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Bashfulness was a career-ending trait when one needed to show off to a world watering at the mouth for new kinds of entertainment.
For all that, circuses were about people—living, breathing people and their acts. Titanica was either ignoring it or had grown up downwind of a stockyard.
And not from peeping under a curtain. Crawling on her belly across the roof of the car, she made her way to the second hatch and pulled it away with the stealth and slowness of a cat burglar. Not much to see but a bloated pair of legs and tortured feet with slender ankles between. She peered in further, seeing his overhanging paunch which easily covered his crotch.
He could stand up and not have his genitals exposed, his fat pad hung so low on his body. The reek rising up and out of the unsealed hatch was enough to curdle her stomach.
And there it was. Twinkling like a dim star that had become lost on Earth was a pinprick of light on the same track miles behind.
Miniscule and sometimes winking in and out of sight, the headlamp of a following train always seemed to be there, neither growing nor shrinking. Trees growing along the right of way blocked her view of the faraway headlamp glint while the train chugged along, but Aimee kept looking, almost hypnotized until the meager spark appeared again. Miles back, she estimated. Miles and holding steady. Any farther back and the curvature of the Earth would hide it from view. Aimee Hope had ridden out the shuddering minute of dry-mouthed excitement that was the initial derailment.
With the freight car still level and squarely on the rails, she climbed down the ladder at the near end and dropped to the wet ground. Goggles still in place over her eyes, she saw the scene as nothing much out of the ordinary except to the east where the front of the stopped train curled around.
It was a gigantic boiler on wheels and it just might be ruptured and spewing steam hot enough to peel the skin off man or beast. Then again, critical relief valves might be damaged, forcing the pressure to build into a bomb. Here and there, men jumped down from the stopped cars to look. Bronco Stillwell stood talking with a cluster of men, pointing this way and that. In another moment, Bronco jogged to the derailed engine.
The storm was upon them now, no question and what had been steady rain intensified to a cloudburst of heavy, fast drops that hit like the spray of a garden hose on full. Silhouettes of curious passengers appeared in the windows of the Pullman cars and shades went up, throwing more light onto the scene.
Groans and thumps came through the wooden walls of the freight car. With her heart still accelerated from the potentially deadly accident, the Swiss took hold of the edge of the door and despite her agnostic views, prayed that the damned thing was still on its track. Grumbling, the door rolled back and stopped with a thunk.
She had opened this same door many times and still expected to see stunt show equipment, costumes and cycles. With Udo Morgenstern gone, it was a completely different show season, a completely different circus and a completely different train. Complete, the Hasselbach and Wolper circus train came out to be three tenths of a mile long. A LOT to look after and a veritable village on wheels.
But where was the new mayor of this village? In the light of the Pullman cars, men came running. Cries of distress from inside. The rain was daunting however, and many who had braved the rain to look went right back on board. No iron hasp was bolted to secure the big sliding freight door. Enormous as the two riders inside the wagon were, they were not animals and were not under lock and key. Meinhardt Gross and Titanica, Queen of Jutland were worth a fortune, but the notion remained: How far could they get?
The single electric lamp that Titanica had left on revealed an obscene sight. Gross and the giantess were back to back on the floor in a weird tangle of limbs. Bare and revolting with his folds of flesh draping from his limbs, Gross turned his bald head toward Aimee and stared. His eyes were tiny, swallowed up by the puffy flesh of his round, moon face. He might have soiled himself, but so far Aimee only smelled fresh urine and concluded either he or both of them had lost bladder control.
I have to get some assistance. Grumbling about the stink and offering other personal remarks, a gang of burly riggers piled into the freight car and got the two huge people pushed apart. Winded, the lead rigger made for the door. She tried standing with her back to the wall, but grew woozy. I know I that I have hurt it on something! I am not able to see you. Who are all these men? And if you could do a good turn, hand me my carpet bag. You are a most pitiful man, Mr.
I am thinking…I will be…all right. There she sat with her eyes rolling in her head. She vomited on an empty stomach, spitting out something clear and sour. I was caught standing when Gross fell into me. Looking winded and ready to lapse into sleep, the giantess blew deep breaths, ignorant perhaps of the fact that she had lost a whole finger.
