Magician by Timothy C. Phillips

shoes on his feet
    And a knife in his jeans
    The song went on, becoming more foreboding. I was reminded uneasily of Georgia, in her bathing suit, sitting in the Red Clown’s lap, the parents asleep or safely drunk. I shook my head and put the image from my mind. I took the Irondale exit and stayed to the right. Clown Around was located next to a restaurant made famous for its scantily clad, buxom waitresses.
    The two businesses were at the top of a hill, the only ones up there. They seemed to share a parking lot. I pulled up to Clown Around’s door. There was a Be right back! sign on the door, with a picture of a clown and a clock with clown hands. According to the clock, the clowns were due to return in twenty-five minutes.
    “Busy clowns,” I mused. My gaze drifted over to the restaurant.
    It was almost time for lunch.
    After about half an hour, I was finishing my third glass of iced tea and talking with a couple of the waitresses when a pink polka-dotted van drove through the parking lot.
    “Those are my clowns,” I told the young women, and winked, sliding from my seat and heading out the door.
    There were three clowns, all right. They were unloading the van, taking out stereo equipment, folding tables, and various other clown equipment.
    “You got an elephant in there?” I asked brightly. The clown nearest to me almost dropped the seltzer bottles he was carrying. His head snapped around, his blue Afro wig bobbing.
    “Mister, you scared the bejeezus outa me.”
    “Sorry. My name’s Roland Longville.”
    “I’m Slappy. Call me Sal. The guy in blue over there is Jokey—grown ups call him Joe.”
    “I’m Ed,” the clown in the yellow volunteered. All three laughed at the in-joke.
    “So, sir, what is the occasion, a birthday? Need a magic show? We also do singing deliveries.”
    “No, really, I just wanted to ask you some questions. I’m a private investigator.”
    The smile disappeared, and behind the grease paint, the man’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, the Champion thing.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why don’t they let that kid rest in peace.”
    “You saying she’s dead?”
    “Cut the crap, bud. We had those cops grill us for a week about that business. They got everything we know written by us, taped, and typed up forty ways from Sunday. They’ll tell you, we all had alibis. We were all downstairs, and the kid went upstairs and disappeared. You ask me, it’s like the Lindbergh baby. A damn tragedy, but these things happen.”
    “Well, I agree with you about that last part. I’ve seen the police material. There are some things I think they probably didn’t ask you. The questions I wanted to ask you won’t take long. I think they might be very important.”
    “Okay, buddy, suit yourself.”
    “Roland. Roland Longville.” We shook hands, though Sal’s face stayed wary beneath his makeup.
    “Okay, then, Roland, can you interrogate us while we wash the paint off?”
    “Sure thing.” I followed them into the rear of the building. Sal kept up a constant banter while we walked along.
    “I’ll never understand how anybody got in there. I mean, it’s a neighborhood full of uppity-ups. They got a fence around that place. All they lacked was an armed guard.”
    “They have one now,” I quipped as I took in the circus posters and carnival decorations. Clown posters and masks from around the world. Something about it was a little creepy.
    Maybe I’ve been watching one too many videos.
    There was a dressing room in the back. All three men took seats at a wide dressing mirror that was rimmed with lights. Sal scooped some petroleum jelly from a jar, and started rubbing it on his face with a towel, stripping the paint from his face. Wrinkles began to appear. I guessed he was about forty-five. He started talking as he cleaned up.
    “It figures they would get a guard now. I mean, the kid’s gone. They never had any more, right?” Sal pulled his blue wig off,