Funland

by Richard Laymon

  Dave entered the men’s room with his usual caution. It looked deserted except for a kid of about nine or ten at a urinal. The door of one stall was shut. Crouching, Dave glanced under it. Just a single pair of feet, hobbled by jeans. When he stood up, he saw the kid looking over a shoulder at him.

  “You having a good time today?” Dave asked, and stepped over to the sink.

  “The Bazooka guns are awful neat.”

  Dave smiled. “I like those myself. They really blast those tennis balls.” He tugged a few paper towels out of the dispenser, dampened one under the faucet, and started to rub his leg.

  “That a real gun you got?” the boy asked.

  “A thirty-eight-caliber Smith & Wesson.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’d better be, don’t you think? Guy wandering around packing heat?”

  The boy grinned. He zipped up and flushed and walked toward Dave, staring at him.

  “See my badge?” Dave asked. With a wet finger, he pointed at the blue shield printed on the chest of his T-shirt.

  “Is that a uniform? You wear that all the time?”

  “Just on park patrol when it’s hot out. Otherwise, we wear blues like normal cops.”

  “Weird.”

  Dave was used to such comments. His blue hat looked like a baseball cap. Instead of a major-league insignia, its front was emblazoned with the gold letters BBPD inside the outline of a star. His white T-shirt bore a similar emblem. His shorts matched the cap. He wore white socks and blue sneakers. Only the black leather utility belt, laden with holster and gun, nightstick, radio, handcuffs, and half a dozen snap-down cases, marked him obviously as a police officer.

  “Kinda neat, though,” the kid admitted after a long inspection. Then he ran his hands under water, pulled down a towel, and dried. “I’m gonna be a policeman.”

  “Good deal. Maybe we’ll be partners.”

  “Naw. I’m from Los Angeles. I’m gonna be LAPD.”

  “That’s a top-notch outfit, mister.”

  The kid beamed up at him, then said, “Well, see you,” and hurried away.

  Dave dried his leg. Then he washed his hands, smiling as he recalled Joan’s advice to use plenty of soap for the troll-slicks.

  His smile slipped off when his mind did a sudden replay of the old woman touching him.

  You try to be civil to those people…

  Gloria’s so fond of them…I ought to introduce her to the puppet witch.

  They’re human beings, Dave.

  Then why don’t they act like it?

  Great, he thought. I’m arguing with Gloria, and she isn’t even here.

  If she had about half the smarts of Joan…

  Forget it.

  He dried his hands and hurried out into the sunlight. He found Joan sitting at a small round table at the edge of the boardwalk. She had one hot dog on a stick and a small Coke for herself. Across the table from Joan were two dogs, a paper sack of french fries, and a larger Coke. Dave sat down in front of the meal.

  “Trying to fatten me up?” he asked.

  “You can’t live on bean sprouts and cottage cheese.”

  “You should’ve seen what she fed me last night.”

  “Wanta ruin my appetite?” Joan asked. She used her teeth to rip the corner of a plastic envelope, then squeezed out mustard onto the brown coating over her hot dog.

  As Dave watched her, his mouth watered. He pulled the paper wrapper off one of his dogs and took a big bite. The crust of deep-fried cornmeal batter crunched. The skin of the hot dog burst. Warm juice sprayed into his mouth. He sighed as he chewed. “Real food,” he said.

  “So, what manner of culinary delight did Gloria prepare for you last night?”

  “Something in a wok.”

  “That’s a bad sign.”

  “Stir-fried vegetation.”

  “Got any clue as to what it was?” Seeming to smile with her eyes, she took a rather dainty bite of her dog. In spite of her care, a yellow dab of mustard found its way onto her upper lip. It stayed there while she chewed.

  “I know exactly what it was,” Dave said. “Most of it, anyway. Water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, snow peas. The best part was the soy sauce.”

  “Mushrooms aren’t so bad,” Joan said. She tongued the mustard off her lip. “Sautéed, they’re good with steak.”

  “Please, don’t mention steak.”

