It’s All Fun and Games Till a Tiger Dies

The name’s Roth, Charles Roth, and my voice is as gravelly as taking a chainsaw to a boulder. Picture it in your head, or you’ll be answering to my tailor. He cuts out my trench coats with one hell of a sharp knife, so I wouldn’t cross him if I were you.

Listen, I used to be a cop, but now I’m a private investigator. The law and I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye. After all, my eyes can get a little crossed, sometimes. I probably need glasses.

I got a lot of stories I could tell you, but this one’s about a dame, a dame who changed my life. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, my memory ain’t too good, but I remember it was raining, and there was a hell of a chill about, and I’d stuffed the antique fireplace of my downtown apartment with all the newspapers I could find. I hate newspapers, but one of the burning articles caught my eye before it went up in a cloud of ash. Murder at the Circus it’d read. Now that sounded like my cup of case. I’d better get down there and see if I couldn’t wrangle an employer.

I slipped into my Royce and headed uptown. I live in the city of New Rothland, or at least that’s what I call it. This is my city. No one understands it like I do. I can hear its voice, and it’s saying, ‘I’m your city, Roth.’

Taking the freeway to San Contour, the circus pavilions bloomed up like red and yellow bullet wounds in the skyline. I parked out front, and went inside the first tent, a small one, with a monkey standing guard.

Enter Monica, the trapeze artist. She was one smokin’ dame, with skin the colour of olives—not the green ones, I hate the green ones—and legs as sexy as cigarettes. Speaking of cigarettes, I patted down my coat, and pulled out my Marlboros, and puffed one down in about two seconds, choked out a tar-thick cough, and stepped up to her with all the confidence a man with emphysema ravaging his lungs can muster. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at a stuffed tiger mounted in a ferocious pose, her face streaked with runny mascara. She stood up when she saw me, wiped away the ruined make-up, and folded her arms. I handed her my business card and said, ‘Roth, Charles Roth. P.I and Jazz Musician. A pleasure to meet you. My voice is as gravelly as a cheese grater on scrap iron.’

She took my card. ‘’Scuse me? Are you an idiot?’

‘What some people mistake for idiocy, I know to be genius.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘you’re suffering from the Dunning-Kruger effect.’

‘I don’t know what that means, but I doubt it’s my style. Can you tell me about the murder that happened here?’

‘It was the circus’s prized tiger that bit the bullet. Quite literally. He chomped down on a gun just as it fired off. Saved the Ringmaster’s life.’

‘A dead tiger? Sounds just like my kind of case. My fee is five grand on completion.’

‘I don’t have five grand, but I’ll give you fifty bucks and a pack of cigarettes.’

I flipped a finger her way. ‘You’ve got a deal.’

‘Good, ‘cause the cops don’t give two shits about this. They’re just happy no people died.’ Her eyes flashed with a fire like the barrel of a gun going off, and my fingers twitched with the urge to shoot someone.

‘And is that the victim?’ I asked, indicating the stuffed tiger in the corner of the room.

‘Sure is, hon. His name was Tinky.’

‘Tinky the Tiger?’

She stood arms akimbo. ‘You got a problem with that, honey?’

‘I got plenty of problems, and Tinky is one.’ I knelt down by Tinky, my fedora near falling off. Whoever the taxidermist was, they did one hell of a job. Could hardly tell a bullet had gone through the tiger’s brain, there was no evidence of a wound or anything.

‘When did this happen?’ I asked.

‘Last night around 10pm.’

‘Last night? And you already had him stuffed?’

She nodded. ‘Done it this morning. Took an hour.’

Call me crazy, but I ain’t ever heard of someone doing their job that fast. I once had a deer mounted over my fireplace and it took months. I knew right then, something fishy was going on. ‘Are you sure this is actually Tinky?’ I asked.

‘’Scuse me? Of course it is. Look at that white ring around his left eye. That’s Tinky all right.’

Colour me intrigued. This was kicking off to be a roller-coaster of conspiracy, just the way I liked it. ‘By the way, what’s your name?’

