The problems reach back years and push into the weeks to come. They are many and pervasive, and however you might wish to state the situation, you'll arrive at some variant of this; it is no good night to be a Horseman.
Which is a rare enough thing, certainly, but no less potent and portentous for that. More so, in fact; when you're so used to comfort and camaraderie, the broken nights are very cold indeed. Out of wallowing and worrying and the awful re-enactments a mind will insist on inflicting upon itself, in the moments of clarity, each of them will find the same conclusion somewhere before dawn. Jack finds it on the bare white ceiling the third time he jolts out of his sleep, Lula in the dark behind her eyelids the third time she pretends he didn't wake her. Merritt's is in the brutal snap of hanging up a telephone. For Dylan, it is hidden, written on the back of Alma's neck and only revealed by a scented shake of her hair. And Danny got it first, got it right away, got it standing in the studio. When he had been helped without even having to ask, and so efficiently, Danny realized hours ago how lucky they are, when any problem shared might be considered a problem split five ways.
But spare a thought, if you've got one to spare, for the other casualties of this unkind evening. So maligned, so peripheral and out of focus, so misunderstood on any occasion they have dared to step forward, take a moment to appreciate – this is no good night to be a clown either.
After their moment with Merritt McKinney earlier – neither of them has come out and said it, but both agree the magician shaded towards mean – they retreated. The mood had fallen too low, and the energy level.
They might have gone back to work, and in performing and in other people's laughter they might have found some of their joy again. But it doesn't work that way. Clowning is a one-way street. It's not just unprofessional, for a clown to get their glow from an external source, it's against the rules. A true clown can find themselves in real trouble even showing their face in public without at least a glimmer in their eye, and are expected to keep this up without relying on so much as a sugar rush.
Crepes don't count. They're in Paris; Quinn was taking in a full experience of the culture, and it amused the seller to hear it ordering out from behind the mask and down from Petey's shoulders. And as to Petey's ice cream, well, it was very hot inside the costume, Quinn was worried about him, necessity is the mother of quiet little contraventions of minor rules when there's nobody around to see. Also the crepes were incredible.
The point is, after the crepes it was all downhill. McKinney really killed off the buzz.
And it had to be him, didn't it? The tale about him being Petey's favourite was not patter, it was not a lie. Though he never expressed as much, Quinn knew he was excited about meeting the guy. And for it to go the way it did…
In a bundle of sweatpants and hotel bathrobe, Quinn sits against the pillows on the creaking bed and looks across at the bathroom door. According to the iPad propped on its knees, Petey's been in there half an hour now. "Have you drowned?" it calls, over the noise of the shower.
The noise cuts out. A second later Petey's head appears around the door, a hand cupped to his ear, What?
"You're going to prune up like one of them cats that have no hair and all my sympathy."
The first sign he gives in reply is unequivocal and, in Quinn's experience, universal. It requires no more than the middle finger of one hand. Following on, adding the first finger and thumb for at least a pretence of eloquence, Okay, Mom.
"Don't you backtalk me, young man. You know how your skin gets under that greasepaint…" Trying to look away, to be casual and disinterested, "That guy's an asshole anyway, everybody knows it. You have to get, like, two-thirds down his Wikipedia page before you find anything that even suggests nice…"
Another appearance at the door, and this time there's more fervour in the hands, You shut up, and the pointing finger that makes Quinn the target quivers. Quinn raises both hands, showing them empty and harmless, and the door gets slammed to. It has no intention, professionally or otherwise, of scratching at a raw nerve. There are other contemporary performers who would disagree, but Quinn considers it bad clowning, if you can't raise a smile except by making someone else feel worse. Quinn considers that weak.
And besides, we're talking about Petey here.
Actually, if Quinn had Merritt McKinney here in the room, that rule about backhanded jokes might be casually abandoned for the night. Quinn would scalp that mesmeric prick right now, given the opportunity. And maybe a plunger, since the scalp itself provides absolutely nothing it might grip onto and tug.
As bloody-minded humour goes, the plunger gag actually makes Quinn smile. Tonight, however, is clearly not the night. It files the line away for some more opportune moment.
When Petey finally emerges, they don't return to the topic of disappointing heroes. Quinn begins, before he's even across the room. "I googled Rebecca Dasko. She's not even her own first result, there's this pretty famous doctor who's written tonnes to papers and you have to get past her profiles everywhere. I actually thought it was her at first, but check out what I found on page two." He sits on the edge of the bed and Quinn slides him the tablet. Grabbing the towel hanging around his neck, it dries off his hair, rough, shaking his head until he gives up trying to read. "Are you smiling again? Come on, man, all I can see is shoulder, give me something." Petey turns enough to show an intentionally grim baring-of-teeth, and that shoulder gets shoved hard. "You better cheer up. If you don't cheer up, I'll have to hurt you so you'll have something to be sad about."
Indicating the iPad, Will this cheer me up?
"All it says is that Rebecca Dasko played assistant to one Mr J. Daniel Atlas before he made it big with that live TV event." Idly scratching a trace of white paint from behind his ear, "Basically he left her on the stage when he went street-level."
Does that help us at all?
"Not in any way. We're still going to die."
A softening, relenting, hands held out flat, Calm down. More complex again, They won't kill us.
"Oh, well, you would know. I've never disappointed them before."
One sharp turn and Quinn is knocked back across the bed, both punished and making room for Petey to sit next to it. Side by side, he puts the screen in front of both of them and nods at it. When Quinn doesn't move, another nod. "I'm not calling them. You call them."
Fine, and Petey grabs the screen, props it up to leave both hands free.
"Wait, really? See, big guy, this is why we make such a good te-"
Tell them about that dick McKinney – the name, purely between the two of them, is expressed by sweeping a hand smoothly over the skull from front to back – We're here. He's here. Mom and Dad might let us do something to him.
