Calamity Jayne Rides Again (9 page)

"Huh?" I got out, thinking the dude obviously didn't know me very well, or he'd never have chosen me to carry his goofy greeting
to Uncle Frank. Heck, I can hardly remember my own social security number most of the time. Add to that the fact that I was
presently scared watermelon-seed spitless and it didn't bode well for this clown's caper.

"Just deliver the message," he said and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait!" I finally regained the ability to speak— something I'm sure you folks never for a moment thought I was in serious
jeopardy of losing for any length of time—and grabbed at the clown's large, poof y sleeve. "Hey!"

The clown was faster than he should have been, given the long, ridiculously wide shoes he was wearing, or I had eaten way
more at the fair than my thighs could handle. The crafty comedian was out of the Fruit by the Foot stand before I'd gotten
to my feet.

Not about to let the two-legged proof of Frankie's innocence get away, I tore after the clown, dodging fair patrons and vendors
as I struggled to keep the clown in sight and the watermelon in my stomach. A little better than fifty yards ahead of me and
increasing the distance between us, the clown blew past the Foot Long stand and around the Pizza by the Slice booth. I called
on calve muscles too long ignored and vowed I was going to start a fitness program just as soon as the fair was over. For
sure before the Christmas-time wedding of my best friend, Kari. I'd be lean and mean by then, I decided. And Townsend better
not try any of his lame jokes on me, either. He'd ruined my brother's wedding for me. This time, I'd take no prisoners. I'd
be a fightin' machine. A regular G. I. Jayne.

I passed the grinder booth and sucked in the smell of grinder sausage as I ran by. Around the corner of the administration
building and by the old clock on the Grand Concourse, I inched closer, thankful I wasn't wearing my black flip-flops or darling
white Mootsie Tootsies with the two-inch heels, hoping against hope that the damned clown on the run was getting blisters
from his stupid clown shoes. We both were beginning to generate a lot of attention from fair-goers. Heads jerked up in our
wake and fingers pointed. Sad to say, I'm used to this kind of reaction.

We blew past Mike's Mexican, clipped past Candy's Candies, and slowed to a brisk plod by the time we got to the Pork People.
I pinched the stitch in my side, cursing at having inherited the junk food gene from my grandma.

Reminding myself I had also inherited her grit and love for John Wayne movies, I pumped my legs faster and harder than I could
ever remember. Well, except for that one time that we won't talk about. I saw the clown look back with an angry, frustrated
look in my direction. I'm used to these facial expressions, too, and have learned to read them with pinpoint accuracy. I gathered
all the remaining air in my lungs and kicked it up a notch more, feeling victory at hand as I closed in on the conniving clown.

He saw the trolley pulling away and beginning its ascent to the campground at the same time I did, but identified it as a
getaway vehicle way before I realized he was actually desperate enough to attempt to board the moving object—big, flopping
clown feet and all.

"Stop that clown!" I yelled when his intent became evident. "Stop the clown!" I ran as fast as my too-many-tacoed thighs could
carry me. "Stop that clown!"

I looked on as the brazen Bozo, hellbent on escape, lengthened his stride visibly and reached out to grab hold of the rail
at the back of the trolley. He seemed to hang in midair for a time; then I saw him grab hold with his other hand and pull
himself up and over the rail and into the trolley to a chorus of cheers from the crowd and trolley occupants, who apparently
thought the clown and I were part of some traveling fair attraction. I slowed to a jog, zero hope of being able to repeat
the clown's feat—or feet. The clown waved at the crowd, bowed, then turned his attention back to me. He put his fingers in
his ears and wiggled them, stuck his tongue out, and made "she's nuts" gestures at his head with his index finger. Then, in
an ultimate clown up-yours, he raised his obnoxious little horn in my direction and sounded a succession of bested-you blasts.
I did what any self-respecting cowgirl would do: I gave him the finger.

Have I mentioned I hate clowns?

CHAPTER 9

"And this... this horn-blowing Bozo escaped on the fair trolley?"

I had the attention of five family members, one Jackie Chan relic, one skeptical ranger-type, and a good half dozen customers
in the Emporium when I reported for duty shortly before three.

I gave Townsend a bite-me look, followed by a vigorous nod for the benefit of the others. "That's right."

