Carnival of Death Read online

  CARNIVAL

  OF

  DEATH

  DAY KEENE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Tilte page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Also Available

  Copyright

  And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders.

  Othello

  Chapter One

  THERE WAS nothing coincidental about Mickey Laredo’s appearance on Tom Daly’s television show. Daly specialized in human interest stories. As a prominent member of a once famous circus family, and as a one-legged veteran of the ill-fated brigade of fourteen hundred men who, some years before, had swum and waded ashore at Bahia de Cochinos, Laredo had an interesting story to tell.

  Normally, Daly made it a practice to be in the studio thirty minutes before each telecast. Theoretically, the half hour gave him time to check through the list of guests arranged for by Gene DuBoise, his highly paid chief of staff.

  The Friday night before the riot at the new shopping plaza in the Valley, the looting of the armored car, the murder of the guard, and the subsequent arrest of his chief guest of the evening, it was ten fifty-seven p.m. and Daly was due on the air in three minutes when the gate guard at the KAMPC parking lot phoned DuBoise to inform him that Daly was parking his car.

  “Enchanté,” DuBoise said dryly. “Magnifique. How nice.How very nice of Mr. Daly to be with us tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  DALY’S WAS strictly an adult show. He was a big man in his late thirties, whose hair was beginning to gray. He had a pleasing personality, a penetrating mind, a biting wit. He was willing to go on record on any subject. He could be vitriolic when he chose. He could be charming. He was always very human. He had three types of listeners. There were those who swore by him. There were those who swore at him. There were those who tuned him in five nights a week in the hope that he had dropped dead since the night before.

  As Daly got out of his car, two men materialized out of the shadows.

  “Perdone,” one of them said. “You are Senor Daly?”

  “That’s right,” Daly admitted. “But I’m afraid whatever it is you want will have to wait. I’m a little late tonight.”

  The second of the two men put his hand on Daly’s chest.“Un momento, senor. We will not detain you long. But please to give a message to Chico. Tell him not to try it. Tell him that we are watching him and that one is our pigeon.”

  Daly removed the hand from his chest. “I’m sorry, but you’re not getting through to me. I don’t know any Chico. If I did, why should I run errands for you? Now, if you will excuse me …”

  It was too dark in the studio parking lot for Daly to see either man’s face distinctly, but as he attempted to push past them he had the impression that they were wearing rubber masks of the type used by children on Halloween.

  “Hey. What is this?” he asked in tardy suspicion.

  He sensed the blow start and attempted, vainly, to block it. One of the men buried his fist in his midriff. The punch was followed by a hard blow to his face. A third blow, a judo chop to the back of his neck, sent him sprawling to the pavement. While he was down, both men kicked him in the ribs.

  “Buenos noches, senor,” one of them said.

  “Be so kind as to tell Chico,” the other man added.

  It was neatly and deftly done. By the time that DuBoise, who had come to look for him, found him, both men had faded back into the shadows.

  “What happened to you?” DuBoise asked.

  Daly stood fingering the junction of his neck and shoulder. The judo chop had left the nerve ends raw. “Where did they go?”

  “Where did who go?”

  “The two men who slugged me.”

  DuBoise shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone. What was it, a stickup?”

  Daly felt for his wallet. It was in his pocket. “Seemingly not.”

  “Then why did they slug you?”

  “I haven’t any idea. All I know is that two men braced me and told me to warn Chico not to try it.”

  “Tell Chico not to try what?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Who’s Chico?”

  Daly touched his right eye, gingerly. The flesh around it was beginning to puff. The eye would undoubtedly become discolored. “Don’t ask me. I was hoping you might know.”

  “No,” DuBoise said. “I don’t know any Chico. But chico is Spanish for small and we have a Cuban on the show tonight. A Cuban-American, that is. But his name is Miguel Tomas José Guido Laredo.”

  “The kid from the circus? The former aerialist who lost a leg wading ashore at the Bay Of Pigs?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Maybe he knows a Chico.”

  “We’ll ask him. Do you want me to call the police?”

  Daly brushed the dry dust of the pavement from his suit, then used his pocket comb on his hair. “What good would that do? What could I tell them? That I was slugged by two men wearing rubber masks? Possibly Spanish or Mexican. Two men who asked me to warn someone we don’t know not to do we don’t know what.”

  “I see what you mean,” DuBoise said. He was concerned about Daly. “Can you do the show or do you want me to cancel it?”

  Daly pushed himself away from the car against which he was leaning and walked, stiffly, toward the entrance to the studio. “I’ll be all right. But you might check with the gate guard and find out if he saw anyone.”

  “As soon as we’re off the air.”

  Daly went on to the building and walked down the long corridor leading to the studio from which his telecasts originated. After the crisp night air, the air inside the building smelled stale.

  “Here’s Mr. Daly now,” someone said.

