Hang Wire (10 page)

Ted nodded. “I’ll ask Alison if she can finish early.”

Benny’s face dropped. “Oh, yeah, sure,” she said, but Ted could tell she didn’t mean it. He was going to ask when the barista called their order and Benny vanished to the other end of the counter to collect.

Ted frowned. Maybe he’d imagined it. It was just the lack of sleep and a surprising twenty-four hours. Everything would return to normal, eventually. He backed away from the counter to give the person behind him some room, only there was nobody there. Ted blinked, then followed Benny.

“Please don’t tell me you’re posting on Twitter about this.”

Benny looked up from her phone, which she had been trying ineffectively to hide in her lap. Then she smiled and made a big show of clicking the phone off, holding it up unnecessarily high like she was about to perform a bad card trick before putting it on the table in front of her. Ted chided himself. Benny wasn’t like that.

“Sorry, dude,” said his friend, lifting her bottle of Bud and taking a swig. Ted watched the brown and red bottle rise and then fall, and took a sip from his mug. The coffee here was passable at best, but people didn’t generally come to the Fifth Street speakeasy to drink coffee. He grimaced slightly at the too-bitter, too-cool liquid. He was feeling better, but he wondered if Benny was disappointed that her work pal wasn’t joining her in some brews.

Benny took another swing from her bottle and looked around. “Quiet, huh?”

It was. They sat in a booth big enough for a family of eight, and represented exactly half of the bar’s clientele. The other two customers were men sitting at the bar, both watching a re-run of a recent game on one of the bar’s many large televisions. Neither spoke and they didn’t seem to know each other, and Ted realized they weren’t even looking at the same TV.

Benny drained the last dreg from her beer. “Early, I guess.”

Ted nodded in agreement. Early was just fine for him. Early out of the office, and early dinner, and an early night. Alison had stayed behind – she was too busy on the museum story, but had insisted she had no problem with Ted and Benny getting dinner together. Benny seemed a little too pleased at this, but Ted put it down to her natural, apparently boundless enthusiasm for just about everything she did.

The clock behind the bar was slowly heading around to five. Benny and Ted sat in silence for a while. Ted listened to the ball game on the TV and let his eyes drift over the wall of bottles behind the bar. There were so many containers in so many shapes and colors, with exotic names and fancy labels. So many typefaces, illustrations of faraway places and animals: deer, birds, the kinds of things you dressed up in tweed to go shoot. The back of the bar was mirrored. Ted could just see himself in between the glittering amber liquids. He squinted a little, but there was an imperfection in the mirror and it looked like there were two Teds sitting in the booth. He took a sip of his coffee and it looked like one of the reflections moved with a weird half-second delay.

Ted nodded at the phone on the table. “So how many followers do you have now?”

Benny grinned and tapped the edge of the phone, sending it on a slow counterclockwise spin.

“Eighteen hundred and eighty-seven,” she said. “Man, I’m so close to the big 2K.”

Ted smiled and shook his head. “And what are you gonna do when you hit the magic number?”

Benny’s grin froze for a second, and she stared at Ted, the gears working until she came up with a suitable answer.

“Aim for the next thousand, of course,” she said, perhaps with not as much conviction as she would have liked, Ted thought. Benny looked down at her phone and the smile flickered off. “Anyway, it’s quality over quantity. I have me a fine posse of online friends.”

“Uh-huh.”

Benny slid off the bench seat and tapped Ted on the shoulder. “More followers than you have, Mr Unpopular. I have to powder my nose. You want another coffee?”

Ted drained his cup. “That I do. Another beer?”

“Line ’em up, my friend, line ’em up.”

They left at seven, which felt like midnight to Ted. He was fantasizing about soft pillows and darkness as they walked when he realized Benny was talking. Ted opened his eyes. They were near Union Square, heading up Stockton Street toward Chinatown, and Ted had no memory of walking that far.

“So, you think it was the firecracker, right?”

Ted stuffed his hands in his pockets and breathed in the cool evening air. It was near dark, the streetlights glowing in faint fog that was gathering between the tall city buildings.

