The Forty First Wink Read online

  The old man paused, seemingly surprised at being interrupted mid-lecture, and extended a bony finger to push the button housed on a plate next to the door. A muted bell sounded, followed by the grinding of gears, and finally the door heaved open with a grinding protest to reveal a dank, dimly lit elevator car within.

  "Shall we?" The jumpsuited pensioner ushered Timbers inside.

  The doors closed behind them, and Timbers' eccentric new friend eyed the row of buttons set against the wall before selecting the highest, marked '1.'

  "Going up," he chimed as the elevator grumbled to life around them.

  Timbers searched for the words to articulate his confusion. "I take it you're not with the clowns then?" was all he could manage.

  "Ah, clowns," The old man declared triumphantly. "Originating in ancient Egypt circa 2400BC; famous examples include Fumagalli, Paggliachi, Cepillin, characterized by Charlie Chaplin, The Marx Brothers, Buster Keaton…"

  Timbers loosed an exasperated "Arrrr!" and pounded a tiny fist on the elevator wall. "Yes! Clowns, simple question, you crazy, rum-swiller!"

  Stopping mid-sentence, the green suited geezer blinked. "No, no, I'm not a clown." He cast a hand over his costume to display his non-clownishness. "I'm sorry, I do tend to go on a bit sometimes."

  Timbers rolled his eyes. This was turning into a high speed taxi ride with a driver who was asleep at the wheel. "I'm sorry," he muttered through his few pirate teeth. "I appreciate the rescue, but who are you?"

  The old gent raised a hand to his cowled forehead. "Where are my manners, young fellow?" He turned to face Timbers, hands proudly on hips." I am the Locust."

  The little pirate's face melted from irritation to awe, and he gasped like a star struck fan waiting in line for an autograph. "You're the Locust? My apologies for snapping. I've heard a lot about you!" he gushed, rubbing his hands excitedly.

  The Locust nodded and pointed to the silver 'L' which filled his chest.

  Timbers continued to enthuse. "I mean, I say I've heard of you. Everyone has, but I don't know anyone who's actually met you. You're something of a mystery. An enigma. I don't even know what you do."

  Spreading his arms wide, The Locust affected a suitably impressive crime fighting tone. "Why, this is what I do. I right wrongs, fight injustice, rescue damsels in distress."

  Timbers shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I know this is a frock coat, but if you think I'm a damsel, you might want to take those glasses back."

  The wizened crime fighter waved his hand dismissively. "Not exclusively damsels. I'll rescue anyone. I just prefer rescuing damsels." He winked awkwardly, and Timbers suddenly felt a little queasy.

  "Well, it's still an honor to meet you, sir," Timbers added quickly, eager to not pursue that particular line of enquiry. "What I meant was: why are you called the Locust?"

  "Ah, well, I eat books," the Locust replied casually. The words hung in the air for a few moments while Timbers attempted to catch them, put them in the correct order, and try to make some sort of sense out of them.

  "You…eat books?" He asked, still wondering if he had missed some kind of hidden meaning.

  The Locust smiled. "Yes. History books, biographies, encyclopedia, fiction, reference, manuals, you name it."

  Timbers struggled to comprehend. "But why? It doesn't sound like much of a super power if you ask me."

  "Well, no it isn't," the Locust agreed. "But you see, every book I eat goes up here." He tapped the side of his head proudly. "And it's quite useful, you know; knowing everything."

  A light bulb illuminated in Timbers' head. "Oh, I see. Yes I suppose that is quite useful. Wouldn't it be easier to just read them, though?"

  The Locust blinked thoughtfully. "Oh, heavens no. That would take ages! Besides, they taste quite good."

  Before Timbers could unleash a further volley of questions, the elevator came to a jarring stop and its rusted doors groaned open. The sight that presented itself on this floor was decidedly better than the one they had entered the elevator from. Clearly, the decor was aimed more towards splendor and less at prison camp. The floor was carpeted, and the walls draped, holding candlelit sconces at regular intervals. At the door of the elevator, the corridor ended in a T-junction, with two equally splendid hallways spanning in opposite directions. Two bespectacled eyes and one good pirate eye peered out through the open doors, surveying each of the three extruding aisles carefully for signs of movement. Satisfied there was none, the Locust gently motioned to his pint-sized ward that the coast was clear. But before either of them could disembark, a shrill alarm sounded, echoing up through the elevator shaft beneath them.

