Fear No Evil. John Davis Gordon

to a rasping jog.

      He shuffled along the crest, his arms hanging loose, his heart thumping against his chest. He knew that a few miles ahead, near No Business Knob, there was a spring. About a mile beyond that, a creek. The animals needed water. But the spring was too small; it would take too long; they needed the creek … and he had not brought the pig’s carcass for the lions. Nor did he have a rifle.

      ‘But ole Professor Ford’s right,’ Frank I. Hunt drawled, eyes closed. ‘I’m not an expert.’ His makeup girl was putting the finishing touches to his tan.

      ‘But to them you are,’ Charles Worthy said. He jabbed his finger downstairs at the Hilton Hotel lobby. ‘You’re the big lion tamer to them, and don’t you forget it, Morris.’

      ‘And don’t call me Morris,’ Frank sighed.

      ‘And those grizzly bears, everybody’s scared of grizzly bears. Even those elephants are dangerous—that’s what you got to tell them. And you’re going to get them back.’

      ‘Sure,’ Frank said.

      ‘You know much more about those animals than that Professor Ford—’ He jerked his thumb at the television screen. He tossed his showman’s head: ‘“I am unaware that circus personnel are experts …” Well, I tell you something you’re going to make him aware of. He just keeps animals like museum pieces for people to ogle at. But we—we bring the animals to the people! We bring knowledge of animals. Entertainment. Happiness. Most kids in this world would never see an elephant or a lion unless we brought them to their town. And we’re proud of that! Zoo?—they just keep animals in cages. Us?—we go into the cages!’

      ‘Sure,’ Frank Hunt said wearily.

      ‘Are you listening, Frank? We’re not going to take that insult from Ford lying down!’

      ‘Certainly not.’

      ‘And something else Ford’s unaware of,’ the old man said vehemently. ‘He’s not going to steal the show, Morris! Hell, they’re mostly our animals that’s been stolen, our trucks, our gear thrown all over the zoo, our circus that can’t go on! What’s he lost? One tiger and a coupla gorillas and three or four elephants, and bet they’re all as miserable-looking as he is.’

      ‘Actually,’ the makeup girl said, ‘I thought he was kind of cute. All serious and cuddly.’

      ‘Whereas you?—you’re photogenic, Morris. You go into that ring, and you knock all the ladies dead. And the kids love you, you make everybody happy. And you’re the expert. I’m not saying you must go down there to those television cameras and cash in on what’s happened … That wouldn’t be … in keeping with our proud tradition. All I’m saying is … there’s going to be an awful lot of publicity—and if it rightfully belongs to anybody it belongs to us—not to Professor Ford, Morris … This is very important to put across Morris!’

      ‘Morris isn’t a very photogenic name. Try Frank I. Hunt.’

      ‘What’s the I supposed to stand for?’ the girl asked.

      ‘Ignatius,’ Frank said.

      ‘Ivan,’ Worthy said testily. ‘Can’t you take anything seriously? Listen, Frank—you don’t seem to realise what this means. The whole world’s watching, Frank! We’re going to hold their attention for weeks while those animals are recaptured. And you, sir, are going to be a national figure—the guy who goes into the cages, remember that!’

      ‘It’s getting the animals back into the cages that I’m not wild about.’ Frank looked at himself in the mirror. ‘Am I or am I not,’ he said, ‘a dead ringer for Tony Curtis?’ He blew himself a kiss. ‘Or Dean Martin?’ he added reasonably.

      ‘Be serious for once!’

      ‘Serious? …’ He reached for the bourbon and sloshed some into his glass. ‘I am deadly serious, Chuck. I an not a big white hunter. Never have been, you know. Ringmaster, that’s me.’

      ‘You’re not a comedian either!’

      ‘Comedian?’ Frank mused. ‘Maybe that’s what I should have been. Or an escape artist.’

      ‘You don’t even care that we’ve lost our animals! Even if they’re shot!’

      Suddenly Frank Hunt looked serious. ‘Is that so?’ He took another big slug of his whiskey. ‘Well, I’m here to tell you’—he jabbed a finger—‘that I do care.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘I want all those big cats safely back in their cages! And that tiger. Because I, Chuck,’ he tapped his chest, ‘trained the bastards. I, as you so correctly pointed out, go into the cages! Not you—me. And I don’t want to start all over again with new sonsabitches who want to eat me for breakfast every goddam morning!’

      He shucked on the jacket of his white safari suit, then clapped on his leopard-skin-banded hat at a rakish angle.

      ‘You know why I’m so happy? Because I’m not going into the ring with those cats tomorrow.’ He turned to the girl and said pensively, ‘Maybe I should have been the Human Cannonball?’

      Then he opened the door with a flourish and strode down the carpeted corridor to the elevator, Worthy hurrying behind him. He stabbed the elevator button and waited jauntily. The doors opened on an elevator full of people standing solemnly. Frank gave them a businesslike smile and intoned, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I called you all together? …’

nine

      ‘Why not?’ Dr. Elizabeth Johnson demanded indignantly.

      ‘Because, ma’am,’ the air-hostess smiled, ‘we’re not allowed to serve alcohol over the Bible Belt.’

      ‘But we’re twenty thousand feet up!’

      ‘In the Bible Belt it’s dry all the way up to heaven, ma’am.’

      ‘Good God …’

      Then that gave her something new to worry about: the Bible Belt. She had heard about this funny country down here in the South, its hillbilly brethren who thought the world was flat. Didn’t they have people up in these hills who still spoke Elizabethan English? Backwoods people like those in that movie Deliverance … God … What would people like that do to jungle animals let loose in their mountains? Not counting American hysteria, and the great American hunters she’d read about, who were going to descend with a whoop and a holler on the sudden bonanza of exotic targets to blood their mail-order guns on. Oh, God, the hue and cry that was coming, and the bloodbath … And a lot of policemen in this country were supposed to be trigger-happy. And who was going to be masterminding the recapture operation? Dear old Jonas Ford. …

      She closed her eyes. That in itself was enough to make her need a drink.

      That was unjust of her. Jonas was a fine zoologist, one of the world’s best. A good administrator, too. Maybe he could handle this crisis, maybe he was just the man. Maybe he’d get in there and mastermind the whole thing as magnificently as he performed post mortems.

      She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out hard.

      She wished she could believe it. Dear Jonas … fine Jonas … honorable Jonas … distinguished and successful Jonas. And even—for the right girl, one day—lovable Jonas. But, oh, dear me. …

      She sighed out smoke. Heavens, he treated life—people—as he treated his animals. ‘Exhibits.’ That’s what he called the animals in his zoo. ‘This is a fine exhibit.’ ‘Is this exhibit sick?’ ‘What about the female adult exhibit?’ And that’s how he treated people in his earnest, uptight way. That’s how he had treated that press interview and put everybody’s back up—didn’t he realize that this was also