Vodka Sting

"Did she move away?"

"She got cancer. And at first, it didn't make a difference, but over time...she sort of 'evaporated.' I don't know how to explain it. There was just less 'Lisa' every day. She got thinner and thinner. She got weaker and couldn't do anything. Her hair fell out, her eyes got dark and she stopped smiling or laughing at all." I choked a little. "I tried. I did. But I was just a kid, and she wasn't any fun to be around, she was always just sitting in a chair or lying in bed, hardly ever talking. There was this smell, a medicine smell of some kind, and it seemed to cling to everything and soak into my clothes and hair. I hated that smell. I slowly stopped going over to her house after a while."

Björn tightened his grip on me and didn't say anything.

"I hadn't been over there in weeks, maybe even a couple of months, and then I got a birthday party invitation. I didn't want to go, but my mom, she made me. I got Lisa a book. Something about horses, I think. It wasn't like she could do anything else." I sniffed, remembering how I'd sulked about having to go.

He waited patiently until I managed to start again.

"I was the only one there. She hadn't even wanted a party. Her mom made her invite me. There was no cake or ice cream, smells made her sick by then. We sort of sat and she thanked me for the book while her mom played some music. I remember her mom looked all worn out and kind of hollow. She was...empty. Then this birthday party clown showed up. He was really set up for little kids, not a couple of eleven-year-old girls. He wasn't a pro, just an old guy who made a little extra money doing it. His makeup was all wrong. No training and his tricks and gags were terrible..."

I felt tears sliding down my cheeks and dropping onto Björn's arm. Wow, way to impress a guy.

"But...but it worked. He did a pratfall, a terrible amateur pratfall. But Lisa started to giggle, and then she was laughing, really laughing. Then we were both laughing and crying at the same time. I hadn't seen her laugh in so long, it hurt."

He ran fingers through my hair.

"I waited two days, got my mom's make up, bought a mop head at the drug store and dyed it blue with food coloring. I invented 'Sparkle.' I put on the makeup and wig and some crazy clothes and just walked into her house like I used to. I made up a whole stupid show about training stuffed animals, and I tried to juggle some eggs." I gave a weak snort. "That made a mess, but it made her laugh. I did it every day I could. After school, on weekends, every chance, just to hear her laugh. It made me feel like...I don't know. Like a superhero."

"I bet she loved it." I could hear the heaviness in his voice; he already knew the ending.

"She did. I did it for about six months until she...it was terminal, there was no cure. But she smiled every day until the end. She passed away in her sleep, but I'd made her laugh that day."

He kissed the top of my head. "You really are amazing."

"After that, well, nothing else seemed to feel right. Punchy, the Boss Clown from the circus, says that once you're a real clown, you can't really be anything else on the inside, and that's the way it was for me. I knew what I was. I drove my teachers crazy. Imagine being a teacher and your class clown sometimes comes into class in full whiteface clown makeup."

"Did you get in trouble a lot?"

"I did until one of the football coaches asked if I could do some gags in the halftime shows. It was a hit, and football was a huge deal at the school, so after that, nobody gave me any trouble at all." They'd actually put Sparkle on the cheerleader squad. Not Kelsea, Sparkle."

"So then it was off to clown school?" He stopped to ponder. "Is there a clown school?"

"There are a bunch of them. I have a degree in Performing Arts from the Circus Arts Academy."

He shifted, and stared down at me. "Really?"

"Pantomime, aerial arts, acrobatics, magic. Direction, scripting..." I grinned up at him. "Knife throwing."

Björn chuckled. "At least I know not to piss you off."

"You better believe it."

"How did you end up here?"

"The circus went bankrupt, and a bunch of us were sort of stranded here. Some had money from last season, but a lot of us didn't. Not enough, anyway."

"That's rough."

"Most of them have secondary skills or side hustles to fall back on. Jojo and Boots are paramedics. Bitsy got hired on with a bakery; this might be good for her, she's always loved baking, and her cakes are amazing. Punchy and Lulabelle are teaching physical comedy at one of the theaters."

"And you?"

"I'm a clown. I can't do any of that. Not really. I've learned a lot of neat skills and maybe some of them could be a job...but if I stop putting on the paint and making people laugh, I'd just wither away and die." I slumped a bit. "I know that sounds stupid..."

