Clown Girl - Monica Drake [65]
We were alone in the closed alley. I dropped the gun. It hit the ground with the light clatter of hollow plastic. Jerrod jumped, like it might go off. I kicked the gun his way; he ducked to the side, then came forward and picked it up. Gave it a shake. BANG! The flag popped out. Jerrod jumped. “What the—?”
“Fake,” I said.
He said, “I see that now.” He used the heel of his palm to push the red BANG! flag back in the muzzle. When he offered a hand, I took it. I let him lead me past the Dumpster.
I put my other hand to my forehead. The beer was wearing off, the Chinese pills. The tinctures. “This is why a clown shouldn’t drink in costume. It goes right to our wig-wearing heads,” I said.
The alley opened up to the street. I took a breath. We stopped walking. Jerrod shoved the plastic pistol in his tight front pocket and put his hands on my arms. He looked at my face, into the scratched lenses of my daisy-rimmed sunglasses, and said, “This isn’t the circus.”
I said, “I know. I’m not a circus clown. I’m a people’s clown. A clown without borders.”
Jerrod said, “I’m serious. What’re you thinking ?” His face was close to the red wig of my hair. He drew me into his cloud of cinnamon spice. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Mad Addie, she’s got her own weapons, you know? A shotgun behind the bar.”
The night air was soft. “Killed? Jesus.” I put a hand to my heart. Shook off Jerrod and leaned against the wall. “Shotgun ?” Adrenaline beat against my body from inside. “I’m going to faint. I’ve got heart trouble. I’m sick, I need to sit down.”
“Take it easy. Just breathe,” Jerrod said. He held my hand as I slid down the wall. He checked my pulse.
“I feel sick. I’m not kidding.” The wall was my support, my world, and all I had to hold off death or insanity, death or insanity, the two immediate options.
“Some holdup artist—this is all a little on the self-destructive side.” Jerrod massaged my hand.
“I left my cane in there.”
“Don’t worry about your cane. I’ll get it later. And what is all this stuff?” He dropped a fistful of the spilled vials, like a handful of raw amber.
“Medicine.” I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I slid the rest of the way down, sat on the sidewalk with my back against the wall. “Valerian.” I held my hand out. Snapped my fingers, opened the palm again. “I need it.”
“Valerian?” He read the labels and sounded each word out carefully. “Go-tu kola, Pip-siss-iwa…It’s overpriced snake oil, Sniffles.” He slid the silver gun back in my bag. With the tinctures piled in one hand, he put his other hand on my back. “You’re OK. But you’re wasting your money on this stuff.”
My money. I didn’t have extra money. The tonics were hot, stolen.
He sat beside me. I’d never seen a cop in uniform sit on the sidewalk before. “So what’s the gun a cure for?” He dropped most of the vials to the ground. Two of them he shook in his hand like a gambler’s dice, and said, “Same prescription as the sunglasses—to keep people away?”
“It wasn’t even real…it’s a prop gun.” I picked through the vials on the sidewalk until I found the valerian, unscrewed the top, and poured drops into my mouth. My hands shook. My bones shook.
“I know it’s a prop, Sniff—now—but those drunks in there, they don’t know. Flashing a gun is the fast track to trouble.” He ran a hand over my wig. The wig rustled against my ears like leaves in the wind. “Let’s take this off.”
“No, don’t.” I pulled my head away, put a hand to the wig to keep it in place. The evening sky was heavy with low clouds. My glasses dimmed the world further, a sweet dusky blue. I said, “Jerrod—you should get up. You need to go.” I didn’t want him to go. His hand on my back was a warm reassurance. Under his hand, the knot of a fist around my heart loosened. The pounding in my ears eased. Maybe I wouldn’t die or go crazy, not just yet. I said, “You can’t be seen on the street, outside a tavern, in uniform, on the ground.”
He ran his hand in circles over my back. “Don’t worry about me. Just breathe. You’re OK.”
I was a cat, under Jerrod’s hand.