"I saw the whole thing!" piped in a rotund little guy with a shiny bald head who had, according to Uncle Frank, been camped
out in the Emporium sipping a Diet Coke off and on since he'd yanked the old air conditioner and stuck a brand-new one in
its place. "I've never seen anything like it. This tall, gangly clown with neon green hair about the color of your T-shirt
there"— he pointed to Joe Townsend—"with big clodhopper shoes and pants so baggy I thought they would fall any minute, running
for that trolley car as if a pack of Rottweilers was on his tail. Turns out it was only blondie here, but she was closin'
in. And she'da caught him, too, if that derned trolley hadn't been pulling out."

I flashed a smug grin that I hoped said, "I'm all that," and smiled at the Emporium customer. "I sure tried to catch that
varmint," I said in my best Yosemite Sam-speak.

"For curiosity's sake, what would you have done if you'd caught him?" Ranger Rick asked, arms crossed, showing off his tanned,
muscular biceps to best advantage.

"Done?" I repeated, thinking that was either a really stupid question or actually quite brilliant. Hmmm. Let's see. What
would
I have done?

"Yes, done. Once you apprehended the crazy and possibly dangerous clown-type? What would you have done next?" Townsend pressed.

I thought about it a second. "Well, unmask him, of course."

"Oh. I see. And he's just going to lie there and let you have your way with him?" Townsend continued.

"I would have thought of something," I said, defending my somewhat impulsive action. "Besides, everywhere you look there's
always a trooper. I've seen brown shirts in my dreams," I said.

"I'm sure you have," Townsend murmured, his reference to Trooper Dawkins not escaping me.

"Considering the circumstances, I think I handled the situation very well," I told my audience, who had gone from impressed
interest to she's-at-it-again eye-rolling, give or take an occasional nervous tic.

"Yeah, especially the part where she flipped the clown off," the roly-poly customer said, his body a prototype of things to
come for me if I didn't lay off the fast food pronto. I gave him my back-off-buddy look, and he went back to pretending to
read his newspaper.

"The opportunity to clear Frankie's name presented itself and I had to pursue it," I said. "That's all."

"How do you know the clown wasn't Frankie?"

I turned and stared at the person who'd uttered those words. "Aunt Reggie?" I said, shocked that such an idea could come from
her of all people. "You can't mean that," I said. "Not you, too."

She shrugged, a barely perceptible lifting of weary shoulders. "You can't rule it out, Tressa. None of us can. Face it, my
son is not himself. He's going through some identity crisis or something. I hardly know him anymore."

I looked around the room. My mother patted her sister's shoulder, a lot like I'd done earlier and only slightly less awkwardly.
In between making goo-goo eyes at each other when they thought no one was looking, Gramma and Joe Townsend shared a banana
split at the counter. And Townsend? Townsend had me fixed in his sights.

"I know that clown character wasn't Frankie," I said. "It's like, the guy is allergic to practically everything. Do you really
think he'd slather himself up with face paint, drape himself in hot clothes, and don an itchy green wig designed to give you
a heat rash? Give me a break. We're talking about Frankie here. The guy has allergic reactions to water, for crying out loud.
Come on, people."

After a moment Aunt Reggie smiled at me. "You're right, of course, Tressa," she said. "Frankie wouldn't be caught dead in
a clown suit. I don't know what I was thinking. I just wish he would come back so we could sit down and work things out."

"I'm sure he will, Aunt Reggie," I said. "In his own good time and in his own way, he'll find his way back to us."

I sure hoped I wasn't whistlin' in the wind here. For

Uncle Frank and Aunt Reggie's sake, as well as for one skinny, bunless Frankfurter.

Around ten that evening I finished up the nightly routine, wiping down the counter one last time, then pulling off my candy-stripe
apron and hanging it on the stainless steel coat tree near the back door. Uncle Frank should be very pleased; business had
really picked up once the temperature and humidity rose and word got around that the AC in the Emporium was belting out cold
air guaranteed to give you icicles on your whiskers—if you had whiskers, that is. My mother had remained at the Emporium until
eight and then called it a night.

Craig and Kimmie were closing up the mini-freeze. Knowing Taylor, she was probably in front of her laptop at the trailer working
on some psychology summer course relating to overachievers and the people who put up with them.

