It was when he was in this exact degree of inebriation that, not often but occasionally, he really saw or thought he saw things in the madball. Like the time when, just about this drunk, he'd been giving a mark a cold reading with the pasteboards but had happened for no reason to glance to one side into the crystal and he'd clearly seen in it the face of a beautiful Negro woman - and had known somehow that it had nothing at all to do with the mark he was reading cards for. And two days later Slim had touted him to make a two-buck bet on a long shot named Black Beauty and suddenly he remembered what he'd seen in the crystal and had surprised the hell out of Slim by giving him twenty bucks to put on the horse. And it had come in at sixteen to one. Slim had gone out to the track with it, luckily, or a bookie would have paid only ten, so Dr. Magus had three hundred bucks profit on his double sawbuck after he'd given Slim forty for the tip and placing the bet. And there'd been the time just last season in Green Bay when he'd been giving a mark a reading with the madball and had seen suddenly and clearly the picture of a car breaking through a railing and going off a bridge. Of course he'd said nothing about it to the mark. The next day he read that a car had gone off a bridge and killed the driver at two o'clock that morning and there'd been a small and blurry picture of the victim; it could have been the man he'd given the reading to. But he didn't investigate to find out if it really was the same man because it had scared him a little. He didn't want to see things like that. Of course those cases and the few others like them could have been coincidence, but it was funny that they happened only at times when he really saw or thought he saw something in the madball.
Well, coincidence or not, tonight while he was in the right shape and the right mood he'd give the madball a chance at the jackpot question, and to hell with business.
But first to relax. He made himself comfortable by getting out of his good clothes and into old ones. And because it had been a full hour since his last drink he unwrapped and opened the bottle of Irish. He had himself a medium sized drink and sat down at the little table and moved the crystal in its stand over in front of him.
He stared into it and concentrated: Where is the money? Will I find it?
From outside the canvas came the carnival sounds, the merry-go-round organ playing Blue Danube, the voices of the talkers, the crowd murmur, the thousand sounds that added up to one single sound as familiar to Dr. Magus as the beating of his own heart. He listened to them deliberately until his conscious mind could hear them no longer, until they were part of the night and one with the night, as silent as the music of the spheres.
There was a sudden bright flash of light in the crystal, then for a brief moment black darkness. Dr. Magus blinked, and again the crystal was as it had been before, reflecting his own distorted face and the interior of the mitt camp curving upon itself like an Einsteinian universe.
Dr. Magus looked around him and upward to see if there really could have been a flash of light anywhere that had reflected itself in the crystal and for a moment almost blinded him. But there was nothing.
He frowned. Had he really seen a flash in the madball or could it have been the sudden twinge of an optic nerve? If he'd really seen it, what could it mean?
Light? The money hidden in the diesel generator truck that made light and power for the carnival? Or in a fuse box somewhere in one of the individual tops or concessions? No, the diesel truck didn't make sense; the electricians, two of them, were working around it half the time. And it would hardly be in a fuse box - too much chance of someone opening it to replace a fuse. Besides - for the first time it occurred to him to wonder just exactly how bulky forty-two thousand dollars, mostly in large bills, would be. Surely bigger than would go in the extra space in an ordinary small fuse box.
Not too big, either, if they'd stuffed it into a musette bag at the bank. If he had the right thing in mind as a musette bag it wouldn't hold over a cubic foot.
Any size he decided, of course, would be a more or less random guess unless he knew the approximate number of bills of each denomination and there wasn't any way he could ask any such intimate questions about that bank robbery without being asked equally intimate and even more embarrassing questions in return. And the police, if anything ever led them to couple the bank robbery and the carnival in their minds, would dig in and figure out the same thing he had.
