Free Unhappy Hooligan by Stuart Palmer Page B

other entrance, where the line was forming. He found himself suddenly hoisted up on the broad back of an elephant, with nothing to hang on to but a spangled collar. The great pachyderm gave him a decidedly fishy eye, touched his knee with an inquiring trunk, and shimmied a little. “How do I steer it?” Rook inquired.
    “Just sit tight,” Hap advised from below, with an odd grin. “Myrtle knows what to do.” Myrtle knew what to do and did it; when the music changed into “Caesar’s Triumphal March,” she grabbed the tail of the beast ahead of her and waltzed out onto the Hippodrome track, her rider more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life. Around they went, with Howie Rook trying valiantly not to disgrace himself by sliding off, trying to smile and wave cheerily at the children in the bleachers. But he did have time to turn his head for a look at the girl he had thought he recognized as Vonny McFarley—she was gone. The elephants and the rest of the parade swung around the Hippodrome, and then finally his performance was over. The attendants helped him down, and he staggered back to Clown Alley and collapsed on the steps of the dressing room.
    Hap Hammett was already out of costume and was scrubbing off his make-up in a pail of cold water. “You’ll have to use my pail and soap,” Hap told him. “This stuff comes off hard until you get the knack of it. Some use an electric sander.”
    Rook had a vague feeling that he was being kidded. The feeling grew stronger as Bozo, the dyspeptic beanpole clown, leaned out of the dressing room and said, “Well, mister, how do you enjoy making a bloody fool of yourself?”
    “It’s not the first time,” Rook told him. He turned to Hap. “Do I have to change? Can’t I stay this way until the evening show?”
    Hammett looked at him. “You mean you haven’t had enough yet?” He seemed almost surprised. “Sure you can stay in your make-up—the guy we had with us last week wore it from noon until lights out. You’re not supposed to go into the cookhouse in costume, though. Me, I’m off to scout this town of whatever it is and see if I can find me a tall drink and a thick steak.” He hesitated, as if about to ask Rook to come along, then turned to busy himself with getting into his street clothes, emerging as what might have been a prosperous retired farmer or businessman. His last act was to open a can of dog food. “Cordelia won’t take her rations from anybody else but me,” he explained. “See you later, then.” He hurried off.
    Howie Rook found himself rather in the way on the steps as the other clowns were going and coming, talking about who won the fifth race and where was the best place to eat in town and if there was any chance for surf fishing off the rocks tomorrow morning. Only little Maxie paid any attention, and that was only to remark on the pad of yellow paper on which Rook had been making a few more notes. “You too?” asked Max. “Writing your diary?”
    “I’m writing a murder mystery,” Rook told him. But the fateful word seemed to bring no reaction at all; Maxie simply shrugged and moved away smoking a big cigar. Rook got out of the way and sat himself down wearily in Hap Hammett’s camp chair. Then he saw that he had company. Vonny McFarley, guided by a uniformed attendant, was approaching.
    “Can you tell me where to find a man named Rook?” she demanded.
    “I am a man named Rook, or what’s left of him.”
    “You?” The soft, sulky mouth dropped open. “I didn’t dream— ” She passed the attendant something, and he withdrew. She came closer to Rook. “Is there some place we can talk—where we’ll be alone?”
    Duty called, and Rook nodded. He hauled himself out of the chair and led the girl over farther into the back lot, all the way over to the corner behind the trained tigers’ cage. “Here,” he said, “we will be alone—except for Gladys and her pals. What’s on your mind?”
    Gladys had her