I retrieved my keys and the cell phone Mom had left, turned the air conditioner off, checked all the plugs-ins and windows
and doors, locked up, and left.

It was a hot, humid night. Just the right kind of night for a nice cold dip in a hotel pool. A hotel where one could return
to a luxurious room after a swim and take a nice, long, leisurely shower in a bathroom where a certain grandmother wouldn't
barge in and flush while you were shampooing. Where one could snuggle up on a king-sized bed with Ashton Kutcher (hey, at
least I'm monogamous in my fantasy world) and order room service and Pay Per View all night. Ah. That's the life.

I shook my head to erase the picture of Ashton reclining on my bed clad in a pair of low-riding boxers. Sigh.

I decided to check out the Bottoms Up beer tent. I wanted to make sure Uncle Frank wasn't engaged in another rendezvous with
little Miz Lucy. Okay, so the idea of a beer on this hot night was as tempting to me as a carrot on a stick was to Bugs Bunny.
I waved to Rhonda from the doorway and she hoisted an empty cup in the air, raising a fill-'er-up? eyebrow at me. I nodded
in response, and she slipped the cup under the lite beer tap and turned on the nozzle. Don't you just love non-verbal communication?

I slapped a five on the counter and took the proffered tall one. "Hey, Ronnie. How's it goin?"

"So far it's been a lollapalooza couple days," she said. "With it being so warm, folks have been coming in for beer in droves.
If the weather holds, we could be lookin' at a record-breaking beer year."

"Congratulations," I said, sipping my ice-cold drink. "We were pretty swamped at the Emporium today, too. Hot weather makes
for great ice cream sales, you know." I set down my beer and leaned across the counter. "Have you, uh, by any chance heard
anything via fair chatter about who might be responsible for all the antics directed at Uncle Frank this year?" I asked, knowing
that if it was being said, Ronnie would have heard it. Bottoms Up was the central clearinghouse for fair news and Ronnie was
the equivalent of town crier.

She hesitated, not wanting to make eye contact.

"Ronnie?" I said. "If you've heard something, you've got to tell me," I urged, and regaled her with a recitation of my run-in
with the bad, bad clown. Of course, it was already old news to Ronnie.

"Only you would chase down a loco clown on the Grand Concourse in ninety-degree heat," she said, shaking her head. And yes,
I've heard ... scuttlebutt about the trouble Frank has been having. But you might not want to hear what the consenus is, kiddo."

"Folks think Frankie's the one, don't they?" I asked, already predicting her response.

She nodded. "Now, I'm not sayin' Frankie's to blame," she said. "That's just what the word on the vine is. Personally, I think
Frankie lacks the gumption—no offense intended, of course. I just can't see him fiddling with cockroaches, tampering with
air conditioners, and vaulting onto moving conveyances wearing a clown costume. Frankie's not what you'd call a risk-taker.
On the other hand, you, Calamity Jayne ..." She trailed off.

"I see," I said. "Well, here's more fodder for the fair watch that you can pass along. Frankie is not the bad guy here. Plain
and simple. And I intend to prove it. There's your scoop."

Okay, I'm pausing here for a moment so someone can explain how I consistently fit my size nine foot in my mouth—and with relative
ease. Dang.

Ronnie put her elbows on the counter. "Oh yeah? Well, when you can prove it, Calamity, get back to me and I'll spread the
word. By the way, that back table is sure popular with your clan this fair," Ronnie said, wiping away the wet ring of condensation
left by my glass.

"Are you kidding? Again?" I said, expecting to turn and find Uncle Frank and his far-too-neighborly neighbor sipping drinks
together.

I looked around, ready to chew big-time uncle butt, even at my own peril, when I saw an entirely different combo at the cozy
table in question. They were laughing and talking and appearing to have a terrific time.

"I thought you and that hunky DNR fella had an understanding," she said, somewhat more tactfully than she was known for. "Is
there something I should know—and pass on?" she asked.

I took another drink and turned my back on my sister and her new friend. "Just that I'm out to vindicate my cousin Frankie,
and expose the real bird turd in this little campaign of intimidation against my Uncle Frank. And that is hot off the presses,"
I said. I pulled out another five-dollar bill. "Oh, and send another pitcher to the corner table," I added. "With my compliments."
I tapped the counter. "Take it easy, Ronnie," I said and walked out.

