Clown Girl - Monica Drake [57]
He said, “You know, I’ve got a good feeling about you, but maybe I’ve been wrong the whole time. Maybe you stole that lawn mower. Maybe you crashed on that sidewalk high on drugs. Maybe you’re just like everyone else in Baloneytown. For all I know, you steal lawn mowers to support a habit.”
A habit. The tinctures clinked in my bag and in my pockets. I winced and ran my fingers over vials like prayer beads.
He said, “I grew up in Baloneytown. My folks are still here. My old grade school friends. I’ve seen it—I’ve got plenty of reasons to be cynical, if that’s what I wanted.”
He was right. I didn’t look at him. After a minute I said, “So, why are you out here? ”
“ Well, when you say you lost your dog, I want to help find her. That’s my job, and it’s the way I’m made.” He gestured, with a swing of the bag of kiwis and the banana, at the rubble of the lot. The sun had started to sink toward the roof of a house with a blue tarp tied to it. The tarp flapped in the breeze.
“I’ve never turned my back on Baloneytown yet. There’s good people here, and some troubled folks too, but I’d like to help out, you and everybody else.” He said, “ Mostly, I’d like to see that my instincts are right, that you’re someone I can respect, not suspect—that there’s at least one good clown in this burg.”
I turned to look at him. He blinked, as though he had dust in his eyes. His eyes seemed more clear blue than ever. When I spoke, my voice came out softly. I said, “You look tired.”
“I am. It’s been a long day. A lot of hassles. Mostly, I’m tired of being treated like I’m the criminal.” His pant legs were dusty. There was a sweetness to him, and to his exasperation. He was right, I was unappreciative. What clown wouldn’t want a cop on her side? He was there to help me find Chance, my charmer, that left-handed half trained schipperke.
The blue light of Hoagies and Stogies flashed down the block. “Listen,” I said, “if you’re off work, would you let me buy you a beer?”
He swallowed. His Adam’s apple made a quick duck and bob. “Shouldn’t we keep looking for Chance?”
I said, “I’ll keep looking. I looked all last night, and put up posters all day. But I want to buy you a drink.”
He nodded, and looked out over the rubble of the lot, then said, “I appreciate it, but I don’t usually drink in uniform.”
“Ah, right. I don’t drink in uniform either,” I said. “It’s against the Clown Code of Ethical Conduct.” I straightened my wig. I wanted him to know we had a Code of Ethical Conduct, because now I felt like a bigger heel than ever, suggesting to a cop that we break the rules. “It was just an idea.” I said, “ I shouldn’t even talk in costume.”
He said, “I shouldn’t wear mine once I’m off work.”
“Me neither,” I said. “It’s against code.”
He said, “Once in a while, though, in Baloneytown, I might drop in someplace. I wouldn’t do it in over King’s Row, but here. They usually like it. Helps with community policing.” He said, “Sometimes a few of us in the precinct’ll have a beer together, just to be seen on the premises, maybe at a place that’s having trouble.”
I asked, “Really? Well, we could just have one, right? We could stay here in Baloneytown, walk over to Hoagies and Stogies. They can always use a little policing.” Tap tap. I felt like the lobster in its aquarium, tapping against the edge of my small world. A beer with a cop—that wasn’t the way I saw my life. It was risky. I’d take the risk. I wanted him to say yes. “I’ll drink in costume if you will,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Contributing to the delinquency of a vaudevillian…sounds punishable.” He still looked tired, but he smiled. I was glad to see the smile.
When Jerrod turned and walked back the way we came, I followed him, then caught up by his side. We stopped in front of the bar. He pulled the door open and held it, waiting for me to go in. The smoke and spilled beer of tavern air laced its way out the open door, dank but welcoming, an invisible hostess. The smell