Death of the Prize Baboon

       And so, this is how it happens—slow rain on the glass and sad music crooning over the record player.  Tommy Wilkins—proud proprietor of Wilkins Wonderful Traveling Menagerie—slumps in a plush chair.  Tween his teeth is the remnant bud of a Cuban cigar; his eyes are hidden behind heavy, round sunglasses the gloom of the evening doesn’t require.  His little train car is littered with a collection of oddities.  The snaking skeleton of some deep-sea monstrosity weaves across the ceiling, winding tween Turkish censers, dangling voodoo heads, rosaries, and things I don’t have names for.  Homunculi swim, formaldehyde-drunk in a hundred separate jars beside books and good-luck charms that’ve bought their owner nothing but trouble.  Presently, Mr. Wilkins pulls a handkerchief from his burgundy tux and blows his fat nose.  The noise is repulsive.

            I, clearing my throat, lean forward in my seat.  “That all you’ve got, Mr. Wilkins?”

            “All!  All!  Ah-ha!”  

            The short, balding man starts weeping again.  I wait for him to calm.  “This, uh-baboon…”

            “Clarence de Pommard!”

            “-right.” I massage my temple.  “Clarence-”

            “Doctor, if you would.”  Again, the repulsive sound of his nose.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “He was a doctor, Clarence.  A doctor of philosophy, etymology, philology!  All honorary, of course.  Still…truly…truly a savant.”  Mr. Wilkins’s eyes focus on something behind me.  Following the gaze, I see an old photograph of a less-bald Mr. Wilkins standing proudly by a large, grinning baboon dressed in the livery of a French general.  “Very smart, him.  Best mind we had—minus Professor, of course.  Too smart for such an end, detective.”  Mr. Wilkins, grabbing my arm, locks eyes with me.  “Please, sir—do what you must!  Tear up the very foundations of the earth if you can!  Find what happened to my dear, dear friend.”

            Eager to be rid of Mr. Wilkins’s presence, I stand.  A breeze rolls through the train car, though I can’t tell where from.  If there are any windows, they’re hidden behind myriad old posters promising sights, wonders, and reasonably-priced funnel cake.  I adjust my suspenders.  Ain’t such a thing as reasonably-priced funnel cake.  Folk don’t get funnel cake for the price.  My overcoat—my hat—are hanging by the door. I put on the coat. Wish it still smelled like blueberry pancakes—I’m hungry.  It smells like detergent.

            Putting on my hat, I look back at Mr. Wilkins.  “I’ll find out what happened, you can count on that so long as I can count on that money.”

            Smiling weakly, the ringmaster nods.

            “Good.”  I steal a last glance at the old photo of man and baboon.  “Have a better night, Mr. Wilkins.”  Turning, I step out.     

            Rain’s done a regular number on the traveling circus.  Mud churns up tween the candy-stripe stands.  Shoot-a-Duck, Whack-a-Mole, Tickle-a-Granny—Wilkins’s got all the classics.  They spurt their tin-can music and flash their rain-streaked tungstens despite the storm.  Verdigrised speakers dangle from wobbling, wooden poles.  Some old music I don’t recognize rolls out from their ancient tongues.  Even Wilkins’s workforce is something of a marvel: speechless creatures who hide their skin under heavy, off-creme rubber.  Gas-mask coverings hide their faces, and their lenses glow a strange off-green.  They tick like clocks when they move, and communicate with little printed fortunes they pull from their chests.  I walk over to a popcorn stand.  Behind stands one of the workers—this one dressed in a red pin-stripe suit and straw hat.  It sidles over to me and whines mechanically.  With a chirp, it spits a fortune from its chest and hands it to me.  

            A wise man seeks popcorn in bad weather.

            I chuckle, taking a dime from my pocket.  “Ain’t that the truth.  Give me a bag, guy, and don’t stimp.”

            Taking the dime, the employee turns to work, scooping steaming, yellow kernel-bursts into a paper sack.  In less than thirty seconds, I’m tossing popcorn into my mouth.  It’s not bad.  A little tasteless, maybe, but it warms me against the rain.

            Cocking an eyebrow, I study the employee.  It wipes the counter.  The wood’s clean.  Perfectly so.  Rubber squeaks as the employee moves—can’t help but wonder what’s under the rubber.  The more I think about it, the less I’m sure I really want to know.  It doesn’t matter.

            “Listen, buddy,” a kernel catches in my teeth, “here enquiring after a baboon.  One Clarence-” I pick the kernel loose with my tongue.  “Pardon me—DOCTOR Clarence de Pommard.  Ring a bell?”

            There’s a chime, another fortune: Only a fool forgets his friends when it rains.