“Firecracker?”

“Yeah,” said Benny. She pointed up the street. A few blocks away, the green gateway to Chinatown was dead ahead. “Someone played a hell of a joke on you, dude. Practically blew the table up.”

“Gave me a headache, for sure.” Ted paused. “Is that what you think it was? A practical joke?”

“Don’t you?”

Ted tongued the inside of his cheek. “I guess. But the only person I can think of who would pull something like that is walking right beside me now, and I also know that she wouldn’t be able to resist admitting to it already.”

Benny’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t me, chief.”

“A mystery fit for Nancy Drew.”

They walked in silence for half a block.

“Must have been a shock.”

Ted rubbed the back of his head, trying to find the sore spot where he had hit the floor of the Jade Emperor, but he couldn’t feel anything.

“Gave me a fright, sure. And everyone else.”

“No,” said Benny, “I mean the crime scene. You see that kind of stuff on TV, you know? Crazy, dude. Crazy. That’s four now. Crazy.”

Ted agreed and said he was sure the police would find who was responsible. They walked on. Ted watched the fog curl around the streetlights. “So, how’s the Chinatown beat going anyway?”

Benny frowned, momentarily lost in thought. “Good,” she said, “Yeah, real good. They’re good people there. Nice place, has a buzz.”

Ted nodded. That was good to hear. Benny had been on the blog only a few months, moving to the city from LA. She was also Korean, not Chinese, and Ted wondered if that would make it difficult for her, covering the local events in Chinatown. But clearly it didn’t. Benny spoke Chinese as fluently as English and Korean.

“So just let me know if you want to talk about it,” said Benny. They’d stopped by the Chinatown gateway. Benny lived in an apartment above a store. Ted’s place was a short cable car ride away, toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

Ted nodded. Under the peak of her 49ers cap, Benny’s eyes looked sharp in the streetlight. Ted decided he didn’t like it when Benny got serious.

“Sure,” said Ted. Then he turned with a wave and walked down the street. “See you tomorrow.”

Ted’s apartment was dark and cool, just like he wanted it. He dropped his keys onto the dining table, and noticed that his laptop was on again. He closed the lid as he walked past, thinking he should check the power saving settings on it.

Tomorrow. That could wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be awake and it would be a new day and life would go on as normal and–

Ted’s head missed the edge of the table as he fell, hitting instead the thick pile carpet with hardly a sound at all.

— VII —

SHARON MEADOW, SAN FRANCISCO

Tonight he must try his hardest, because he has two crowds to please. One easy, one less so.

He makes his entrance, cartwheeling toward the ground on a blue ribbon that unfurls around him, falling with just enough speed to look dangerous. Then the ribbon’s end snaps from his waist and he’s still halfway to the ground. The crowd gasps, and he falls, and then catches the trapeze thrown by Jan. She times it perfectly – she always does – and he uses the momentum of his fall to push his body back up toward the roof of the Big Top. He flips, changes direction, flies toward the other side. Then he lets go, rolls in the air, and lands on the wire, an impossible feat. But this is no trick and he has no support, no hidden wires, no concealed harness swinging him from the dark above. He stands, arms outstretched, standing on nothing but a half-inch steel cable.

The crowd’s not sure. They murmur. Applause starts but dies quickly. They think he is too good. They think it
is
a trick – it has to be.

But he knows this and knows how to fix it. He wobbles slightly, airplane arms swirling in the air high above the sawdust floor. He stumbles, corrects, overcorrects and leans too far in the opposite direction. The crowd gasps. He’s going to fall, there he goes, it’s all gone wrong, it’ll be in all the papers. Then as his balance fails completely he jumps into a backward somersault, heels-over-head, and lands on the wire. He bends his knees and immediately cartwheels forward. He’s working hard and now the crowd buys it. This is no trick. He’s just good. The best. That’s why he is known only as Highwire: a masked mystery, a man with no name, just a label for what he does.

Highwire bows on the wire as the crowd gets to its feet, clapping, whistling, shouting. It’s a nice night in San Francisco but the tent is packed again, a full house. Money in, as the ringmaster would say, the goddamn bank.

