City Of Wonders

by J. C. Wright

The completed tale of Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle's time at Phantasma, as told in their own words.

3. Mr Whittington Meets Dr Gangle

Chapter Three

"Mr. Whittington Meets Dr. Gangle"

It seemed like a decent day-if there was any such day-to go interview a prisoner. There was no wind, and without the accompanying chill the temperature was certainly tolerable. People hoping to take advantage of this temporary lull in the cold filled the streets. The less adventurous tossed open their windows, so as to air out their dwellings. By breakfast time the street vendors appeared, scarf-less, the children were herded into school, the diners were filled, and Brooklyn settled into its usual (albeit more spirited) routine. Honks, yells, and rumbles filled the air, and at a nearby diner, Mr. Whittington and Rodger were enjoying breakfast. They had been there for a while, leisurely discussing Miss Fleck, her imprisoned friend, and the book-in-progress.

"Brooklyn City Prison, huh?" chuckled Rodger, dipping his toast in his coffee. "Ariel's got friends in high places, I see! Do you know what the man's in the clink for?"

"No," confessed Mr. Whittington. "It didn't seem like the thing to ask at the time."

Rodger smiled indulgently at his companion's European scruples. "I ain't being nosy; I'm just trying to figure out what level of security this guy's under. If he's pretty high-security, they won't let you see him, even if we are from the press."

"You're from the press," corrected Mr. Whittington.

"What the guards don't know won't hurt 'em," came the cheeky reply. "I've got a pal in there, Harold Haney. He looks over the whole visiting business, see, so we've got an ally. If there's any chance of you seeing the guy, it's with me and Haney. Good odds, I think."

Mr. Whittington smiled. "I concur. Still, let's not do anything illegal, Rodger."

"You'll never make it in America, Jay. Nevertheless, you have my word."

At length the two men eventually arrived at the Brooklyn City Prison, a solemn, severe stone building that seemed aware that it housed criminals, and its Spartan architecture reflected its grim resignation. A small stairway led up to a large reinforced door. All of the visible windows were striped with bars. Inside, the tiled floor clacked under their heels and reflected the gleam of the overhead lamps so strongly that Mr. Whittington felt as though he were walking on a mirror. Everything felt sterile and empty. There was a definite smell of ammonia and floor polish. Rodger's good-natured bantering, most of which his companion was not hearing, bounced and echoed off the institution's bare, unadorned walls.

Ahead of them was a door with a buzzer. Through a window they could see the office, where a few uniformed prison guards were going about their business, shuffling papers. One of them, a heavy, strong-jawed man with thinning hair, looked up in their direction and seemed to recognize Rodger.

Rodger pressed the buzzer. "Hey, Haney! We're lookin' to inteview a prisoner. Press business. Can we come in?"

Haney had a good-natured smile as he let Mr. Whittington and Rodger in, but his eyes and voice were cautious when he asked them a few necessary questions.

"An interview? Who's the prisoner?"

"Gregory De Rossi."

"De Rossi, huh?" Haney frowned. "De Rossi. Oh, yeah, I know De Rossi. Been here for a while, he has."

Rodger sensed trepidation in his friend's voice. "Something wrong, Haney?"

"Nothing wrong," the guard said, sitting back down at his desk and regarding the two men carefully, "It's just that...De Rossi's not a big fan of the press. We've had reporters here before, and he's never allowed a single one any audience with him. Makes him furious. Hell, he hates visitors in general, we can barely let those prison missionaries near him. Only person he'll see is that crazy little old maid...Miss Ariel Something..."

"That's Miss Fleck, and she's the one who sent us," Mr. Whittington felt compelled to add. "We're interviewing her now, and she told us to come see Mr. De Rossi."

"Yeah, if you mention that to the guy, he might be cooperative," chipped in Rodger.

Haney furrowed his brow in skepticism and went to a filing cabinet.

"It's worth a try, ain't it, Haney?"

"I never said it wasn't," the guard replied, flipping through files. "Just checking out his file, lookin' to see if he's under any special restrictions..."

Mr. Whittington looked past the guard's station into the eerie bowels of the prison. He couldn't see any cells, but he could make out the hallways that led there. There was a feeling of stagnant dread in the air, like a haunted house, and when the shadows of guards passed over the walls like ghosts, Mr. Whittington shivered, grateful that he was not shut up in a place like this.

"Alright," said Haney, now peering into a file. "Gregory De Rossi, our intrepid Italian. Hmm, hmm...alright, he was originally allowed one closed visit per two weeks, but they've recently lowered that to one...good behavior and all, and he's due for release in two months. Last visit was made yesterday by a Miss Fleck."

"Once a week. Wait, that doesn't mean...?"

"You're the press, and that would be an exception. What are you hoping to get out of him, exactly?"

Mr. Whittington enthusiastically explained his purpose, and an amused Haney sent a guard to fetch Mr. De Rossi. He then led the two men into the visiting room. It was a room divided by a thick glass wall, a long counter, and chairs. On the wall was a large clock.

"Under the restrictions, you've got an hour," Haney explained.

Rodger grinned. "I always knew I liked you for some reason, Haney. Thanks. Say, if he don't finish relatin' his story to us, we can come back, right?"

