show. Still working it out.” The outfit needed a few patches after the fire.
“Well, hey, why save it for the opera?” she said. “The thing is, there’s no money in art, but there’s an art to making money and it’s in my blood. In yours too, I’d say, with the Caboose Suit. You just ain’t actualized yet. Stick with me, I’ll show you how.”
If it was enough money, it could be my last gig with Crack. I’d cut her loose. “OK,” I said. “But those are the rules: no sex, and a big paycheck.” Then right away I changed my mind. Who was I kidding? A clown date was all about sex. They always were. I said, “No, I can’t do it. I don’t do dates. I have to draw the line…” I said, “Never, never, never.”
I was an artist.
Crack said, “Listen, it’s an easy deal. I’m cutting you in, and I’ll say it frank here—you got one thing I ain’t got, and that’s natural good clown looks. Guys like it.” She said, “So you know those old buildings at the edge of King’s Row?”
The Ruins? Our Ruins. A private place made public, or perhaps a public place made private in my mind and memories. “Sure.”
“Cool,” she said. “Meet us there tomorrow night, nine o’clock. He’s got a big green van.”
A big green van, at The Ruins. And nothing would ruin them more than a cheap clown date in the place of my grand romance. I wavered: “I can’t do it, Crack.”
“It’s easy. Just look sexy, play it up, something like you got on now, maybe. Oh, shit,” Crack said. “I hate to be the hair-bringer of bad tidings, but…”
“Harbinger,” I said. My dress fell off one shoulder. I pulled it into place.
“Who?” Crack asked. She ducked behind the open ambulance door, and looked through the frosted, cross-marked window.
I said, “You said the hair-bringer. It’s harbinger.”
“Harbinger’s the hairbringer?”
“No, you’d be the harbinger. Harbinger of bad tidings.”
“I don’t know about that, but what I’m getting at is, bad news—a cop, at six o’clock, heading our way. We’ll talk later.” She hid beside the open door.
I stepped out of the van, one bare foot at a time, and a pile of clothes followed, stuck to my hot skin. My knees were numb from kneeling. Tucked beside Crack, I peered around the side of the open back door. It was Jerrod, urine funnel in front of him like a white plastic shield. He turned where the sidewalk met Herman’s crumbling cement walkway and went right up to Herman’s house. That was the last straw.
“I know that guy,” I said. I had to stop him. “I’ll do the gig.” I needed the cash, to get life moving again. There was no more time to waste as a trapped rabbit. Berkeley, here we come.
He was about to knock on the door. How could I insist I wasn’t dating cops if Jerrod asked for me by my clown name? “Jerrod.”
He dropped his hand and turned, looked surprised, flashed a smile and sauntered over. Crack and I were kids in costume playing in the street, the ambulance our toy box. Jerrod tapped a light hello on the side of the ambulance. It sang like a bell.
“You must be Harbinger,” Crack said. She tipped her hat. “And I must be going. See you later, Sniff. Good luck.” She ducked out.
Jerrod said, “Who’s your friend?” He pointed toward Crack’s fleeing, striped back.
I took the urine funnel and threw