But with a little thought he could get a rough idea of the size of a package containing forty-two thousand dollars. Of course, in thousand-dollar bills you could carry it in your wallet. And in one-dollar bills you'd have trouble carrying it at all. But it wouldn't be either of those extremes. Thousand-dollar bills exist but aren't often used; there might possibly be a few of them but the bulk of the money would be in hundreds, some fifties, probably lots of twenties and tens, fives - not too many singles or the musette bag wouldn't have held it.
After a while he decided that with any assortment that would be probable he didn't have to consider a package that would be smaller than a cigar box. And that, in considering or looking for a hiding place, only the minimum mattered. All he had to figure out was a hiding place right on the carney lot that would hold a package at least the size of a cigar box. Not necessarily the shape of, but at least the size of. And it would have to be a place which, in any ordinary course of events, wouldn't be looked into during the nine weeks that had remained of the season at the time of the robbery.
Damn it, the very difficulty of thinking of even one such place convinced him that there couldn't be too many such. And, at the same time, made him doubt his first judgment that they'd really hidden it on the lot.
Damn the crystal. If it (or through it God, the devil or his own clairvoyance if any) had tried to tell him something with that flash of light, why hadn't it been clearer about it? Why so cryptic and apparently meaningless a thing as a flash of light?
He pushed it aside, sighing with pleasure at its fiery smoothness. Even if that idea about the money was all wrong it had done one thing for him; it had loosened his financial inhibitions so that for one evening he had been drinking and would continue to drink the whisky he liked best instead of the kind he could best afford. And it had given him amazingly pleasant thoughts and dreams of having an amount of money almost beyond-
The thought hit him suddenly and it was so simple and logical that he wondered why he hadn't thought of it hours ago. Even while he was sober. So logical that it might lead him to the money even if it wasn't with the carnival. True, in that case it might be in a lock box or other place where he couldn't get it himself, but even then there ought to be a sizable reward for telling them how to make recovery of so large a sum of cash.
He'd start tomorrow from the logical place to start.
Glenrock.
He drank a toast to Glenrock.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SHOW WAS OVER, the last show of the big show. Behind the canvas partition which Leon always stretched across one corner of the freak show top as soon as the last mark was gone Dolly hurriedly took off the spangled trunks and halter and quickly pulled a gingham dress over her head, not bothering to put on panties and a bra under it. She sighed with relief when she'd successfully made the change before Leon came back to join her; tonight he'd put up the partition and then had gone to see the boss, probably to collect whatever amount was due for her doubling on the illusion acts. That had been a break because it had given her this chance to change out of her show clothes quickly before Leon came back to join her. Had he been here he would have watched her change - and he might have, as he sometimes did, grabbed her and used her then and there, quickly and brutally. That would have been truly horrible tonight, when she was waiting to go to Joe; she'd feel defiled if Leon used her first. It could still happen after they went to bed, but at least one danger point was passed. She hoped he'd drink heavily tonight, even though that meant waiting longer before she could go to Joe, because when Leon drank heavily he was less likely to bother her. Leon was less unpleasant to her, too, when he'd been drinking, al
though he was always less likely to want her physically then. Sometimes he even got a little sentimental, even told her that he loved her, when he was partly drunk. She'd learned long ago that that was the only time ever to ask him for money for anything she needed, new shoes, a new dress. And if he said okay, he'd remember the next day and give her whatever he'd promised, although grudgingly. Sometimes when he was a little drunk and was being nice to her.
She would almost feel toward him as she once had and want him. But those times he almost never wanted her. He could be kind or he could be sensual but never both things at the same time. It was as though he had to be angry to want her. But drinking made him so different that she had often wished he'd give up knife throwing and do something else because he never threw a knife unless he was completely sober and for that reason never took even a single drink during the day or evening until after the final show. Not that she had any complaint about that, since it was at her that he threw those knives. But she could wish he'd find some other occupation that didn't require his being so cold sober and surly all day and all evening long. But what else could he do? Knife throwing was the only skill he had.
