Read Online Unhappy Hooligan by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page B

proprietary interest in Mary Kelly. It would stand looking into. He made more notes on his pad of yellow paper. The trouble seemed to be that nobody would tell him anything! So far only the animals had shown any friendly interest, and not all of them. Now he could hear the beginning roar and bustle of the incoming crowd, the amplified voices of the “talkers” along the Midway, and all at once the band inside the Big Top burst into the overture, the famous “Here Comes the Circus.” He hurried on, not knowing whether he was headed right or wrong. Finally he came face to face with a small figure wearing police-clown uniform, and seized his arm. “Sonny, can you tell me where to find Hap Hammett, the clown?”
    The tiny face, under its heavy grease paint, twisted into a sneer of undisguised loathing. “You know where you can go with that sonny stuff?” he exploded. “I’m older than you are, see?” He flounced off, and there was a titter of laughter from the nearest dressing room, which did nothing for Rook’s offended dignity.
    He finally chose the scientific method of cruising around the outside of the Big Top, past dressing room after dressing room, until he found the right name stenciled on a water bucket. He was outside a little raised cubicle in which four big men and half a dozen trunks were somehow crowded; they were all in various halfway stages of putting on make-up, smearing their faces with white and with bright reds and greens and blues. “Mr. Hammett?” he tried hopefully. “Mr. Timken said I was to see you about being a clown.”
    They had all turned as one, and somebody in the rear of the dressing room said softly, “My dear God, not another of them!” But the burly man nearest the door put down his can of grease paint.
    “I’m Hap,” he said. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Rook.” His painted grin was too wide for the newcomer to see whether or not there was a real smile underneath, but the clown wiped off his hand and extended it. “Yes, the boss said you’d be with us. I can take it if you can.” He looked Rook up and down appraisingly. “Well, don’t just stand there; we go on in twelve minutes. Get out of that Sunday suit; you’ll ruin it.” He handed Rook a spare hanger for his clothes, and turned to one of the others, a cadaverous man almost seven feet tall. “Bozo, you’re about ready. Would you run over to wardrobe and get that outfit we keep for company?”
    Bozo said something under his breath, but he came lightly down the steps and hurried off. Next Hap Hammett hailed a passing midget dressed as a clown baby, complete with bonnet and bottle. “Max, will you be a good guy and make up our friend here in a hurry? Use white-face—and try to paint out the mustache if you can.”
    “Why not?” said little Max amiably. The next few minutes were pure bedlam. Max stood on a chair and began to sling white goo at his victim’s face, then smoothed it out and added wild eyebrows and a great risus grin. He showed Rook a mirror, and the neophyte shuddered. He looked like all circus clowns rolled into one; he also looked fearfully like the last photos of James McFarley.
    He was swiftly helped into a flaringly striped jersey, triple-sized corduroy pants, and a flaming Tartan frock coat heavy as a mackinaw; he donned a pair of red shoes the size of watermelons and the weight of anchors. And last Hap Hammett himself, now wearing his famous padded fat-lady drag costume, came down the steps to add a red rubber nose, a carroty fright-wig and sailor hat, and to hand him a pair of white gloves. Then Hap stood back to survey the results.
    “Joe Grimaldi is probably turning over in his grave,” he said. “But come on, clown! Hear the band? That’s the finale for the cat act we follow.” From inside the Big Top, Rook could hear the sharp crack of blank cartridges and the muffled roaring of the tigers. Hap Hammett beckoned to him and trotted away.
    Rook took two steps—and almost fell flat on