  Daly lit a cigarette, then picked his way through the familiar maze of light and camera cables to his desk and sank into his chair. The studio lights came on full. The red light on Camera One winked on. The camera dollied in for a close on Daly and Hal Keeley, his relieved floor manager, pointed to Daly to indicate that he was on the air.

  Daly glanced at his watch before speaking. The entire bit in the parking lot, including the senseless beating and his brief conversation with DuBoise, had taken fifteen seconds less than four minutes. Looking into the camera, he said:

  “This is Tom Daly coming to you live — I hope. I say I hope because somebody out there doesn’t like me. Two some-ones, in fact. The two of you who just tried to beat in my brains in the parking lot.” He left it there and showed his teeth to the camera as he went into his stet opening.

  “As those of you who watch my program regularly know, we’re very informal on this show. All we do for the next hour is sit here and drink coffee and talk. But if you get tired of looking at me,” he turned his smile on the girl sitting beside him, “you can always look at Miss Terry Carstairs, my telephone girl.” Daly simulated a leer. “And she’s something to look at, isn’t she? Two deep breaths and we�
��re off the air.” He looked back at the camera. “Seriously, though, I think we have some interesting guests tonight.” He glanced at the information cards that DuBoise had compiled. “First a Miss May Adams,” Daly raised one eyebrow, “a retired bookie, it says here, who is running for one of the recently vacated seats on the City Council.” Daly looked at the other card. “Also Miguel Tomas José Guido Laredo, from the famous circus family of the same name, who lost his profession and his left leg at Bahia de Cochinos.”

  Daly paused briefly, continued, “I might add that none of my interviews are rehearsed. Also that I will be very happy to answer any questions you may care to phone in to Miss Carstairs. Just dial Poplar 9-3827.” He indicated the stand card on his desk containing the telephone number. “That’s PO 9-3827. And we’ll get the show on the road right after an important message from the Acme Tire Company.”

  As the first commercial filled the monitor screen and the microphones on the desk went dead, Terry Carstairs stopped smiling. “So the great man was beaten up again. Who did it this time? Some jealous husband?”

  “That could be,” Daly admitted. “But if it was, he brought a friend with him. A big one.”

  Hal Keeley slipped his headphone off his ears and came up to the desk. “No kidding, Mr. Daly. You got that eye out in the parking lot just now?”

  Daly nodded. “What I mean, two guys really gave it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. Gene wanted to.” Daly touched the flesh around his rapidly discoloring eye. “It’s too long a story for now. I’ll tell you about it after we’re off the air.”

  “In the men’s room, I’ll bet,” Terry said.

  “What’s with her?” Keeley puzzled.

  Daly grinned. “She’s jealous. Just because I happened to bump into one of my favorite jockeys in one of my favorite bars and I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “That he was going to take me to dinner,” the girl pouted. “At Perino’s. Dress up pretty, Tom told me. So I did. And I waited and waited and waited. And where did I finally have my supper? I’ll tell you. Standing at the counter of that hot dog stand on Hollywood Boulevard near Highland.”

  Keeley laughed.

  “Okay,” Daly said. “Simmer down. We’ll go somewhere after the show.” He nodded at the phone in front of the girl. “But right now get back on that phone and write down some questions for me to answer or you won’t have a job.”

  A uniformed page boy set on the desk the first of the three huge mugs of black coffee which Daly drank during each program. Daly sipped from the mug.

  “My guests are here?”

  DuBoise nodded. “Laredo and his wife just came in.” The Frenchman pressed the tips of his thumb and first finger to his lips and tossed a kiss toward the ceiling of the studio with Gallic gallantry. “And is she a little living Spanish doll.” He described the girl’s silhouette with his hands.

  Terry took the phone from her ear. “Is that all you men think about?”

  “And aren’t you glad,” Daly said.

  Keeley returned his headset to his ears. “All right. Clear the set and let’s quiet down, everyone. We’re back on the air in fifteen seconds.” He relayed the instructions being issued by the director in the control booth. “Charlie says to go into your opening question and answer period. Draw it out as long as you can. He’ll break it with two commercials. Then your first guest. Then two more commercials just before the station break.”

  Daly made a notation on his desk pad. “Check.”

  Terry covered the mouthpiece of the phone she was using with her palm. “Just one question, Master. I’ve had four phone calls so far. All of them from anguished females who want to know the same thing.” The well-filled sequined bodice of her evening gown persisted in being overwhelmed.

  Terry tugged it back in place. “They all want to know who slugged lover boy in the parking lot? Also why. What shall I tell them?”

  “Tell them I don’t know,” Daly said. He added, “No. Don’t tell them anything. Ask me and I’ll tell them.”

  “Yes, Master,” Terry said. She returned the phone to her ear and smiled sweetly into Number Two camera as the red light came on, indicating they were on the air.

  The first portion of the show was routine. In response to the question asked by one of his feminine admirers, Daly assured her that he hadn’t the least idea who had beaten him or why but he would pursue the matter later in the show.