Let's see: I could have stomped up to the table and thrown my beer in Townsend's face. No, that's no good. He might think
I really cared. I could have doused Taylor. Naw. Too cat-fighty for me. Besides, why waste good beer? I might have waltzed
on over, slid next to Ranger Rick, and planted a great big, long, wet, beer kiss on him. I considered that for a moment and
shook my head. Too slutty. No, I handled it just right.

I walked along the midway, finishing off what was left of my beer, ticking off all the shoulda, coulda, woulda options at
my disposal for dealing with a ranger who obviously didn't care enough to give me time to make up my mind about if there even
should be an us, and a little sister who, despite just turning twenty-one, was way too young and way too naive to be testing
her wings with the likes of Rick Townsend.

"Do you always talk to yourself, or is it the beer talking?" a voice, emitting hot breath on the back of my neck, questioned.
Remembering the clown, I whirled around, ready to "sing" (solar plexus, instep, nose, groin—I've watched
Miss Congeniality
a time or two) before he had time to toot his evil horn in my ear.

I had just raised my right fist to deliver a gut punch when I recognized Trooper P.D.'s breathtaking baby blues. He'd lost
the Smokey Bear ensemble and was wearing a white Cyclone T-shirt and khaki shorts, Nikes, and short socks. Smart fellow, I
thought. I try to avoid wearing sandals or flip-flops on the midway. You never know what you might step in.

"I almost didn't recognize you without your clothes on," I said with a grin, easing off my
Charlie's Angels
stance.

Trooper Dawkins grinned back. "Do I look more approachable in my civvies?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Less a
keeper of the peace and more human?"

I blinked. The guy looked this-cowgirl's-about-to-drool-worse-than-her-two-happy-tongued-puppies sexy.

"You still stand like a trooper,"' I said. "With or without the brown shirt and badge."

He studied me with a critical eye.

"What?" I said. "What?"

"I'm just trying to decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing," he responded. "How does a trooper stand, anyway?"

Hmmm. How to explain without offending? "The cops I know—and I do know a few—stand as if they have a metal rod stuck... down
their shirt and along their tailbone into their pants," I finally said, choosing my words carefully. "Real stiff and rigid
and upright. You know. Like the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz
," I explained.

He rubbed his chin. "I'm still wondering if that's a good thing or a bad thing. A tin man isn't very, uh, approachable."

"But isn't that the idea?" I asked. "Don't cops have to project a stern, harsh exterior to convey to the public that they're
ready to handle any situation that comes their way at any given time? I imagine that kind of bearing could cut some fracases
off at the pass, before they start. One look at a straight-backed trooper and bad guys think better of giving the cop a hard
time. So, I imagine it's a good thing for you guys, even if it's a bit intimidating for those who are easily put off by what
may appear as conceit, arrogance, or delusions of godhood," I finished, somewhat embarrassed by my lengthy analysis of police
posture.

The trooper chuckled. "Now tell me what you really think, Miss Turner," he teased.

I started to walk and he joined me. We continued a piece in silence.

"I suppose I walk like a trooper," he finally said.

I cast an eye at his long, purposeful yet natural gait. "I'd call it more a swagger," I said. "Not quite to the strut stage.
More a self-confident, non-cocky swagger."

"Thanks. I think," he added with that compelling twinkle in his eye. "Do you want to know what you walk like?" he asked.

I looked down at my own strides, which almost matched the trooper's. "Uh, no, thanks," I responded. "Some things are better
left to the imagination."

We strolled along the midway beneath strings of multicolored lights and gaily decorated carnival games such as the Pop Bottle
Ring Toss, the Ping-Pong Throw, where the prize is a gold fish in a glass bowl—a big come-on for little tykes who love the
idea of a pet of any kind—and the ever-popular Inflate the Balloon with a Squirt Gun game. All vendors hawked the promise
of awarding a prize every time through a rather loud bullhorn. Which is true, I suppose, if you count tiny inflatable pillows
and plastic gold fishies as prizes. For the unseasoned, the midway games are a tourist trap of epic proportions. For a veteran
like me who knows the secrets to beating the games and have a respectable collection of stuffed animals and overstuffed pillows
to prove it, the games are not the challenge they once were. And since the carneys knew I was a pro at their games of chance,
they generally ignored me when I went by.