Funland

by Richard Laymon

  She stepped outside.

  Wouldn’t dare leave town now, she thought, even if I wanted to.

  Seven dollars was as good as nothing. That short, she’d be too vulnerable on the road.

  Feverish with humiliation and outrage, she strode toward the boardwalk.

  Funland hadn’t opened yet, but workers were there getting ready for the crowd. Down on the beach, clean-up crews were dumping trash barrels and raking debris out of the sand. A few bums were also going through yesterday’s litter. But not Poppinsack.

  Several joggers were out, running along the shore. A man in leotards was doing a peculiar routine that looked like slow-motion ballet. A little kid was on her knees, parents watching, father snapping photos while she dug in the sand. There were no sunbathers; there was no sun. The surfers were gone. No one was in the water. The lifeguard was at her station anyway. She wore red shorts and a white sweatshirt.

  Robin trudged on. She left them all behind. Finally, forty or fifty feet from the chain-link fence marking the boundary of the public beach, she turned away from the ocean. She climbed up and down the dunes.

  In a sheltered depression, she set her banjo case on the sand and slung the pack off her back. She took her knife from the pack and slipped it into a rear pocket of her jeans.

  He’ll deny it, she thought. What’re you going to do, cut him up?

  We’ll see.

  Dammit, nobody messes with me!

  She found the place where she had slept, where Poppinsack had crept up on her in the night and…handled her.

  From there, she knew where to find him.

  She rushed over the dunes. Charging up the last slope, she jerked the knife from its sheath.

  And then she reached the top.

  He was gone. All that remained were two sodden brown tea bags lying in the sand.

  Thirteen

  Jeremy climbed down the stairs to the beach. The sun had broken through, back around noon, and a lot of gals were sprawled out, sunbathing. But they held no interest for him. His eyes swung toward the lifeguard station.

  She was there.

  Tanya.

  Even at this distance he recognized Tanya by her size and curves, her tanned legs and golden hair.

  The sight of her made him ache.

  He wished he could go to her, take her in his arms, kiss her, feel her body pressed against his.

  I can at least go over and say hi, he told himself.

  But he didn’t move. He couldn’t force himself to take even one step closer.

  He gritted his teeth hard.

  Such a goddamn chicken.

  He climbed back up the stairs to the boardwalk. Cowboy had said to meet him here this afternoon, but hadn’t been specific about the time. Jeremy turned in a circle, trying to spot his friend.

  He suspected that Cowboy was somewhere along the south end of the boardwalk. The good rides and attractions, including Liz’s dunk tank, were in that direction. But Jeremy hadn’t seen much of the north end. He had all afternoon to find Cowboy, so he headed that way.

  The people passing near him looked much the same as those he’d seen yesterday: many were sleazy; plenty were slobs; there were tough guys and rowdies; he saw wild groups of teenagers; there were a few, but only a few, people who looked harmless and well-groomed and nicely dressed. Those were mostly couples and families. Probably on vacation.

  Yesterday, before meeting Cowboy, he’d felt intimidated by the assortment of unsavory characters. But not today. Though he was alone, he didn’t feel alone. He knew that he had friends nearby. Not just Cowboy, but Liz in the dunk tank, Tanya out on the beach, even teenagers who were strangers to him but probably were friends of Cowboy or the others, and therefore almost like Jeremy’s own friends, though they didn’t know him.

  He felt as if he belonged.

  And then he heard the distant tinny strains of banjo music. The music came from somewhere ahead, past the pavilion.

  Did it come, he wondered, from the bitch who’d snapped at him last night?

  He kept walking, and the music grew strong.

  Ahead, up near the end of the boardwalk, an audience was clustered around the musician. Or musicians—it sounded like more than one. Did she have friends? Where had they been last night?

  What if she recognizes me and sics them on me?

  I didn’t do anything to her.

  Her friends won’t dare try anything, he told himself. There are too many people around.

  Jeremy reached the outer edge of the audience. He sidestepped until he found a gap.

  She was playing alone.

