Read Online A Fatal Glass of Beer by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online Page A

to make a short story a bit longer than necessary, the little man kept interrupting my act, mugging behind my back when I juggled, made faces, audiences thought it was part of the show. I warned him. He decided the laughs were worth more than the promise of distress. One evening when I was juggling Indian clubs, hats, and assorted items supplied by the audience—the smallest being a railroad watch and the largest a cane—the tiny twerp came up behind me with his canary. I bopped him on the noggin—the twerp, not the canary. He fell and, without my missing a beat or dropping anything I was juggling, I grabbed the small canary cage and added the chirper to the items flying overhead. Audience roared with delight. Midget was out cold. I returned the various items, dragged the midget off with one hand, held the canary cage with the other, and left my remaining paraphernalia for the stage hands to gather. It was then I noticed that the trauma of being juggled had given the canary a complete nervous breakdown. Feathers had almost all fallen out. He was completely bald and didn’t feel much like singing. I went out on a triumphant bender—at that time I confined my activity to reasonable quantities of beer—and when I returned, the canary’s cage door was open and the bird was missing.
    “The midget, looking more than a bit fearful but consumed by litigious anger, demanded the return of his bird. I assured him that I knew nothing of the strange disappearance and that he should ask Thurston the Magician, who was also on the bill.”
    Fields took a sip and looked out the window thoughtfully. I did as little moving as possible in the hope that my back would feel better. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but I knew it was in no mood for further violent activity and I was running low on pain pills from Doc Hodgdon.
    “I was always of the opinion that a merciful showgirl, in search of W. C. Fields to congratulate him appropriately, had come across the once-yellow-feathered creature and let it free, far from a blessing for the bird, given its condition and the fact that I know of no way a canary, even if he weren’t bald, could survive in Altoona. Turn up the radio.”
    Gunther obliged. We picked up “The Ransom Sherman Show,” with Charles Ruggles as guest, and listened for about ten minutes.
    “Jack Benny is the only really funny man on the radio besides me,” said Fields. “But Ruggles should have his own show. Charlie Butterworth too, underrated. Turn it off. Find anything but music.”
    Gunther found “The Bing Crosby Show.” Victor Borge was his guest and announced that he was also appearing at the Capitol Theater in New York.
    “Kid’s funny,” said Fields. “But I can tell from that accent that he’s not Danish, probably a German spy like the fella back home who says he’s DeMille.”
    I didn’t say anything. A car had been creeping up on us along with the twilight. It was a small Ford, dark. Evening sun was hitting his front window, so I couldn’t tell in the rearview mirror who was inside.
    “I think we need a little speed, Gunther,” I said, sliding open the glass partition.
    “I see him,” said Gunther calmly, pushing up to eighty-five miles an hour.
    Fields twisted in his seat to look back at the pursuing vehicle and saw what I saw. The road was clear except for the two of us. The driver’s left arm came out of the window holding a gun; he’d decided that his Ford was no match for the souped-up Caddy.
    He was probably right-handed. The first shot missed by a country mile. The second skipped and whined over the top of the car. We were almost out of his range when the third shot clanged off the rear bumper.
    Then our pursuer was lost in the distant background.
    “Shall I slow down?” Gunther asked.
    “Not unless you want to lose two or three inches, which you can ill afford,” said Fields, leaning back. “I need a drink to steady the nerves. Suppose it could be that midget with the