Highwire belongs to the circus, is part of it. That Highwire knows nothing of his life before the circus, that he has no memory of anything
but
the circus, is inconsequential. The circus is his home, but his real work lies elsewhere, after the crowds have gone, after the carnival machines go to sleep. Out there, in the city, Highwire has a job to do.

But for now he entertains the crowd and the crowd feeds him. Jan and John, the trapeze artist couple who are part of his act, do a fine job. Mighty fine. And they’re good, very good, no doubt about it. Professionals, career circus acts. Top class.

But they know the crowd is not here to see them. They’re here to see
him
. Highwire isn’t sure what story the Magical Zanaar gave them when the circus arrived, but he was accepted into the act. Perhaps that’s how it works, new performers are hired, guest spots offered. And he’s better than Jan and John. Much better. But that’s not surprising. After all, they’re only a couple of professional circus performers with years of training and experience under their belts.

Highwire is different. He knows this. He suspects this is why he has no memory of his life before the circus. He suspects he didn’t have one, that he’s part of the circus because somehow the circus birthed him, like the caravan arrived and the Big Top went up and out of the darkness walked the acrobat, ready to put on a show.

Maybe the circus birthed him because
it
knows that there is work to be done, out there, in the city.

Maybe. And maybe it doesn’t matter.

Under the Big Top, Highwire flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

He doesn’t expect the argument that follows their performance, but it goes like this:

“So, you think you’re the world’s greatest high wire artist.” John. Feet on the ground, he’s still in his spandex but is wearing awful square-lensed glasses like a cheap backstreet accountant. On the trapeze he wears contacts but he takes them out as soon as he can.

“Right?” John takes his glasses off, pulls at his costume near the waist and rubs one of the lenses with the purple spandex. As he does do, the costume tightens around his crotch. Highwire looks at Jan.

They’re a well-matched pair. Both older than you might think, which is part of why they are so good – they’ve been doing it so long. She has pinched features. Sharp nose. She doesn’t say anything but she squints at Highwire in the dark behind the Big Top. Highwire sees her eyes moving over his face, which is still hidden behind his mask. She probably wishes he would take it off, but that would spoil the act. Highwire is a mystery man, even to them.

John finishes polishing his glasses and puts them back on. The bottom of the lenses touch his cheeks, giving him little dimples and leaving red marks that take a while to fade when he takes them off. He frowns. He expects an answer.

“I might be,” Highwire says. Honesty is the best policy. When everyone is honest, everything works out. Most people in the world could take that advice. “But I have a lot to learn, and two fine teachers.”

Well,
that
part is a lie. But he has to keep his partners happy.

John nods but keeps his mouth tight. It’s the nod of a disappointed father. Highwire doesn’t remember his father, unless his father is the circus, in which case he is all around him. Part of him thinks this makes sense and part of him thinks the idea is hilarious. He folds his arms, his expression hidden behind his mask.

“Look,” says Jan, and then she stops. She grips John’s arm and Highwire can see her hold it tight. “We’re not complaining about the show. Far from it. You’re great. You’re amazing.” Jan smiles and it looks genuine, but the edge of fear is still there, lurking over her shoulder.

“But look,” John picks it up. His hands are on his hips. “You’re never here. We never practice.” Now a stern look in the eye and the shake of the head. “I know you’ve got it down, no problem, but
we
need to practice, even if you don’t. There’s only so much we can do on our own.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We made mistakes in there. We made mistakes, and you corrected for us. It’s amazing, really, but c’mon, we need to work together here. It’s not good for the show. You have to come to rehearsals.”

Highwire folds his arms. They’re right, and he’s surprised. He doesn’t come to rehearsals. He supposes he must have once. How else would they have worked out their trapeze act? Unless the circus did all the work for them, implanting the routine like it gave birth to its magical acrobat.

“We come to your trailer.” Jan now. “Lord knows we do, but we can’t raise you. It’s like banging on the side of a tomb, it’s so quiet in there.”

“I’m sorry,” says Highwire. At this Jan and John seem to relax.