One of the riggers vainly wiped rain from his face. He manages these oddballs, you know. This one I CAN help! Elsewhere in the world, the giant was cast in the traditional role as the villain. Among giants, female giants were all the more rare and sought after. Fat men and women counted as giants, arguably, but seldom in a vertical sense.
Can anybody fetch a loading ramp? Cody, the leader licked his lips, ready to talk. I was here under the previous boss, Morgenstern. Tad under six feet tall, dark hair, thin mustache. Captain in the U. I got nothing against him. Something hit Aimee Hope like a bolt of lightning. Get everybody up and out of the train! What in hell are you talking about, woman?
I remember that suit! Speechless for a trice, the pompous fake pointed his stick at her. Its assets are MY responsibility. Amid all the shouting, the giantess began to come around.
She was speaking, but not English. She winced and cried out in pain. And never YOUR sort! Aintcha never seen a flare gun, you knothead? Considerably less dignified-looking with the rain making his facial hair soggy and droopy on his cheeks, the fraud professor turned his back on her and peered into the wagon.
He turned away, wrinkling his nose. At once, do you hear? She does not associate with arrogant Gallic smugglers and truck thieves or the trained jigaboos who jump to their whistle! My God, what has this country come to? Word is, you were born in Labrador. What are they stealing these days? The pretend professor tightened his squint.
Lousy land pirates, the lot of you! She blasted off a flare. The approaching headlamp was frighteningly obvious now and the speed of the locomotive was hard to gauge in the rain. Aimee reloaded and fired again and again. Approaching steadily, the once-tiny headlamp grew into a terrifying cyclops eye as it neared. No whistle, just the chug of the pistons and the grinding wheels.
Forget everything and get your people out. Especially the ones without legs. Well, she got burned…and so will you! You owe me a favor for not turning you into the sheriff! Scooting on his naked buttocks, Gross made it to the door of the freight car under his own power, but from there, the giant had no plan.
Gross reached out for her, but grabbed thin air and rain. Aimee Hope had seen train wrecks—it was impossible to predict where the cars would end up when they took a high-speed impact. But not in time. Hamilton Branch had gone over the details of his part of the heist.
And timing was so important. Beating the train to Omaha could be done, but he had to go NOW and keep up a pace, storm or not storm.
A round hole in the dashboard stared back at him where an after-market clock was supposed to go. Not in the budget. Wet and cold and on the verge of puking out of anxiety, Hamilton got the double wooden garage doors opened and the Oldsmobile fired up and warmed for the long trip.
This is MY car, Ham. And I hate the color you painted it. But this is big. Bigger than anything yet. This place is mortgaged to the hilt and this job will be the one that gets me out from under and back into the game again.
I need a getaway car. I owe a real tough cookie a favor and this is it. She withdrew a 3x5 print and held it up so he could see it in the mirror. I found this picture in your sock drawer, Ham.
Who cares what his real name is? Just get out the car, Nina. I can explain the whole crazy thing tomorrow over breakfast. They could talk—no one else was around for miles. Just what is this job anyway, Ham? And for you own good, neither should you. Will ya slow down, Ham! This is Nebraska, not Kansas. We actually put curves in our roads…you might be surprised. Hamilton got it under control again.
The light from the headlamp dazzled and Aimee resolved not to stare at it, no matter the urgency—she had to find her way with eyes used to the dark.
Those with guns fired off shots to warn the train and keep people moving. The tactic worked for the circus train, but had no effect on the one thundering forth. The sound that would tear out nearby eardrums was the resounding smash as the locomotive hit the unmoving train ahead of it.
It was a racket on the level of a garbage can rolling in the wind compared to the godlike blast of the Halifax Explosion, but loud enough, all the same. Scores of people saw the actual collision, but by the time the last of the cars stopped moving and came to rest, there were very few witnesses left.
Like gold, survival was where you found it, and luckily for the passengers in the Pullman cars forward of the middle of the circus train, the awesome slam delivered to the rear of the train was not so terrible once the shock had traveled through a furlong of rolling stock.