‘I’m Monica,’ she said, ‘and I’m coming with you to investigate.’

I hadn’t worked with a partner since the precinct, but I had to admit, Monica’s presence was as intoxicating as the three hundredth bottle of cheap piss at the end of a weekend bender, so I agreed. ‘As you say, doll. Take me to the Ringmaster.’

She led me to the main pavilion, an overblown sort of thing half deflated, looked like a giant flower ready to wilt. Out front discarded signs from a recent animal rights protest were scattered about. A clue if ever I saw one. We stepped inside and I glanced around. Weren’t much to see besides the stands and the inner ring where the Ringmaster stood staring at nothing, his back to us. I recognised the look of that back, that was the back of a man who knew everything around him was crumbling, and it set my investigator senses to tingling.

‘Roth, Charles Roth,’ I said to his back, as we approached. He turned around and I greeted him with a business card to his face. He snatched it from my fingers and glared at me. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m investigating Tinky’s death, tell me—’

‘You hired a detective?’ the Ringmaster rudely interrupted.

Monica shrugged.

‘Give me your account of the events,’ I said. ‘When did the murder happen?’

‘It wasn’t a murder,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘Don’t go spouting off words like murder just ‘cause some tiger died. Don’t get me wrong,’ he raised his hands to ward off Monica’s explosive glare, ‘he was a noble animal. Best tiger we ever had in the show, but he ain’t a human, and that’s the end of it.’ The way he spoke, seemed like he was hiding something. I could see it in the furtive glances he gave the exit, in the shuffle of his feet, as if he was set to run away. Lot of good that would do him. I run pretty fast.

‘Monica said Tinky died saving your life.’

The Ringmaster scratched his pathetic excuse for a beard, looked more like a monkey tossed faeces on his chin, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what happened. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Some shady figure came in while I was whipping Tinky into shape and tried to put me six feet under. Fired off at me with some sort of hand gun, but he missed. Then Tinky pounced, bit down on the gun as the man fired, splattered the poor beast’s brains.’ The Ringmaster ushered me over to the stands and pointed with a chubby finger. There was a clear bullet hole in one of the seats, and a bullet embedded in the floor behind it, looked like a round from a .357 magnum. A loose floorboard stood open beneath the chair, revealing a hidden cache. It was empty, but mightily suspicious. ‘Where were you standing when this happened?’ I asked.

‘In the middle of the arena.’

Straightening my fedora, I leaned in to get a better look. I found the shell about twenty feet from the chair. ‘The shooter—who was he?’

‘I don’t know,’ the Ringmaster shrieked. ‘He was in the stands on the other side. I couldn’t see him for all the shadow!’ He pointed into the stands on the opposite side of the ring. That didn’t match up. If the shot had come from there, why did I find the shell over this side? Call me crazy, but I knew right then he was lying.

‘Monica, go stand where the Ringmaster is pointing.’

She slunk around into the stands and stood where the Ringmaster indicated. It was a little dark, but she was still fully visible. ‘I can see her fine,’ I said.

‘I have bad eyes,’ said the Ringmaster.

Don’t know about you, but that sounded perfectly reasonable to me. I had to ask myself, who had the most to gain from Tinky’s death? And it seemed the answer was no one. Yet the Ringmaster said it was an accident, that someone was trying to kill him, not Tinky. So who would want the Ringmaster dead? I rubbed my chin in thought. ‘Seems to me some animal rights activist wanted to teach you a lesson for abusing animals in your circus and, ironically, killed Tinky instead.’

‘Yes, yes!’ said the Ringmaster.

Monica put her hands on her hips and stared at me like I was an incredibly handsome idiot. ‘How could you possibly jump to that conclusion?’

‘Look, doll, I’m a professional.’

Monica’s glare was sharper than my tailor’s knife. I averted my gaze and said, ‘What about the murder weapon?’

The Ringmaster pulled out a magnum and gave it to me. ‘The shooter must’ve dropped it when Tinky latched on. I found it.’

‘But this is my gun,’ said Monica, eyes wide.

‘Why do you have a gun, doll?’

