Wilson barged through the swinging doors into the restaurant.
Pelum turned to the other man, who was now moving meat around on the grill. “Know anything about cooking?”
Sam grinned. “Not much. But I am a fast learner.”
“Then we can learn together.”
Sam’s grin widened.
Hours later, Sam and Pelum had caught up on the orders without burning a single meal. In between peeling twenty-five pounds of potatoes for frying and grilling dozens of burgers and dogs, Pelum had eaten his fill. The door closed on the last customer with a bang, and the men heard Wilson lock up. While he cleaned the dining room, they settled the kitchen.
Sam pushed a wet mop along the tile floor as he eyed Pelum. “You must have done some cooking somewhere.”
“Just burgers and dogs.” Pelum reached for the metal scraper and began cleaning the griddle. “How about you?”
“I cook for my family only. I needed the job bad. I had to lie. He’d never have hired me if I hadn’t.”
“I hear you. Lying is a necessary skill these days.” Pelum slid the scummy cooked residue from the scraper into a blue Maxwell House coffee can and continued cleaning the grill. “I’ve had use of it myself many times.”
“Where you come from, then?” Sam was circling the kitchen skirting the spot in front of the stove where Pelum stood.
Pelum hesitated. Should he keep quiet or tell his tale? He’d driven steady from the far side of Arizona, the story clawing at his back like a wet cat. “There a bar around here?” he asked.
“Sure, there’s the Lost Cause up the road a ways.”
Pelum turned around, the grill finished. “Great name. Got time for a beer?”
The bar was half full. Voices and cigarette smoke filled the air. Pelum could just hear the notes of Chattanooga Choo Choo coming from the corner jukebox. He and Sam settled at a table near the window.
Sam pulled a pack of smokes from his pocket, shook out two, lit one. He slid the lighter to Pelum.
Pelum rolled the cigarette between his fingers. A waitress appeared, her middle-aged body clad in an aproned uniform designed for a younger woman. She slapped down thick paper coasters and removed a pencil from her rolled hairdo. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”
Pelum tapped the coaster advertising Budweiser for fifteen cents a bottle. “Two of these.” He looked to Sam for confirmation. Sam nodded.
“You eating?” asked the waitress.
“Just the beer.”
“Thought so. You don’t look like big spenders.” She pushed the pencil back into her hair and moved away.
Pelum lit the cigarette and took a long drag.
Sam waited a beat. “Back at the restaurant, you were gonna tell me where you’re from.”
Pelum set the coaster on edge and gave it a twirl. “I’m from Arizona originally. Grew up there, so I’m used to a hot climate like here.” He itched to tell his tale to an eager listener. “But I had to leave in a hurry. I had to run, actually.”
Sam quirked an eyebrow and tapped ashes into a notched plastic ashtray.
“I was working Barnaby’s Traveling Carnival. We musta hit every Podunk town in the state. That’s where I learned to cook, but I did some of everything.” Pelum heard nickels drop and Chattanooga Choo Choo began playing for the fourth time.
“I started as a backyard boy, doing whatever job didn’t take any skill ’cause believe me back then, I had no skills. I was fifteen. I wanted to be a carney just like my pa. The carnival was family to me, never knew another.” Pelum ran a hand over his face “I spent ten years on the road working the trade.”
“Must of cooked a lot of dogs in that time,” Sam said.
“That I did, among other things. Anyway, I worked my way up to where I was a ride monkey. Worked a shake machine for a while.”
“A shake machine?”
“Yeah, a ride that emptied the townies’ pockets and made them puke.” Pelum grinned as Sam pulled a face. “It was messy, but the money was good. My ride, The Kama-Kazi, was a real draw so she stood in the back lot to pull the crowds in. Walt the Philosopher was closer to the mid-way. He ran the Tunnel of Love.”
“This guy Walt, he was old?”
“He musta been sixty, at least. He was one of those guys that talk about life all the time, wondering why we’re here, what it’s all about, not religious but curious. You know?”
“Yep,” Sam said. “My pop was kind of like that.”
The waitress placed two icy bottles atop the coasters and set the bill on the table. Both men lifted a bottle and took a long drink.