  "Oh, an alarm!" chirped the Locust. "Designed to detect intrusion or unauthorized entry. Invented by Augustus Russell Pope in 1853 and patented by—" he was cut short as Timbers interjected urgently.

  "Yes, yes that's fascinating, but hadn't we better be, you know, legging it?"

  The jabbering old man nodded in agreement, extending an apologetic hand, which was lost on the already hightailing Timbers. As they bolted from the elevator into the corridor opposite, a flurry of activity emanated from the flanking passageways. Neither Timbers nor his newfound crime fighting ally had any desire to discover the source of the activity as they made their escape. And yet, as the commotion behind them grew louder, the little captain could hear heavy flapping footfalls of the sort that might be caused by oversized shoes. As they grew louder still, almost gaining, Timbers thought he could make out another sound.

  He thought he heard giggling.

  #

  Marty rounded the corner at the end of the street and almost fell over Whipstaff, who had stopped in his tracks and stared up at the building that monopolized the skyline in front of them. The vast structure stretched epically skywards and would have cast a mighty shadow upon them, had any sunlight been able to penetrate the foggy gloom of the city.

  It seemed to be made up entirely of lights, which starkly contrasted the gray, miserable mood of the street below. Some moved on giant wheels, some adorned giant balloons, and some surrounded the gigantic sign that proudly announced 'The Big Top Club' to all those who hadn't already caught on to the overall vibe of the place. In keeping with the theme, the whole façade of the building gave the impression of a huge marquee tent, although closer inspection revealed what appeared to be canvas was, in fact, brick and masonry.

  Illuminated by the dancing, animated spectacle, Marty and Whipstaff stood hypnotized as Kate and Oaf rounded the corner and clattered into them, the lantern almost lost in the pile up. It was scarcely enough to drag their attention away from what lay before them.

  Even as Oaf stooped to retrieve the fallen lantern, he gazed upwards, mouth open in awe and surprise. "Ohhh, pretty lights," was all he could muster in the face of this multi-colored extravaganza, however.

  Moving towards it inexorably, like penguins to a fishmonger, the group advanced slowly. As they did, three figures hastened across the street in front of them and climbed the flight of steps to the door of the Big Top. As they flung open the doors, muffled sounds of music could be heard from within, receding back into obscurity as the doors closed behind them.

  Marty turned to his companions. "They didn't look like clowns. We might actually be able to pull this off." Aware that all eyes were on him, he continued. "I mean, this should be a lot easier than we thought."

  Rather than wait for any possible questions or protests, he crossed the street and vaulted the few steps to the front doors. Atop the flight of stairs, Marty turned to beckon his friends, but momentum, or perhaps curiosity, had carried them to his side already. Or maybe they just believed him, he thought, smiling to himself. Never having been a leader before, he was unsure which was more likely, but was buoyed by the solidarity nonetheless. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the handles of the huge double doors.

  "Is everybody ready?" he asked, expecting a resounding affirmative. Looking down, Marty caught sight of Whipstaff hefti
ng the blunderbuss off his back, and wielding it menacingly. "Hey," he whispered hoarsely. "Put that away. We're not resorting to 'All Guns Blazing' yet."

  The little first mate grudgingly obliged. From the rear of the party, Oaf let out a short, "Oh! Erm," and everyone turned. The tiny giant raised the lantern, opened its tiny window and blew out the candle within. Clearly sensing he was holding up proceedings, he hooked the lantern to his belt and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, ready now."

  As he reached out to grasp the large brass door handle, Marty was halted by a hand tugging at his jacket. He turned to meet Whipstaff's cautious gaze, an equally cautionary sack cloth finger wagging in front of it. "Stay your blade, matey. We can't just go swanning in there like this. Peepers is expecting you, right? You need a disguise."

  Marty tutted. Whipstaff was right, and while a bucket of face paint and a hilariously fluffy wig might have been just the ticket, he hadn't exactly packed for this trip.