Necks and backs still broke, but these were few and largely contained to a select few who had stiffened too much in anticipation of the crash. Those caught by surprise fared better, but only a hundredth of the passengers escaped serious injury and Aimee was one of them of that blessed number.
Fire and steam shot into the sky and Aimee donned her goggles and buried her face in her camel hair coat, refusing to be blinded by the flash. Bits of the locomotive, some weighing in the hundreds of pounds were shot into the stormy sky to come down as a rain of their own, smashing through whoever and whatever was below.
The derailed cars formed into N, W, V and Z shapes when their couplers refused to let go under the strain. Holding her breath, Aimee curled into a ball on an earthen embankment as Pullman which apparently dreamed it was an airplane tilted into the sky and launched itself over another with less ambition.
Inside that car, noises of injured people thumping around came through the broken windows. Suspended for a moment, the Pullman dropped as its center cracked and gave way.
Windows burst out under pressure. Not trusting the ground to hold up the weight of the Pullman, she got out from under the slanting mass of the passenger car and went back down to the roadbed where the Platte had taken its share of derailed cars and people.
Flailing in the cold water and the rain, people who had survived the moments of deadly tumbling and tossing were now in the Platte, some in the shallows, but many in the current and on their downstream. What had been the roof of the caboose followed in his wake. She never saw him again. Git on back with mah barrel! I NEED that for mah act! He snapped his fingers in a unique moment of recognition.
I wudna knowed you was back in the show. It sure is good to see ya! He broke out his lariat. The war changed all that. Come with me, please Okie…I might need you. Boss said it was gasoline. The river, she had to conclude. The rain-swollen Platte had taken her right along with Gross and dead or alive, they were being carried to the Missouri, but would likely die of exposure long before they could be rescued.
Why did it have to happen? Without enough light and in the rain and with the area turned unrecognizable with the wreckage of the train heaped as high as forty feet, the place was chaos. Footprints in the muddy ground were a mess, but among the lifeless bodies, Aimee could see most of the tracks led to the front of the train. Neither looked to be the case. Aimee went right up to him and looked in his dull eyes. It finally sputtered to life and despite some itching to continue on to Iowa, she went west instead.
Car headlights in a deep ditch caught her attention and Aimee swung off to investigate. She leaned the motorcycle on a bush and climbed down, staying out of the light. Through the rain and the wind and the tangles, she came upon an Oldsmobile sedan that had left the highway on a turn and crashed into a tree. Steam spewed from the split radiator and the engine idled no matter the crumpled hood.
If the headlights had been out, she would never have seen it, given the dull gray finish. Seatbelts were a feature for cars of the future; the driver of the Olds had gone through the windshield and was sprawled on the crumpled hood, senseless, bleeding from a series of cuts on sharp glass.
Used to being around injured and dead people, Aimee frisked the body, rifling his pockets, coming up with house keys, reading glasses and finally a wallet. Hamilton Branch, lately of Detroit. The upholstery smelled perfume sweet. A seat which was still warm and dimpled from a wide rear end. A bullet struck the rear fender. The aim was low for a bang that close. Drawing her own gun, Aimee prepared to shoot back.
Limping and finally dropping to one knee, a woman in a raincoat raised her revolver again and cracked off another round, shooting the ground. I just came up from the tracks a ways back at the river. You a God-damned Kraut…or a nurse? But the accent was Windy City through and through. No gunmoll either, not with that rotten aim. The train business went sour. The soldier in the picture. HE was the captain. And whoever he was, he was key to something that had proved deadly.
Well, probably, Aimee thought. Par for the course. Derailed in the dark, miles from a station. But where does that leave ME? Aimee produced a length of looped hose from her coat pocket, found the fillpipe of the Oldsmobile and began siphoning gas into a canteen.
He went too fast in the storm. This was MY car! I want a share of the take. Aimee hid her mental avidity. Now shut up and get in the car. This can all work, but not if you foul things up worse than they already are. The derailment had been planned. The second accident which had obliterated the circus train had not been, but somehow, it might serve whatever the couple in the Oldsmobile had been up to. Shivering, feeling deep emotional shock coming on, Aimee braced herself for a tough decision.
Even in the storm and the dark, it looked huge--bigger and grander than anything she had seen in days, a veritable White House in the middle of the prairie.
