CHAPTER TWO
My Circus Gets Threatened By The Mafia
“I don’t like this, John.” Mom whispers, not for the first time. “We shouldn’t be going to Gotham.”
“It will be fine, Mary,” Dad murmurs, “It’s time.”
“No.” Mom’s voice trembles. Trembles like it does when she’s trying to keep something inside.
Mom and Dad only have conversations like this when I’m supposed to be sleeping...when I’m not supposed to be listening.
The train chugs on, the wheels whooshing over the tracks, turning off onto curves, whizzing through the countryside. I stare at the blurred world outside my window, curled under my sheets. The lights of the cities are fireflies, winking at each other in some sort of game. I count them but lose track at thirty-two. It doesn’t work anyway. I am still up, listening to things I am not supposed to hear. Things I won’t ever understand.
They’ve been going on like this all night. Going on about how Mom doesn’t want to go to Gotham, how Dad says it’s time, but they never say why. So I wonder. Why? Why does Mom not want to go to Gotham? Dad’s family isn’t there anymore— they’re dead. And last I heard, Mom liked Dad’s family. So why? Is it because psychos like the Joker run around the streets? Is it because of dangerous neighborhoods like Crime Alley and the Narrows?
Or is it something else? My brain can’t seem to put the pieces together. They’ve never gone on like this before. It’s almost like something’s going to happen, something horrible, something—
The cabin shakes, and the mood shifts. Uncle Rick lets out a snore so loud and long it rivals the trumpeting from the elephants a couple of cars down. I stifle a laugh, but my parents don’t say anything from the darkness below. What’s wrong with them? Did I do something wrong?
I pull the blankets around me, letting out a deep sigh. Some kids look forward to growing up, but honestly, the more I grow up, the more I want to go back to when I was younger. When I didn’t really pay attention to my parent's arguments. Then again, I still don’t pay that much attention. Who wants to worry about taxes, budgets, family drama, and all that boring stuff, anyway?
My eyes droop, my head snuggles into the depths of the thick pillow, and my breathing steadies. Whatever the problem is, Mom and Dad can work it out. We’ll have fun in Gotham, performing our socks off in front of a tent full of people. And who knows? Maybe I’ll actually catch a glimpse of the Batman.
I don’t want to sleep. At least, that’s what my body tells me. It wants to jump up and down, keep looking out the window, searching for any sign of Gotham, even though I know we won’t arrive until later in the morning. But while my body’s demanding I do a few cartwheels around the cabin, pumped high on adrenaline, my eyes feel like someone’s dropped bricks on them, and my mouth opens in a huge yawn.
My mind drifts right from waking to a dream.
My family and I sit around our trailer’s breakfast nook, munching on Mom’s famous pancakes. Mine is drenched in syrup and butter, while everyone else’s are topped lighter. I never thought that you could taste food in dreams, but here I am, savoring the buttery, sugary concoction. Mom doesn’t cook too much since we’re always on the move and have cooks assigned to the troupe, so it’s a special morning when she does.
It doesn’t take long to realize that Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick are all grinning at me, their eyes twinkling like the spotlights of the big top. Am I the only one who gets annoyed when adults look at you with that ‘I know something you don't' look?
“Whaw?” I mumble through a mouth full of food. “Whaw iw it?”
“Well,” Mom clasps a hand over Dad’s, her face beaming, “Someone came over to say hello.”
I gulp down my pancakes, looking around expectantly. “Who?”
“Behind you!” Uncle Rick muffles a laugh with a large hand and points over my shoulder.
I look up and scream. Thankfully, it isn’t out of fear. In fact, it is the closest I’ve ever gotten to that ‘fangirling’ scream. Not that that’s less embarrassing. But at this point, I don’t care. Behind me stands a dark figure dressed in a cape and cowl, the pointed ears so sharp I could cut my finger on them.
“Batman!” I exclaim, bouncing to my feet. “Wow! Gosh, this is so cool!”
“Surprise, Dickie Bird!” Dad claps his hands and guffaws, Uncle Rick quickly joining in. I stare up at Batman, my tongue flopping around in my mouth. What do you say to a man, a myth, a legend? To someone who’s so larger than life that they fill the entire trailer with their presence? I think I’m mute now, no sound coming out as I flap my lips. And maybe I am mute— at least until the words explode out of me like a daredevil from a cannon.
