Nightbird Read Online Free Page B

the Mexican stud horse?” Pinto said. “Performing between whose legs?”
    “You wish you were between someone’s legs, you jealous Russkie.”
    “Tell me jealous when I visit you in the AIDS ward. I have enough to worry with living in the same house with you.”
    “If you saw this
chica
, ooh, baby. You should be jealous.”
    “I should get another roommate, that’s what I should. You chase too much pussy. I boil the forks after you eat.”
    The pair had worked the New York theater district for many years. They knew where to find every back door, open bathroom,
     free meal, and loose woman in a ten-block radius. They appeared only in the hot months, Memorial Day to Labor Day, then went
     south. They loved the big city’s money but hated the cold weather, Victor especially. Jack Frost strummed cruel tunes on his
     arthritic joints.
    “We’ll have a crowd today, my friend,” Pinto said. And the day did look promising: plenty of young, well-dressed Europeans
     with money to burn. “I can smell the shekels already.”
    “Shut up, Russkie. Don’t talk about work, talk about women.”
    On Wednesdays they did two shows: one for the matinee line, one for the evening ticket seekers. Matinee days were always a
     strain on Victor Nuñez; he’d hurt tomorrow. But today was different; he could feel the adrenaline rush, an excitement that
     had nothing to do with juggling. He needed to calm down.
    Victor closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. The sun was important to him; his bronzed skin made him stand out in
     any crowd. Every day he rubbed baby oil into his face. A man needed lubrication to keep his skin young. Especially a man who
     worshiped the sun. And getting sun in this city was not an easy task. A bare sliver of morning sun sliced between the buildings.
     Noon was the best time, when the sun stood directly overhead. Two hours either way and the narrow floor of the canyon turned
     dark enough for vampires. In front of them a steady stream of tourists crossed the small concrete island that separated Broadway
     from Seventh Avenue.
    “We need the bucks today,” Pinto said. “To pay the blood money in the parking lot.”
    “Why do you bring the stupid car? Take the subway. Leave the car in the Bronx.”
    “With this bag to carry? Besides, too many spics in the subway.”
    Pinto had his own bag of props containing the tools of prestidigitation. He’d learned his craft in the Moscow Circus, but
     the lure of easy rubles in con games and the pickpocket trade won him over, and he wound up having to do a disappearing act…
     to America. For eighteen years he’d plied magic in every flea-bitten circus and side show this side of the Atlantic. At least
     those desperate enough to hire him.
    Victor’s part of the act ran about twenty-five minutes depending on crowd banter. But banter, as long as it was gentle and
     funny, established rapport, and that was Pinto’s most valuable contribution. Victor with his dark good looks zeroed in on
     the ladies. Always the ladies. And that drew more cash than any artistry. On days like today, with the weather warm, Pinto
     worked the kids, while Victor did his entire routine—the pins, the bowling balls, then finishing with the torches. The bowling
     balls were the hardest part, ravaging his elbows and shoulders, but fire was the big ending. Guaranteed to open wallets. They
     liked to finish at the exact moment the ticket booth opened. Moods changed at that moment, people sensed movement, progress,
     and happy people were generous people.
    “The woman from the Big Apple Circus could come today,” Pinto said.
    “Forget the Big Apple Circus, Pinto. They don’t want us, and I don’t want them. This summer is my last in this city.
Finito
.”
    “Oh, I forgot. The man with big plans.
El patrón
, strutting around his fancy restaurant in his white suit. Fucking all the little waitresses.”
    “
Silencio, por favor
. Your bad breath is making dark clouds.”
    Victor