  “Battle Hymn of the Republic”? At first, it seemed to be. Then it turned into “Dixie.” Then “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” worked its way in, and the three songs seemed to flow into each other, blending into a tune that was a mix of all three.

  The bitch was good.

  And good to look at. Kind of boyish, but feminine too. Her arms were bare, and her faded blue shirt was unbuttoned partway down, showing a narrow strip of her chest.

  A final flourish, and the song ended. People clapped and yelled. Some stepped forward to toss money into her banjo case. Jeremy was ready to duck if she should look in his direction, but she kept her head down, her eyes low.

  When she raised her head, he slipped behind a tall man.

  “Here’s a piece I composed myself,” she said. “You might call it an antiwar song…or you might not.”

  She started playing. Jeremy eased over and peered at her. She was gazing straight ahead, off to his right, at about the same spot where she’d kept her eyes during the last number.

  She began to sing along with the quick pounding music of the banjo.

  It’s the greatest weenie roast

  That the world has ever seen—

  We got fires coast to coast,

  In our hair and in our jeans.

  We got hot lemonade,

  And we sure got fries.

  Though we ain’t got shade,

  We got crisp cherry pies.

  We got steamy watermelon

  And marshmallows too—

  If you’re willin’,

  There’s plenty to drink and chew.

  So grab yourself a weenie and join in the fun

  And for Godsake don’t burn your buns.

  Sick, Jeremy thought. But some of the people in the audience laughed and hooted as if they thought it was funny.

  Though the song went on, he had heard enough. He moved away from the crowd and hurried back down the boardwalk.

  She was a bitch, all right. Making fun of nuclear war. He wished he’d stood up to her last night. Slugged her in the face and thrown her down.

  Ripped her shirt open.

  Not so tough now, are you, honey?

  How do you like this weenie?

  Maybe she’d write a song about how much fun it is getting the shit kicked out of you and raped.

  Almost as if reading his mind—or maybe just troubled by the look on his face—a female cop fixed her eyes on Jeremy. She was coming toward him. A man was with her. They both wore white T-shirts, blue caps, and shorts. Except for their gunbelts, he wouldn’t have guessed they were cops.

  She nodded as the guy talked to her, but she didn’t take her eyes off Jeremy.

  What is she, psychic?

  Trying to be casual about it, he turned his head away.

  She’s going to stop me, he thought.

  His face felt hot. His heart pounded. He felt shaky inside.

  I didn’t do anything!

  She walked right past him.

  He sighed.

  He gave her a few seconds, then looked over his shoulder. Her face was turned toward the other cop.

  Stupid bitch, he thought. Why’d she want to stare at me like that?

  Good-looking, though, for a cop. He realized that she looked a lot like Tanya. The hair hanging below her cap had the same golden color. Her back was just as broad, her legs as tanned and strong.


  She could almost be Tanya’s older sister. Or her mother.

  Her mother. Fat chance.

  Besides, the cop was too young for that.

  He saw the straps of her bra through the T-shirt. Lowering his eyes, he watched the way her buttocks moved inside the blue shorts.

  Someone wandered in behind her, blocking Jeremy’s view.

  He sidestepped, trying to see her again, but it was no use.

  “Hey, amigo.”

  He swung around and grinned. “Hey, man, you’re always sneaking up on me.”

  “Scoping out the local fuzz?”

  “She’s got a nice ass,” Jeremy said, and started following Cowboy down the boardwalk.

  “A nice everything, Duker.”

  “You know her?”

  “Officer Delaney. Seems okay. She’s just been on the boardwalk a couple weeks.”

  “Is she actual police,” he asked, “or just some kind of rent-a-cop?”

  “The real McCoy. This here’s a public park. Patrolled by the BBPD, not some rinky-dink private security outfit.”

  “Not even a night watchman or anything?”

  “Nope. Just the local fuzz. Matter of fact, makes it easy for us. All we do is post a lookout and scram if a patrol car shows up. Which ain’t all that often. The cops on graveyard, seems like they spend most of their time at the doughnut shop.”

  “So they’ve never caught any of you?”