“How many Batmobiles do you have? How far can you shoot your grappling line? How do you always see the Bat Signal? How—”
Bang, bang, BANG!
I flail, jerking out of the dream and into the real world. A world where Batman’s probably going home for the morning, his night done. A world where my eyes see tiny little dots dancing around in the light like gnats. The real world where the train’s whooshing along below me and C.C. Haly’s pounding on the door. Mom and Dad are already up, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Mom’s sitting on her vanity’s stool, applying makeup.
Bang, bang, BANG!
“We’ll be arriving in an hour!” C.C. Haly’s trumpets through the door. At least someone on this train enjoys early mornings. “Up and at 'em. Let’s move, people!”
“Ugh.” I flip over the edge of my bunk to peer at Uncle Rick, who slams his pillow over his face, absently waving an arm. “Does he have to do this every morning?”
Dad jerks the pillow from him and tosses it up to me. I catch it, balancing over the edge of the bunk by my stomach alone. Some people call this move the ‘Superman,’ but let’s be honest, Superman doesn’t have to fly with a metal rod supporting his stomach. I grin down at Uncle Rick. “Maybe if you got up on time, he wouldn’t have to.” I snicker, raising the pillow over my head.
Uncle Rick doesn’t notice until it’s too late. All chaos breaks out in the Grayson cabin. I have to say, pillow fights are our specialty. Even Mom, who smears her lipstick as I accidentally fly into her, joins in. Cushions swing like bludgeons. I lose a nice plump one when Uncle Rick rips it, sending tiny feathers poofing into the air. The pillow fight quickly turns into a sneeze fest as the tiny terrors tickle my nose.
This is the life.
We’re off to a new city; the sun is rising bright and beautiful, and the cabin smells like breakfast and clean pillowcases. By the time we walk into the dining car, we’re laughing and joking, and I forget about my parents' conversation last night. Who cares about that now?
Though I could be mad that breakfast isn’t pancakes, I still drool over the fluffy eggs, the crispy bacon, and the golden toast. Raya sits beside me, her orange juice sloshing in the crystal glass as she slaps a magazine next to her, causing me to shove a forkful of eggs up my nose.
“Gosh, Rays!” I snort out the eggs, batting her arm away but unable to hide my smile at the sight of her scrunched-up nose. “Personal space, much?”
Raya Vestri and I’ve been friends since we could toddle. But I use the term ‘friends’ very loosely. Neither of us has siblings, so in a way, we became each other’s siblings. And let me tell you, while most girls are bossy, a girl who thinks she’s your older sister is even bossier. I mean, what kind of girl forces a guy into one of those frilly clown costumes and sits him down for a tea party with lions and pythons?
“Gross.” Raya scoots a couple of inches away from me, her eyes snapping. “Couldn’t you have used a napkin?”
I wipe my nose on my arm, sticking my tongue out through my grin. Nowadays, I don’t give her the satisfaction of doing something she wants. Stupid, I know. She’d say, ‘Wear a lifevest, Dick! You’ll drown!’ and I won’t wear one just ‘cause she said so. It’s almost like she’s daring me.
“I could’ve. But where’s the fun in that?” I peer down at the magazine. “Whatcha readin’?”
Raya slaps a hand over the glossy booklet, her dark cheeks flushing. “None of your business.”
I roll my eyes. Honestly, why does she sit next to me if she doesn’t want to be around me? You’d think she really is my sister or something. I turn my attention to the view whizzing past, shoving my toast into my mouth. It’s a bad idea. Just as I take a big bite, we zip past something I’ve only ever seen in the European countryside. “Is thwat a cwastle?” I spew bread crumbs all over the window, scrambling to get a better view.
The train curves along the coastline, the tracks dangerously close to the sheer cliffs. Across the water, you can see the dark blotch that’s Gotham City. But on my side’s a forest—a huge, sprawling forest with gravel roads, glistening rivers, and rolling hills. And in the middle of it stands a castle. A huge, stone, mammoth of a castle. Manicured lawns roll around it, filled with hedges, fountains, topiaries, the works.
“Woah…” I gawk, my bread forgotten.
Raya crawls over, too, ever smug. “That’s not a castle.” She sniffs, her voice almost cracking as a blush explodes on her cheeks like clown paint. “That’s Wayne Manor!”