But at that moment the door on the other side of the glass opened, and two uniformed guards strode in. Between them was Gregory De Rossi, a tall, swarthy man with streaks of gray in his black hair, a serious face, and shifty eyes that examined Mr. Whittington and Rodger keenly as he took his seat. He looked reasonably well-kept for a man of forty-seven, but his years in prison had obviously imparted a drawn, mean look on his countenance. There was thick scarring on his neck. He did not look pleased.

"Awright, D' Rossi," one of his guards said. "These gennel-men have got an hour with ya, unless ya wanna bail out early. Awright?"

Mr. De Rossi's eyes did not leave the two men beyond the glass. He raised a small trumpet-like device to his throat. It seemed that he could not talk without it. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice a dark mixture of Brooklyn and Italian accent.

Footsteps, a clattering door, and then Mr. Whittington and Rodger were alone with the man they hoped to interview.

"Good morning, Mr. De Rossi," Rodger said with a brightness he did not feel. "The name's Garland, New York Times, and this is my friend, Whittington. We've..."

"Why did Miss Fleck send you?" interrupted Mr. De Rossi curtly. He was clearly not a man who suffered fools. "And how do you know her?"

It seemed good to Mr. Whittington to take over from here. "I became acquainted with Miss Fleck yesterday, very much by accident. You see, she'd apparently been coming back from visiting you, and very nearly got hit by a car when she tripped and fell into the street..."

Mr. De Rossi's face froze into a mask of knee-jerk fear. "Almost hit by a car?" he questioned anxiously, all pretenses of bravado forgotten. "Did she get hurt? Is she okay now?"

"She was completely fine; the driver swerved," assured Mr. Whittington. "But she was almost fainting with nerves, so I got her something to eat and drink, and at length we got to talking. The subject came around to Phantasma, and the whole mystery of Mr. Y. It was really quite an extraordinary coincidence, because she was once a Phantasma employee, and I was a friend of Mr. Y and his son near the end of their lives. In fact, I'm writing a book about my experiences."

"Mr. Y!" breathed Mr. De Rossi, and for a moment he seemed to retreat inwardly, his eyes swimming with memories of the past. "It's been years since...wait. You knew him...er, them? Mr. Y and the kid? When?"

Mr. Whittington explained it to Mr. De Rossi the same way he did to Miss Fleck. He explained the death of Mr. Y, his purpose in researching Phantasma, and all the details of his writings, and when he was through the prisoner sat back, breathing out an amazed sigh.

"Mr. Y and the kid, dead," he said, shaking his head. "I can barely believe it. It had to happen sometime, but...damn."

Mr. Whittington accepted a pad and paper from Rodger, who was sitting back, content to let his friend do the interviewing. "So, Mr. De Rossi," he asked respectfully, "May I have the privilege of hearing your part in this story that Miss Fleck has begun?"

"My story?" Mr. De Rossi's eyes rolled up contemplatively as though he were surveying a pile of paperwork. "Geez, where would you want me to start, and how much do you want to hear? Where did Ariel leave off?"

"Well, first, let's just get some preliminaries straightened out, then I'll bring you up to date on the story thus far. Your full name, birthday, and birthplace?"

"Gregory Vincenzo De Rossi. My birthday is September 1, 1874, and I was born here in Brooklyn," replied Mr. De Rossi smoothly. "But I didn't live here long. My father died when I was five, and my mother took my brother and I back to Italy. My parents were both Italian citizens. So I lived in Milan until around '97, and then I came back here to Brooklyn with Mr. Y."

The preliminaries thus established, Mr. Whittington explained the story up to the point where Miss Fleck had stopped, noting with pleasure the smile on Mr. De Rossi's face as the narrative brought the memories rushing back to him.

"Ha!" he laughed. "Hey, that was the night Mr. Y bought Astley's. I remember that. Here, let me pick up where she stopped."

(Gangle picks up the story)

I'll never forget the warm, hay-scented night me and Mr. Y informed the freaks of Astley's Astonishments that they were coming under new management. What a moment! It was the culmination of ten years' planning, most of which even I had been kept in the dark. Despite living with the man in the same freakshow for ten years, despite coming the the United States on the same ship, despite sharing his plight as a guy in trouble, I'd come no closer to unraveling any of Mr. Y's mysteries-no pun intended-than any of the other freaks in Coney. "Ran into some trouble in France," that's all he told me. "Ran into some trouble in Italy," I replied, and a sort of partnership was born.

Anyhow, there we were, gathered around Mr. Y like it was story-time or something, his sketchbook open, his vivid imagination on display. Outside the room where our little assembly was gathered, it was business as usual on Coney Island. Lights were flashing, ragtime was blaring, rides were roaring around on their tracks, people sat by the sea, watching the stars. But for us, a whole new world was coming to life after ten years' gestation. At my side sat Ariel Fleck, rapt with wonder. She was never so beautiful as she was sitting there, the wonderment shimmering in her sweet, watery eyes, her cheeks flushing, and the light gleaming on the gathered mass of black braids twisted at the nape of her neck.

The sight of her warmed my heart. With love? Maybe. If it had, I didn't know it at the time. I was just a man, who, in the privacy of his own mind, was waxing poetic over Miss Fleck and admitting that she was pretty easy on the eyes.

Tugging her ear, I teasingly mouthed, Well, Signorina? What do you think? Good surprise?

"It's great," she gushed. "It must given you cholera, keeping it a secret all day."