By tomorrow, it would be a hive of activity, but for the moment, it was a sleepy block of stone, ignorant of the train wreck and about to be prodded into wakefulness. Her first order of business was to find an escape route—something the sedan could not follow. It took minutes, but Aimee found just such a bottleneck where her motorcycle could squeeze through. In the wee hours of the morning, only a few lights burned at the courthouse, but if Aimee knew anything, there had be somebody with a badge in there.
Not a soul on the streets. Now to make it look as if she had really come from an accident, not simply drenched from the storm.
That meant a little gore was in order. It was going to hurt intensely for a moment, but coming in bloodied was key to getting the right kind of attention.
Finding her pen knife, she opened it and slid the long, slender blade up her left nostril until the point pricked a little deeper than she wanted, but not serious and she smelled the familiar coppery scent of blood. Rain washed the blade of the single drop and she put the knife away. In seconds, blood was in her nose, on her upper lip, in her mouth and trickling down her chin as if she had come from a fight and lost.
A big Ford sedan with a star painted on the door sat parked under a tree with no one at the wheel. Rainwater gushed around the wheels and down the street. The storm had hit here, but not had turned downtown into a lake and not a single barrier was in place to detour traffic.
Credibility is key, Aimee thought. She mounted the steps, mindful of how wet they were and went in the wooden doors, sniffing back the blood. The lights inside were low; it was after hours and there was no need to have to place blazing. Leaving wet footprints on the clean floor, she approached the nearest desk, not in a quick, confident stride, but in a slight limp, hitching along. She kept her goggles and helmet in place and her camel hair coat.
If her guns showed, she would be in big trouble. She kept the lowermost buttons fastened. Murals of the old courthouse. Posters warning of influenza. He might have been wearing pajamas for how drowsy he looked. He wore a suit sans the coat, but had everything else including a vest with a badge pinned in place. He squeezed his eyes shut and fished into a pocket for bifocals. He worked his lips and peered out unfocused as if his last two cups of coffee had run their course and left low and flat.
He gave a last nudge to his glasses and shook visibly. She hoped to God no one really understood Italian in the Heartland. She brought her gloved hand down flat on the desk. Papers whisked in the breeze of her swat. The squeaky wheel got the grease. She spilled the tale as if she had only four seconds to tell the entire thing with only a smidgen of plain English and lots of frenetic gestures.
If she were going to play the part of a passionate Italian immigrant, a week or two out of Ellis Island, she had to talk fast. Aimee grabbed a blank form and used it to dab her nose. A second was dead air, she accelerated her delivery, running out of breath, but not giving in one bit. Just give me a second! Noisy little garlic muncher! The eyes behind the glasses seemed to say. He had to wipe his glasses.
She wiped her bleeding nose, starting in with more rapid-fire Italian. Annoyed as hell, but buying it. Were YOU on the train? The color drained from his face and Kinney looked like he was going to puke. Shrugging at the map, Aimee put on a sudden, clever face. She thrust her hand into an inside pocket and came out with something small and white and square. It was a circus handbill with the colorful printed side folded in.
The note carried the details of the crash, right down to the railroad milepost. The ink was runny, but the note was legible. Even when the deputy read it, she craned to read it with him. Now what a-you do? Paul Revere no gotta phone! Oh, thank-a you, mucha. I tell-a my bambinos. She smacked her helmet hard enough to make it hurt. It had a few soggy bills inside.
Signora in auto…she bad! When he looked up again, he was staring at a swinging door. It banged in the frame, letting in wet wind. You crazy dago--come back here! He was down the steps, looking left and right on the wet sidewalk, but he had been to slow, she was gone. Somehow, the storm had swallowed her up. The phone, quiet for so long, rang, forcing him back to the desk. Phones in other parts of the courthouse began to ring. No matter his fifty-five years, he flew up the steps to answer the still-ringing phone.
Whatever it is, clear this line! I have to put a bunch of calls through! In a few hours, the sun would be up. Thankfully, outside help trickled in. Mostly just able bodies, but they were needed. Heavy equipment to move smashed cars had not arrived yet. Among the circus crew still able to move around, there were enough men to clear away the debris and help remove the injured and dead. Fires still burned and the locomotives seeped smoke and steam, but far less given the rain and the passage of hours.
