The operator leered, all teeth. “Your money’s worth, missy. One dime. I’ll make sure you get a good, long ride.”
Miranda showed him her ID. “Stop the goddamn wheel.”
Face red, he pulled one of the long handles. She leaned on his shoulder, the line behind her starting to whisper.
“Step aside when you get to the car with a little blonde girl. I’ll tell you when.”
He nodded, easing the cars to a stop, one at a time, one at a time. Three more to go before Susie.
A fat lady in the car before them had difficulty getting out. Susie’s hat was off. The clown’s hand stroked her hair, greasepaint still filling the cracks in his face.
Their car swung into line. Miranda poked the operator in the back with the kewpie doll, and he opened the gate, got out of the way. The clown gave Susie a small push and she walked forward. Miranda stepped in front of her, held out the doll.
“This is for you, Susie.”
The little girl stared at her, confused. Miranda grabbed Susie’s hand, eyes raised to the clown. He looked from one to the other, panic twisting his face. Then he jumped off the platform, running into the Gayway crowds while a woman behind them screamed.
It took three minutes to find a cop. She gave him Susie, ran past Greenwich Village toward the opposite end of the zone. Where the hell could a clown go to be inconspicuous? Except he wasn’t a clown anymore.
She stopped in the middle of the grounds, breathing hard. Susie was safe. Not harmed. But the clown…
She looked up at the complex called Children’s Village. And took out her last cigarette.
He was slapping on greasepaint when she walked in the room. Jumped up, shrank against the wall, eyes large without the makeup, focused on the.22 in her hand. Still sad.
“Please, please, lady. I was just trying to see her. She don’t even know I’m her father.”
She stared at him, smoke from the Chesterfield curling toward the cracked mirror.
“Some fucking father. You expect me to believe you? You kidnapped a little girl, goddamn it-”
“There’s proof. Loie’s got it. She showed it to me. Before-before she got married.”
He wiped his forehead, his hand shaking. Sank slowly into the chair, the bare yellow lightbulb throwing shadows across his face.
“Made me promise never to see her. Susie’s chance. Loie’s chance. My little girl could have the good things… I ain’t never gonna be able to buy her what he can. And I kept my promise. I ain’t seen her since she was a baby.”
Miranda gestured with the.22. “Keep your hands on the counter. I saw
Face, mouth, voice, pleading, looking at her, not the gun. “Loie brought her here, to the Village. I make balloons for the kids… Loie was leaving for Sally’s, didn’t recognize me with the face and all. I stopped her, asked about Susie, but she was worried ’bout people seein’ us together. So’s I took Susie when she left, tried to-to spend a little time with her. Knew they’d probably look for me as soon as Loie figured it out, washed my face, took my street clothes with me.”
Miranda blew a stream of smoke toward the cheap pine wardrobe in the corner, the pistol steady and pointed at the clown.
“What were you going do with her? Tell me that-what were you going to do with her?”
“I weren’t gonna keep her, lady. I just wanted to see my little girl. Give her some fun, something to remember her old man by. She said she likes cotton candy. Please don’t lose me my job. I like kids. I’m good with kids. Ask Anderson-didn’t he tell you? Didn’t he tell you I’m good with-”
“Fuck the job. Worry about San Quentin.”
Face whiter than makeup, shadows under the eyes, dark pools. Hands trembling on the counter. The Tower of the Sun carillon played the hour, “Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”
His voice croaked, reedy, strong, sure.
“All right. Go ahead. I’m not sorry for tryin’ to see Susie. I’m glad I did it. I’d do it again. And at least she’ll know her old man was willin’ to pay the price for seein’ her.”
Miranda took a long drag on the Chesterfield, studying his face. He met her eyes, breathing hard, defiant.
She said: “Put some makeup on.”
She thought about Susie, and about what Susie would want. But fuck, Susie was five years old, and it didn’t matter what she’d want. Children’s Day was make-believe, and only once a year.
At least she had a father who loved her. That put her ahead. Put her ahead of Miranda.
She called Lois Hampton, calmed her down. Met with her privately, lunching at the Women’s Club, Susie still holding the kewpie doll. Suggested new terms for Susie’s daddy, especially with Geoff away so much. No, no publicity, Mrs. Hampton. No publicity.
Called Rick. Got a liverwurst sandwich at Maxwell House, walked to the Owl for more cigarettes. Finally strolled over to Midget Village, watching Shorty twirl a six gun for some kids and their parents, the late afternoon sun stretching across the bay, the midgets making long shadows in the sawdust of the corral.
A cop ambled by, stood next to her.
“Hear you found the missing girl, Corbie.”
“Yeah.”
“Lost the kidnapper, though?”
Miranda shrugged, opened a new package of Chesterfields. “I don’t know, Gillespie. Sometimes a clown is just a clown.”
He stared at her. “What the hell does that mean?”
She blew a smoke ring, watching it rise high on the bay wind, drifting above the Gayway.
“It means Happy Children’s Day.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on.
KELLI STANLEY is an award-winning author of two crime fiction series.
My Father’s Eyes by Wendy Corsi Staub
Things aren’t always as they seem,” my father liked to say, and when he said it, I would shake my head as if to say, no, they certainly are not.
Really, I was shaking my head because he was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Let them.
Yes, my father was dead wrong. Most things-and people, too-are, I have learned, exactly as they seem.
Take Abby. Some might assume that beyond the triple chins and homely facade must belie a sparkling wit or a