‘I live in a bad neighbourhood.’

Turning the gun over in my hands, I knew right then it was evidence. I stowed it in my inner coat pocket. ‘Was there anyone else here when this happened?’

The Ringmaster nodded. ‘Our clown, Bibbity, was out back. He’s not here now, though. Recently moved into a place uptown.’

I lit a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. ‘Gimme the address, I’ve got some questions for him.’

Monica and I left the Ringmaster to his sulking and went out to my Royce.

‘You expect me to get into that head of scrap?’

‘Whadayamean? That’s a Royce!’

‘If that was ever a Royce, it was a hundred years ago, and let’s be honest, honey, that weren’t never a Royce.’

‘That car is my baby! How dare you talk about her that way? Anyway, get in. This better not take too long, or I might miss band practise with Gill. If I go a week without playing sax I get the jitters. And my extremely southern Mammy will give me an ecclesiastical lecture if I don’t call her before 9pm.’

Monica raised an eyebrow as she slid into the passenger seat of my pristine, black, classical, mint-condition Royce. I took it to mean she felt the comfort of the leather seats and had rescinded her cruel words. I fired my baby up and we were uptown at Bibbity’s before noon. He lived in a suburban area in an innocuous looking house. But his porch was littered with newspaper. Newspapers, my oldest enemy. I should’ve known they’d be here. I kicked them out of the way and rang the doorbell, lit a cigarette and puffed smoke into Monica’s pouty face. ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Ain’t fair Bibbity gets a place like this. The rest of us haul up back at the circus ground. As did the clown, till recently.’

‘What changed?’

‘Got a girlfriend or something.’

The door opened, and I thrust my business card into the face of a man who had nothing to lose. I’d never seen cheeks so gaunt, eyes so sunken, or hair so wispy. He was wearing a clown suit—but he was smiling, something I reckon he wasn’t used to wearing. ‘Roth, Charles Roth. P.I. and Jazz Musician,’ I said.

‘Tony Tonks, Clown,’ he said, taking my card and slipping it into one of the many pockets of his clown suit.

‘I’m here about the murder of Tinky.’

Tony Tonks, A.K.A the clown, Bibbity, laughed. ‘That silly tiger got what was coming to him,’ he said in a sing-song voice. ‘Always trying to steal the show from me, the obvious best act. People applauded him just because he was a tiger! Like that’s something to celebrate? What about my act? I’ve spent twenty years carefully cultivating it. Every balloon animal, every honk of my nose done with perfect comedic timing, every pie made to the perfect texture for splattering in the most satisfying way. But do I get even half the applause that tiger got?’

I stared at Bibbity’s stupid face, and knew right then, he had a motive. ‘Is that I so?’

Bibbity frowned. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about what happened with the tiger. I wasn’t even there last night.’

‘’Scuse me? You think you can get away with lyin’, Bibs?’ said Monica. ‘I saw you. So did the Ringmaster.’

‘I left early,’ said Bibbity. ‘I have an alibi. Carla called me and told me I had to come help her finish moving some stuff in, and I can’t say no to her.’

‘You can’t say no to anyone,’ said Monica.

‘Tell me everything you know,’ I said.

Bibbity raised his hands defensively. ‘Okay, okay. Look, the Ringmaster, he’s a workaholic, prone to staying in the ring so long that he pisses his pants. It’s my fault he was in the ring training Tinky last night. I told him his last performance was a little sloppy. Should’ve known that would mean an all-nighter for him and the cat. That’s all I know.’

I nailed him with my signature glare and raised eyebrow. ‘That all?’

‘Look, ask Meridian if you need more. She was there, too.’

‘Meridian was there?’ Monica sounded surprised.

‘Who’s Miranda?’ I asked.

‘Meridian is our magician,’ said Monica. ‘We can probably find her in magic club right about now.’

‘What the hell is magic club?’

‘It’s when a bunch of magicians get together at a bar and drink a lot.’

‘Sounds like my kind of club. Let’s go.’