“You guys can pay up now.” The waitress stood hand on hip, waiting.
Pelum laid down a quarter and two nickels.
“Aren’t you sweet? Not everybody tips on a thirty-cent tab.”
She slipped the extra nickel into her pocket. “Enjoy your drink.”
“I wish I could go on the road.” Sam lifted his beer in a salute. “I’ve never been out of L.A.”
Pelum picked at the label of the bottle, trying to loosen it with his fingernail. “Ah, the traveling life’s not for everyone. It will take out of you as much as it puts in, Walt used to say, sometimes more. He had a day a couple of months ago that made him question life on the road.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I was cleaning my machine, getting her ready for the crowds when Walt came running up his face twisted funny. ‘You gotta see this,’ he said. He grabbed the rag out of my hand and pulled me along the lot. When we got to his ride, he pointed up at the opening arch over where the cars go in, and instead of Tunnel of Love, it said Funnel of Love. Some vandal had added an extra line to the T.”
Sam nodded his head. “We get a little of that around here, usually on cement walls.”
“Well, when Walt sees the word, he thinks it’s a sign. Lots of carneys are superstitious. ‘Funnel of Love,’ he said. ‘That’s my life. I thought it was a tunnel. I thought I had a shot straight through from birth to death, clean like, but now everything’s closing in on me like the narrow end of a funnel.’”
Sam had leaned in to hear better in the noisy bar.
“Walt starts talking and can’t stop. It was like he was dying and his whole life was passing before him but in words, not pictures. Best I could make out was that he had wasted his chances, thrown love away, and was riding the Jumbo Slide to the big sleep. Life was closing in on him.”
Across the table, Sam stifled a yawn.
Pelum glanced Sam’s way, then studied his beer. “Look, what’s say we save the rest of this for another day. I’m beat.”
Back at the motel, Pelum peeled the chenille cowboy quilt the length of the bed. As the spread moved the air, he caught a whiff of carnival, that unique blend of sweat, popcorn, crushed grass, and oil. He tensed. Had he been followed from Arizona?
Standing still, his eyes swept over the dresser, the nightstand, the rug. They came to rest at his satchel on the floor of the open closet. He crossed the room, lifted the bag, and placed it on the bed. With hands clumsy with nerves, he opened the canvas case. Atop his clothes in red letters on white paper, were the words, “Found You.”
Pelum wiped sweaty hands down his pant legs and tried not to panic. Who had come after him? His mind raced through the possibilities. He hoped it wasn’t Maco, the Strong Man who could lift grown men off the ground in his massive fists.
Sinking onto the bed, note in hand, Pelum tried to read personality into the printed letters. If the Bearded Lady showed up, no problem, although she was fierce when mad. Alligator Man would be okay. His skin condition wasn’t contagious, and he was kind of puny.
Pelum’s thoughts flew back to Walter. Walt had been the closest to a father he’d had for most of his life. Pelum’s real dad had been a career carney, and what he hadn’t told Sam was that he had died when Pelum was eight. Life before the carnival had been a mix of living rough on the streets or rougher still in
state-run orphanages. Just because he’d found Walt’s body didn’t make him a murderer.
Loud knocking filled the room. His fate stood on the other side of the door.
“Open up, Pelum. We know you’re in there.”
It was worse than he’d thought. It was the knife thrower, Darryl, whose skills were questionable. Pelum had seen the result of several of his “misses” on the arms and legs of his wife-target, Mildred.
“I’ll bust the door down. You know I will.”
Oh, great. The Strong Man was with him.
Pelum crossed the room and flung open the door. The Strong Man launched himself into the room, sending Pelum flat onto his back. Before he could right himself, Maco took a seat on his chest. “You ran like the rat you are.”
Darryl circled the men rubbing his hands together. “A knife will set him talking.” He pulled an eight-inch blade from his belt and waved it around.
“We don’t need a knife, idiot.” Maco’s showy handlebar mustache bobbed as he spoke. “I’ll just squeeze the story out of him.”
“You’re crushing him. He can’t talk, hell, he can’t breathe.”