Aimee returned to the site of the train wreck. Okie Osgood had dutifully stood guard over the upended freight car. That's why I love Nebraska. Titanica had little in the way of worldly possessions; the Cloquet fire really had taken everything she owned and held dear. A single large suitcase with her name on a tag was apparently her only luggage. Others who had formed their own little groups might have been speaking Czech, Hungarian, Turkish and Greek.
Morgenstern had employed mostly black roustabouts. With little else to keep them at that spot, they worked their way east along the Platte, clambering over wreckage and wading in the shallows, following the beam of her torch. With the rain falling, the Platte flowing and other commotion from well to the east of where Okie and Aimee stood, pinpointing the crying sounds at first was difficult.
The overnight quiet, so expected in the prairie was not be had. As if negotiating an obstacle course or escaping through a tangle in the wetlands, they were over, under, around and through smashed wood and metal to reach the nearest door. Footprints and a few missing shoes were in the mud below the exit. Many had made it out, but not everybody. Storm notwithstanding, Aimee took off her camel hair coat and left it with Okie.
The crying sounds quieted down. Not the best spot, but she needed both hands free. In response, Okie rubbed his chin absently with his fist. It was everything Okie described and more--dark, cold and wet. The shattered windows had let plenty of rain into the Pullman and everything that could take on moisture was soaked. Baggage, loose clothing and other personal items were everywhere. And there was blood. Mostly on firm ground, the far end of the Pullman was in the Platte and swaying slightly with the current as the river pushed under and around the obstruction.
Broken glass crunched under her boots. Rain poured in through the broken windows. Unexpectedly, her boot slid and her leg shot out from under her. A timely grab onto a bolted-down section of rail held her in place and she drew her leg back.
She slid in something, and grabbed the nearest thing to steady herself—which turned out to be the outstretched hand of a victim hopelessly pinned. The wrist was tepid and had no pulse. Her light shone on his bloody sleeve and just as quickly swung away, sparing her the sight of his head, whatever condition it might be in.
The infant whimpering she had thought she heard coming from a derailed Pullman car was not a child. Something different about the voice—something that kept it from sounding like a child. Not a caged bird, maybe a small dog? A little splash in a dark corner, but no signs of movement yet. There had been only one Phineas Taylor Barnum and only one General Tom Thumb, but with them both out of the picture, they had left a show business vacuum that scores of people had rushed to fill.
Thrilled at the prospect of fame and money, diminutive men and women had left their often humiliating routines and stampeded for anything that could make them stars. Vaudeville, amusement parks, carnivals and not to be forgotten, the circus. Hasselbach and Wolper had no fewer than fourteen performers under three and half feet tall. Or just plain overlooked.
It was easy with people that size. She found a place to set it down and went on with both hands free. And somewhere in the deepest recesses of the Pullman, a midget was whimpering in the dark, scared for his life. Something that looked like a groping white arm was across his body. The light she had left in place shifted with the movement of the Pullman and the beam shifted. A lucky reflection threw enough light on the dark corner to reveal the predicament Smidgen was in.
Not only was he trapped amid a wreck of broken train seats, a huge pale snake was across his little body with its head near his chin and its forked tongue flicking. Too afraid to move or cry out now, Smidgen was on his back, unable to get away or do anything else but breathe while the pale boa constrictor settled on him.
Demented with fear, the normally bubbly little performer was stricken as if paralyzed. Smidgen, pink as a baby in the circus posters, should have been white as a sheet, but there was little hope that pasty skin would show now. He was in blackface—sheened with either greasepaint or burnt cork and wearing a frizzy gray wig and beard.
Dressed up in a ragged suit, Smidgen had at least one leg down in the water under a mass of heavy seats that had come loose. All snakes were carnivorous and owing to that, they all bit, but only a select few were venomous. The first thing to do was get the boa away whether it was hostile or not. The moment Aimee got within range, the serpent turned its head her way, kinking its neck. But it remained draped over Smidgen who was helpless to act. As a precaution, Aimee set her goggles in place.
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