Against the Day (5 page)

From somewhere ahead too dark to see
came music from a small orchestra, unusually syncopated, which grew louder,
till they could make out a small outdoor dancefloor, all but unlit, where
couples were dancing, and about which crowds were streaming densely everywhere,
among odors of beer, garlic, tobacco smoke, inexpensive perfume, and, from
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, somewhere up ahead, the unmistakable scent of
massed livestock.

Observers of the Fair had remarked
how, as one moved up and down its Midway, the more European, civilized, and
. . .
well, frankly,
white
exhibits
located closer to the center of the “White City” seemed to be, whereas the
farther from that alabaster Metropolis one ventured, the more evident grew the
signs of cultural darkness and savagery. To the boys it seemed that they were
making their way through a separate, lampless world, out beyond some obscure
threshold, with its own economic life, social habits, and codes, aware of
itself as having little if anything to do with the official Fair
. . . .
As if the halflight ruling this
perhaps even unmapped periphery were not a simple scarcity of streetlamps but
deliberately provided in the interests of mercy, as a necessary veiling for the
faces here, which held an urgency somehow too intense for the full light of day
and those innocent American visitors with their Kodaks and parasols who might
somehow happen across this place. Here in the shadows, the faces moving by
smiled, grimaced, or stared directly at Lindsay and Miles as if somehow they
knew them, as if in the boys’ long career of adventure in exotic corners of the
world there had been accumulating, unknown to them, a reserve of
mistranslation, offense taken, debt entered into, here being reexpressed as a
strange Limbo they must negotiate their way through, expecting at any moment a
“runin” with some enemy from an earlier day, before they might gain the safety
of the lights in the distance.

Armed “bouncers,” drawn from the
ranks of the Chicago police, patrolled the shadows restlessly. A Zulu
theatrical company reenacted the massacre of British troops at Isandhlwana.
Pygmies sang Christian hymns in the Pygmy dialect, Jewish klezmer ensembles
filled the night with unearthly clarionet solos, Brazilian Indians allowed
themselves to be swallowed by giant anacondas, only to climb out again,
undigested and apparently with no discomfort to the snake. Indian swamis
levitated, Chinese boxers feinted, kicked, and threw one another to and fro.

Temptation, much to Lindsay’s
chagrin, lurked at every step. Pavilions here seemed almost to represent not
nations of the world but Deadly Sins.
  
Pitchmen
in their efforts at persuasion all but seized the ambulant youths by their
lapels.

“Exotic smoking practices around the
world, of great anthropological value!”

“Scientific exhibit here boys, latest
improvements to the hypodermic syringe and its many uses!”

Here were Waziris from Waziristan
exhibiting upon one another various techniques for waylaying travelers, which
reckoned in that country as a major source of income
. . . .
Tarahumara Indians from northern Mexico crouched,
apparently in total nakedness, inside lathandplaster replicas of the caves of
their native Sierra Madre, pretending to eat visionproducing cacti that sent
them into dramatic convulsions scarcely distinguishable from those of the
common “geek” long familiar to American carnivalgoers
. . . .
Tungus reindeer herders stood gesturing up at a gigantic
sign reading
special reindeer show
,
and calling out in their native tongue to the tip gathered in front, while a
pair of young women in quite revealing costumes—who, being blonde and so
forth, did not, actually, appear to share with the Tungus many racial
characteristics—gyrated next to a very patient male reindeer, caressing
him with scandalous intimacy, and accosting passersby with suggestive phrases
in English, such as “Come in and learn dozens ways to have fun in Siberia!” and
“See what really goes on during long winter nights!”

“This doesn’t seem,” Lindsay adrift
between fascination and disbelief, “quite
.
. .
authentic, somehow.”

“Come over here, boys, first time for
free, find the red get a pat on the head, find the black, get nothin back!”
cried a cheerful Negro in a “porkpie” hat, who was standing behind a folding
table nearby, setting down and picking up playingcards.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say
that was one of those monte games,” murmured Lindsay, politely suppressing his
disapproval.

“No, boss, it’s an ancient African
method of divination, allows you to change your fate.” The sharper who had
addressed them now began to move cards around with bewildering speed. At times
there were too many cards to count, at others none at all were visible, seeming
to have vanished into some dimension well beyond the third, though this could
have been a trick of what light there was.

“O.K.! maybe it’s your lucky night,
just tell us where that red is, now.” Three cards lay facedown before them.

After a moment of silence, it was
Miles who announced in a clear and firm

voice, “The cards you have put down there all happen to be
black—your
‘
red’
is the nine of diamonds, the curse of Scotland, and it’s right here,”reaching
to lift the sharper’s hat, and to remove from atop his head, and exhibit, the
card at issue.

“Lord have mercy, last time that
happened I ended up in the Cook County jail for a nice long vacation. A tribute
to your sharp eyes, young man, and no hard feelings,” holding out a tendollar
banknote.

“Oh, that is . . .” Lindsay began
tentatively, but Miles had already pocketed the offering, amiably calling out,
“Evening, sir,” as they strolled away.

A surprised expression could be noted
on Lindsay’s face. “That was
. . .
well
executed, Blundell. How did you know where that card was?”

“Sometimes,” Miles with a strangely
apprehensive note in his voice, “these peculiar feelings will surround me,
Lindsay
. . .
like the electricity
coming on—as if I can see everything just as clear as day, how
. . .
how everything fits together,
connects. It doesn’t last long, though. Pretty soon I’m just back to tripping
over my feet again.”