Now, her body safely covered, she pulled back an end of the canvas partition and looked out between it and the sidewall. He was still talking to the boss, clear over on the other side of the top. So it was safe now, if she worked fast, to empty the little bottle of sleeping stuff into - no, it would be too risky now; she couldn't count on time enough to get the bottle out of his trunk and put it back, and he'd be mad as hell if he caught her with his trunk opened, let alone putting something into his whisky. That would have to wait a later chance, after he'd got the bottle out and opened it himself; probably he'd go to the doniker and that would give her lots of time. Even if he just stepped outside under the canvas there'd be time if she had the little bottle ready and the whisky bottle was standing there already opened.
At least she had time now to have the little bottle ready. She got it from her purse and put it in the pocket of the gingham dress, then remembered she hadn't tried the cork and made sure it wasn't too tight to come out easily by taking it out and putting it in again. It was a tiny bottle; it couldn't have held over a teaspoonful of fluid. The fluid in it was clear and transparent, for all the world like plain water. She wondered what it was. But what did the name matter as long as it worked?
She was sitting on her trunk trimming her toenails when Leon came. He stood looking down at her for a minute without saying anything and then he opened his trunk and took the whisky bottle from it, a fifth bottle a little less than half full. He twisted off the cap and drank from it.
She asked, "Can I have one, Leon?" He never offered her a drink but he always gave her one on the rare occasions when she asked for it. She didn't drink much or often; it tended to upset her stomach and she could never get drunk because she'd always get sick first. But tonight she needed at least one drink to quiet her nerves.
He passed her the bottle. "Drink all you want to, Doll. Just leave me a nightcap. I'm going over to the G-top." When the meaning of what he just said sank in, Dolly almost choked over the raw whisky going down her throat. Why tonight of all nights did he want to play poker in the gambling top? True, he played an average of about twice a week and he hadn't played for several nights now; she should have counted on the possibility, even the probability, of it happening. But she'd overlooked it completely. For a moment she almost cried out, "Leon, please don't!" But then she realized she didn't dare; she couldn't give a reason why she didn't want him to play, and she'd never objected before. Most times she'd been really glad to be alone for a while, even though she could never count on being safely alone while he was gone because he usually came back briefly several times on one excuse or another but really to check up on her, to be sure she was still here and alone. If she wanted even to go for a cup of coffee she'd have to go to the G-top first and tell him she'd be in the chow top for a while; and like as not five or twenty minutes later he'd come to the chow top himself presumably to get some coffee too but really to make sure she was there and either alone or in the company of another woman.
But tonight of all nights! He might play all night long if he won and she didn't dare leave here while he played!
She'd have to get word to Joe somehow, at whatever risk; she couldn't bear to think of his waiting for her all night long when she might not be able to come at all.
She said, "Can I have a buck, Leon? I'm getting hungry. Think I'll go over for coffee and a sandwich now." She was thinking fast; a few minutes from now would be the safest time to let Joe know. She could go past his sleeping top between her and the chow top and tell him she probably wouldn't be able to come and if she did it would be awfully late.
Leon took a small roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off the outside one and gave it to her. Then he took another quick drink of the whisky and left, lifting the sidewall of the top and ducking under it.
She stared at the whisky, wondering if she should risk putting the sleeping stuff in it now. Surely she was safe for a few minutes; not until he'd bought chips and played at least a hand or two would he leave the game to check up on her here or at the chow top. She found a tumbler in her trunk and poured into it about two ounces of whisky from the bottle so she could have a couple more drinks herself to help her stay awake and then, listening very carefully for footsteps, she emptied the teaspoonful of clear liquid from the little bottle into the whisky bottle and shook it so it would mix well. The bottle was less than a third full now so that would make it fairly strong with the sleeping draught; it would probably work all right on Leon if he took even a couple more drinks out of it after he came back. And if he came back early he might even drink it all before he turned in.
