LITMIR.BIZ

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leads me into a narrow vestibule, then turns and holds up his hand. Behind him a living space sprawls out in all directions. I hear a woman who’s maybe humming—or it may be two women, one of them or someone else playing ragtime on a piano. A painting of an oblong figure with skin the color of Ray’s body suit hangs on the far wall.

      Nice place, I say.

      The vials, he says, pushing the bills at me. Bits of ash flake down onto his chest.

      I count his money, dig the vials from my pockets and socks. I make him tell me to leave.

      Halfway back, I spot Jonson’s boy staring in a shop window. There’s no sign of Jonson. I hide my hook in my coat pocket, lower the brim of my hat, move closer. The boy’s watching a brindled cat weave its way around the potted plants in a flower shop display case. He’s all bone beneath the coat—his hair unwashed, slept on, his shoelaces untied. He looks like a true-life version of the hobo he plays on stage. It occurs to me that I might just tap him on the shoulder, say hello. But what I want to know he can’t tell me. Not yet. Maybe when he’s my age, looking back.

      He starts walking. I keep a few strides behind. He won’t recognize me, not with my hook out of sight and my scalp covered. He stops again, this time at a bookseller’s. There’s an old hardback book spread open on a pedestal in the window, the pages scrawled over with foreign writing. The kid studies the text like he can read whatever language it might be written in, then steps inside. I watch him through the glass storefront. No one seems to notice him, not the bookseller standing behind the counter, not the few customers he slides by in one of the store’s narrow aisles. He keeps his coat buttoned, walks slow, reading down the spines.

      In the aisle closest to the door, he lifts a fat tome from its shelf, sits on a footstool, opens to a random chapter and begins reading. He reads until he’s the store’s only customer, then carries the book up front. Before the clerk can quote a price, the boy lifts a small paper bag from his coat pocket and sets it on the counter. The clerk weighs the bag in his palm, nods, opens his register and passes the boy an envelope. The boy exits the store, leaving his book behind.

      We work our way towards the hotel, the brownstones turning to cinderblocks, the trees dropping off street-by-street until they’re all but gone. He leads me to a dime museum. It’s a converted storefront, the windows covered with posters of bearded women and tattooed strongmen. A sidewalk placard reads, Oddities of All Nations. The boy reaches into his pocket, pulls out a fistful of coins, plucks one off his palm. I tell myself to keep walking, but for a while I just stand there, thinking, seeing myself from someplace distant—a grown man following a boy through a city I barely know. But then the distance closes, and I step to the booth with my dime in hand.

      Fifteen cents, the man says.

      A joke?

      Just trying to pass the day.

      We wait in a cordoned-off area while the earlier house clears. There’s a small gathering—college kids and day laborers on break—the kind of crowd that sits in the galleries and stomps their feet, shouting louder than the actors. I stand so the boy’s back is to me. He raises up on his toes, straining to see over the partition. The soles of his shoes are worn to nothing. I keep my good hand in my pocket, fingers wrapped around the bills.

      A man in a plug-opera hat unhooks the cord, waves us in.

      Ladies and gentlemen, he says, I apologize for the delay. But I assure you that once inside, you won’t want to leave.

      We follow him into the curio hall—a narrow room with exhibits lined against one wall, separated by opaque scrims. The professor holds up his hand, stops us at the first cubicle. There’s a glass jar filled with clear liquid sitting on a pedestal. There’s an object suspended near the center of the jar. The wall behind is plastered with newsprint.

      What have we here? he asks.

      You tell us, says a kid in a lettered sweater.

      Fair enough.

      He taps the jar with his pointer, thumbs his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

      Here, he says, we have the brain of a mass murderer, the purest incarnation of evil ever to walk among us. A man of indeterminate race. His skin more sheen than pigment. They say light deflected off of him, wanted no part of him. He slaughtered country folk, city folk, women and children, old and young. He slit the throat of any woman who resembled his mother, and yes he slit hers too. This lump of matter soaking in formaldehyde is the engine that kept him killing. It’s been photographed and microscoped in every civilized city on this globe. The findings? Identical to yours and mine in all respects. Why, then, do we exhibit it? A reminder, ladies and gentlemen. There are things ordained by God that science cannot explain away.

      Looks like a cow’s brain, someone says.

      People laugh, but the boy just stares ahead.

      Son, the professor answers, this establishment employs the finest scientific minds. Surely they are capable of distinguishing between organs belonging to livestock and those belonging to human beings.

      He leads us to the next exhibit. The lights dim, then rise again on a moss-haired girl with painted hands. The men all cluck their tongues. She’s sitting cross-legged, smoking a water pipe, wearing a tight corset and a garter with beaded fringe. Drumming plays on a phonograph behind the backcloth. The cloth itself features palm trees and eastern-looking facades, the kind with doorways cut like keyholes.

      This, ladies and gentlemen, is our own Circassian Serpent Queen. A woman of the world’s purest Caucasian stock, stolen during a Turkish raid and sold in the white slave markets of Constantinople. After five long years in the seraglio of a Persian sultan, one of our agents, at great peril to his own life, was able to liberate her from her depraved servitude. Aboard ship it was discovered that she had a peculiar talent, which she shall demonstrate for you now.

      The Queen rocks her hips and ripples her arms, her bracelets clanking like cymbals at the base of her wrists. A speckled snake sticks its head out of her hair, surveys the audience as though it’s counting the house. People in front step back. Only the boy holds his ground.

      A king cobra, the lecturer says. The most temperamental of all venomous serpents.

      He prods the snake’s head with the tip of his pointer. Its hood flares out, its jaws snap open. A sound like growling breaks from its throat.

      Note the ribs in the neck, the professor says. The saliva gathering at the fangs. The cobra’s poison saps the nervous system, causes blindness, dizziness, death. Watch how our Beauty tames it.

      The snake rises vertically from her hair, angles back, then lunges forward, striking at the space between us. The Queen begins cooing—a low hum in time to the drums. The snake relaxes its hood, starts to sway. The Queen lifts a hand to its chin. Slowly, the cobra rests its head on her wrist, winds its body down her bare arm. The professor leads the audience in applause.

      A succession of snakes part her hair, the professor naming them as they appear—puff adder, black racer, spotted rock python. By the time the Queen stands to take her bow, her arms and legs are braided in snakes. There’s a constrictor wound around her belly, a crossbanded viper covering her neck like a scarf. Men whistle as the lights dim.

      The Queen is followed by Siamese twins joined at the buttocks, a man with a third arm jutting out of his chest, a seven-foot Chinaman, a woman so fat she occupies two exhibit spaces.

      Now, the professor says, for our star oddity.

      We’re standing in front of what looks like a large box draped in baize. The surrounding scrims are covered with happy farm scenes—morning sun shining on barn, silo, corn and farmer. A staccato snorting comes from under the cloth. The professor tugs the fabric free, revealing a four-hoofed creature stalled in a makeshift sty, it’s face human, its body a pig’s. The sty is enclosed in a metal cage, the animal chained by the neck to a pole, its back legs trussed together.

      This horror of crossbreeding, the professor says, is the pride of our hall. Notice the shoat-like nose, the lack of jointure where the

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