Presently they had come within view
of the searchlight beams sweeping the skies from the roof of the immense
Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building—a miniature city, nested within
the citywithinacity which was the Fair itself—and began to see caped
Columbian Guards on patrol, a reassuring sight, to Lindsay at least.

“Come on, Lindsay,” Miles flourishing
the banknote they had acquired so unexpectedly. “Long as we have this windfall,
let’s go get us some root beer, and some of that ‘Cracker Jack,’ too. Say, what
do you know! We’re here! We’re at the Fair!”
Meanwhile Randolph St. Cosmo
, though out of
uniform, was still on duty. The detective agency he sought was located in a
seedy block of the New Levee district, between a variety saloon and a
manufacturer of exploding cigars. The sign read
white
city investigations
. Randolph tugged the brim of his hat a bit lower,
looked swiftly up and down the littered and shadowy street, and sidled in the
entrance. A young lady typewriter who managed to act prim and bold at the same
time glanced up from her florallyappliquéd machine. “It’s after bedtime, sonny.”

“The door was open—”

“Yeah, and maybe this ain’t the
Epworth League.”

“I was supposed to see Mr. Privett?”

“Nate!” she screamed, causing
Randolph to jump. Her smile was not unmischievous. “You bring a note from your
parents, kid?”
  

In
Nate’s office were a combination sideboard, bookcase, and filing cabinet with
assorted bottles of whiskey, a bedlounge over in the corner, a couple of
canebottom chairs, a curtain desk with about a thousand pigeonholes, a window
with a view of the German saloon across the street, localbusiness awards and
testimonials on the darkpaneled walls, along with photos of notable clients,
some of them posed with Nate himself, including Doc Holliday, out in front of
the Occidental Saloon in Tombstone, Doc and Nate each pointing a .44 Colt at
the other’s head and pretending to scowl terribly. The picture was inscribed,
More
of a shotgun man myself, regards, Doc.

“Since the Haymarket bomb,” Nate was
explaining, “we’ve had more work than we can handle, and it’s about to get even
more hectic, if the Governor decides to pardon that gang of anarchistic
murderers. Heaven knows what
that’s
gonna let loose on Chicago, the Fair
in particular. Antiterrorist security now more than ever will be of the essence
here. And, well, you boys enjoy the one perspective that all us in the
‘spotter’ community long for—namely, a view from overhead. We can’t pay
you as well as the Pinkertons might, but maybe we could work out a deferred
arrangement, small percent of profits down the line instead of cash right now.
Not to mention what tips or other offthebooks revenue might come your way.”

“That is between you and our National
Office,” Randolph supposed. “For here at Unit level, our compensation may not
exceed legitimate expenses.”

“Sounds crazy. But, we’ll have our
legal folks draw up some language we can all live with, how’s that?” He was
peering at Randolph now with that mixture of contempt and pity which the Chums
in their contact with the ground population were sooner or later sure to evoke.
Randolph was used to it, but determined to proceed in a professional manner.

“Of what exactly would our services
consist?”

“Got room on your ship for an extra
passenger?”

“We have carried up to a dozen
wellfed adults with no discernible loss of lift,” replied Randolph, his glance
not quite able to avoid lingering upon Mr. Privett’s embonpoint.

“Take our man up on a short trip or
two’s about all it’ll amount to,” the sleuthofficer now, it seemed, grown a bit
shifty. “Out to the Fair, maybe down to the Yards, duck soup.”

trolling among the skyships next morning, beneath a circus
sky which was slowly becoming crowded as craft of all sorts made their ascents,
renewing acquaintance with many in whose company, for better or worse, they had
shared adventures, the Chums were approached by a couple whom they were not
slow to recognize as the same photographer and model they had inadvertently
bombarded the previous evening.

The sportive lensman introduced
himself as Merle Rideout. “And my fair companion here is
. . .
give me a minute—”

“You beanbrain.” The young woman
directed a graceful kick which was not, however, altogether lacking in
affection, and said, “I’m Chevrolette McAdoo, and mighty pleased to meet you
fellows, even if you did nearly sandbag us into the beyond yesterday.” Fully
attired, she seemed to have just stepped out of a ladies’ magazine, her
ensemble this forenoon right at the vanguard of summer fashion, the current
revival of the legofmutton sleeve having resulted in a profusion of shirtwaists
with translucent shoulders “big as balloons, all over town”—as Chick
Counterfly, a devoted observer of the female form, would express it—in
Miss McAdoo’s case, saturated in a vivid magenta, and accompanied by a long
ostrichfeather boa dyed the same shade. And her hat, roguishly atilt, egret
plumes swooping each time she moved her head, would have charmed even the most
zealous of conservationist birdlovers.

“Nice puttogether,” Chick nodded
admiringly.

 
“And you haven’t seen the turn she does down to that South
Seas Pavilion yet,” declared Merle Rideout gallantly. “Makes Little Egypt look
like a church lady.”

“You are an artiste, Miss McAdoo?”

“
I perform the Dance of LavaLava, the
Volcano Goddess,” she replied.

“I greatly admire the music of the
region,” said Miles, “the ukulele in particular.”

“There are several ukulelists in my
pitband,” said Miss McAdoo, “tenor, baritone, and soprano.”

“And is it authentic native music?”

“More of a medley, I believe,
encompassing Hawaiian and Philippino motifs, and concluding with a very tasteful
adaptation of Monsieur SaintSaëns’s wonderful ‘Bacchanale,’ as recently
performed at the Paris Opera.”