Clown Girl - Monica Drake [29]
I said, “Show’s over, friend. Nothing to see.”
He lifted one tattooed arm, pressed his thumb and index finger to his lips, took a shadow toke, then raised his eyebrows and nodded, Yes?
A date? No way. My groin had the hot burn of a torn ligament, not lust. But I remembered my pledge to the Clown Code. I was still in costume. My head spun, face hot, and the dishwasher wanted a show. I fake-smiled back, winked, and shook my head in a demure deferral, clown style.
He made a sad face, mouth drawn down, then had another idea. He held his hands around his mouth and breathed between them, an invitation to sniff glue. When I shook my head again, he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me: Jack. Dishwasher. Two words and a phone number.
The swinging doors cut open, the music blared loud again, and a tall man stepped into the hallway. He straightened his lapel. “Excellent, excellent work,” he said. “Bravo,” and he gave a little clap and a bow. His smile was the high gloss of newly whitened teeth. When he bowed toward me, he put out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Still on the floor, I reached up. The man’s handshake was quick and tight.
“That’s Sniffles,” Crack said. “Our latest joke.”
“Fantabulous,” he said. His hair was a sea of blond waves.
The dishwasher wiped a hand on his greasy apron, then held his hand out. I hesitated before I shook his hand too, like I was doing him a favor. His skin was waterlogged as a kid in the bath.
The man in the tux hitched up his pants and crouched down. “You were really something out there, you know? Perfect comic timing. Need help with that?”
He pointed to my leg, my hands where I massaged my thigh. Before I could answer, he dug strong fingers into the muscles and tendons of my leg. I shivered when he found a tender spot.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
“In a sort of good way,” I said. It hurt like a massage, releasing the muscles.
Matey swung her arms, clapped her hands together, and said, “Hey! That’s my girl!”
The dishwasher, uneasy, moved foot to foot, side to side. The man in the tux laughed.
I said, “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” I tried to brush his hands away.
Crack, behind him, cleared her throat. “Got something for us?” she said. “We don’t have time to hobnob unless it’s on the clock.”
“Ah, yes, yes.” He stood up fast, knees crackling, reached into an inside pocket in his jacket, and pulled out an envelope. “Before we wrap this up, tell me, does Sniffles here ever do any, ah, how shall we say? Any personal negotiation. Private parties? One-on-one.”
I said, “No.”
Crack said, “Depends what you’re asking and what’s the wages.”
“I don’t do one-on-one,” I said.
Matey chimed in: “I’m here.” She put her feet on the two opposite walls of the hallway and took a few steps up, then jumped down, feet smacking the floor. “Let’s negotiate.”
Mr. Tux turned to me. “I’d make it worth your while.” He pulled out a business card.
I said, “I’ ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
His smile was a flat line that curled up on one side. His cheeks were high and ruddy. “Maybe you have. Maybe I’ve been to a few of your shows. Maybe I’m your biggest fan.”
That was all I needed to hear. A coulrophile.
“I’m the boss of this gig,” Crack said, and cut him short. “I’ll talk to her, we’ll work something out.”
She took the card. He pulled out another. When he held the second card toward me, I took it.
The dishwasher started counting out bills from his pocket. Maybe ten bucks total. Crack tipped her head at him. “Put your bubble gum back in your purse and dangle, Mr. Clean. No doing.” She turned her back on him and pointed to the man in the tux. “Pay up on this job, we’ll see what comes next.”
He laid the envelope in her open hand. “It’s all there, plus a little extra.” He winked again.
The dishwasher, damp pants sagging, disappeared through a door that let out a cloud of steam.
“Thank you,” the man said, to me. “You made my evening.” He flashed his teeth, crinkled the sunburned skin on his newly shaven cheeks, then turned and strode back out into what passed