Magic club took place in a bar not far from Bibbity’s, a real dingy place called Magque’s, and I had no idea how to pronounce it. Meridian was sitting alone at the bar when we walked in. I guess magic club was over. Or maybe she was the only member. I knew it was her because no one else was wearing a star-spangled robe and pink hair down to their hips. The second I saw that pink hair, I was 100% sure she was the culprit. She was sitting at the bar reading Harry Potter while nursing a gin and tonic. ‘Miranda?’ I said, approaching her with my business card at the ready and a cigarette burning to the butt in my mouth.

‘Meridian,’ she said, slurring her words. ‘The Magnificent, Marvellous, Meridian.’ She handed me a koala-shaped pin. ‘Ever been to Australia?’

I said, ‘No, but I love “The Sound of Music”.’

‘What? Hey, Monica. What you hanging around with this fool, for?’

‘You know me, honey, always pickin’ the fools.’

‘Ladies, let’s not get distracted. I’m investigating Tinky’s murder and understand you were there last night.’

‘I was, for a bit. But I left around 9, ain’t that right, Joe?’

The surly-looking bartender nodded. ‘’S right, she came in ‘bout ten past. I remember it well, ‘cause my clock always chimes ten minutes late.’ He pointed to an extremely German cuckoo clock on the wall.

Damn, she had a rock solid alibi. ‘What can you tell me about Bibbity the clown?’

‘Not much. He lives a quiet life. Got a new girlfriend and lives not too far from here, if you want to call in. I think he’ll quit the circus soon. I probably will too, should’ve gotten out years ago.’

Monica nodded. ‘Damn straight, honey.’

‘Well then, what can you tell me about the Ringmaster?’

‘Works too much, stresses too much, and indulges too much. I don’t know if I should mention this, but he’s prone to a bit of coke.’

‘That a fact?’

‘Snuffs it down almost as fast as you chuff your cigarettes.’

‘A man of class, I see.’

‘I found his stash last night, hidden under a loose floorboard in the stands. Weird place to hide it, if you ask me.’

‘That’s something. Thanks, Meridian.’

We left the bar, and I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets. Damn, I was up the creek without a paddle, and felt like I was drowning, which wasn’t surprising, a light rain was coming down, and my extremely southern Mammy always said I would be out of my depth in a puddle.

‘What you thinking, honey?’ said Monica.

‘You can’t know what goes on in the thoughts of a genius, doll. My mind is an enigma, often even to me.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘That ain’t hard to believe.’

‘Nah, but I reckon the Ringmaster’s story rings true.’

‘What about the shell you found? Throws it all out of whack, doesn’t it?’

She wasn’t wrong. I was missing something, but what?

‘Who else is involved in this web of lies?’ I asked.

Monica shrugged. ‘My taxidermist?’

Of course, how had I forgotten? Damn my bad memory. We drove downtown to the taxidermist. He was an old fella with glasses so large they just about covered his whole face, almost as if he had something to hide. I handed him my business card and stared at him so hard I stripped bare his very soul. I swear I could see every lie he ever told, and there were a lot to account for. ‘Roth,’ I said. ‘Charles Roth.’

‘Sir, I don’t like your manner,’ he said. ‘If you stare at me like that one moment longer I’ll call my wife and she is no one to be trifled with.’

‘That so?’ I said. I slammed my hands on the counter, and the taxidermist near jumped out of his skin, just like all the animals he had on display around the room. If I’d a mind to be contrary, I might’ve skinned and stuffed him right there, but I had a case to solve. ‘Monica says you did Tinky in an hour this morning?’

The taxidermist squinted at me. ‘Tinky?’

‘My tiger,’ said Monica. ‘With the white ring around his eye.’

‘Oh indeed, I remember.’

‘I’m investigating Tinky’s murder, and the way I understand it, no one could complete that job in an hour.’

‘Well, the proof is in the stuffing,’ said the taxidermist, shrugging.

I grabbed the taxidermist by the collar and dragged him half over the counter. ‘Listen here, bub, you’re lying. Spill the beans or I’ll cut yours off.’