            “‘Friends’, huh?  There you go—seems folk around here were pretty fond of ol’ Pommard.  Shame about what happened.”  I wait for another fortune.  Turning, I rest my back on the popcorn stand—I can still feel the popcorn-seller watching me.  Across the way, at another booth, two employees are trading heated fortunes and angry ticks.  “Nothing to say?”

            A chime, a fortune: Sorrow mutes all voices.

            I crumple the fortune.  “Hmm, that it does.  You know anybody might wanna do Dr. Pommard any harm?”

            Flowers grown in jealousy grow crooked.

            Re-reading the latest fortune, I nod.  “Indeed, they do.  Indeed, they do.  Not you though, eh?”  Turning to face the popcorn-seller, I see its attention taken over by a young couple braving the rain.  Laughing tween themselves, they ask the employee for a bag and riffle through their pockets for change.  Tossing popcorn into my mouth, I leave the seller to his work.  Across the way, the two other employees are still at it.  One is in red swim-trunks, the other in a blue, polka-dot bikini.  Over the rubber, the swimsuits seem unnecessary.  Presently, the bikinied one slaps the other.

            “Alright you two, how about you calm down?”

            Turning to face me, I’m surprised how much emotion their stagnant masks hold.

            “What’s going on here?”

            After a moment, the bikinied one hands me a fortune.  Too much work makes a sunny day seem dreary.  Jutting a finger over its shoulder, the bikinied employer points out an old tank filled with murky water.

            I nod.  “Tired of getting dunked, huh?”

            The employee nods, prints out another fortune, and hands it to me.  Shared labor is hardly labor at all.  

            The other employee, ticking angrily, grabs the fortune from my hands and tears it up.  A moment later, it hands me a fortune of its own.  No swim if u dont no how.  Verry dangerus.

            Reading the fortune, I can’t help but snicker.  “That ain’t how you spell-”  

            The borderline-illiterate employee is staring at me, lenses flickering slightly. 

            I tear the fortune.  “Whatever—not my circus.  Either of you know anything about Dr. Pommard?”

            My question goes unanswered—they’re back to bickering, and I’m just a silly little fly.  Shrugging, I take my popcorn and continue through the rain.

            I leave the tent for The Marvelous Many-Shoed Milly Million with a black eye and a bruised shin.  Can’t really be upset with her.  Can’t imagine it’s easy to keep track of that many feet at once.  My note pad is full of scribbles mostly.  I tuck it into my coat before the rain can damage it.  It's late—lights are blooming.  The rain gleams gold.  Folk funnel tween the tents and stands and what umbrellas they can find.  There aren’t many people tonight—the rain, no doubt.  Milly had never really liked the baboon.  Said Dr. Pommard was ‘creepy’.  Rich coming from a woman with several legs and four eyes.  Who am I to judge?  I was born in Vermont—suppose that makes me just as much of a freak as these people.  Milly was too freaked out by Dr. Pommard to have been able to beat him to death with a brick.

            Stuck in a daze, I almost bump in to a man in a brown suit.

            “I say, sir!  You almost bumped into me, and I in my brown suit!”

            “Sorry, fella—spacing off.”

            The man folds his arms.  “I can tell!  Here I am, just walking about in my brown suit, trying to enjoy the carnival, and you almost bump into me!”

            “Said I was sorry.”

            “And you better be!  Can you imagine what would have happened to my brown suit if you’d bumped into me? Good heaves, man!  You have some nerve almost bumping into me like that!  Can you not see my brown suit?  I say!  Good day to you, sir!”

            The man bustles off in a huff to ogle a trio of ballet-dancing women with fish heads and very little clothing.  Grumbling, I pull out my notebook and put the jerk at the top of my suspect list.  

            The sign is decorated with Art-Neuvo swirls of chipping gold.  The weather has not done wonders for the paint. 

Beautiful Brenda Half-N-Half—Barista and Brainiac from Boston

Brenda’s next on the list, then Professor Nexus—after that, I’ll have interviewed every major attraction, including the Ferris Wheel.  Still, I feel no closer to the truth.  Night’s in full-swing.  Folk are scant—most of them are weirdos come to drunkenly bark at scatter-brain employees and catch the after-hours Prancing Pixie Bordello Show.  I’d attend the show, but I really can’t stand the Swiss.  

            I step into the warm gloom of the tent.

            Inside, everything is done-up in the pursuit of comfort.  Pillows cover the floor, low couches line the wall.  Little halogen lamps dangle from the support beams.  A blue-petalled cherry blossom is painted on a four-paneled dressing screen. 

A harsh, east-coast voice steeped in coffee hops over the screen.  “It’s past nine.  Beat it!”

            Clearing my throat, I remove my hat.  “Sorry to bother you Miss-uh, Brenda.”

            “Then don’t.”