Mr. Y turned the page, and Phantasma was replaced by a tall, forbidding building. It rose above the city like a great obelisk. At the very top were two windows shaped like eyes, and they seemed to glow, yellow and all-seeing, from that spire of black. Nearby were the written words: THE AYRIE.

"My workshop," explained Mr. Y. "I should like to have it directly in the center of Phantasma. A place where I can concentrate on my work."

He turned the page again, and there was a watercolor sketch of an acrobat on an aerial hoop, a lovely girl dressed in blue with feathers on her head and a beautiful peacock's tail that fanned out beneath her. Next to this sketch was another of the very same girl, only dressed in a new ensemble of black, white lace, and feathers. Her eyes were dreamy and smoky, and her little mouth was painted in a red Cupid's bow. THE FABULOUS MISS FLECK, it said.

Ariel's voice was modulated and calm, but she could not resist the smile that squeezed her cheeks into her eyes. "That's me?"

"Yes," Mr. Y replied, nodding gently. "That's you. It was supposed to be your mother, but obviously we couldn't have known..."

Her cheeks resumed their natural position, and a sense of duty and tenderness swept across her little features. Her lips tightened a bit. She twiddled the emerald ring on her finger.

Mr. Y was quiet for a moment, as though he were contemplating something, but then he reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder."I have seen you do aerial acrobatics before, Miss Fleck. Your mother-bless her-taught you well. That's why I'm going to let you have her act. You'll perform admirably, I'm certain you can."

Black-clad Alf 's smile was proud as he looked at the beautiful sketch of his daughter, but there was a tremble of heartache on the corner of his lips that betrayed his true emotions. It really was a bittersweet tribute to the deceased Mrs. Fleck. "I'm certain of it, too," he said. "She'll be so pleased."

We saw all sorts of wonderful pictures! We saw detailed drawings of electrical schematics, banners, blueprints, and whole areas dedicated to us, the performers. Then there was a sketch of ol' Alf, dressed in a military-esque jacket, surrounded by all sorts of weights and dumbells. He looked strong, he looked threatening, but most noticeably, he was standing upright. THE MIGHTY SQUELCH, it said.

From his position on the ground, curled over like a twisted old tree, Alf regarded the sketch with both happiness and confusion. "I'm all straightened out in that sketch," he said. "It's a great idea, but how am I supposed to...?"

"Don't worry," Mr. Y assured him. "You'll see."

Sketch after sketch! We saw Mrs. Bearsley with her beard attractively braided, armed with hair-styling implements. We saw Mr. Geddes operating automatrons. We saw Della juggling with all three of her arms. We saw all of our friends from Astley's Astonishments, doing all sorts of interesting things, and we even saw the freaks from the surrounding shows. There was a fire-eater, a contortionist, and most astonishingly, Aggie-Ann, the girl with two heads, singing and playing the guitar! On and on! At last, there were no more sketches, and Mr. Y shut his book.

"That," he concluded, "Is what I have been envisioning, and judging by your faces you're just as excited about it as I am. This whole area-" He made a wide gesture-"This whole area that houses the freak shows will have to be demolished, and then we shall begin building immediately, so as not to get off schedule."

"What is your schedule, if you don't mind me asking?" inquired Alf.

"My schedule is simple," replied Mr. Y, and a determined look came into his eyes. "I wish to have Phantasma up and running for the 1907 season. That gives us exactly one year, and until then, I'd like to begin implementing some of my plan. We will begin tomorrow. Never mind getting up as though you are performing; we shall all be on vacation until I am satisfied."

All this time, Ariel-my "Signorina"-was leaning back against me, filled with awe at Mr. Y. I could almost see the reflection of his mask in her gleaming eyes. He stood, tucking his notebook under his arm, an impressive sight in that dingy room.

"Tomorrow marks a new day for all of us. I am glad-most glad-that I have been able to bring this to fruition. Goodnight, goodnight to all of you. I must head back."

There were exclamations of delight and praise as all the freaks gathered about Mr. Y, their savior, shaking his hand and practically following him out the door, promising their wholehearted devotion and help. Ariel and her father offered to buy him a shaved ice, but he politely declined.

"Mr. De Rossi!" Mr. Y called over to me. "Are you returning with me, or do you wish to stay longer?"

I nodded and held up a finger. I wanted to stay a bit longer.

"I see," he replied. "Then I shall see you later." He put on his cloak and slipped off into the darkness, and the last we saw of him was his white mask, illuminated by the moon. He really knew how to make an exit.

"Je-ru-salem crickets!" breathed Alf, shaking his tattooed head in wonderment. "I can hardly believe it! Did you ever see such plans? Such sketches?"

"Never in all my life," gasped Mrs. Beardsley. "That Mr. Y is a wonder!"

"My daughter, an aerialist! And myself..." Alf frowned a bit. "Well, I still don't know what to make of his plans for me, but I reckon Mr. Y can do just about anything. That man's going places, I tell you, and we'd better stick by him all we can. Very reasonable, very reasonable indeed."

Mr. Y was true to his word. The very next day he awoke before the dawn-without waking me-and purchased the neighboring freakshows. I was still yawning and searching around for my drawers when I heard the ruckus outside my room.

"Purchased them! Yes, and ours, too," cried Ms. De Luzy, the legless woman, and there were footsteps and laughs as the newly informed freaks dashed about to make sure all of us knew.