But whether he got back early or not would depend on whether he won or lost. Leon was systematic in his gambling. He always played a certain definite amount - she wasn't sure just how much it was but she thought it was ten dollars - and he never lost more than that in any one game; when it was gone he would quit. But if he won he'd play on till the game broke up and that was seldom before dawn.
So tonight, if he started out losing, he might be back quickly, half an hour or even less, and everything would be all right. But what if he won! She'd have to get word to Joe. And right now, with the game just getting started, would be the least risky time to do it.
She drank half of the whisky she'd poured into the tumbler to give her courage and then stepped into a pair of slippers and went out under the sidewall.
She took a quick look in the direction of the G-top to be sure Leon wasn't coming back and then ran around behind the freak show top and to Joe's place. No light. She called, "Joe," softly and then, when there wasn't any answer, again and more loudly.
He couldn't be there or he'd have heard that second call, He hadn't, of course, expected her this early. After all it was less than half an hour since the last show they'd put on; Joe would figure at least an hour for Leon to go soundly enough to sleep, even if he turned in right away.
She hurried back to the midway and along it to the chow top. Maybe Joe would be there.
But he wasn't. She waved to a few groups at tables but didn't join them. She sat alone at the counter instead. She'd make her sandwich last as long as she could and maybe Joe would come in. Joe or Mr. Evans; either would do because if she could tell Evans he'd get word to Joe. All she had to tell either of them was that Leon was playing poker. From that either of them would know the score - that Leon might come back at any unexpected minute or he might play all night, and that she couldn't take the risk of going to Joe until Leon was back.
She sat so she could watch the door while she ate. If either of them came in she could start out right away, as though she didn't want to finish her sandwich, and could speak those few words as she passed him.
But it was Leon, not Joe or Evans, who came in just as she was finishing her sandwich.
He said, "Doll, I can use a sandwich myself. And since yo
u're here I won't have to wait for it. Will you get me one and bring it to the G-top on your way back?"
"Sure, Leon. A hamburger?"
"Nah, make it a cheese. Easier to eat while I'm playing cards."
"Okay, I'll bring it. How you doing?"
"So-so. Few bucks ahead. Hurry up with it, will you?"
He went out and she ordered a cheese to go. She couldn't sit here now any longer than it would take Hank to make the sandwich; Leon had seen that she'd finished her own meal and would be expecting her right away. Well, making a stop at the gambling top first would make it safer for her to go back by way of Joe's place again and maybe by now he'd be there and she could tell him.
But when she went into the G-top to give Leon his sandwich she saw that everything was all right. Joe Linder was in the poker game too, sitting right next to Leon. He'd been smarter than she because he'd realized Leon might decide to play tonight and had done the smart thing by joining the game himself. If Leon lost he'd know exactly when Leon left and he could leave a few minutes later and be waiting for her. If Leon won and played all night he'd know that too.
And that meant - why, it meant she could go to him no matter how long Leon played, even if he played until five in the morning it would be all right. He'd still take a few drinks out of that bottle, and if he played that long he'd be so dead sleepy that it would probably be safe even if he didn't. Surely once he got to sleep after an all-night session he wouldn't waken for at least a few hours.
She very carefully didn't look at Joe nor he at her while she was in the G-top. She gave Leon his sandwich and hurried out, back to their living quarters behind the canvas partition.
She might as well turn in and pretend to be sleeping when he came back. She turned off the bare bulb that dangled from overhead; there was still plenty of light to see by, coming in over the top of the partition from the high bulb in the middle of the top that was left burning all night. In the relative dimness she slipped the gingham dress over her head and folded it neatly on one corner of her trunk where she could get it easily when the time came. Then, with the slip in which she slept in her hands ready to put on, she looked down at her body, suddenly and pleasantly aware of it, of its nakedness. She saw that it was good, thought of it being caressed and fondled, a source of ecstacy to herself and to another. She dropped the slip onto the trunk and for a moment her hands cupped her breasts and it was as though Joe's hands were there instead of her own.
Madball Page 9