  “Never come close,” Cowboy said. “Hey, check it out.” He stopped walking and nodded to the right, where people were leaving the fenced area in front of the Tilt-a-Whirl. Through the gate staggered a slim girl clinging to the arm of her boyfriend as if she were too dizzy to stand on her own. Jeremy guessed they were both about twenty years old. She wore blue-jean shorts, cut off so high they had no legs at all. The side that he could see had a slit running up to her belt. Her T-shirt had been chopped off halfway down. It was long enough to cover her breasts, but not by much, and the ragged edge hung inches away from her body.

  She looked hard, though. Her hair, bleached white, stuck out in all directions. Her earrings were red feathers. Her lipstick was silver. She snapped gum.

  Her boyfriend looked twice as hard. He wore motorcycle boots and faded jeans. He had a knife case on his belt. He was shirtless, tanned and muscular. A dagger wrapped by a snake was tattooed on his chest. From his earlobe dangled something that looked like a miniature set of handcuffs.

  Outside the Tilt-a-Whirl’s gate, those two turned around and waited for another couple.

  The next guy looked wiry and mean. He had a Mohawk haircut, dyed purple. He wore a brass band around his neck, another on his upper arm, and a brass earring. He was bare to the waist and wore black leather pants. He had no tattoo that Jeremy could see, but he wore a knife case just like his friend.

  The girl at his side had a shaved head. Her thin black eyebrows, curving upward, reminded Jeremy of Ming the Merciless. He could see her nipples through her tank top. They were big dark disks. The fabric jutted out as if being poked by fingertips. Her breasts seemed much too large for her small frame. The front of her shirt swayed and bobbed as she walked. It was tucked into a black leather miniskirt. She wore black boots that reached nearly to her knees.

  “Now, there’s a couple of gals I wouldn’t kick outta the bunk bed,” Cowboy said, and started following the group down the boardwalk.

  “I bet they bite.”

  “Yeah, bite me, babes. Oooo.” Cowboy walked fast, staying close behind them. “How about the bald one?”

  Jeremy wanted to warn him to keep his voice down.

  “Chrome-dome.”

  “They’re gonna hear you.”

  “Check out those butts. Swish swish swish.”

  The group angled to the left, and Cowboy hurried after them. They stopped in front of a sideshow called Jasper’s Oddities. A bony old man standing on a platform by the entrance swept the top hat off his head and leered down at them.

  “Step right in, folks. See the amazing, astonishing wonders of Jasper’s Oddities. Right this way, folks. Don’t miss out. See the two-headed baby, the hairless orangutan of Borneo, the mummy Ram Cho-tep, and other rare and mysterious wonders. Yes, sirs, step right in. Bring in the ladies. They’ll quiver and shake at the sights. They’ll swoon in your arms. Step right in, folks. Three tickets is all it takes. You couldn’t ride the Hurricane for that. Three tickets each, cheap at any price. See the Oddities, collected by yours truly, Jasper Dunn, world explorer and renowned connoisseur of the truly bizarre. Never before on the continent of North America has such a collection been offered under one roof. Offered for your perusal and delight. Step right in, folks.”

  “Bet it’s a rip-off,” Mohawk said to his friends in a voice loud enough for Jasper to hear. The old man grinned. He was missing a front tooth. “Me, I went in a freak show one time, all it had was fucking pictures of the dudes.”

  “I assure you,” Jasper said, “my exhibits are genuine. And in days gone by, when yours truly had a freak show, each and every specimen was present in the flesh, remarkable and hideous beyond your wildest fantasies. They, alas, are no more. The honorable folks of this fine town prevailed, and the freaks were cast out like the spoiled garbage of yesterday’s meal. However, their memory is preserved in the Gallery of the Weird, a truly astounding collection of photographs which you may see when you enter Jasper’s Oddities.”

  Mohawk’s head bobbed up and down. “What’d I tell you, fucking pictures.”

  “You are in error, young man. The only photographs are those you’ll see in the Gallery of the Weird. Each and every odditity is authentic, there for you to gaze upon—and touch, if you dare.”

  “Let’s go for it,” said the tattooed guy. “What d’you say?” he asked his girlfriend.