"The Flecks just told me that he purchased Astley's last night," added Tom, the pierced fellow who always carried her around on a pillow. "To think we were all eating dinner while this was going on!"

"Hey!" yelled a breathless, brazen-sounding contralto that could only belong to Genevieve Pennysworth, the contortionist. I heard her sharp little heels clattering in the hall. Her brother-the fire-eater-couldn't be far behind. "Carrie! Tom! You'll never..."

"We already know, Genny! He purchased ours, too, just an hour ago!"

"I'll be damned!" she puffed. "I didn't think he'd actually do it. Never mind, Damien! They know already!"

By this point, I was fully dressed, and when I emerged into the hallway I was presented with quite the same tableau I'd imagined: Tom grinning, the morning sunlight gleaming on his face of piercings, little Ms. De Luzy perched regally upon the red cushion he held, and the two Pennysworth siblings striding over, Genny's narrow, pointed face crowned by a respectable Gibson girl pompadour and her mouth puckered around a lollipop, and her brother Damien's permanently scarred mouth twisted into a gruesome smile.

"Ah, De Rossi," Damien greeted me. "Good morning. It seems that your friend Mr. Y is everybody's boss now, but you already knew that, hmm?"

I nodded and looked out over the expanse of scorched grass where all the freakshows were housed, like curious, gaudy barns. Five minutes until opening time and not a soul stirring to get ready!

"He told us we're on vacation 'til he figures out what to do next," he continued. "Imagine that! Us! On a goddamn vacation! I like this guy already!"

"That ain't our God whose name yer takin' in vain, eh, Day-mee-in?" demanded a warm southern drawl, and to everyone's great amusement, Agatha and Ann Hansel (called "Aggie-Ann"), the twins who shared everything but a head, came strolling over, One body, two heads, and more religion than most of us freaks-and perhaps even the Tri-state area-combined. Still, they were cute, quaint, and a sight so charming that you couldn't help but smile.

"O' course I wasn't talkin' about your God, Aggie!" Damien drawled back. "And what if I was? What's that passage? Somethin' about not judging lest you get judged, or whatever the hell..."

"I'll thank ya not to be quotin' Scripture in vain!" grouched Ann while the other head nodded seriously. "I guess we'll just go an' deliver Mr. Wah's message to someone else, then!"

"A message from Mr. Y?" inquired Mrs. De Luzy.

"You heard right!" declared Aggie. "Well, me an' Ann'll head on over to Alf n' Air-yull and tell 'em. Now there's some good folks who don't swear!"

And off they marched past us, each sister controlling her corresponding leg and arm in time with the other, their dual heads bobbing resolutely.

"Swell job, jackass," sneered Genevieve to her irritated brother, popping out her lollipop and digging a cigarette out of her skirt pocket "Doncha know Aggie-Ann doesn't stand for guff? I guess we'll have to go see the Flecks if we want to know the message. Here, redeem yourself by lighting this."

"Well, we'd better head after them," said Ms. De Luzy, shifting on her cushion. Then she looked at me. "Say, Mr. De Rossi, Mr. Y didn't tell you the message yet, did he? You always seem to be in the know."

No, I wrote on the pad and paper I always carried so I could communicate. He only told me that he'd be buying the freakshows. I don't know where he is now. Let's follow Aggie-Ann to the Flecks' place.

So off we went after the rapidly-retreating Aggie-Ann like a strange, freakish train, the Pennysworth siblings making short work of their cigarettes up front, I trekking along in the middle, and Tom carrying Ms. De Luzy, our little red caboose.

Now, none of us freaks really had homes of our own. We lived close by the freakshows in low, partitioned little joints that were like apartments. With three little rooms and lousy lighting, they sure weren't luxurious, but they were free, and they provided our employers with an excuse to pay us peanuts. You know, the "room and board" thing. The Flecks lived in Apartment 1-A, at the start of the chain. Long before he'd even married or Ariel was born, Alf had lived in there with his father and brothers, so one could truthfully drop terms like "family estate" and "Fleck Manor" when it came to describing the Flecks' meager apartment.

Speaking of "Fleck Manor", I feel the need to describe the place, because it was really unlike any home I'd ever seen. First of all, the smell. As we knocked on the door and trooped in after Aggie-Ann, that familiar smell hit me: the smell of books, ancient lace, and dusty, six-hundred year old pouporri. Second of all, the pictures. If the Flecks had wallpaper, I never saw it. There were framed paintings, daguerrotypes, and photographs-I am not exaggerating-from the ceiling to the floor, of every major Fleck milestone and ancestor, probably all the way back to the Renaissance. There were also a couple Greek Orthodox icons of Jesus, Virgin Mary, and Saint Anastasia, for the Flecks were Orthodox Catholics. Third, the layout. It never changed. As I walked in, the room looked exactly as it had the first time I'd ever seen it, furniture positions and all, ten years ago. Well, there was one difference. They'd bought an electric lamp. Other than that, "Fleck Manor" was like going to a living history museum potraying life during the Civil War.

Ariel was at the table, wearing a quaint, old timey-looking maroon dress that really fit the spirit of the room, and to complete the picture, she was pouring tea into two matching cups. She looked up when we came in.

"Well, good morning, and come right in, Aggie-Ann-" At this point she noticed the parade behind them, and her eyebrows rose-"And...Mr. Pennysworth, and Genny, and Signor De Rossi, and Mr. Cutter, and Ms. De Luzy."