  "Hey, maybe the old guy with the birds will lend you his coat," Kate suggested.

  Marty shook his head. "No, I don't think they'd let us in if I looked like a zombie scarecrow with a hangover. Besides, from the smell of him, I wouldn't be surprised if that coat was actually a part of him."

  The group nodded solemnly, almost as one, and Marty was relieved they had seen his point of view. He was on board with the disguise idea, but not with the notion that the disguise might give him rabies.

  Whipstaff snapped his fingers, bringing Marty back to the job at hand. Reaching up, the little first mate untied his bandana and handed it to Marty proudly. Reaching to retrieve it, Marty froze, suddenly unable to take his eyes off the enormous afro which had just been freed and was sitting grandly atop Whipstaff's head. Kate was doing her best not to stare, while Oaf simply raised a cloth paw to his mouth, holding back a broad, throaty chuckle.

  Whipstaff rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking the bandana impatiently. "Just take it. It's the sea air, it makes my hair so unmanageable," he muttered.

  Joining his companions in wholly failing to mask his amusement, Marty took the bandana and tied it around his face, so that only the top half was now visible. It would do.

  "Haha!" Whipstaff chirped. "It fits well, señor, now all you need is a sombrero."

  Marty grinned behind the bandana, in no small part because he was now picturing himself as a Mexican bandito." Yeah, ok Captain Seventies. Let's go." Turning back to the entrance of the Big Top, he pushed the doors, following them as they swung inwards. Following on behind, the group came to an unruly rest against a small, raised balcony rail. The sight which met them was even more resplendent than anything the towering building's impressive exterior had to offer.

  Spanning out in front of them was a cavernous chamber, brightly lit and even more brightly colored. Marty's little band stood on a raised walkway, which ran around the edge of the room, dipping in places to allow access to the intricately mosaicked central floor depicting a leering clown's face. To say that this was a dance floor, however, would be somewhat inaccurate. There were figures dancing on it, a large group in fact, but they seemed suspended, hovering in midair, swooping and whirling impossibly just above the ground. Although the floating dancers were not especially clownish in appearance, they all wore gaudy masquerade masks that afforded them an exaggeratedly grotesque aspect nonetheless.

  Bordering the dance floor was an implausibly long bar propped up by surly patrons, each paying more attention to their drinks than to the band churning out the disjointed carnival music from the stage opposite. At the hub of the stage, a five piece were set up, plucking, beating and blowing a discordant melody out into the crowd.

  While nobody turned to witness their arrival, Marty was acutely aware the arrival of two pirates and a Mexican bandit would surely spark some interest sooner or later and quietly waved for his companions to follow him. A clutch of unassuming, out of the way, booths beckoned, and Marty led the way across the raised gantry to where the music was more muted and the light less incriminating.

  "Right," piped up Whipstaff. "What now?"

  Marty eyed the bar and its clientele dubiously, hoping to spy a friendly face. Most of them either scowled back or mooched vacantly over their drinks. None appeared to be candidates for a quick game of twenty questions. "Erm, I'm not sure. Shall we get a drink?" he suggested eventually.

  Whipstaff frowned and reached up to the handle of his blunderbuss again. He had likely been expecting to have committed a lot more violence and doing way less drinking, but as both appeared right up there with his other favorite pirate things to do, he relaxed his grip on the weapon and called over a waiter. A steward duly obliged, scuttling over with a tray.

  He was dressed in billowing satin pantaloons and enough greasepaint to redecorate the inside of the Big Top Club, and yet he did not have the look of a clown about him. Perhaps he was a clown in training, Marty thought, chuckling to himself. On probation until he'd learned how to juggle and scare small children.

  Whipstaff wasted no time with the order. "Four of everything, please," he commanded. "And whatever my friends want."

  Marty waved the attendant away, clearly remembering the tequila ambush and subsequent conflict with the beer monkeys that very morning. Besides, keeping a clear head when riding the runaway mine cart that was his plan was probably a good idea, he decided. Kate had evidently made a similar decision, shaking her head as the waiter turned to her.

  As he left with Whipstaff's order, Oaf belatedly spoke up. "I will have…" he began before looking up and realizing he was talking to no one. He sank back into his seat, mumbling. "I only wanted water."