He shook his head. "No, it doesn't. I never thought about it before, but clowns are artists, aren't they?"

A kind of warmth crept over me. He got it. I'd never really met anyone outside my world who did. "Some of us, maybe most of us." I decided to change the subject. "So why are you leaving?"

A sardonic snort answered me. "You know those movies where the cop does the right thing, pisses off a bunch of politicians and ends up getting in trouble?"

"Yeah." I looked up at him. "What did you do?"

"I arrested an eighteen-year-old for DUI. She already had a suspended license, so it snowballed. Then she resisted arrest, bit me and my partner, broke the side window on our cruiser when we took her in." He stretched, and I settled into him again. "Turns out daddy is a party hack high up in City administration. She could have easily pled it down to next to nothing, but she denied everything."

That sounded familiar. "Oh, I remember seeing that, Diana something-or-other, right? That whole 'prisoner of privilege' thing?"

He chuckled. "Oh yeah, Diana Desmond. She made herself a public target with some of her press statements about how being rich was harder than being poor."

"She should try being broke some time."

"Yeah, well, she put the prosecutor in an impossible position; he was caught between the party hacks and the public outrage. The body cam footage was 'accidentally leaked' either in an effort to pressure her to plead out so it would go away or maybe to get the judge to rule it as inadmissible, but it didn't work either way. And once it was out there, it couldn't miraculously disappear. Then her expensive grandstanding defense attorney put her on the stand."

"I saw her press interviews before the trial; I bet that didn't go well."

"You could say that. She was the most self-centered, unsympathetic person I've ever seen. I know they coached her on what to say and how to act, they always do. But she threw it all out the window and went on a rant that offended pretty much everyone in the room. Her lawyer couldn't get her to shut up. She was found guilty, ended up with two years, suspended, for assault on Peace Officers, but got 30 days in jail for the DUI."

"She didn't enjoy that, did she?"

He shook his head. "She was in jail for all of two weeks before she really pissed off a bunch of the other prisoners. Ended up doing the rest of her stay in the infirmary. Lost four teeth, got her nose broken along with some fractured ribs."

"Ouch."

"Somehow this was all my fault. So all my old evaluations start mysteriously losing points, my civil service exam for sergeant disappears in the system, I'm suddenly dismissed from investigation duties; finally, my union rep comes over and just tells me that I'm done. They want blood for her suffering. My partner saw the writing on the wall early and jumped to Miami, so I'm pretty much the only good target. The Union knows it isn't fair, but they don't need another war with the City administration. It was pretty obvious I was going to have to leave New York if I was going to have a career. I even lost my girlfriend; once the course was clear, she took a position with Coco Chanel in Paris."

I winced. Secretly I wasn't too upset over the lost girlfriend. "That really sucks."

"Yeah, but the Union did what they could. They helped me find the private security job I'm taking. It's out in San Diego."

"Lisa's mom moved to San Diego after she died. I've visited her a couple of times when I had the chance."

"How is she doing?"

"She works for a cancer charity now; I don't remember which one. She seemed really happy the last time I saw her." That'd been almost two years ago, now that I thought about it. "I should give her a call sometime."

"I bet she loves to hear from you."

"I think she does." I felt pretty guilty for not calling her a lot more.

He caught it, I could tell, but he didn't say anything. I decided to change the subject. "So your ex-girlfriend is a fashion designer?"

"Desiree is a model."

Way to walk into a wall, Kelsea. I very much wanted to flee what light there was and crawl under the bed to hide. A model, really?

Björn caught the change in my temperature immediately. "We both knew we were never going to be a long-term thing." He shook his head. "She acted like she was allergic to carbs, I don't think I ever saw her eat real food. Any woman I've got a future with has to be able to drink a beer or two."

It took us another two hours to get out of bed.

We'd burned off a lot of those carbs by then.

*****

That should have been it; a simple one-night stand. I mean, I'm not the most experienced person in the world at that, but a one-night stand is one night.

Until it isn't.

We set up another "not a real date" on his next day off. And the next. And I ended up staying over at his place again. Honestly, it's not my fault; if we'd have stayed away from MacKenna's or maybe if he'd have stopped laughing at my jokes. Maybe...