I turn to her, now understanding the blush. Billionaire Bruce Wayne, or as Raya calls him, the hottest guy in the world, lives in that castle. He’s way too old for her. Gosh, she’s only my age! But even still—
Raya shoves the magazine in my face, her fingers clutching it like it’s a first-prize ribbon. “See? See?”
I blink, finally gulping down my pulverized breakfast. On the magazine's cover is a headshot of a young man about Uncle Rick’s age. Only, he can’t actually be a man. He’s too handsome, too perfect. His face seems sculpted, the features fine-tuned over years and years by an artist. A strong jawline, perfectly shaped nose, eyes spaced just right— not to mention his physique, just like Dad’s. He’s pale, flawless, and totally photoshopped.
But one thing does catch my eye as I raise a brow at the picture. His eyes are a cold, startling gray. In fact, they seem so severe and stern that they almost throw off his charming, devilish smile.
I roll my eyes. “‘Gotham’s most eligible bachelor?’ Really, Rays?”
Raya clutches the magazine to her chest, her eyes sparkling like chocolate candies. “Really! You can’t tell me he isn’t just—”
“So fake.” I wave her off, sliding back down to sit in front of my half-eaten plate. “That’s either makeup, touchups, or—”
“Or nothing!” Raya scowls, bouncing down onto the cushion with a huff. “He’s hot, and you’re just jealous!”
My cheeks heat up so much you could fry an egg on them. Am I jealous? Maybe. Maybe I’m jealous of his perfectly styled hair, his shining teeth. Maybe I’m jealous of his rugged good looks. So what? I shove my mouth full of eggs, scowling at Raya through my squirrel cheeks.
I eat the rest of my meal in silence, listening to Raya prattle on and on about Gotham’s elite, the scandals she finds romantic, the kidnappings, which she also finds romantic, and the serial killers, which she finds boring. Why do girls always find the most exciting bits boring?
We cross the bridge to Amusement Mile, home to all of Gotham’s fun times. Our circus grounds are across the island, so I have time to escape from Raya’s jabbering and change out of my pj's. What? Did you think I wear a leotard all the time? Now that would be sissy.
By the time I slip into a T-shirt and shorts, dragging a comb through my tangled rat's nest, we stop at the station right in front of the grounds. Then it’s royal commotion on the train.
Packing up we can do in a night; setting up takes way longer. All day, actually. So I spend the rest of the morning helping Mom set up our trailer, helping Raya’s family move the animals to their assigned cages, and trying to sneak off with Marg’s first batch of cotton candy. That doesn’t go well. Sticky blue fingers and lips are a dead giveaway. I still haven’t found a solution for that.
By the time I’m eating dinner with my family, everything’s set up and ready for tomorrow. All that’s left is rehearsal. Except—
“Dick.” Mom’s voice could tame a lion. She glares at me from across the table, one eyebrow raising as she watches me push the brussel sprouts around my plate. Okay, grownups should know by now that brussel sprouts are nasty. Asking us kids to eat them is like asking us to wash our mouths out with vinegar. So Mom shouldn’t be surprised when I don’t shovel them down. Besides, Uncle Rick isn’t eating his either!
“Can I go now?” I don’t whine, I plead with her, opening my eyes as wide as possible, puckering my lips. This always worked when I was younger, and thankfully— or embarrassingly— my face still hasn’t lost most of its baby fat. I still look ‘cute.’ Of course, that’s what every twelve-year-old boy wants to hear.
“Aw!” Uncle Rick ruffles my hair. “Look, Mary! It’s a wittle puppy! Can we keep it?”
“Dick.” Dad’s eyes beg me to humor Mom. If he were as young as I am, his face would also be a ‘puppy face.’ But he isn’t, so it doesn’t. Besides, he hasn’t eaten his brussel sprouts either.
I drop my act, sighing down at the green things on my plate. “If I finish, can I practice early?” I peer up at Mom, letting a smile tease the corners of my mouth. Her eyes are hard; lips pursed, hands steepled like an evil mastermind.
Finally, she sighs. “Yes.” I open my mouth, but she points at me, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But only if you finish all the brussels on your plate.”
My stomach drops, and I gulp. I glare down at the tiny monsters mocking me from the plastic slab. Here goes nothing. I grab all of the green devils and shove them into my mouth. What do they taste like, you might ask? To put it in the mildest terms, barf. They taste like barf. Barf and weeds, and all things nasty. Who thought that eating them would be a good idea?