Alf's tattooed head poked out of his bedroom, followed slowly by his hunched, crawling body. "Er, good morning. What brings all of you here?"

"We've got a message from Mr. Wah," announced Aggie and the other head nodded importantly. "He wants ya to know that 'e's got to deal with fah-nan-shull business off in the city, and he ain't goin' to be back 'til later. He left Ma-dum Giry an' her daughter here. But when 'e does, he's gonna get all o' us freaks together and teach us t' sing."

"Sing what?"

"Well, 'e didn't mention what. But that there's the message. All these folks had to foller us on account o' Day-mee-in quotin' Scripture in vain. No wonder 'e's called Day-mee-in. You and Air-yull are 'spectable folks, an' that's why we told you first!"

Damien and Genevieve took a final drag on their cigarettes and snuffed them underfoot outside.

Alf's eyes glittered at all of us where we stood, shamefaced, in his doorway. "Well, well, you pack of sinners. No use standin' around in my doorway; come sit down. Ariel, just put on some extra water."

Eventually we all crammed ourselves around the Flecks' little table, where we were served cracker sandwiches and tea with some antiquated china set that a Fleck ancestor probably brought over on the Mayflower. Ariel was surprisingly agile, even with a bent leg and a crutch. She waited on us with ease, filling cups, taking dishes, and making certain that her father, who had to eat on a nearby couch, had enough pillows to support his twisted back. He looked like a curious, tattooed house-pet.

"So Mr. Y is off on financial business," Alf mused. "I really hope he hasn't gotten so carried away with his plans that he's becoming unreasonable with his finances. A man must be reasonable with his finances!"

That was a big thing with Alf, the word reasonable and the concept of being reasonable. He used it like some sort of sacred precept. I don't think he even realized it.

"All I know is I'm on paid vacation," sighed Genevieve, popping a new lollipop into her mouth. She had thousands at her disposal. "Mr. Y is just fine and dandy with me. Say, Ariel, that's a swell dress you got on. Maroon! Just matches your lips and cheeks. Utterly too-too. I can't wear maroon, unfortunately, not if I want to look worth a damn!"

"Genny!" gasped Ann as Ariel politely nodded her head at the compliment.

"Aw, stuff it, Ann, live a little. Say, Mr. Fleck, now that we're all on vacation, what'll we do evenings?"

Alf had never been fond of Genevieve or her brother (too unreasonable, he claimed), but he was never rude. Still, you could see the tightness around his lips whenever he addressed them.

"What'll we do evenings?" he repeated, his forehead wrinkling. "I guess we'll do what we always have."

"Of course that's always an option, but I for one am going to simply pass away if I've got to waste my vacation embroidering bags." Genevieve drooped back in her chair to illustrate it. "We should head into Brooklyn one of these nights. Go to a dance, see a picture show, join a club, go to a meeting or two!"

Damien's scarred lips smiled insolently. "A meeting, huh?"

"Yeah, I said 'meeting'," repeated Genevieve, blushing, suddenly defensive. "What of it?"

Her brother's tone was sly as he chuckled, "I know your angle. You're tryin' to strong-arm some of these ladies into going to that godawful suffragette society of yours..."

It was the wrong thing to say, for Coney Island's militant feminist rose like a phantom and declared, as though pronouncing a death sentence, "And what if I am, sir?" With that big hairdo of hers, she was pretty tall. "Della Caine already does, and we're always in need of fresh faces. I guess I'll do as I please! You don't boss me."

"Of course I don't boss you," sighed Damien, rolling his eyes. "No one can boss you. Sit down and quit makin' a scene."

"Shut your scarred pie-hole and don't force me to make one!"

Alf rolled his eyes in a here-we-go-again sort of way, and Ariel, anticipating a traditional Pennysworth meltdown, scooted off to a bin and returned with an apple which she now offered sweetly to the irate Genevieve. "Have an apple, Genny?"

Her distraction was amazingly effective.

"An apple?" Genny gasped. "I didn't know you had apples, but..." Suddenly she seemed to notice something and she screamed with delight. "Oh, it matches! Look! The redness of the apple almost perfectly matches your dress and cheeks and lips! And your emerald ring, like a green leaf! Oh, you look so dear holding it like that. It would be beastly of me to take it away. I declare I've never seen anything half as cute! You ought to be in pictures! I could practically kiss you!"

And so our ruthless crusader had been diverted from her rampage. Damien flashed Ariel a rare look of gratitute and scarfed down a third sandwich. He didn't realize I had been reaching for it.

"We have not yet settled the issue of entertainment on evenings," said Ms. De Luzy. "I have an idea."

Both Aggie and Ann's heads perked up. "So long as it ain't a God-forsaken dance," Aggie cautioned. "That ain't nice."

"No, no, I wasn't going to suggest that at all. I've just been thinking about how long it's been since we heard Ariel read aloud. It's really been some time, and she does such an excellent job, particularly with Poe. Remember how she read The Cask of Amontillado?"

"How could I forget?" replied Genevieve around a mouthful of apple. "It was thrilling. If I'm really going to be trapped here like a Victorian maiden, I guess I'd like to hear Ariel read! I second the motion."

Unable to voice my assent, I coughed.

Damien nodded. "Well, if De Rossi's in on it, I third the motion. Er, fourth it, rather."