"I just got told I have to burn four days' worth of comp time. Starting Wednesday." He ran his fingers down my bare back. I shivered.

"Forced vacation? That sounds rough.'

He shrugged. "I was thinking Atlantic City. You interested in a little vacation? Just a fun trip."

I was nearly a month ahead on rent money for a change. But still, the gambling Mecca of the Northeastern shore didn't really sound like my kind of place any more than Vegas did. "I've never been there."

"It'll be fun. You'll love it."

*****

Tacky. Unrefined. Utterly tasteless.

"This place is so perfect!" I held on to Björn's hand as tight as I could. I was sure if I didn't, I'd float off into the sky like a helium balloon.

The smell of popcorn and hotdogs and cotton candy kept drifting to me on the breeze. A unicyclist wearing just neon green speedos and a yellow cape raced past us.

Björn kept looking down at me, trying to hold back a smile that refused to be contained.

We'd been walking the Boardwalk for miles, just soaking the atmosphere, stopping at every goofy little stand and weird shop. It was as close to being in a circus as I'd been since I'd gotten stranded.

Shouts and laughter drifted up from some kids playing along the beach, and I drank them in. We stopped to watch.

"So...you've kind of figured out the laughter thing, haven't you?"

He nodded, smiling. "A clown who craves laughter, that's not the hardest math in the world. For a while, I wondered if it was attention, but it isn't is it?"

"A little bit; God knows I love the rush of applause and the attention. But I could live without that stuff." I watched a little girl in a blue swimsuit darting up the beach, chased by a low wave. Mostly I could hear her squealing in delight. "I worry about it sometimes; it's like an addiction."

"If you're going to be addicted to something, I can't think of anything better." He looked down at me thoughtfully. "I heard somewhere that comedians are some of the most unhappy, depressed people out there, but you're certainly not."

I shook my head. "No. Some of the clowns I know are that way, but not me. I think it all has to with Lisa and why I decided to be a clown." I hesitated for a moment. "Or maybe 'decided' isn't the best word. Maybe 'learned I was a clown,' instead."

"You're lucky, you know. You found something you really, truly love to do. Something that pretty much only does good by definition. Hard to beat that."

I gave him a smile but grumbled inside at my terrible timing. I finally meet a guy who not only understands me but accepts that I might be more than a little out of whack. And he's a cop, a cop who's about to literally move across the country.

Still, we had a little time, and he was a great friend-with-benefits. So I decided to make the most of those benefits while I could.

I just had no idea how little time I had.

*****

"Stars and Stripes Forever"

Still skating on the four-day weekend, I was so energized that I worked the Dumbo and Times Square three days running. I was spending every minute of time I could with Björn, before it all ended. I'd even dropped my best clothes, both sets, at his apartment; and he'd given me a copy of his apartment security card. Pretty trusting, but then he was a cop, and he knew a lot of cops, so he could afford to be trusting.

On the third day, just as I wrapped up at Times Square, I saw the Ivans again. Only this time they were definitely looking directly at me, and moving with a very clear sense of purpose.

Clown shoes look unwieldly and awkward. My first pair, when I was eleven, certainly had been. I'd painted my Dad's old Army boots red and stuffed them with extra socks.

I'd barely been able to walk in them.

But now? Circus clowns are defined by action. Acrobatics, tumbling, aerial acts, jumping, vaulting. Professional clown shoes have to be perfect for all of those.

To vault, you have to be able to sprint.

I glanced back once to watch the shock on their faces as I pulled away from them. They stopped running and stood glaring.

If they'd watched my show at all, I couldn't imagine why they'd be shocked. They had to have seen me do one-handed handstands and no-hands backflips. Why on earth would they imagine I wasn't in shape to run?

I headed straight for my apartment, bolting up the stairs. The Ivans were well behind me; I needed to grab what I could and run. Just sweep my clothes off the shelves and the rack and...

I stopped as the door swung open at the slightest touch of my hand.

It really shouldn't have done that, but the odd crumpling around the locks made it clear it'd been kicked in. I peered cautiously inside. The place wasn't big enough to hide in, so it was pretty easy to see that whoever had done it was long gone. But they'd left behind a wreck.