            “Please, ma’am.  I’m A. Detective—just want to ask you some questions about Dr. Pommard’s death.”

            Her voice softens like flowers in the sun.  “Oh?  Forgive me, detective.  I’ll be right out.  Make yeself at home.”

            Turning, I sit on the nearest couch.

            A moment later, I see a leg peak from behind the shade.  It’s smooth.  Dim shadows play in its curves.  A red velvet nightgown dances along its calf.  My gut tightens; my collar feels itchy.  Fiddling with my jacket, I pull out my notepad.  A single, clean foot plays in the air, followed by another and its leg.  I wonder what the rest of Brenda looks like and my tongue feels dry.

            The legs step out in full.  Just the legs.  Above the navel, no body exists—only brassy electrodes and blinking machinery like radio towers.  Striding across the room, nightgown dragging behind, the legs find slippers and elegantly step into them.

            It takes me a moment to notice the voice to my right.  Shaking my head, I tear my eyes from the legs and spy the rest of Brenda stepping from the opposite end of the dressing shade.  The remainder of the nightgown covers her—a garment richer, doubtlessly, than the rest of the circus.  Just under her ribs is a ticking amalgam of clockwork and plating, ending in four spider-like, mechanical appendages.       

            She smiles.  She’s pretty.  Sadly, watching the legs wind an old gramophone, I’m a bit too shaken to care about looks anymore.

            “You had some questions for me, Mistah…”

            “Uh- Detective.”  I try to ignore the legs as they wind up an old gramophone.  Stange music starts playing.  It’s like warbling orchestral dream-tunes played through submarine walls.  “A. Detective.”

            “Oh, very lovely name.”  Brenda sips from a cup of coffee on a bookshelf.  “German?”

            “Quebecois, actually.”

            “You take coffee, Mistah Detective.”

            “No, I usually pay.”

            She smiles.  “Please, it’s on the house.”  She gestures to my right.

            There’s a little dollhouse sitting on an end table.  Taking the warm cup of coffee off the dollhouse roof, I sip.  It’s good—unmistakably Bostonian.  

            Brenda, moving closer, smiles and swirls her own cup.  “My mothah always said tea was best on rainy nights.” A frown passes her eyes.  “She got run ovah by a bus last year.”

            I can’t really tell how to properly change the subject.  Sipping from the coffee, I wince.  Too loud.  Sipping too loud.  I force a smile.  “Tea—how about that?  Thought you people hated the stuff.”

            “Let’s not bring religion into this, Mistah Detective.”

            I don’t respond.

            Brenda, setting aside her coffee, fold her arms.  Her legs walk over and begin tapping a toe.  “You had some questions, I believe.”

            “Yes,” clearing my throat, I place the coffee back on the dollhouse, “of course.  How well did you know Dr. Pommard?”

            “Very—we spent some time in college togethah.  I was studying psychology; he was a baboon.  On Saturdays I would take a walk to a little pond and feed geese.  I can’t really say what Clarence did on Saturdays.”

            “I see, and you both ended up in the same carnival?”

            “Of course!  Where else is a bright-eyed girl from Bahstan spose to go?  Down to the hahbah to catch labstahs with all the rest of her family?  Not me—I had ambition.  Went straight north to Saskatchewan to work in the United States Space Defense Division—Canadian Branch.  There I studied lasahs and rockets and how to blow men up with my mind.”

            I’m unsure where Brneda’s story is going, but I need a lead.  

            “It was there where I was split in half—an unfortunate accident with a lasah and a bad fuse, you see.  After that, it was barista work, mostly.  What highly-confidential government agency would want a freak like me?  After a while, found my way here.  Mr. Wilkins took me right in, made me paht of his little family.”

            Taking a moment to pick anything useful from Brenda’s story, I nod.  “I see.  Listen, Miss Brenda, there anyone you can think of would want to do harm to Dr. Pommard?”

            She nods.  She is silent.

            I wait.

            More silence.

            “Miss Brenda, you got a name?”

            “Brenda.”

            “Right.  You gotta name of someone want to do Dr. Pommard harm?”

            A scowl scratches its ugly way across her brow.  “Only one man could do something so foul-”

Professor Dingo Nexus

The sign is punctuated with buzzing, green neons.

Professor Dingo Nexus

Head Museum and Free Lobotomy Ride!

Grunting, I pull the cigarette from my lips and fling it to the ground.  I have no idea where the cigarette came from—I don’t smoke.

            Sun’s not too far off, and I don’t have much to go on.  The carnival lights—carnival music—is all but gone. Booths, stands, tents, lay empty.  A drunk man has died in the street—pixies from the bordello show are eating him.  I’m not confident in the act’s legality, but I don’t want to be xenophobic.  Employees, their rubber squeaking in the rain, clean up wrappers, popcorn.