"We fifth and sixth it!" chorused Aggie-Ann.

Tom briefly stopped twaddling his lip ring to say, "Seventh it."

"One moment, please," said Alf. I'd forgotten he was there. He had a way of fading into the background and then re-emerging sternly when provoked. "You all seem to be taking my daughter's consent for granted."

He also had a way of making you feel really guilty for no reason. We squirmed and looked at Ariel. She, in turn, looked back at her father, and then I saw the eyes of both Flecks gravitate slowly towards the same photograph on their musuem-esque wall: Alf's wedding portrait. There, looking solemnly out of a hazy, sepia-toned world, was Alf and his wife, the former in a parlor chair, hunched-over but handsome in a fine suit, and the latter a blushing-and one-armed-Victorian bride, draped in white lace, a big beribboned bustle behind her.

Back in the real world, we all made the unfortunate connection between Ariel reading aloud, the photograph, and the tight, saddened expressions of father and daughter Fleck. Alf in particular seemed to shrink a bit into his black widower's clothes.

Ms. De Luzy moaned in mortification. "Oh! Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize...we certainly wouldn't want to make Ariel feel obliged to do anything she doesn't wish to..."

"You'll be forgivin' us, won't ya?" murmured Aggie. "It didn't occur ta us that...that she was alive the last time Air-yull read t' us, God rest 'er saintly soul."

I bowed my head in wordless apology.

"Please," said Ariel, dismissing our shame with a kind glint in her eyes. "Please, don't be upset. I'm sure reading in the evenings again would be swell. I'd be glad to do it. I think Mama would be pleased to see us enjoying the old stories she used to love. Especially Poe!" She stroked the emerald ring on her finger as she turned to her father. "Don't you think she'd like it, Daddy?"

Alf's eyes lingered on the photograph for a moment, but then that tattooed face of his warmed into a tender expression. "I think she would," he replied. "Seems reasonable to me."

Thus christened by Alf with the label of reasonability (Is that a word? It is now.), our entertainment for the evenings was settled. And that very evening, Mr. Y returned from the city with a satisfied smile and summoned us all together for a music lesson.

In what used to be the Astley's Astonishments freakshow building, Madame Giry and Meg had rolled in a piano whose glory days were definitely over. It was supposed to be one that could play itself when set up with a music roll, but the mechanism was broken and the keys were chipped. When we all came trooping in, Mr. Y was seated at it, examining a battered old hymnal. He didn't seem particularly impressed with the contents. As he flipped through the pages, he quietly but fiercely denounced every piece, saying things like: Predictable. Uninspired. Amatuerish. Boring. Asinine. Madame Giry and Meg were standing by silently. They knew him well enough to keep their distance and shut their traps when uninspired music was angering him.

Speaking of distance, I never really bothered to get acquainted with either the dour Madame Giry or her daughter. While we freaks and Mr. Y had definite moments of comradeship, the Girys were content to remain on their little French island and remain totally aloof. They spoke English only when it was necessary, wanted nothing to do with any of us freaks, and spent their days acting like Coney was a temporary exile, interested only in dollar signs and investing. Meg was cute, though. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pretty good dancer. If only she didn't look so sick and nervous all the time, I'd say she was beautiful. Not as beautiful as Ariel, though.

"Ah," said Madame Giry when she saw us, "Les monstres sont arrivés."

I know the word monstres means freaks in French, but I still cringed when she used it. Hey, Mr. Y! The monsters have arrived. Just like we were a pack of drooling beasts, fresh out of our cages.

Mr. Y lifted weary eyes from the hymnal. "Je vois. Voulez-vous rester? Je n'ai pas plus besoin de vous, mais vous pouvez rester si vous le souhaitez."

"Non, merci. Bonne nuit."

In a nutshell, he asked them if they wanted to stay, and they said no. Exit Madame Giry and Meg.

"Good evening, all of you," Mr. Y greeted us. "As I intend to integrate music into Phantasma, it seems only fitting that I ought to hone your skills accordingly. Of course, our friend, Mr. De Rossi, cannot sing-" Here he gestured to me, and I shrugged off everyone's sympathetic clucking-"Because he cannot make a sound. Yet."

Yet? My heart leapt. He hadn't forgotten...

"In the meantime," he continued quickly, before anyone could start making inquiries, "Let us begin. I understand, from what Aggie-Ann has told me, that you all like to sing together on Sundays, utilizing this hymnal."

We nodded our confirmation.

"Very well. So I assume that you are all familiar with song fifty-four? He Leadeth Me? Yes? In that case, I will hear you sing it once through, and I will provide the accompaniment."

At my side, Ariel made a little pleasant sound. She liked this song.

Mr. Y sat, fingers poised above the well-worn keys. "I am however, altering the key. As a matter of fact, I re-composed the whole thing, but I think playing it in a minor instead of a major would give it an interesting effect, don't you?"

Hell if we knew.

"Uh, Mr. Wah?" Ann piped up. "How'd ya do that? Do you got a lot o' trainin' in music?"

A sly look glittered in Mr. Y's eyes, as though he were trying not to smile. "You could say that," he replied.

His skilled fingers played the newly-composed opening. It was so impressive, we almost forgot to sing. Where on earth did Mr. Y learn to play the piano like that? But everyone (except for me of course) opened their mouths and sang:

He leadeth me; O blessed thought!