The man flailed in my grip. ‘All right! Put me down, you great oaf, I’ll tell you everything!’

I let him go, but held him in a death stare I’ve been working at for years. It did the trick, and he babbled all his secrets. Turned out he’d a reputation for being the quickest and best taxidermist in the city, but it was a reputation based on lies. He had a whole range of animals pre-stuffed. He’d just painted a white ring around the eye of a tiger he already had out back and voila, Tinky mounted and ready in an hour. ‘So where’s the real Tinky?’ I asked.

‘I sent his hide away to be tanned,’ said the man. ‘And fancied a bit of tiger meat for dinner.’

Monica gasped and put a hand to her mouth, then she took that hand away, balled it into a fist, and punched the taxidermist right in his gigantic glasses, snapped ‘em right in half. He fell over backwards, squealing like a pig, and clutching at his dumb face. ‘Stop, stop!’ he cried. ‘I swear, I’ll call my wife!’

‘Do it then,’ said Monica. ‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind as well for marrying a snot like you.’

‘Well, if I had a wife, I’d call her!’

Yet another lie. I leaned over the counter and fixed him with my death stare once more. ‘Keep spilling those beans, bub, and we’ll be out of your fur in no time.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ said the taxidermist from where he sat rubbing his face on the floor. ‘Only . . . there is one thing. In Tinky’s mouth I found some plastic and residue of some kind of powder. Pretty sure it was cocaine.’

‘Call me crazy,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think tigers are normally coke fiends.’

‘But you know who is?’ said Monica.

‘I think it’s time we had another chat with the Ringmaster.’

‘How could he do it,’ said Monica. ‘That cat loved him more than it loved me.’ She clenched a fist, a look of pain passing across her beautiful face.

By the time we drove back downtown it was getting late, so I offered Monica the night at my place. She agreed, and we spent the night engaged in passionate lovemaking. In the morning I told her, ‘Damn, last night was amazing.’

Monica replied, ‘’Scuse me? Only in your dreams, honey.’ Whatever that meant. Feminine lingo for agreement, no doubt. I’d missed band practise with Gill, and the call to my Mammy, but it was worth it. Gill and I had a gig tonight, though, so it was imperative I wrap up the case.

We rocked up at the circus at 9am, found the ringmaster still standing in the ring. Who knows how long he’d been there. I don’t think he’d left since the night before. Man looked worse than the corpse of my last case.

‘The circus was everything to me,’ he said as we approached. ‘I’m ruined.’

‘How’d it happen, Ringmaster? The truth this time.’

He sagged, a defeated man if ever I saw one. ‘Tinky got into my coke stash, went a little nuts and tried to put an end to me. Truth be told . . . I loved that cat.’

Understanding dawned. ‘Then this is how it happened,’ I said, ready to reveal the true killer. ‘My conclusion is that you all murdered Tinky. This was a carefully plotted collective murder. Bibbity was jealous of Tinky’s fame and encouraged the Ringmaster to be in the ring at the right time. Meridian found the coke stash, and left it open for Tinky. And you, Monica—you were jealous that Tinky loved the Ringmaster more, so you gave him your gun.’

Monica glared at me. ‘You really are an idiot.’

‘It was me and me alone,’ said the Ringmaster, shaking his head.

‘How’d you get the gun, then?’

‘Monica dropped it when she was on the trapeze.’

I turned to her. ‘You had your gun on you while you were trapezing?’

‘This is all your fault!’ Monica slapped the Ringmaster over and over. He half-heartedly warded her off with his arms. Me? I left them to work it out for themselves, called my friend at the precinct and told him the whole story.

The Ringmaster was fined a hefty sum. Not much of a punishment, you think? Maybe. But I did my job. He had his back turned to me again, and I knew as surely as before that I was seeing the back of a man who’d lost everything. His circus was done. He would be known as the man who killed Tinky the Tiger for the rest of his days. Not to mention, Monica paid me my fifty bucks and pack of cigarettes, so it was all worth it.

Still unsatisfied? Well, let me leave you with this: Gill and I played one hell of a gig that night.