  “Sounds like you’re in training to be a rickshaw boy.”

  “My system is being purified.”

  “I had a hamburger about yay thick.” Joan held up a hand with her thumb and forefinger spread wide. “You mind if I put some catsup on those fries?”

  “I thought they were for me.”

  “They are.” She used her teeth on a catsup packet, then smothered half the fries and began to eat some.

  “Those’ll go straight to your thighs.”

  “You’re the one with the gorgeous gams around here,” she said, and poked more fries into her mouth.

  Thanks for the reminder, Dave thought. He could feel the sock moving up his leg.

  “You think the trollers struck again last night?” Joan asked.

  “Sounded like that’s what the gal was getting at.”

  “Enoch bit the weenie? Sounds like he was killed. The trollers don’t kill them.”

  “Haven’t yet,” Dave admitted. “Not that we know about, anyway.”

  “‘Bit the weenie’ usually means ‘bit the weenie.’”

  “Good thinking.”

  “I don’t see them killing someone, do you?” Joan asked. “It’s one thing, rousting bums. Murder’s a pretty big step from that.”

  “Not that big. Look how it’s been going. When it started out, they were just snatching the bums and giving them a ride out of town. It’s gotten a lot meaner.”

  “Some pretty cruel tricks,” Joan said.

  “And some rough beatings. They’re bound to end up killing someone sooner or later. If they haven’t already. And who’s to say they haven’t? The way these transients come and go, the kids could be nailing them right and left. Nobody’d be the wiser till a body turned up.”

  “I don’t think it’s come to that,” Joan said, looking down as she stirred her Coke with the straw. “It was just a few nights ago they tied that creep to the Hurricane’s tracks. They wouldn’t have done that if they’re already into killing the trolls and disposing of their bodies. Looks to me like they’re still into general humiliation and torment.”

  “That guy would’ve been killed the first time the coaster made a run.”

  “But these’ve gotta be local kids,” Joan pointed out. “They’d know the tracks are walked before the park opens. They just did it to scare the shit out of him.”

  “Maybe they went too far with this Enoch fellow.”

  “Or maybe that old bird was just pulling your chain.”

  “We ought to try asking around.”

  “Oh, there’s a fine idea.” She wrinkled her nose. “Spend the afternoon interviewing slugs.”

  “Some of them must know the guy. Couldn’t hurt to ask a few questions.”

  “We’d need a translator. You know anyone who speaks Bumese?”

  A smile broke across Dave’s face. “Where’s your humanity, partner?”

  “I save it for the humans I occasionally meet.” She picked up the bag of fries. “You done with these?”

  “I haven’t had any yet.”

  She waved the bag under his nose. “Go ahead and take one, big guy. They beat the hell out of bamboo shoots.”

  When the meal was done, Joan gathered up the wrappers and Coke cartons. She carried them to a trash bin. The seat had left red marks across the backs of her legs. If the french fries went to her thighs, Dave thought, they sure hadn’t done any damage.

  Put her side by side with Gloria, you’d have an advertisement for the health benefits of the very “poisons” that Gloria prided herself on denouncing. Joan was a foot taller than G
loria. She had sleek muscle and flesh where Gloria was bony. She had curves where Gloria was straight and flat. Her skin glowed; Gloria’s skin was pallid and dull. Joan radiated confidence and power, while Gloria seemed like a wraith animated by nervous energy.

  “You plan to sit there daydreaming?” Joan asked.

  “No. Huh-uh. Mind was wandering.”

  They resumed their patrol.

  He felt lousy. Ever since being teamed up with Joan, only two weeks ago, he’d been comparing the two and growing more dissatisfied.

  Sure, there were problems with Gloria. But that came with the territory. You got intimate, you found flaws. The grass was always greener…till you got to the other side of the hill and saw it close up. Joan wasn’t perfect either. God help anyone who ticked her off.

  “Officer?”

  One glance, and Dave knew that the four men grinning at Joan were sailors. They were out of uniform, but their bristly heads and boyish faces gave them away. They looked as if they were playing hooky from high school and having a great time of it.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Joan asked.