I don’t even chew. I just sit, my cheeks bulging. “Mnow cwan I gwow?” I splutter, trying not to make a face. It doesn’t work that well.
Mom sighs, nodding. At last, freedom! I catapult out of our trailer, taking the time to spit the brussels into the bucket waiting under our small water pump. I spring into the air, clearing four feet easy. I ignore the laughing clowns as I barrel towards the big top, pulling my grips from my back pocket.
When I enter the big top, standing vast and empty, I expect an evening of practice and more than that, practice on my own, swinging out over the center ring, albeit with a net underneath, just in case. What I’m not expecting, though, is a group of men waiting for me, smiling.
The one in front is obviously the head honcho. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit, the tie shining blood red in the only spotlight. He’s so tall, so sharp, that he might as well be a knife. One eye glitters blue, and the other shines brown, instantly catching me in their stare. His smile belongs to a snake, not a person. He just screams ‘gang leader.’
The men surrounding him are the same. Movies and shows lie. In them, all the goons and henchmen are fat, dumb, and funny. These guys are as big and buff as my dad, sporting tattoos, scars, and guns. A lot of guns. They smile, too, when they look at me. But I’d rather face Raya’s lion when he’s hungry than these guys.
I freeze in place, ashamed of the O my mouth drops into. My grips slip from my grasp, but I don’t care. These guys aren’t supposed to be here.
“Well now, where ya running off to, Sonny?” The man in charge drawls, putting his hands on his hips. His outer jacket opens with the motion, revealing pockets and pockets of knives. We have a knife thrower, Old Scott, with his wife, Vanessa. But these are killer’s knives.
I step back, my face frozen as if one of the clowns slapped a mask over it. A sad clown, I think. “You’re not supposed to be in here.” I surprise myself. Even though my voice is shrill in my own ears, I manage to speak. “Did you get lost at the Zoo? Took a wrong turn? Maybe at the monkey business attraction? Or were you just so embarrassed by your bad tattoos you thought you could join the circus? Get a few laughs from the audience?”
I don’t know where the confidence comes from, but I hold onto it, grasping it with all I have because it is all I have.
“Look at that, boys!” Dual-eyes leers down at me, his face ruined by his sneer. “We have ourselves a comedian!”
None of the men snicker. Instead, some smirk, while others look down at me as if I’m a mouse who’s wandered his sorry way into their serpent’s cage. A meal, that’s what I am—someone’s dinner.
“Please leave.” I hold my ground as Dual-eyes steps closer. I would run, but I can’t. I want to scream, but I won’t. Something’s stuck in my throat. Something’s tying down my sneakers. So much for confidence.
“Daw.” Dual-eyes puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s polite too! What a pleasant mix.” His other hand darts up and grabs my chin, his fingers squeezing my cheeks. “Say, aren’t you that Grayson kid?”
Getting your cheeks pinched by a doting grandmother is one thing. Getting your entire face squeezed by a gangster with a jacket full of knives is another. I splutter through his fingers, flinching under their clammy touch. I’d rather be kissed by a fish than be near this guy. He just oozes red flags. Is this what it’s like everywhere in Gotham? If it is… this city’s losing its appeal.
Dual-eyes jerks my head this way and that before spitting something smelly and black on the sawdust beside me. “A cute little brat. Heh.”
“Dick?” I want to whip around at the sound of Mom’s voice, to whimper for help, but Dual-eyes yanks me closer to him. His hand lets go of my face, only to clamp down on my other shoulder, spinning me around to face the big top’s entrance.
Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick stand there. Mom’s hand’s over her mouth, her eyes wide and popping. Dad’s shocked, but his eyes twitch, his knuckles cracking as he clenches them into fists. Uncle Rick looks as if he might explode at any moment, his face so red it would put a tomato to shame.
“Ah,” Dual-eyes’ hands squeeze my shoulders. Too late, I realize that his thumbs are on my pressure points. The pain is sudden and visible. Dad growls, holding out his fists, but Dual-eyes pretends not to notice, “The Fearless Famous Flying Graysons. You really are larger than life.” He shakes me, and I let out a whimper.
Coward. Coward. COWARD!