Pelum took gurgling sips of air and pushed at the weight that held him.
Maco rolled off, pulling Pelum up by his shirt and tossing him onto the bed. “So, talk. What was your beef with Walt? Why’d you kill him?”
Pelum drew deep breaths between words. “I told you before I left, I didn’t kill him.”
“You were caught red-handed with his dead body.” Maco stood before him, stance wide, arms crossed.
Pelum stood. “He was stuck in the number one car in the Tunnel of Love.”
“You’re the one put him in there, then you staged pulling him out.”
“I was trying to save him. He had a heart condition he was keeping secret. I was looking for his pills. They weren’t in his pockets.”
Maco shook his head. “He didn’t have a heart condition. He was strong for an old man. He always helped with loading and striking the rides.”
“He’d be fired if the boss knew so he always pulled his weight, but it cost him.” Pelum straightened his shirt. “Somebody killed Walt, but it wasn’t me.”
Darryl bounced his eyes from man to man. “You believe him, Maco?”
The big man moved to the side of the dresser, nudged the bottom drawer open with his boot and propped a foot on it. “Tell us what happened.”
Pelum kept his eyes on Maco. “Okay. Saturday morning, I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I drove to the midway. I got there around four thirty. The place was quiet. The regulars were still asleep. When I passed Lucy’s wagon, I heard her snoring.”
The three men exchanged a knowing look. The Bearded Lady had a thunderous snore.
“Anyone see you?” Maco asked.
“No. I went straight to my ride. She’d been squealing some the night before. I oiled her joints and checked the engine. You know how all the boys love that one red car with the picture of Buck Rodgers on it? I polished that one ’til it shone like the funhouse mirror. I finished around six. Most of the crew was already working—” he shot Daryl a look, “—but I saw you sneaking out of Pretzel Paula’s wagon.”
Maco kicked the dresser drawer shut. “You fool. If her husband finds out you’ve been messing with his meal ticket, you’re toast.”
Pelum didn’t blame Darryl for wanting the contortionist, she was a peach, but he couldn’t resist needling him. At a signal from Maco, he continued his tale.
“The cookhouse was open, so I got coffee for me and Walt like usual. When I got to his ride, he wasn’t there. He’s always in by five-thirty. I got suspicious and started poking around.”
“His ride still reads Funnel of Love,” Darryl said. “I don’t get it. Isn’t a funnel a kitchen tool?”
Ignoring Darryl, Pelum continued. “I thought it was a warning, like no matter how far you go you can’t escape your fate. Life funnels down to the things you did wrong.”
Maco shot Darryl a knowing look. “Yeah, we’ve all got regrets.”
“Then what?” asked Darryl.
“I noticed the flaps at the entrance to the tunnel weren’t hanging right. I went in. The cars were lined up like usual. I walked the right-hand ledge. With no flashlight, the farther in I got the less I could see, but I looked in each car. I’d never walked the ride before. It’s a lot longer than it looks from the outside.”
The two men nodded. They knew the “mystery” rides could feel strange when you weren’t a rider.
“The tunnel seemed to grow tighter. At first, I thought it was my nerves, but when I reached car six, I had to hop off the ledge. The walls were angling in.”
“Oh, come on.” Darryl flapped a hand. “When the cops came, they inspected the ride. It was normal.”
“It wasn’t when I was in it. The tunnel kept shrinking, the ceiling got lower, the sides grew closer. By the time I reached car three, the ride was the size of a tube, like, well, like the end of a funnel. There was so little room I had to drag myself over the cars. And then I found Walt.”
Maco pushed his face close to Pelum’s. “Was he alive?”
“He was slumped in the car barely breathing. I searched for the pills he always carried. They weren’t there. I was about to go for help when Walt opened his eyes. In the dark, I could only see the whites. I told him he’d be okay; that I’d get the medic.”
He put out a hand to stop me. I could hear him breathing. “‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘I killed a man. A carney.’ His voice grew weaker. ‘He stole my woman.’ Walt clutched his chest. ‘This is revenge.’ His hand fell from my arm. He died right in front of me.” Pelum’s eyes filled with tears.