  “Can we take your picture? Just one picture, okay? With each of us. You’d really be doing us a favor. What do you say? Okay? No funny stuff, just four pictures. We know you’re on duty and all, but we’re gonna be shipping out in a couple of days for the Persian Gulf, and…”

  “Why not,” she said.

  Dave couldn’t believe it.

  Seeming neither embarrassed nor annoyed, she let the leader of the group stand beside her. He leaned against her, mugging for the fellow with the camera. And before the picture was snapped, Joan put her arm around him. The kid’s face blazed scarlet. When his turn was over, he backed away from Joan, blushing and shaking his head, then whirled around and flopped on the boardwalk. “I’ve died and gone to heaven, mates,” he announced.

  The next sailor was a fat kid with pimples. Joan rubbed his brush cut. He rolled his eyes upward. She hugged him to her side and the scrawny kid with the camera caught it.

  The third sailor was a grinning black giant. He stood beside Joan as if at attention, ramrod straight, chin tucked down. She leaned against him, reached across his back, and squirmed her fingers into his side. He doubled over, giggling like a woman as the picture was snapped.

  Then the first sailor tried to take the camera from the gawky kid in glasses, who’d been taking all the snapshots. “Your turn, Henry. Come on.”

  “Oh, it’s all right.” He shook his head. He made a sheepish smile. “We’ve pestered the lady enough.”

  “Chicky chick chick.”

  “Go on, boy, show some hair.”

  “Henry’s scared of women.”

  “Cut him some slack, guys,” Joan said. She looked at Henry. “You’re not scared of me. Come here.”

  The color went out of his face. But he walked toward her.

  His friends hooted and whistled.

  He stood beside Joan. He was only as high as her shoulders. Bending down slightly, she tapped a fingertip against her cheek. The kid looked alarmed and delighted. He leaned in to peck her cheek. She turned her head and kissed him on the mouth, and the camera clicked.

  His friends went silent.

  When Joan stopped kissing him, Henry wrapped his arms around her and they held each other. Dave could see his face. His glasses were pushed crooked by Joan’s cheek. His eyes were shut, his lips pressed tightly together. He nodded, and Dave realized that Joan must be whispering to him. Suddenly a smile spread across his face.

  He stepped away from Joan and returned to his friends.

  “Lucky son of a bitch,” one of them muttered.

  The black giant clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Have a good tour, guys,” Joan said, holding up a hand in farewell.

  They backed away in a group, waving, pushing each other, calling out thanks. Henry, silent, lifted an open hand and smiled sadly, as if he were leaving his best friend.

  Head down, Joan unsnapped a leather case on her utility belt. She took out her sunglasses and put them on before turning to Dave. “Nice kids,” she said.

  “You sure made their day,” Dave told her.

  “Let’s move it. We’ve got peace to keep.”

  Three

  Jeremy Wayne coasted down the hill on his ten-speed Sch-winn, smiling into the wind, his open shirt flapping behind him. He felt free and excited.

  He was on his way to the Funland boardwalk.

  He’d been there last night after a full day of unpacking at the new house, but that was with his mother. “For a quick look-see,” as she’d put it. And that’s all it had amounted to. They’d strolled the length of the promenade, played no games, ridden no rides. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Mom had said.

  Later’s now, Jeremy thought.

  Whipping around a corner, he left the residential neighborhood behind. He pedaled past the fronts of gawdy motels, souvenir shops, gas stations, markets and bars and fast-food joints. The cars on the street mostly seemed packed with teenagers, radios blaring. The people on the sidewalks wore swimsuits.

  This was too awesome to be believed.

  He’d been happy to move away from Bakersfield. The place sucked, anyway. The way he saw it, just about anyplace would be an improvement. But this!

  This was a vacation place!

  And he’d be living here, just a couple of miles from Funland and the beach.

  June wasn’t even over yet. The whole summer stretched before him, endless days of doing whatever he pleased—exploring the boardwalk, lying on the beach, looking at girls.

  Incredible.