“Let my son go.” Dad’s words are measured, even. He doesn’t show any fear. Why can’t I be like him?
I let out a shaking breath as the rest of the troupe files into the big top, C.C. Haly leading the way. He looks strange, not wearing his ringmaster getup, but I couldn’t be more glad to see him. Behind him, everyone’s brandishing weapons. Not your standard guns or knives, no. The clowns carry water guns, and Marco, the firebreather, has two torches. Pidge, the strong man, hefts his heaviest dumbbells. Raya and her parents brandish their whips. Well, Old Scott’s carrying his knives, but he already had those.
I want to yank myself free and run over to Dad. But Dad seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head. No, the motion says, wait. I don’t understand why, until I remember the guns that Dual-eyes’ gang has pointing at my troupe.
“Ah, ringmaster.” Dual-eyes shakes me. I scowl as my body swings like a ragdoll. Raya’s never going to let me live this down. “This your kid?”
“Who are you?” C.C. Haly doesn’t bother answering, his normally jovial voice hard for once. Chills race up and down my back. “What do you want?”
“Well, now,” Dual-eyes pulls me closer, my head bumping against his bony chest, “No need to be so uptight, old man. My name is Zucco, Tony Zucco, and I am at your service. I am here with a proposition that I know you won’t refuse.”
“Oh?” C.C. Haly would’ve sneered, but he isn’t that kind of man. Instead, his eyes narrow. “And what might that be?”
“Protection, my good sir.” Tony Zucco lets go of one of my shoulders, only to slip the hand into his jacket. I know what he’s getting. I know what’s going to happen. I lock eyes with Dad, my eyes asking the same question over and over. When?
Tony Zucco slides out a knife. The serrated blade tickles my throat as his fingers dig into my shoulder, biting muscle. I flinch, biting my lip hard. “You’re in Gotham now, good folks.” Tony drawls, toying with the knife, the cool metal teasing my skin. Mom looks like she might tackle Zucco right now, her eyes snapping like firecrackers.
From where she stands with her parents, Raya looks like she’s going to cry. Why? Is she afraid she’ll lose the only kid at the circus she can boss around?
Tony Zucco continues his speech, the knife so close that I hold my breath and refuse to swallow. Any movement could cut me. “And Gotham is a hazardous place.” The knife slips closer, the teeth of the serrated blade beginning to poke into my skin. I want to close my eyes, shrink away, do something. But all I do is stare at Dad. And wait. “So dangerous, in fact, good people like you will need protection.” Zucco sighs and tsks, his fingernails biting, boring into my shoulder. I do my best not to whimper again. “And this I offer, a service provided by my boss. For the right price, of course.”
There’s a long pause. So long and so agonizing that I almost take a deep, heaving breath. Something warm and wet trickles down my neck, tickling me, leaving me to twitch. But that only makes the stuff run faster. The pain builds up in my neck and shoulder. Mom lets out a hiss.
“Now, why would we need protection?” C.C. Haly’s words are measured and slow. He throws out his arms. “Why would we need protection when I can introduce you to the Stong Man?” Pidge tosses the first dumbbell, and all hell breaks loose. Haly introduces each member of our troupe, even down to Raya. And when he gets to me, Dad nods. He’s rushing towards the gang with the others, flipping into the air, slamming down on the men with lethal force. Uncle Rick and Mom follow.
When C.C. Haly cries out my name, I don’t even think. I flip upwards and back, my foot smacking the knife out of Zucco’s hand, my arms snapping onto his arm, prying myself free from his grip. I launch myself into the air, grabbing his shoulders, then vault over his head, twisting around to slam my heels into his shoulder blades, letting him fall into the sawdust.
Guns fire as I bounce to a stop and duck down, but the fight is over as quickly as it began. Dad kicks Tony Zucco in the ribs, sending him sprawling, caught by his retreating men.
“We need no protection, Zucco.” Dad snaps, placing a hand on my shoulder. It’s so different from Zucco’s biting grip that I want to jump up and down right here and now. But I don’t. I give Zucco a huge, stupid grin, beaming on behalf of Dad and my troupe. My brave, incredible dad. “Get out.”
I expect Zucco and his thugs to run out of the big top, screaming something about a miniature lion tamer with a deadly whip. Instead, Zucco looks right at me and smiles.
A smile that only belongs to a snake.
To be Continued...
Comments