What words with heavenly comfort fraught!

What-e'er I go, wher-e'er I be,

Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.

He leadeth me, He leadeth me,

By His own hand He leadeth me.

His faithful follower I would be,

For by His hand he leadeth me.

Nice lyrics, huh? Unfortunately, the delivery sounded like a herd of cows being hit by a train. Half of them were off-key, the other half tried to drown out the wrong notes by yelling it, and almost all of them were attempting notes that they couldn't hit. Thankfully, God had seen fit to leadeth them to musically-inclined Mr. Y, who seemed to realize that we sure as hell weren't the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. As the piano's vibrations hummed into silence, he looked at us with a rather crazed, horrified look in his eye. I actually thought the man was going to cry.

But he took a deep breath, forced a smile onto his face (which looked painful), and said, "Well. It seems we've got some work to do, don't we?"

The first thing he did was classify everyone into a voice category by listening to them sing as high and low as they could. Turns out that a lot of them had been singing in the incorrect category. When all was said and done, Alf was our lone tenor, Damien and Mr. Taylor were our baritones, Tom and Mr. Geddes were our basses, Della, Ms. De Luzy, Muriel, and Aggie-Ann were our mezzo-sopranos, Mrs. Beardsley was an alto, and Genevieve and Ariel were special.

Genevieve could sing so low that Mr. Y dubbed her a 'contralto' and put her in the tenor section, and Ariel could sing so high that she was the 'coloratura soprano'.

We made slow but steady improvements that night, and after we sang the song through the final time, Mr. Y had some announcements.

"In order to jump-start the money-flow and convince some more investors to get on board, we're going to put together a conceptual Phantasma, a demo, if you will, and perform our ideas to the public," he explained. "We need to sell our idea if we're going to get enough funding. We'll talk more about this tomorrow. Good night."

He left, and as the everyone began chattering excitedly, Ariel and I broke away by ourselves. We did that a lot. As we went through the main door, we caught a rush of a cool breeze blowing in off the sea, and once we were situated outside we admired the multicolored, glittering lights of Coney Island, seemingly in competition with the heavens above. On a night like this, it seemed that anything was possible. It seemed any dream, any magical inclination of our minds, any poem on our lips could come to life, become tangible, if only we wished it so. A night in which the earth and heavens seemed to come together, refreshing us and filling us with hope.

"The time has come-the Walrus said-to think of other things!" said Ariel brightly, tossing herself down onto the grass. "Of shoes and ships and ceiling-wax, and cabbages and kings! And while the sea is boiling hot-and whether pigs have wings-Kaloo kalay, we'll feast today like cabbages and kings!" She grinned. "Doesn't this all make you think of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland? Curiouser and curiouser!"

She was ever one for poetry. Books too. She was mad about books. I lay down next to her in the crumbly, scorched grass.

"Finally," she cried, "After all these years, Mr. Y remembered the promise he made us. We're going to be like diamonds! At last! I hardly believed it at first, but now that we're actually singing and putting the plans into action..."

I remembered the night Mr. Y made that promise, that awful night she split open her palms with a knife. That was a long time ago. She was so young then. Hell, I was so young! Where had the time gone?

"And you're going to get your voice back, aren't you?" She lay close to me and gave the scars on my throat a little stroke. "He promised you. And he even mentioned it tonight!"

I hated when my voice-or lack thereof-was brought up, even innocently. It stirred up all sorts of horrible memories, memories of my degenerate, criminal life back in Italy that I had never shared with anyone, not even on paper. Even after nine years, vivid flashes of it would wake me out of a dead sleep and terrify me...

"I'm sorry," she said meekly. She knew me well. "I know you hate having it brought up. But it'll be fixed soon."

Back inside, somebody laughed. I thought I heard a clinking of glasses.

Well, never mind, I mouthed as cheerfully as I could, punctuating the movements of my lips with a form of sign language. You're right. And what about you, Fabulous Miss Fleck? Ready to be an aerialist?

Her mouth spread into a smile, but her eyes, which had suddenly become sad, infected her whole countenance with a spasm of pain. She twiddled the ring on her finger. My heart sank with shame. I mentally gave myself a good kick. It seemed that my remark, which was meant to be light-hearted, had unintentionally brought back some of her own worst memories.

"I'm ready," she replied, head bowed. "I'll do my very best. But I'll miss her all the time."

She was talking about her mother. I remember her, even now. Ol' Polly, we used to call her, Ol' One-Armed Polly, although her true name was Apollonia. She was an endearing lady, very beautiful, with a dreamy, sing-song voice (that must be where Ariel got it from) and great talent on the aerial hoop, but she certainly wasn't bright. She never seemed to truly comprehend anything. She was always lost in Polly-land, doing what she pleased, singing songs, crumpling things in her one little hand, tossing herself around on her hoop, talking to herself, and making off-color comments about Alf's skills in the bedroom at the dinner table. She couldn't read, either. Ariel and Alf had to read books aloud to her. She loved that. Yes, she was silly, but she was cute, and I never once saw her angry. "My fam'ly," she'd coo, hugging Alf and Ariel. "My lovely little fam'ly."

I recall someone-though I can't remember who-telling me that there had been a lot of inbreeding in her family, which resulted in her being one-armed and retarded, but Alf never mentioned any such thing, nor did he tolerate any suggestion that his wife was anything but a little silly. He loved her more than life itself. "She's not very clever," he'd declare stoutly, "But she's as coherent as anyone else." And Ol' Polly would be off in a corner, singing to herself and shredding a napkin into little pieces. She died on Ariel's sixteenth birthday last year in a really awful accident.

