Free The Circus Fire by Stewart O’Nan Page A

Perfectly-Schooled Man-killers Which Immediately Follows."
    To a flourish of trumpets, a man dressed in a lion suit bounded onto the west stage, follow spots from both sides picking him out. He turned somersaults and prowled the edge of the stage, menacing, jabbing his paws at the crowd. After him came a dozen bally girls made up as lion tamers in skimpy yellow dresses and high boots, their skirts showing a generous length of thigh, their hair tucked severely under black Cossack hats. They circled the lion as he turned, the music murky, dangerous, until with a clash of cymbals the lion produced a whip.
    He flung it about his head, feisty as Clyde Beatty himself, running the girls through a number of acrobatic tricks and poses as the crowd laughed

    and the band broke loose with a goofy vamp. The burlesque was just a short warm-up to catch the crowd's interest and build tension for the real cat act, the shift from silliness to real fear that much more breathtaking.
    As the girls were going off to applause, Commissioner Hickey and his brood handed their tickets to the ducat grabber at the front door and went right, along the south side, the children clutching their hot dogs and Cokes. They turned into section G, just past the side exit halfway down, and clumped up the aisle.
    The commissioner was surprised to find his dear old friend and associate, former state's attorney Hugh M. Alcorn St., also seated in G. Back when Bull Hickey had been county detective, he'd been an expert witness for the prosecution, his memory perfect, and together the two of them had convicted hundreds of suspects. Now Alcorn's son, Hugh Jr., had taken over as state's attorney. Today Alcorn was with another son, Harold—a judge— and his wife and two children. Seeing Hickey was busy, he gave him a wave, figuring they'd catch up later.
Their seats were in row 18, all the way up. Impossibly, it grew hotter as they climbed, until they reached the breeze slipping through the dropped sidewall. As they were shuffling in sideways, trying not to drop their hot dogs or step on their neighbors' feet, the top of Hickey's head bumped the angled canvas of the roof. Finally they were seated and he could eat. A question from down the row: Could the boys take off their T-shirts? The commissioner gave them permission, and they balled up their shirts and stuffed them into the back pockets of their jeans.
    Again, Fred Bradna blew his whistle, Merle Evans cued the band, and the announcer introduced the cat act. Those following their programs read some of Roland Butler's typically mellifluous prose: Display 2. Natural jungle enemies educated beyond belief performing together in new and exceptionally exciting exhibitions. Great New Mixed Groups of the Most Treacherous and Ferocious Wild Animals Ever Assembled, Presented Under the Direction of ALFRED COURT, Master Trainer of the Ages. Berber Lions, Abyssinian Lions, Royal Bengal Tigers, Berber Tigers, Siberian Tigers, Polar Bears, Black Bears, Black Jaguars, Sumatran Spotted Leopards, Himalayan Bears, Black Leopards, Pumas, Ocelots, Black Panthers, and Great Dane Dogs.
This was not exactly what they got. The trainers listed in caps at the

    bottom included May Kovar, Joseph Walsh and Harry Kovar, but May's husband wasn't working today. When the show opened in New York, they'd shown three cages of animals, but since leaving the big arenas they'd cut back to two and Alfred Court hadn't performed. He was sixty-one and not as strong as he'd once been. Damoo Dhotre, his number one understudy, was off in the army. Court's specialty was mixing species that were natural foes, a very risky business. He'd never been hurt in the ring, but the trainers who worked under him sometimes weren't as lucky.
    The year before, May Kovar had been badly mauled at Boston Garden by a jaguar. In the middle of her mixed act of jags and leopards, one leapt from his perch, going for her throat. Equipped with just a light bamboo wand, she fended him off