Goldenland Past Dark Read Online Free
Author: Chandler Klang Smith
anyway?”
“I don’t know. Money or something, I guess.”
“I bet they have some kind of sick history. Maybe Dr. Show kidnapped his legless sister and sold her to a sex fiend with a dungeon in his basement. Now the guy can’t rest until Show’s impaled on the blade of his sword. Freud’d love it.”
Webern forced a smile. “You don’t really think that’ll happen, do you?”
“What, the impaling? I sure hope not. He owes us all two weeks back pay, doesn’t he?” Nepenthe stubbed out her cigarette butt and, without another word, strode across the parking lot toward the diner. Webern watched her go. She walked like it was an inconvenience, like she might just fling herself down any second. Only once, when she reached the door of the restaurant, did she look back over her shoulder to see if he was following.
CHAPTER TWO
Actually, Nepenthe was wrong. Dr. Show didn’t owe them two weeks back pay—he owed them three. Once a week, Dr. Show was supposed to give each of the performers—except for Vlad and Fydor, whom he compensated as if they were one and a half people—a small stipend out of the returns. Even when he paid up, it was hardly a living wage, but he also provided for their meals, supplies, gas for the vehicles, and all expenses for the show, which included costumes, props, makeup, and sets. From time to time, he even threw in a new case of Magic Pirate rum, or bourbon so cheap it burned like gasoline.
Most of the players, Brunhilde especially, grumbled about this set-up—they argued that they could buy their own tights and groceries, and better ones too, if Dr. Show would just fork over the cash. There was no denying that Dr. Show could be pretty chintzy about food and supplies. They ate a lot of hot dogs stamped “irregular” by the manufacturer, and Schoenberg mined the bargain bins of grocery stores for dented mystery cans whose labels had peeled off in the summer heat. What they grabbed at diners came out of their own pockets, but was worth the loss, compared to their reused coffee grounds and the enormous drums of fruit cocktail they consumed around the campfire to ward off scurvy. And they hadn’t had toilet paper since June.
Even if he complained along with the rest of them, though, it was obvious to Webern the current arrangement was the best thing possible for the circus. It wasn’t like Schoenberg was keeping the money for himself. Every dollar he saved went straight back into the show. Schoenberg bought velvet and gold braid for Brunhilde’s costumes; he equipped the single spotlight with bulbs that glowed so brightly they sometimes burst like an explosion of stars. He paid for Al’s barbells and supervised with a megaphone the afternoon they all assembled an elaborate mail-order obstacle course for the tiger cubs. When he couldn’t find a muralist who satisfied him, Schoenberg bought vials of rare paint—ochre, cerulean, jade, magenta—stretched canvases, and lovingly painted the circus’s posters himself. And every now and then, a few new packets of twisting balloons for Webern or a hooked cane for Vlad and Fydor’s comedy routine turned up inexplicably in the Cadillac’s trunk. Still, it was never enough. Props were always getting broken or lost or—like Enrique’s swords—gambled away; costumes tore, and the tiger cubs never did learn to walk the A-beam or dive down the tunnel slide. No matter how much money Dr. Show spent, the circus was constantly vanishing around him.
And now he had vanished along with it. Empty coffee cups, crumpled-up napkins, bacon grease, and toast crumbs littered the tabletop in the diner, and still Dr. Schoenberg had not appeared. Webern glanced at the clock that hung askew on one wall, but the minute hand had hardly moved since he looked at it last. He took a deep breath and continued doodling in the ketchup on his empty plate, using a French fry for a pencil. So far he had drawn a top hat, a sword, and a tiny head with X’s for
“I don’t know. Money or something, I guess.”
“I bet they have some kind of sick history. Maybe Dr. Show kidnapped his legless sister and sold her to a sex fiend with a dungeon in his basement. Now the guy can’t rest until Show’s impaled on the blade of his sword. Freud’d love it.”
Webern forced a smile. “You don’t really think that’ll happen, do you?”
“What, the impaling? I sure hope not. He owes us all two weeks back pay, doesn’t he?” Nepenthe stubbed out her cigarette butt and, without another word, strode across the parking lot toward the diner. Webern watched her go. She walked like it was an inconvenience, like she might just fling herself down any second. Only once, when she reached the door of the restaurant, did she look back over her shoulder to see if he was following.
CHAPTER TWO
Actually, Nepenthe was wrong. Dr. Show didn’t owe them two weeks back pay—he owed them three. Once a week, Dr. Show was supposed to give each of the performers—except for Vlad and Fydor, whom he compensated as if they were one and a half people—a small stipend out of the returns. Even when he paid up, it was hardly a living wage, but he also provided for their meals, supplies, gas for the vehicles, and all expenses for the show, which included costumes, props, makeup, and sets. From time to time, he even threw in a new case of Magic Pirate rum, or bourbon so cheap it burned like gasoline.
Most of the players, Brunhilde especially, grumbled about this set-up—they argued that they could buy their own tights and groceries, and better ones too, if Dr. Show would just fork over the cash. There was no denying that Dr. Show could be pretty chintzy about food and supplies. They ate a lot of hot dogs stamped “irregular” by the manufacturer, and Schoenberg mined the bargain bins of grocery stores for dented mystery cans whose labels had peeled off in the summer heat. What they grabbed at diners came out of their own pockets, but was worth the loss, compared to their reused coffee grounds and the enormous drums of fruit cocktail they consumed around the campfire to ward off scurvy. And they hadn’t had toilet paper since June.
Even if he complained along with the rest of them, though, it was obvious to Webern the current arrangement was the best thing possible for the circus. It wasn’t like Schoenberg was keeping the money for himself. Every dollar he saved went straight back into the show. Schoenberg bought velvet and gold braid for Brunhilde’s costumes; he equipped the single spotlight with bulbs that glowed so brightly they sometimes burst like an explosion of stars. He paid for Al’s barbells and supervised with a megaphone the afternoon they all assembled an elaborate mail-order obstacle course for the tiger cubs. When he couldn’t find a muralist who satisfied him, Schoenberg bought vials of rare paint—ochre, cerulean, jade, magenta—stretched canvases, and lovingly painted the circus’s posters himself. And every now and then, a few new packets of twisting balloons for Webern or a hooked cane for Vlad and Fydor’s comedy routine turned up inexplicably in the Cadillac’s trunk. Still, it was never enough. Props were always getting broken or lost or—like Enrique’s swords—gambled away; costumes tore, and the tiger cubs never did learn to walk the A-beam or dive down the tunnel slide. No matter how much money Dr. Show spent, the circus was constantly vanishing around him.
And now he had vanished along with it. Empty coffee cups, crumpled-up napkins, bacon grease, and toast crumbs littered the tabletop in the diner, and still Dr. Schoenberg had not appeared. Webern glanced at the clock that hung askew on one wall, but the minute hand had hardly moved since he looked at it last. He took a deep breath and continued doodling in the ketchup on his empty plate, using a French fry for a pencil. So far he had drawn a top hat, a sword, and a tiny head with X’s for
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