Clown Girl - Monica Drake [64]
Italia moved between the pool table and the wall, blocking my way. “Where you going?” she said, in a singsong. “Herman’s on his way, and he’d lo-o-ove to meet your friends.”
Jerrod stood, pants soaked with spilled beer at the knees.
Mad Addie grabbed Jerrod by the belt loops. “Get another goddamn bar towel, son. Pronto,” she croaked out.
I took a chug of beer, tossed the half-full glass to Nadia-Italia, put my hands on the side of the pool table, and lifted my feet to the ledge like a gymnast mounting the horse. The ache in my groin was a nagging pain now, dimmed by time and drink. Like a quick and loud prayer, I hollered, “Double or nothing—Clown Girl, corner pocket.” I ducked my head and turned a speedball somersault across the table.
My red wig was the rustle of dry grass around my ears; the plastic flowers on the sunglasses pushed against my face, and I felt the lumps of Crack’s hairdo, each pin she’d used to tack down the curls, as my head pressed into the felt tabletop. Beer raced up the back of my nose. A vial slid out of my pocket. I rolled again. Another vial slipped.
“Hey,” Addie hollered, and snapped her dirty rag at me with a spray of crumbs and stale beer. “That’s new felt.” The stream of curses fell from her mouth again: “Goddampoolplaying sonsofmotherlovingcashsuckingwhydIeverbuythisdumpJesus…” She dropped into a mutter.
Vials and tinctures fell from my pocket, tangled in balloons. But I came up with the sunglasses still on. When I hit the other side, I rolled off the edge to the floor and reached for my bag. It was far down a tunnel; my arm stretched, and I reached all the way, that long distance across the gap, in slow motion. My hand closed around pink vinyl.
Mad Addie yelled, “That’ll get you kicked out a here. That’s the first and last time, you know it.”
I threw myself in a run toward the back door. My heart beat in my head, arms, neck.
I saw the flash of duct tape just as I tripped on the extension cord taped to the floor; the beer-mildewed, peanut-strewn carpet came up fast under my palms. The pink prop bag slapped open on impact. Juggling balls, tins of paint, and my silver gun skittered out in front, wrapped in a tangle of green, yellow, and red balloons. Tinctures scattered like jewels.
I grabbed the gun, stood up fast, the business end of my trick pistol trained on the drunk pack.
The bar went quiet except for the rattle of Crap Rock. Everyone stayed back. Only Nadia-Italia took one step closer, away from the throng. “What do you know?” she said. “The clown’s packing.” The muscles in her shoulders danced. She pulled a strand of hair down from one of her three pigtails, and ran the strand through her teeth.
“Back,” I said. “I mean it.” I shook the gun at her and picked up my bag. She leaned against the pool table. I edged toward the door. My face was hot, vision tight.
Jerrod took a step in. “Now, hold on there, Sniffles—”
Did I hear a siren outside? Had somebody called? Before Jerrod could finish, I turned fast, slammed a shoulder to the metal door, and ducked out. The door opened into a narrow, blind alley. I looked left, right, then left again. A Dumpster sat to one side. The other direction was blocked with a brick wall.
The door swung open and knocked me in the back. I fell forward. Jerrod, Nadia-Italia, and a flock of drunks came tumbling out in a cloud of tavern air, old smoke, and spilled beer.
From the ground I flashed the gun, the only language that worked with this crew. “Back up,” I said. My voice broke and grew faint. A chirp.
“All of you, back up,” Jerrod echoed me, only his voice was steady where mine was fragile. He cut through the crowd, his own gun still holstered. He put his hands to Dukenfield’s shoulders, turned him around, and said, “It’s under control. Everybody, back inside.”
They didn’t move.
“In!” he barked again. “Or I’ll call for more crew, have you all downtown.” Then they scrambled. To me, he said, “Sniffles, do it for me. And for yourself.