            Professor Dingo’s tent is the farthest out—a lone tombstone on a hill.  It’s massive, colorless, and the shadows beyond its flap haunt me.

            No other choice—I enter.  Darkness greats me, and I push through another flap.  Beyond, all is steeped in electric-blue light.  A grand colosseum of shelves lines the inner wall, all of them stacked with dozens of heads suspended in glowing jars.  Lesser celebrities, failed politicians, one-hit singers.  They follow me with their eyes.  Some talk among themselves, others whistle, others snore.  The head of not-so-famous poet laureate of Arkansas, Jon Atkins, greets me.

            “Well, look what the storm dragged in!  Whatcha need, stud?”

            Trying not to be disturbed by the meaty tendrils of neck flesh left below the head’s chin, I wave.  “Just looking for Professor Nexus.”

            “Oh?  Down there.”  He points his eyes to the center of the room.  There, wired and tubed to a number of malicious machines, an employee dangles by great, sweaty hooks.  Its limbs have been removed and its brain—still attached by exposed nerves—extracted.  It groans under its rubber.  A nearly-naked man with bushy, black hair and large ape-like robotic hands fiddles with dials beside the employee.

            I pass another wave at Jon Atkins.  “Thanks.”

            “Ain’t a problem, hot stuff.  So…head?”

            Choosing not to respond, I walk on.  “Professor Nexus?”

            He twists a dial; the employee shrieks.  “Eh?”

            “I’m-” I try not to lock eyes with the employee “I’m A. Detective—just want to ask some questions.”  One of the employee’s lenses is broken.  I can see a lone, blood-shot eye pleading out.  This is the last carnival I ever go to.  “If you wouldn’t mind-”

            “Wouldn’t mind?  Of course I would! Can you not see I’m trying to teach this fool opera?”  He pulls a lever; the employee screams and cries.  “But, very well—questions about the late Clerance de Pommard, no doubt?”

            “Yes.”

            “Ha!  Good riddance!”

            I fish for my notebook.

            “I hated him!  What a pompous ass!  I wish I could have just beaten that miserable ape to death with a brick!”

            That feels like a confession.  

            “Alas, I’ve been here dealing with this fool for the past week!  Ask anyone!  Ask Jon Atkins, he’s reliable.”

            Looking back over my shoulder, I sigh.  “Damn.”   

            Dawn come slow like a dribble of milkshake passing through slacks, then underwear, and dropping cold at last on to the balls of fate.  I shiver, and throw another cigarette from my lips.  This time, I know where it’s from.  Since confirming Professor Nexus’s story, I’ve taken up smoking.  Bath salts too, but I think I’ll kick that habit.  It’s been a hell of a night, and I can feel it behind my knees.  I ain’t got the slightest clue who killed the prized baboon.  Now, staring at his untouched corpse laying at the rear end of the Wilkins Wonderful Traveling Menagerie, I feel sad.  Would have liked to have met the doc—maybe, after all I’ve seen tonight, he’d have been normal.  Sniffing some of that sweet, sweet blue silk and chasing the blossom-fairy into a smooth salt-induced bliss, I look left and see an old man picking up litter.  He’s wearing overalls and missing most of his teeth.  Shaking myself from the lunar wave, I approach.

            “Excuse me, sir?”

            He flinches at the sight of me.  Who can blame him?  I haven’t slept all night, haven’t shaved, and have grown cripplingly dependent on monkey dust in the past hour.

            “Mean no harm, sir, just wanted to know if you work here.”

            Calming down, the man nods.  “Yup.”

            “Work here long?”

            “Longer than most—been working Wilkins for decades.  From back when they hired regular folk.  Now we got all these weirdos from Nebraska working all the stands.”

            Ignoring the comment about the USA’s thirty-first most romantic state, I point over to Dr. Pommard’s abandoned corpse.  “Know anything about that?”

            “Sure.  Watched it happen.”

            My heart flutters.  My addiction to Hurricane Charlie vanishes and I shit myself from excitement.  Or sleep-deprivation.  It’s hard to tell.  Not very professional either way, and I try to hide it.  I study the old man—there’s no lie on his face.  “What happened?”

            He shrugs.  “Moron tossed a brick in the air and that sucker came right back down and popped open his skull.”

            “What?”  I feel like I’m going to be sick.  “Why?”

            “Why what?  He was a baboon.”  The old man shrugs.  “You know how baboons are.”

            Admittedly, I do not.  I feel a tug in my pants.  This time it’s not my bowels—this time it’s the tug of knowing I won’t get paid if it was just an accident.  Something dawns on me—a solution, just possibly, to everyone’s issues.

            Three days later I’m richer, Mr. Wilkins has his closure, and the man in the brown suit has been sentenced to death via the electric chair.