stuff Peter was too tired to identify.
Gluck's train car had been hooked to the very end of the train. It was the only one without camouflage, a long shiny dark red and green Pullman divided into four rooms.
They climbed the iron steps and knocked on the door. Gluck's Brazilian valet, Joey, let them in. "How was the show?" he asked them, smiling. He did not really need to ask.
"Great," Peter said.
"Tough to believe it's the last one," Anthony said.
Anthony and Peter were to sleep in the parlor, at the forward end, on couches made up as beds. Pictures covered the walls: lineups of the members of expeditions; cages filled with animals--lions and tigers, zebras and quaggas, as well as dinosaurs and avisaurs; celebrities who had seen the circus; performers in costume, and many smiling women in sleek, low-cut gowns. Peter scanned the photographs sleepily and spotted a tight row of framed glossies: Gluck standing beside Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a second picture with him and Josef Stalin, and a third with Adolph Hitler.
Gluck stood in the door to the parlor and puffed a cigar. The rank smoke stung Peter's eyes. The circus owner seemed agitated, talkative, sad.
"Did you get ssome good picturess?" he asked Anthony.
"Six rolls," Anthony said. "I think some will do."
"Ssomewill do, " Gluck repeated ironically, shaking his head. "Young fellowss, this was the last night of the best part of my life. The very best part. Do you think Shellabarger had his little dust-up with the venator for my benefit?"
"Doesn't he do that every show?" Anthony asked.
Gluck shook his head, eyes wide. "Oh, no-ooo," he said. "Thiss was special. This was a farewell, maybe jusst for me." Gluck lifted his cigar with a theatrical gesture, peering at it critically. "Maybe if he had done it more often, we would still have regular crowds. Of course, we might not have atrainer anymore . . ."
A loud shave-and-a-haircut rap sounded on the parlor door.
Gluck turned. "Yess, John," he roared. "I know your knock anywhere. Come in. I've been expecting you."
Peter wondered if John Ford had come to the car to visit, but it was not the director. A small, dapper man with a broad forehead and close-cut jet-black hair swung the cherrywood door open, entered the Pullman, brandished a long cigar, and grinned at Gluck. He wore a beautifully tailored striped suit. A brass-tipped ebony cane hung from his elegantly manicured forefinger.
"Quite a show, Lotto," he said in a pleasant tenor. "Quite. . . a . . . show."
"John Ringling North," Gluck said, "may I introduce Anthony Belzoni and his son, Peter?"
"Part of this whole movie scheme?" North asked, his eyes sharp.
"Magazine, sir," Anthony said."National Geographic."
"Ah. Always sad to see a great show fold," North said. He tapped his cane lightly on the carpeted floor. "Well, Lotto, you got my offer."
"I have," Gluck replied with a nod.
"It's a reasonable offer, you old bandit," North said. "I'll take everything--the rig, the transportation, the Tampa base--your remaining acts and employees, though God knows they need pruning. I'll even take old Baruma. She'll make quite an attraction."
A recent picture of Baruma stood on Gluck's desk. "Lotto Gluck's fabled sauropod, Baruma, now over sixty feet in length," read a caption clipped from a newspaper and pressed against the glass below the photograph.
"We haven't toured her in ten years," Gluck said, taking a seat at a round table set with a Tiffany lamp and a brass ashtray.
"I'll turn the Tampa base into a fairground," North said. "Bring easterners down for the winter, and old Baruma can drag Gargy around in his cage. Won't that be a fine sight?"
Peter looked up at Anthony. Anthony leaned over and whispered in his ear,"Gargantua." Then Peter knew who John Ringling North was: the owner of Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus. Gargantua was his giant and temperamental gorilla.
"It will be, but only if you own it," Gluck said sadly.
North approached the table
Gluck's train car had been hooked to the very end of the train. It was the only one without camouflage, a long shiny dark red and green Pullman divided into four rooms.
They climbed the iron steps and knocked on the door. Gluck's Brazilian valet, Joey, let them in. "How was the show?" he asked them, smiling. He did not really need to ask.
"Great," Peter said.
"Tough to believe it's the last one," Anthony said.
Anthony and Peter were to sleep in the parlor, at the forward end, on couches made up as beds. Pictures covered the walls: lineups of the members of expeditions; cages filled with animals--lions and tigers, zebras and quaggas, as well as dinosaurs and avisaurs; celebrities who had seen the circus; performers in costume, and many smiling women in sleek, low-cut gowns. Peter scanned the photographs sleepily and spotted a tight row of framed glossies: Gluck standing beside Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a second picture with him and Josef Stalin, and a third with Adolph Hitler.
Gluck stood in the door to the parlor and puffed a cigar. The rank smoke stung Peter's eyes. The circus owner seemed agitated, talkative, sad.
"Did you get ssome good picturess?" he asked Anthony.
"Six rolls," Anthony said. "I think some will do."
"Ssomewill do, " Gluck repeated ironically, shaking his head. "Young fellowss, this was the last night of the best part of my life. The very best part. Do you think Shellabarger had his little dust-up with the venator for my benefit?"
"Doesn't he do that every show?" Anthony asked.
Gluck shook his head, eyes wide. "Oh, no-ooo," he said. "Thiss was special. This was a farewell, maybe jusst for me." Gluck lifted his cigar with a theatrical gesture, peering at it critically. "Maybe if he had done it more often, we would still have regular crowds. Of course, we might not have atrainer anymore . . ."
A loud shave-and-a-haircut rap sounded on the parlor door.
Gluck turned. "Yess, John," he roared. "I know your knock anywhere. Come in. I've been expecting you."
Peter wondered if John Ford had come to the car to visit, but it was not the director. A small, dapper man with a broad forehead and close-cut jet-black hair swung the cherrywood door open, entered the Pullman, brandished a long cigar, and grinned at Gluck. He wore a beautifully tailored striped suit. A brass-tipped ebony cane hung from his elegantly manicured forefinger.
"Quite a show, Lotto," he said in a pleasant tenor. "Quite. . . a . . . show."
"John Ringling North," Gluck said, "may I introduce Anthony Belzoni and his son, Peter?"
"Part of this whole movie scheme?" North asked, his eyes sharp.
"Magazine, sir," Anthony said."National Geographic."
"Ah. Always sad to see a great show fold," North said. He tapped his cane lightly on the carpeted floor. "Well, Lotto, you got my offer."
"I have," Gluck replied with a nod.
"It's a reasonable offer, you old bandit," North said. "I'll take everything--the rig, the transportation, the Tampa base--your remaining acts and employees, though God knows they need pruning. I'll even take old Baruma. She'll make quite an attraction."
A recent picture of Baruma stood on Gluck's desk. "Lotto Gluck's fabled sauropod, Baruma, now over sixty feet in length," read a caption clipped from a newspaper and pressed against the glass below the photograph.
"We haven't toured her in ten years," Gluck said, taking a seat at a round table set with a Tiffany lamp and a brass ashtray.
"I'll turn the Tampa base into a fairground," North said. "Bring easterners down for the winter, and old Baruma can drag Gargy around in his cage. Won't that be a fine sight?"
Peter looked up at Anthony. Anthony leaned over and whispered in his ear,"Gargantua." Then Peter knew who John Ringling North was: the owner of Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus. Gargantua was his giant and temperamental gorilla.
"It will be, but only if you own it," Gluck said sadly.
North approached the table
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