The apartment had been turned completely upside down. My clothes were scattered across the floor, the shelves swept clean, and the remnants of my gimmicked tricks were everywhere.

I grabbed a few bags and started shoving stuff into them as fast as possible; my clown suits and wigs seemed to be mostly okay, although a bunch of other stuff was broken. I salvaged what I could. It definitely helped not to have much to start with.

Four blocks away, I slowed to a walk, thinking. I needed to stop this. It was ridiculous. The Ivans were hunting me because of Boris; over a bloody nose and five dollars.

I needed to have him call them off.

I needed to have a talk with a mime.

Nobody liked Boris, but everybody knew him.

His name wasn't even really Boris; it was Ilyich. But Boris was easier to remember and nobody liked him enough to use his real name anyway.

It turned out that he only lived eight blocks from my apartment, in an even seedier, even more run down, and heavily cockroach-infested building.

No way I was going to take what little stuff I'd been able to rescue into that building, so I headed over to Björn's to drop everything off and change into something a touch less conspicuous. By the time I got there, though, the sky had darkened enough to let me know that it'd be completely dark before I could get to Boris' place. It wasn't a place I was interested in going after dark.

Besides Björn was due off shift in less than a half an hour, and despite my anger at Boris, I was still on an adrenaline rush from getting away from the Ivans.

I grinned. Hell, it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

****

I heard Björn enter the apartment. There was a long pause, then he called out. "Um, Kelsea?"

"Not today." I called back from his bedroom.

He snorted, and in the dresser mirror I could just see him, still near his front door, as he bent down to pick up a pair of polka-dotted bloomers.

He took a few more steps along the marked path I'd left him; stepping over a striped vest, then a checkered blouse.

Leaning around the corner of the bedroom doorway he raised one eyebrow. "Well, this is interesting."

I gave him the most serious look I could. "Look, we both knew this was going to happen sooner or later."

He stepped in and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Well, it really had to, didn't it, Sparkle?" He looked me over as he slid his shirt off. "Nothing but your makeup and wig..." He stopped and started laughing as I threw the rest of the blankets off.

"And my big red shoes!"

*****

The next morning, more than a little pleased with myself and a lot pleased with Björn, I lingered in his apartment for a bit after he left for work. He hadn't batted an eyelash when I told him my apartment had some maintenance issues and asked if I could stay a couple of nights.

I decided I needed to get over to Boris' place and talk at him. Hell, I'd give him the five dollars. Well, if I had to, anyway. I started digging through my rescued clothes, pulling out everything. I even found a birthday card from Lisa's mom that had somehow found its way to me months ago. She had written "Call Me!" but I'd never seemed to have had my cell phone paid up enough to actually call her. That was my excuse anyway. The real reason was that I always felt like a fake when I talked to her. She thought I was a better person than I really was.

Digging through the bags I discovered that I had somehow left all my jeans at my place, the only ones I had were my two best pair I'd left at Björn's to start with. And one of those was destined for resale. Maybe sooner rather than later. I put those on.

Boris' place was even less pleasant than I'd expected from the address. It was squalid rather than seedy; smelling of urine and rotting carpet, and maybe dead hookers. Boris could have done better flipping burgers.

I pounded on his door. It took three times before a heavily accented voice called out from inside.

He was holding his head like he had an awful hangover when he answered the door to his dimly lit apartment.

"Boris. We need to talk."

I shoved in past him and immediately wished I hadn't. I'd seen landfills with better hygiene.

"Who are you? And what is it that you want?"

"I'm Kelsea, and...."

"No, no, no, no! You leave now. I do not want anything to do with you." He backed away frantically and I realized he was only wearing a torn t-shirt and stained boxers.

"Look, Just call off the Ivans..."

He dropped his hand from the side of his face and gave a sardonic bark of laughter. "Me? Call off the Ivans? They're Russian Mafia. Killers. Are you...actually crazy?" He shook his head. "You must leave."

He stepped into a place where the torn curtains let a slash of light through and I saw he'd been badly beaten. His left eye was swollen shut, his lip split horribly, and his nose was clearly broken.

I was lost. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

He gave a pained gasping laugh. "The Ivans, they hear I know this woman named Kelsea. Only I do not. And they believe me. But they still do this." He pointed to the side of his face. "Because this is what they do. Even when they believe me."