  She shrugged. Her half-shirt rose with her shoulders, a frail curtain that lifted briefly and gave Jeremy a glimpse of the pale underside of a breast. “I’m kinda hungry,” she said. Her voice sounded low and husky.

  “Yeah,” said the hairless one. “Let’s get some fries.”

  Jasper raised a hand. “Did I mention that today is Ladies’ Day? The young women enter for absolutely no charge, no charge whatsoever, absolutely free with the paid admissions of their escorts. So step right up. See the Oddities. Right this way.” He swept his top hat toward the open door behind him.

  “Yeah, I’m doing it,” said the tattooed guy. He dug some tickets out of his pocket. “Come on, Jingles.” He grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her toward the stairs.

  Mohawk took out some tickets too.

  “And how about you?” Jasper asked, his watery eyes turning to Jeremy and Cowboy.

  “We’re in,” Cowboy called.

  Jeremy’s stomach went cold. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

  “Chicken?”

  I’m not a chicken, he told himself. “I haven’t got any tickets,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” Cowboy said. “I got plenty.”

  He’d wanted to watch Jingles, in the half-shirt, climb the stairs, but she was already at the top by the time he looked. He saw only her back as she followed her boyfriend through the doorway. The girl in the leather skirt was still climbing the stairs, but Mohawk blocked the view and he missed his chance to see up her skirt.

  Jeremy realized that he didn’t really care. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the peeks anyway. Not now. Not knowing that he had to enter Jasper’s Oddities.

  Jasper gave him the creeps.

  He didn’t want to see the weird stuff inside.

  Even though the girls wore such scanty clothes and so much showed, he didn’t want to be in a confined place with those four weirdos.

  But he couldn’t let Cowboy think he was chicken.

  He went up the stairs behind Cowboy, who handed a strip of tickets to the skeletal old man.

  Fourteen

  Oh, just great, Jeremy thought. Bad enough, being in here with those four geeks, but Jasper had followed him through the doorway
. The old fart probably wanted to make sure nobody screwed around with his collection.

  The door swung shut, cutting off the light from outside.

  Jeremy had expected the interior of Jasper’s Oddities to resemble a small room in a museum. Instead, he found himself in a corridor. The only light came from a shaded bulb placed below each of the framed photographs that lined the walls.

  The Gallery of the Weird.

  Jingles and her friends had stopped in front of the first photo. From where Jeremy stood, he couldn’t see what it showed.

  Jingles giggled.

  “He could get ya coming and going,” said the tattooed guy.

  “Gimme a break,” Mohawk said. “He ain’t real. It’s trick photography.”

  Jeremy flinched as hands clasped his shoulders. Gooseflesh spread up his back. “Pardon me, young man,” Jasper said, and let go and stepped past him. Cowboy lurched out of the way. For all his bravado, he must’ve been nervous too.

  Jasper hurried on. He stopped at the far side of the picture. “Behold Jim and Tim, the Siamese twins.”

  “We can read,” the hairless girl said.

  “Let’s get to the real stuff,” Mohawk said. “Who gives a hot fuck about a buncha stupid pictures?”

  “These are photographs of the most unusual, bizarre—”

  “Does he have to breathe down our necks?” Jingles blurted.

  “Yeah, man. Get outta our face.”

  “As you wish,” Jasper said, and slinked away down the corridor. He didn’t disappear, though. He stopped at the corner and stood there waiting in the darkness.

  “Good going,” Cowboy said, taking off his hat and brushing it against Mohawk’s shoulder. “That’s tellin’ the old sack of fart gas.”

  “Screw off,” Mohawk said.

  “Well, pardon my ass, Chingachgook.”

  Jeremy groaned.

  “You lookin’ to get busted up, boy?”

  Cowboy opened his mouth. Jeremy elbowed him.

  The hairless gal put an arm around Mohawk and said, “Come on, Woody. Don’t fool with them scrotes.” They turned away, and Jeremy held on to Cowboy’s arm.

  “Let’s give them some room,” he whispered.

  “You hear what she called us?”