  The following questions, relayed to him by Terry, ranged from one by a man who wanted to know the exact number of light-years it would take a spacecraft to reach Venus to a query by a teen-aged girl in Beverly Hills who asked if he’d ever met Elizabeth Taylor.

  Chain smoking cigarettes and sipping at his coffee mug from time to time, Daly answered the questions he could, commented on those that interested him and flatly admitted he didn’t know the answers to others.

  He hadn’t the least idea how long it would take a spacecraft to reach Venus. Yes, he’d met Elizabeth Taylor, some husbands back. Yes, he was emphatically in favor of a new rapid transit system. No, he didn’t think the Negroes were being “pushy.” After all, how long could you expect a race to be willing to travel tourist class when they were expected to pay first class fares?

  No, he didn’t think that the Los Angeles Police Department was either venal or stupid. He thought that the boys in the department, from the chief down, were doing a good job. Yes, he had read the recently released FBI report that the national crime rate had climbed seven per cent during the year just past. He stressed the fact, however, that the Los Angeles police were faced with an almost insoluble sociological and ethnical problem. Los Angeles had two major minority groups, both underprivileged, sketchily schooled, inadequately housed. Naturally they were resentful. Resentment bred crime.

  There were nights when everything went wrong. Contracted for guests failed to show. The cameramen lost the picture. His telephone girl was stupid, or mumbled, or both. The questions phoned in gave him little to work with. Tonight, as if to make up for the unpleasantness in the parking lot, except for a few raucous commercials over which neither Daly nor his staff had any control, the program flowed as smoothly as thick cream.

  There were no mechanical failures. No cues were missed. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the impermanence of the bodice of her evening gown, kept in place only by a generous Mother Nature, and an occasional hasty tug, Terry Carstairs made a highly ornamental and articulate telephone girl. Daly’s interview with the self-admitted retired female former bookmaker who was running for a seat on the City Council with only one plank in her platform, the legalizing of off-the-track betting, turned out to be a collector’s item.

  It was Miss Adams’ contention, and Daly was inclined to agree with her, that if it was legal and moral for men and women who could afford to take a day away from their work to drive to Santa Anita or Hollywood Park to bet through the pari-mutuels, it should be equally legal for horse lovers who couldn’t afford to go to the tracks to try to brighten their drab existence by placing a bet with the corner bookie.

  The pièce de résistance of the program, however, should have been his interview with the twenty-four-year-old Miguel Tomas José Guido Laredo. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Daly’s guest was courteous and cooperative. He answered all of Daly’s questions to the best of his ability. His, however, was a success story in reverse. At twenty-four, Laredo was a bitter, cynical young man. All he wanted or expected from the interview was the fifty dollar fee that Daly paid his guests.

  Chapter Three

  DALY LIKED Laredo on sight. He paid the youth the tribute of getting to his feet to shake hands with him as the former circus aerialist limped onto the set and into the living rooms of Daly’s estimated three-quarter of a million viewers.

  “It’s nice to have you with us.”

  “It’s nice to be here, Mr. Daly,” Lared
o said. “Paquita and I watch your show every night that you’re on the air.”

  “Paquita?”

  “Mrs. Laredo.”

  Daly resumed his chair and indicated where the younger man was to sit. “It says here that your full name is Miguel Tomas José Guido Laredo. What do I call you? Miguel?”

  The other man smiled thinly. “Mickey will do fine. At least that’s what most people call me.”

  “But I thought you were Cuban.”

  “No,” Laredo said. “Of Cuban ancestry. I was born right here in Los Angeles.” He added wryly, “In the star performer’s dressing room, between the opening fanfare and the grand finale. While the circus was playing a ten-day stand at the Colosseum.”

  “That’s interesting,” Daly said. “I take it then that your parents were performers.”

  “They were the star aerial act. The Flying Laredos. Then, a few years later, my parents decided they liked Los Angeles so well they bought a home in Hollywood and we started wintering here instead of in the regular winter quarters in Sarasota, Florida. In fact, I graduated from Hollywood High School.”

  Daly smiled. “That explains why you have no accent. But, during the season, even as a child, you traveled with the circus? At least part of the time?”

  “All of the time,” Laredo said. “The circus was my life. As far back as I can remember, and years before that, all the members of my family have been circus people. Most of them aerialists, both in this country and in Europe. And I followed in the family tradition. I started when I was three years old. As a kinker.”

  The word was new to Daly. “What’s a kinker?”

  “Another name for an acrobat or a tumbler. Usually one who works on the ground.”

  “The circus evidently has a terminology of its own.”

  “It does. For example, a clown is a joie, a luey or a paleface. A clown equestrian is a Pete Jenkins. A girl who rides in the grand opening is a spec girl. The musician who plays the calliope is a blowoff pusher.”

  “That’s interesting,” Daly said. “And how long did you stay a kinker?”