Dark Maze

her gullet.
    “How about that, folks? A double-decker sword sandwich!”
    The applause was now more to the barker’s liking. Estelline curtsied with the swords still rammed down her windpipe. The applause crested, Estelline removed the swords, and then took her bows and exit.
    Then the drummer got up and started pushing a wheelchair onto the stage. In the chair was what appeared to be one-half of a red-headed man smoking a cigarette. The barker announced, “Say hello to Sealo, the man with flippers instead of arms and legs!”
    The drummer shoved the chair to a table at the side of the stage and stopped. Then he picked up Sealo’s torso and set it on the tabletop. Short, finlike limbs poked out from shirtsleeves and through small holes cut from the pockets of trousers that were pinned in the shape of a diaper.
    Sealo used his dexterous lips to shove his cigarette over into the corner of his mouth. He looked over the audience and coughed.
    Then he dropped his head forward and spat out his cigarette. It landed on the stage floor, and the barker picked it up. Sealo stuck out his agile lips and used them to reach into his shirt pocket for another cigarette and a wooden kitchen match.
    He maneuvered the cigarette over to the left side of his mouth, the match to his right. Then with his tongue, he pushed the match upward and struck the tip against one of his upper teeth. The match flared.
    Sealo’s tongue worked the match flame close to the end of the half-swallowed cigarette. The cigarette took and Sealo dropped the match, then returned the cigarette to the center of his lips, fully extended. He took several long drags and the audience applauded wildly.
    Ruby and I applauded politely. Sealo was about to do an encore when I felt somebody tap my shoulder.
    I turned sharply. So did Ruby.
    A baby-faced man about four feet high said to me, “You come out to Coney Island again to enjoy the day with your girly, buddy?”
    It was just about the same way he said it the other day when he also wore a white jumpsuit and white sailor cap. He also carried the same newspaper bag, slung over one of his misshapen shoulders.
    “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said.
    Big Stuff passed some handbills to the people sitting near us:

    HOW SWEET IT WAS!
    WE CAN BRING IT ALL BACK!
    LEGALIZE CASINOS!
    IT’S OUR BOARDWALK!
    LET’S GET INVOLVED!

    “I see you’re still spreading the good word,” Ruby said.
    Big Stuff eyed her suspiciously. “Yeah, that’s right. I see you’re still hanging around with your cop friend.”
    “Right,” she said. “I enjoy my friends. I like talking about my friends. Do you like talking about your friends?”
    Big Stuff ignored her. He looked at me and said, “I seen you’re in the Post today.”
    “It was a long article and I was mentioned near the end,” I said. “Most of the rest was about a guy you never heard of—Charlie Furman, better known as Picasso. Like the artist. Of course, my man’s an artist, too. He painted Fire and Brimstone, which you have heard of, and the posters outside of this place. Quite a fellow. I talked to him once, you know.”
    This surprised Big Stuff. “You did?”
    “Oh sure. And to his wife, Celia, poor thing.”
    “Yeah, poor thing.” It did not seem to surprise Big Stuff that Charlie and Celia were connected by marriage.
    “I’d give anything to talk to him again,” I said.
    Big Stuff thought for a second and said, “Well, what if I said I maybe did know one or two things about the guy?“
    “I’d say we should talk about that.”
    “Talk’s cheap.”
    “In this case, not necessarily.”
    Big Stuff caught on quick.
    I kept a poker face. I wanted Big Stuff to beg me for it, which I have found to be sound policy when I am dealing with a would-be informer who is unknown to me; a little begging instills in the snitch the need to please.
    “So maybe we got a little something for each other?” Big Stuff said.
    “That’s not going to cut it. I want a lot, for which I’ll pay a lot.”
    I pulled out my wallet and opened it so Big Stuff could see all the currency I was going to charge back to the city. I took out a fifty and offered it to him.
    Big Stuff licked his lips. But he would not take the money, not yet.
    “You say you talked to him?” he said.
    “Picasso, you mean. Yes.”
    “What did you think of him?”
    “Picasso ought to hear my answer himself. Tell him I think it would be too bad if all anybody ever said about him was, ‘He came and