  Kate leaned towards Marty, speaking in barely a whisper. "So, what do you think? Does anyone here look approachable?"

  "Do any of them look capable of speaking at all?" Whipstaff interjected.

  Cautiously removing the bandana covering his face, Marty scanned the crowd. None of them looked like the kind of person who would apply the brake if they were speeding towards him in a steamroller let alone consent to engaging in some form of conversation. His eyes met those of a tall, willowy barmaid who smiled at him suggestively. She lacked the homicidal air of the surrounding drinkers, and Marty managed a nervous smile in return.

  "She'll do," he imparted absently. Whipstaff followed his gaze.

  "Damn right she will!" he cheered in agreement, jabbing Oaf with a hearty elbow.

  Oaf chuckled timidly, scratching his head as he did so, obviously not sure of what his shipmate was alluding to but happy to be involved.

  Suddenly remembering Kate was next to him, Marty turned to face her. "I mean, she'll be a good person to ask. She's a barmaid, people talk to her. And she looks friendly." He tried to make the last part sound innocent, a feat clearly not helped by further giggling and elbow jabbing from Whipstaff. Oaf at least was not laughing anymore. His confused expression confirmed he did indeed have no idea what was going on, and didn't really like being elbowed repeatedly.

  Turning back towards the bar, Marty watched as the barmaid stopped a waiter carrying drinks, relieved him of his cargo, and headed towards their table. Her eyes remained fixed on Marty's as she slinked across the room, effortlessly slaloming to and fro to avoid patrons as she approached. As she arrived at the booth and placed the tray of drinks gently onto the table, Marty tried valiantly not to gawp. Dressed in lavish, sparkling satin, the barmaid looked more like she belonged on a catwalk than in a funhouse, and from the look on her face, she knew it.

  Whipstaff ceased his giggling, and he and Oaf fidgeted bashfully in their seats as Marty searched for some kind of greeting to cut the silence.

  "Welcome to the Big Top. You're new here, aren't you?" Her voice was so Eastern European that umlauts seemed to hang in the air over the table as she spoke, and while she was clearly talking to the whole party, her eyes remained firmly fixed on Marty. "My name is Ursula. I run the bar here. Anything you need, you come to me." Again, she grinned at Marty, who was fast r
unning out of other places to look. Deciding instead to be bold, and in spite of his earlier pledge of abstinence, he snatched up a shot glass from the tray and dispatched its contents defiantly. The ghost of the morning's hangover briefly stirred to remind Marty of what he had consumed for breakfast before mercifully retreating again, allowing Marty to continue with his bravado induced display.

  "We're looking for our friend." He began firmly, and perhaps a little too loudly, as a few patrons looked up from their drinks. "We were told he came this way recently. With some…clowns," he added in a tone he hoped was less conspicuous.

  Ursula the bar maid raised an eyebrow. "We don't get clowns in here very often," she crooned. "They keep to themselves when they're not out giving someone nightmares."

  Marty looked up, scanning the room and its garishly attired clientele.

  Clearly having had the same thought as he was having, Kate interjected. "The people here though, the staff, the building. If it was anymore clowny in here, you'd be handing out free balloons at the door."

  Oaf craned his neck hopefully back to where they had entered, but alas, no balloon vendor was present.

  Ursula waved a faintly derisory hand at Kate. "We keep up the appearance, yes. They seem to leave us alone, and of course carnival chic is very in at the moment."

  Oaf and Whipstaff nodded absently, although for all they knew, flying gerbil chic could have been in at the moment.

  "As to whether I've seen your friend, what does he look like? Is he as handsome as you?" Ursula purred, cocking a playful glance and another raised eyebrow at Marty.

  Again, robbed of words by those sultry eyes, Marty was relieved Kate still had a couple left.

  "No. He's a pirate. Like these two," she muttered, gesturing to Whipstaff and Oaf, who had lost all interest in the conversation and were busy throwing beermats at each other.

  "A pirate you say?" Ursula pursed her lips. "We see even fewer of them here." She paused, squinting into the distance behind them. "Does he wear a big blue coat?"