AFTER UNCLE AL has made his selections, our workmen tear down all of the other circus’s tents except for the stable and menagerie. The remaining Fox Brothers men, no longer on anyone’s payroll, sit and watch, smoking and spitting wads of tobacco juice into tall patches of Queen Anne’s lace and thistles.
When Uncle Al discovers that city officials have yet to itemize the Fox Brothers baggage stock, a handful of nondescript horses get spirited from one stable tent to another. Absorption, so to speak. And Uncle Al’s not the only one with that idea—a handful of farmers hang around the edges of the lot, trailing lead ropes.
“They’re just going to walk out of here with them?” I ask Pete.
“Probably,” he says. “Don’t bother me none so long as they don’t touch ours. Keep your eyes open, though. It’s gonna be a day or two before anybody knows what’s what, and I don’t want none of ours going missing.”
Our baggage stock has done double duty, and the big horses are foaming and blowing hard. I persuade a city official to open a hydrant so we can water them, but they’re still without hay or oats.
August returns as we’re filling the last trough.
“What the hell are you doing? Those horses have been on a train for three days—get out there on the pavement and hard-ass them so they don’t go soft.”
“Hard-ass, my ass,” replies Pete. “Look around you. Just what the hell do you think they’ve been doing for the last four hours?”
“You used our stock?”
“What the hell did you want me to use?”
“You should’ve used their baggage stock!”
“I don’t know their fucking baggage stock!” shouts Pete. “And what’s the point of using their baggage stock if we’re just going to have to hard-ass ours to keep ’em in shape, anyway!”
August’s mouth opens. Then it shuts and he disappears.
BEFORE LONG, TRUCKS converge on the lot. One after another backs up to the cookhouse, and unbelievable amounts of food disappear behind it. The cookhouse crew gets right to work, and in no time at all, the boiler is running and the scent of good food—real food—wafts across the lot.
The food and bedding for the animals arrives shortly thereafter, in wagons rather than trucks. When we cart the hay into the stable tent, the horses nicker and rumble and stretch out their necks, snatching mouthfuls before it even hits the ground.
The animals in the menagerie are no less happy to see us—the chimps scream and swing from the bars of their dens, flashing toothy grins. The meat eaters pace. The hay burners toss their heads, snorting, squealing, and even barking in agitation.
I open the orangutan’s door and set a pan of fruits, vegetables, and nuts on the floor. As I close it, her long arm reaches through the bars. She points at an orange in another pan.
“That? You want that?”
She continues to point, blinking at me with close-set eyes. Her features are concave, her face a wide platter fringed with red hair. She’s the most outrageous and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Here,” I say, handing her the orange. “You can have it.”
She takes it and sets it on the floor. Then she reaches out again. After several seconds of serious misgivings, I hold out my hand. She wraps her long fingers around it, then lets go. She sits on her haunches and peels her orange.
I stare in amazement. She was thanking me.
“SO THAT’S THAT,” says August as we emerge from the menagerie. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Join me for a drink, my boy. There’s lemonade in Marlena’s dressing tent, and not that sock juice from the juice joint either. We’ll put a drop of whiskey in, hey hey?”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” I say. “I need to check the other menagerie.” Because of the peculiar status of the Fox Brothers baggage stock—whose numbers have been depleting all afternoon—I’ve seen for myself that they were fed and watered. But I have yet to lay eyes on their exotics or ring stock.
“No,” August says firmly. “You’ll join me now.”
I look over, surprised by his tone. “All right. Sure,” I say. “Do you know if they got fed and watered?”
“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”
“What?” I say.
“They’ll get fed and watered. Eventually.”
“August, it’s damned near ninety degrees. We can’t leave them without at least water.”
“We can, and we will. It’s how Uncle Al does business. He and the mayor will play chicken for a while, the mayor will figure out he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with giraffes and zebras and lions, he’ll drop his prices, and then—and only then—we’ll move in.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” I say, turning to walk away.
His hand locks around my arm. He comes in front of me and leans in so close his face is inches from mine. He lays a finger alongside my cheek. “Yes, you can. They will get cared for. Just not yet. That’s how it works.”