Free Flesh Circus by Lilith Saintcrow Page B

makings
     of a complex situation, which meant a lot of blood and screaming. Not to mention gunfire and ugliness.
    “Oh.” A sudden, abrupt movement. Galina finished trolling through her memory and blinked. “Gregory. That was the kid’s name.
     Something Gregory. I’ll look through my diaries.”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
Great. And I really have to get over to Greenlea, now that you mention it. I’ve got business there too.
“Hey, has anyone been in to buy voodoo stuff lately? Anyone making a big serious purchase?”
    “No. I don’t do much voodoo or Santeria here. That’s more Mama Zamba on the edge of the barrio, or Melendez. I sometimes send
     people to either of them.” A curious look crossed her round, pretty face. “I wonder…”
    I hate going to either of them. Jesus.
“Well, give ol’ Zamba a call as soon as I leave. Let her know I’ve got a few questions. It’s about time I went and scared
     her again.” I fished out a fifty-dollar bill. “Here’s all I’ve got on me for this load of ammo; I’ll take care of the rest
     when I get my municipal check. Okay?”
    “You can put it on account, you know.” But instead of saying it with a grin, Galina looked troubled. “Jill, are you sure you
     want to go out to the Cirque?”
    “I’ll go where I have to.”
You should know that.
“It’s just a bunch of hellbreed playing games. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
    “I really hope you don’t mean that,” she muttered, but she let it go.
    It wasn’t like her not to get the last word in, so I left it at that. Saul finished his tea, I got a few more odds and ends,
     and we left her up in her kitchen, tracing the ring of spilled tea from the bottom of her cup, drawing it on the table like
     it might give her an answer.
    Of course they would settle near the trainyards, far north of my warehouse and on the fringes of the industrial section. A
     cold night wind came off the river, laden with flat iron-chemical scent. It was usually a space of empty, weed-strewn lots,
     a few squares of concrete left over from trailers or something, and a festooning of hypodermics and debris from when it used
     to be a shackville. The homeless were rousted out during a huge urban renewal drive five years ago, but the drive petered
     out and the fencing around the lots turned that bleached color everything gets after a winter or two in the desert.
    Now it was cleaned up, the fencing was taken down in some parts, replaced in others, and it was starred with lights.
    Everyone who told me about the Cirque was right. It
does
look bigger than its sorry little caravan would ever lead you to dream of. It sprawled like a blowsy drunk on a tattered
     divan, cheap paste jewels glittering.
    Cirque de Charnu,
the painted boards on the fence barked. The bigtop was up, canvas daubed with leering clown faces and swirls of watery glitter.
     Faint music rode the flat, whispering wind. The smell of fried food mixed uneasily with the blood-tang of the river, and I
     caught the undertone of sweat and animal manure too. Shouts and laughter, and a Ferris wheel I would have sworn wasn’t part
     of the caravan spun like a confection of whipped cream and glass. Its winking lights were sterile eyes, and it shuddered as
     the wind changed. One pair of lights winked out, and I heard the faint ghost of a scream before it righted itself and went
     whirling merrily on.
    We sat in the car overlooking the spectacle; there was a footpath down the embankment leading to the temporary parking lot,
     already full of vehicles. Little dust devils danced between the neat rows. The fringes of contamination and corruption were
     thin flabby fingers poking at each tire and dashboard.
    Saul was smoking again, cherry tobacco smoke drifting out his window. The tiny bottle of holy water on a chain around his
     neck swirled with faint blue. “Smells like a trap,” he finally said.
    “It is.”
A trap for the weak or unwary. Or just for those who don’t care