  He pedaled alongside the huge parking lot. With no more buildings in the way, he swept his eyes across the long expanse of Funland. He saw the arch of the main gate topped by the grinning face of a clown; the walls that he knew were merely the backs of the shops, snack stands, sideshow rooms, rides, funhouses, arcades, and game booths that faced the boardwalk; the curving, swooping, ghastly high tracks of the roller coaster; the towering parachute drop; the top of the log ride’s slide; the upper reaches of the mammoth, spinning Ferris wheel.

  Mom, last night, had said, “It’s pretty tacky, isn’t it?”

  He’d said, “I think it’s great.”

  He knew it was no Disneyland, no Knott’s Berry Farm, no Magic Mountain. He’d been to some of the best amusement parks in the country, and Boleta Bay’s Funland was small by comparison. Small and primitive and pretty darn tacky.

  But his.

  And all the more exciting because it wasn’t like the other places. It didn’t seem commercial, pristine, make-believe, and safe.

  Roaming its boardwalk last night, he’d felt a tightness in his chest, heat in his groin.

  Anything could happen here.

  He felt the same excitement as he climbed off his bike at the front of the parking lot. He chained its frame to the bars of the bicycle rack and headed for the main gate.

  He bounded up the concrete stairs.

  He walked right in.

  That was another thing about this place. You didn’t have to fork over twenty bucks or more just to get in. Sure, it cost you to do things, but you didn’t have to shell out a penny to enter.

  He would be able to come and go as he pleased—every day.

  Though Jeremy had close to thirty dollars in his wallet, he strode past the first ticket booth just for the pleasure of walking in free. On the boardwalk, he knew, there were always booths near at hand for buying tickets. He would just wait until he felt like going on a ride.

  He patted his seat pocket, feeling the comfortable bulge of his full wallet. Then he buttoned the pocket flap.

  Couldn’t be too careful, a place like this. From last night’s brief exploration, he knew that there were a lot of sleazy types around.

  Heading down the boardwalk, he started seeing sleazy types immediately. A skinny, dirty guy in a straw cowboy hat that looked as if a horse had stepped on it, crushing it
s crown. A brown cigarette hung off the guy’s lip, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in three or four days. Jeremy saw a fat, bearded biker in saggy jeans. He was shirtless, wore a faded Levi jacket with its arms cut off, and his chest was tattooed with a skull that had a snake crawling out its eyehole. With the guy was a biker woman, skinny and mean-faced. She wore jeans and a fringed leather vest. The vest was loosely laced in front and she didn’t wear a bra or anything else underneath it. Jeremy glimpsed the sides of her breasts through the rawhide lacing, but he looked away fast. He didn’t want to be caught peeking. And what he saw wasn’t all that terrific anyway.

  This sure wasn’t the kind of crowd you saw at Disneyland.

  There were a few clean-cut family types, but he saw a lot of fat, dumb-looking people in drooping old jeans and filthy shirts. Tough guys with sneers and tattoos, many with knives on their belts. Swaggering gals in tube tops and tank shirts. Wild, laughing guys with crew cuts, who pushed each other and whooped and whistled when they spotted a good-looking gal. And bums. This place had more bums than skid row.

  Jeremy felt some of his excitement slide into uneasiness.

  This wasn’t Disneyland.

  Something could happen.

  He began to wish he hadn’t come here alone. It had been all right last night, when Mom was with him.

  Shit, he thought. I’m not a jerk-off kid who can’t go anywhere without his mommy. I’m sixteen.

  And nothing’s going to happen.

  Though a lot of the people looked grubby or rough or wild, there were plenty around who seemed normal enough: nicely dressed couples, families with their kids, scads of teenagers wandering around in pairs and groups.

  A lot of nifty babes.

  They all seemed to be having a fine time. They seemed oblivious of the creeps.

  But they aren’t by themselves, Jeremy thought.

  “Hey, cutie.” The strident voice pushed through the other noises. “You in the blue shorts.”

  I’m wearing blue shorts.

  She doesn’t mean me.