In the darkness my young companion regarded the emerald ring, her mother's last gift to her, which now resided permanently on her ring finger. "I wish she could've seen that sketch of me."

Inside, everybody seemed to be celebrating, but Ariel and I sat in silence under the stars. Tonight, they were like diamonds.

(Gangle ends the story for now.)

The clattering of the door in Mr. De Rossi's half of the room signaled that the hour was up, and in strode his guards. He must stop the story here for now.

"Hey, Whittington," Mr. De Rossi said seriously as he got to his feet, "Tell Miss Fleck to be safe. Look after her, if you can, and thanks for helping her out. I can't exactly prove it to you now, but I'm real grateful. The girl means a lot to me, you know?"

"You're very welcome."

"She's all alone in the world," he went on, his voice trembling and his eyes watering. "Completely alone."

"Not while I'm around. You can count me to help her," promised Mr. Whittington. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. De Rossi. We'll be seeing you again."

"Grazie. Grazie."

All in all, it had been a very successful interview. Rodger had filled several pages with notes, and as Haney led them back out into the daylight, he showed them to Mr. Whittington.

"Look at all that, Jay!" he gushed. "Ha! This is going to the best book ever."

"It's certainly shaping up to be that way."

Both men were glad to be out of that prison and back in the crisp spring air. The air had never seemed quite so refreshing. They had never felt so lucky to be walking about as free men.

"Ah!" sighed Rodger. "What a crackerjack of a day. Say, Jay, did you see De Rossi's face whenever he got on the subject of ol' Ariel? I betcha dollars to doughnuts he's sweet on her. Then again, if I were in the clink, I'd be sweet on any girl who stopped by."

"Well, if my dates are correct, he's known her since she was eight years old," replied Mr. Whittington soberly. "And if she was eight in 1897, then she's...thirty-two or thirty-three now. That's a long time to know a girl."

"Sure is. Uh, speaking of girls, I'm afraid you'll be eating on your own tonight. Me and my girl are going on a little spin around the city. She's got a new car, doncha know? A 1922 Ford Model-T! Canary yellow. It's a peach!"

Mr. Whittington smiled at the thought of Rodger and his perky little girlfriend, Bernice Fowler, speeding around Brooklyn in such a car.

"Well, that's alright, because you'll be getting your next day's breakfast and lunch alone. Miss Fleck and I have more talking to do."

"You do, huh?" Rodger grinned. "Tell me, how much does she charge an hour?"

"One turkey sandwich."

"Ha! That Ariel. She's a riot. Well, Jay, this is where I must leave you. See ya."

A handshake, two slaps on the back, and the two comrades went their own way, Rodger tripping off to an evening of high-speed romance with an aspiring Ziegfield Follies girl, and Mr. Whittington contemplating everything that Mr. De Rossi had said. It seemed that the prisoner really did think highly of Miss Fleck. There had been such a tender gleam in his eyes when he asked him to look after her, a genuine concern for her welfare. Mr. Whittington was glad that there was at least one man other than himself who felt like that.

Once home, he undid his tie and regarded his bachelor pad with a critical, discerning eye. Provided Miss Fleck accepted his invitation to stay over, where could he put her? She was a lady, and must have a private room with a door that she could lock from the inside. That was non-negotiable. Hmm. She would have to sleep in his bedroom, and he would sleep on his old red couch in the living room. That would be fine. After all the nights she'd spent on a boardwalk, he could certainly endure a couch.

What else? Well, she really ought to have some clean clothes. Ha! He had just the thing. Bernice had dropped off a sack of her old winter clothes with the request that he drop it off at the Salvation Army, a place he often passed. It was still sitting near the window. Thoroughly-modern Bernice's taste in clothing, with her insistence on thin straps and daring little frocks, would probably shock Miss Fleck's Edwardian sensibilites, but winter clothes were nearly always modest. There is only so much skin one can expose during cold weather.

And nourishment, that was very important! Poor Miss Fleck needed a lot of wholesome, healthy food, and no mistake! He had plenty of milk, bread, juice, and all sorts of reasonably healthy fare, not to mention the turkey sandwich he had promised her. Vitamins would be necessary too. Well! It was quite a job, taking care of a woman! But Mr. Whittington wanted so much to help her. After all, like Mr. De Rossi said, she was all alone in the world. Besides, he remembered that ancient command of old, But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just. How nice it would be to really help someone in need.

It was on this thought that Mr. Whittington meditated, until at last he retired to bed.

NOTE FROM AUTHORESS: Thank you for reading "City of Wonders"! Won't you be my neighbor? Or better yet, tell me how ya like it? It will prevent me from spiraling into "bad fanfic oblivion".

1. Just so y'all know, I DO ALLOW anonynous reviews-this means that you don't have to register with this site to leave a review. Quite a few folks only allow signed members to review. I am not one of them.

2. I'm not even going to pretend I know anything about the prison system in the 1920s.

3. Because this site's PM system automatically breaks up links, I can't send bonus pictures for reviews anymore. On DeviantArt, I'm "littlelivewire", so head over there periodically. I plan to upload illustrations and crap every once in a while!