Quinn snatches back the tablet. "I'll call them. You're going to make it sound like we did something wrong which, remember, and remember this at all times, we didn't. We tried hard. We did everything we could, and were refused at every turn." Petey nods fervently, jaw set. "We're innocent. Shrike. Shrike is the problem."
Together, the big hand guiding (and very slightly forcing) the little one, Quinn begins the video call, and breathing deep, swallowing nausea, waits for a connection.
After a minute, the sound of the line changes, but the box on screen stays dark. Far away and muffled, "Hello? Children? What… I… I can see you but there's nothing in my little box, is that right? Can I see you but not me?"
"Doc, it's Quinn. You can hear me okay, right?"
"Oh, I can hear you just fine, and what a charming ensemble you're wearing-"
A deeper, gruffer voice cuts over Doc's, "Shut up and ask the kid what's wrong with the pictures." The sound of that voice and Petey stops laughing. Quinn fixes its smile, makes sure it stays bright and wide, "Hi, Panty," and elbows Petey so he remembers to wave. "Look, so long as you can see us and hear us, and we can hear you, it's fine."
"Yeah, I guess," the gruff voice grunts. "Probably be a short call anyway. All you gotta tell us, when might we expect a visit from dear little Dyllie?"
"…About that-"
"Oh?" and Doc is all mild with concern on the phone but they can both picture his face, the hard edges, him reaching for the slapstick bracketed under his table, "Is there a problem?"
Petey shakes his head fast, cutting the air with both hands, every emphatic 'no' that can be expressed without speaking tumbling out of him, getting caught up and confused until Quinn doesn't quite know what he's saying. "Yes," it interrupts. "But not with us. I think… I mean, this is just what I saw when we spoke to him, but he might be… Could be one of those-"
"Spit it out!" Panty roars.
"He's a coulroph-"
"Young clown!" Doc cries, "Finish that word and you will clean your own mouth out with soap and Petey will send me pictures to verify."
"He thinks we all have pointy teeth and eat little kids in sewers or something, okay?" Panty mumbles something about 'goddamn King' and spits, but Quinn is taking advantage of their shock, faster than any barking it has done in all these days, "We went to him direct and we tried to get in through May and McKinney both, but they're totally switched off, there's some other issue they're dealing with, a woman called Rebecca, so there's just no way for us to get through, unless you want to give us the message and we'll make him listen maybe but other than that I don't see any way-"
"What woman?!" Panty roars.
"Rebecca Dasko, she was Atlas' assistant back in the old days? There's some problem and they're all hung up on it. I guess because we showed up at the same time they thought we'd know something, but we don't, so all we know is that there's a problem."
The silence that falls is so complete that Quinn checks they haven't lost the connection, that out of pure terror it didn't reach out and cut the line. But the connection is fine. If it listens carefully, it can still hear them, muttering now, cutting Petey and Quinn out of the conversation. It turns the volume all the way up. Catches only fragments, In motion now, and Too late and See the arrogant shit after Rome. Quinn can hear them hissing, and Panty slamming a fist the size and colour of a baked ham down on the table.
That's when it jumps and gabbles again, "Guys, are you going to murder us? We can't see your faces to guess from that, so you have to help us out."
"Children! Oh, my children!" Doc gushes, "Nothing of the sort! We're very sure you did your level best. Aren't we, Panty?"
A growl, "Suppose so…"
"Tell you what?" Doc grins, "Why don't you two scamps stay in Paris a while? A heritage city for our kind, you know. I think our sweet Pedrolino will enjoy it especially."
It's quite a shift from thinking they might be killed or, worse, ousted. Quinn needs a second to recalibrate, and doesn't quite accept the reality of the offer until Petey jabs its arm for attention. Both thumbs jabbing at the edges of his chest; Quinn has always loved the signing for 'vacation', because he looks so excited.
"Go-od," Doc coos. "Have a wonderful time, take lots of pictures. Now –" And here his voice takes that hardness again, that reaching-for-a-weapon tone, "Toodle-oo." The call stops so abruptly Quinn jumps back, dropping the tablet on the bed.
"Did… did we just get a free vay-kay for not completing the task we were sent here with?"
Petey is all delight, open-mouthed grinning, two thumbs up.
Well, if that's not a way to salvage a horrible evening, then there isn't any way to salvage a horrible evening. Yes, Quinn could be impressed with this. Quin could sit back now and tell itself that this great boon has come to them because it did such a good job of explaining the situation, sleep very well tonight knowing that tomorrow morning will be brighter than today and will belong entirely to them. They could have fun in Paris. Like Doc said, there's a lot to learn here, about their fated vocation. They could learn a new skill and pick up some history and…
"Does that sound right to you?"
The thumbs again, reiterating, and teeth gritted in the smile now, Yes. Vacation. Don't ruin this.
"…You hear what he said about Rome? I only got a little."
Petey's hands are over his ears, over his eyes, over his mouth, and then jabbing his chest again. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, take a holiday.
"You know what I think we should do?" Petey points at Quinn, then at his own head, then crossing the air in denial again. The meaning is clear and Quinn is unamused. "Me not thinking is a worse idea. Now ask me what I think we should do."
…What do you think we should do?
"If, and I'm not saying they will but if, the Horsemen go to Rome, I think we also should go to Rome."
No, Quinn! Vacation! They said stay in Paris, Paris vacation, us, time off, vacation, fun, relax
"I'm not saying we don't stay in Paris. We stay in Paris. And then we go to Rome and come back and stay in Paris and if anybody asks if there was a break in the middle where we stayed in Rome, well, I just pretend I don't have no tongue either!"
Petey glares. Rude.
"Okay, I'm sorry. But promise me we'll go to Rome."