“But who killed him?” asked Darryl. “A ghost? His guilty conscience?”
Blinking fast, Pelum stood up, pushed his hands into his pockets. “Walt might have said it was the ride itself, The Funnel of Love.”
Uneasy now in the dim room, the three men began to move. Maco pushed away from the dresser. Daryl wiped his hands down his pant legs. Pelum walked to the window.
“Come back with us,” said Maco. “We’ll make it right.”
Pelum stared at the men who were so sure he’d killed Walt they’d chased him to another state. “I don’t think so.”
He looked out the window at the motel courtyard’s single orange tree and breathed in the scent of its blossoms. He’d told the story well, and they’d believed him.
The next day, Pelum knelt on the sun-dappled ground of Pioneer Cemetery. “It’s like you always said, Pop, getting revenge is easy. I could have just killed Walt.” He shifted a pile of fallen pine needles that obscured a plaque reading Thomas Scott, Beloved Father, Career Carney. “But I didn’t want easy. I wanted justice.”
Pelum leaned closer to the grave. “With one stroke of paint, I got old Walt to review his life and to confess to your murder. My turning the tunnel into the Funnel of Love forced him into a heart attack.”
Standing up, Pelum brushed dirt from his pants. He smiled down at his father. “Now that’s what I call justice.”
Back to TOC
Tick-Tock
Lisa Ciarfella
She sat on the corner of the bed and stared at the army of ants climbing single file up the beige bathroom wall from the sticky, vinyl floor. She watched as they claimed even more territory, turning the white countertop tile a dark shade of gray. Lulu had been holed up in the city of Angels just three days now, and room 209 at the Lucky Lickety-Split Motel was feeling anything but lucky.
Exactly what the joint was lucky for, she couldn’t say. But if she had a prize for Most Seedy Motel, she’d give it. And it all felt so familiar too. Not because she’d been there before—she hadn’t. But because the place reminded her of all the similar low-rent spaces she’d clawed her way out of back home in the South before busting out of town with Sammy. Dirty by-the-hour places for rent, hostels, and dingy wood-paneled bars, all l
ined up like Legos and scattered throughout Atlanta, Austin, and Louisiana. Street after street, littered with the same empty bottles of cheap booze and beer cans, and the endless sound of chained up dogs barking furiously into the night. Places she’d been unlucky enough to call home, and dives in which she’d slung countless beers to survive. And from what little she’d seen so far, L.A. was no different. Maybe even worse.
The stench of desperation was everywhere. Take that odd downtown dive Sammy took her to their first night in town, dishing out meals to the luckless souls haunting skid row. It was there Lulu saw more than she’d cared to, between the pans of greasy meatloaf and the small bowls of Jell-O for dessert. In the bathroom, she’d nearly stumbled over a junkie shooting up on the worn, black and white linoleum floor. They should have blown this town already. The fact that she was still here set her teeth on a permanent grind.
Lulu watched the ants climb higher, and still, the phone didn’t ring. Call now, damn it, Sammy, she willed to the silent telephone. Hot tears welled up and streaked down the smooth, even sides of her face. She’d been waiting on him a good six hours and forty-nine minutes, but who was counting? On the opposite wall, she spied Felix the Cat hanging low, his big mechanical hands ticking time down fast, and those hours came and went. Just like that.
Last night’s plan had been simple. Lulu, Sammy, and Trevor should have rendezvoused back here after boosting as many pieces as possible from the L.A. Convention Center’s 1983 Annual International Gem and Jewelry show. It was why they’d come to town. Sammy’s latest, and supposed last, get-rich scheme.
The show was crammed to the rafters, filled with all the sparkly diamonds, gemstones, and estate jewelry a girl could dream about. The perfect place for a grab ’n’ go, Sammy’s version of dine ’n’ dash, a game Lulu played a lot growing up. Her family, too poor to eat out, had scammed meals at the local slop shops by flying out the door seconds after the waitress dropped the check. Those checks never got paid.
Having spent most of her life waiting on others, bailing on tabs was no longer Lulu’s game. She knew all too well what it was like to scrape by on tips.
Fatally Haunted Page 7
