Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [89]
“It’s better with an orchestra.”
Finlayson stood quiet and amazed.
“I see you cannot speak,” Swain said. “Your reaction is a common one and typical of those who first experience our little exhibition. It has taken me many years to produce the zoological marvel you have just witnessed. As a result, we have topped the bill across this great land and in the capitals of Europe. I daresay that nowhere in the world is there an amusement remotely similar to Swain’s Rats and Cats.”
Fin tried to speak but his mouth was dry. Swain took a pitcher of water from a nearby stand and poured it into a thumb-marked glass. The ratcatcher took a long draught and wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve.
“What’s this got to do with me?”
Swain’s brow knitted tightly. “Way back when, I had time to haunt the wharfs and alleys, seeking out the finest specimens. I found number six there, Romulus, in an infested theater in Brooklyn when he frightened Miss Fanny Brice into leaping on to the nearest chair.”
He reached beneath the platform again. From a large paper bag, he produced several handfuls of dried corn and sprinkled it on the floor. Immediately the rats leaped from the platform and began to gorge themselves. The cats remained in place.
“As an expert, you likely know that, even with the finest of care, the lifespan of Rattus norvegicus rarely exceeds four years, and I am far too occupied with travel and performance and training to seek out new members of my cast. Like the rest of my small charges, Romulus is aging, and in a year, perhaps two, certainly by 1915, he and his colleagues will enter our Lord’s own sewers. This, sir, as they say, is where you come in.”
“You want some rats?”
“Mr. Finlayson, I am asking far more than that. I am proposing that you become the official ratcatcher for Swain’s Rats and Cats. In this capacity, you will perform the duties such as have been your living, but that living shall be far more comfortable. I will pay you the sum of thirty dollars per capture, up to forty dollars for a swollen female of fine size. Once our business is established and mutual trust confirmed, I propose to rent a facility here in which you will breed new stars for me. New Romuluses! New Dutches! New Esmeraldas and Kittys and Whiskers!”
Fin eyed the little man suspiciously. “Thirty dollars for a rat?”
“Thirty dollars for the right rat, sir. He must be young and strong and of sufficient proportion to be seen from the rear of the mezzanine. He must be hale and smart and fecund, well able to reproduce himself ad infinitum in the cause of family diversion.”
Finlayson looked pained. “Do you want me to sign a paper? I can’t read or write.”
“No, no, my boy. All I want is for you catch me big, fat, healthy rats. Rats that will honor your skill as they delight and amaze theatergoers the world over.”
Swain whistled the first six notes of “Liebestraum” and the rats immediately stopped eating and took up their positions on the track. Then he reached into his watch pocket.
“Our first performance begins in five minutes. Here’s a ducket for the show. What you have seen is only a portion of what my little friends can do. I’m sure that once you’ve absorbed the complete performance, you’ll wish to be a part of their success. Afterward, we’ll repair to Wexler’s for the poison of your choice and a toast to your fortune and mine own.”
Jimmy O’Mara jammed his cigar in his mouth, puffing on it hard. Finlayson had only just come in from his nightly rounds and Jimmy was ready to pour some arsenic in his ear. His customers had begun to complain.
Only last night, Fatso Eagan, the owner of a particularly nasty fox terrier named Billy, had bitched him out royal over the declining quality of his bouts.
“May’s well pick posies as bring Billy here,” he said. “These rats what yous’ve been getting act like ladies at a icecream social. It’s six weeks in a row Billy’s kilt ’em all in under one-thirty. Nobody’s layin’ down