by Jim Fusilli
“Yes, but meanwhile, no Habishaw.”
Through the steam rising from the bowl, Marley looked over at her father as he tended to her baby sister. His hair was a wild curly mop, all knotty and chaotic as usual. Despite the air-conditioning, he still dripped sweat.
She noticed a bald spot brewing at the back of his head, and she knew his ankles hurt when he ran.
“I love you, Dad,” Marley said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
He stood. “I know.” He tapped the center of his chest and then pointed at her with the same long finger.
She did the same. It was their signal.
He drop-plopped the cold cloth onto Skeeter’s head. “Cucumber cool, Skeets.”
Marley watched her sister wrestle it down and resume cleaning her own face.
“Egg-drop soup, huh? You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at making that. I got a recipe from Papua New Guinea. . . .”
As he pounded upstairs, Marley decided she’d bathe Skeeter in the sink when her father’s shower ended. That always lifted her spirits. Skeeter’s too.
“By the way,” he yelled from above, “the four of us are having dinner tonight. Together!”
That warmed her heart as much as the soup did.
I am never going to be able to concentrate completely on Marisol and her make-believe father and Mr. Gabor and the Habishaw until I wipe that insincere man off my mind. Nicholas Justice.
And with that thought, Marley marched up to her room. Her cell phone at her elbow, the computer speakers blasting Beck’s Guero —a good cross-generational compromise choice in the Zimmerman household—she googled Nicholas Justice.
Lots of Nicholas Justices: Sixty-two hits, in fact, and just one had to do with Wendell’s uncle.
According to the New York Times’ website, four years ago a man named Nicholas Justice was accused of involvement in a scandal at Lincoln Center’s Rose Hall. Mr. Justice and another security officer would sneak people through a side entrance into jazz concerts—for a fee they kept for themselves. The Times said the two men were fired from their jobs.
Justice wasn’t just a judgmental phony. He was a thief. He didn’t just quit to get a better job as a doorman. Lincoln Center told him to go away.
She couldn’t find any other articles on that scandal, and a search under “N. Justice” returned more than 37,000 hits.
“Doorman” and “upper west side” returned too many hits, too.
I’m getting farther from it, she thought, as Beck’s chinga-chinga guitar played off the beats.
What else do I know about him that makes him different from all the other Nicholas Justices?
Well . . . His father was a carnival barker.
"Okay,” she said, "let’s make it ’Justice’and ’carnival barker.’ ”
A second or so later, she muttered, “Holy . . .”
Marley sat back in her chair.
More than a thousand hits—1,213, to be exact.
First on the long list was a site dedicated to Jedediah Justice’s Traveling Amusements.
Which was managed by the Jedediah Justice’s Traveling Amusements Historical Society.
Marley scanned the site.
Justice’s Traveling Amusements.
Operated as far south as North Carolina.
As far north as New Hampshire.
From 1960 to the year Marley was born.
April through Labor Day—and beyond!
The largest, grandest, funnest—funnest?—traveling amusement park and midway in the whole U.S. of A.
Featuring a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, carousel, mechanical bull and Kiddoland.
Pony rides. A petting zoo.
Bobo the Elephant.
Carnival games of skill and chance. (Win prizes!)
Caramel apples, ice cream, and cotton candy.
A fireworks display each and every night.
And our special attraction—Mesmero, America’s Legendary Master of the Ancient Art of Mesmerization!
Mesmerization. “What is . . . ?”
She leaned forward and turned down the music’s volume.
Then she clicked on the name Mesmero and was sent to a special page dedicated to him.
Wow, Mesmero looked like Dracula, only in white tie and tails. His arms at shoulders level, fingers outstretched as if he were shooting invisible rays at someone.
Mesmero.
She went to Wikipedia.
Nothing on Mesmero, but soon she had made her way to a site about somebody named Franz Mesmer.
Okay. Here we are. Animal magnetism. Also known as mesmerism.
" ’The evolution of Mesmer’s ideas and practices led James Braid to develop hypnosis in 1842.’ ”
Hypnosis!
She click-jumped to the section on Braid.
“Bang,” Marley said as she read carefully, thoroughly. She bounced in her seat, hopping to fold a leg under her. “Bang!”
Braid led her to the American Psychological Association’s definition of hypnosis.
She read aloud. “ ‘When using hypnosis, one person is guided by another to respond to suggestions for changes in subjective experience, alterations in perception, sensation, emotion, thought or behavior.’ ”
“Like making a good, honest person steal something,” she said, as if talking to the computer monitor. “That sure is a change in behavior.”
She backtracked to the Justice Amusement Historical Society’s site.
No reference to Nicholas Justice or his brother, who was Wendell’s late father.
But she found a photo of Jedediah Justice.
Wow. He looked like a grown-up version of Wendell.
But he wasn’t Mesmero.
Marley stood. Paced.
Stopped. Folded her arms.
Closed her eyes.
Just like she told Marisol:
Close your eyes and think.
“Mmmm . . .”
She imagined a couple of kids running around a big ol’ carnival. In a huge field in the middle of somewhere. Or in a stadium parking lot outside a big city.
A gigantic party every day from noon until the fireworks blasted off at midnight. Loads and loads of people celebrating, little kids giddy—it’s like Disneyland had come to their neighborhood!
But no party for those workers.
They had to toil sweaty-hard to set up the carnival and then harder to keep it going for a steamy week or two. Hustling for hours and hours and hours every single day for five long months.
(When Marley concentrated real, real hard, she could smell what she saw and hear real actual sounds. Now she saw and heard sledgehammers driving posts in the dry, dusty earth to tie huge colorful tents to, and she smelled the grease on the tracks of the rollercoaster and under the Tilt-a-Whirl cars.)
Then those carnival workers had to pack up a bunch of trucks and cars, go traveling in the dead of night and move to a new city and another state, doing everything all over again.
And again and again and again, throughout the broiling hot summer.
Through all that, who are those two Justice kids going to play with?
Who are they going to want to be around?
Who can entertain and amuse them?
Their father, who has to be in charge of everything?
The grunting, sweating, busy workers?
Bobo the Elephant?
No.
Mesmero.
With his deep, piercing eyes and X-ray fingers.
And maybe Mesmero taught them how to hypnotize people, just for the heck of it. To amuse them, and himself.
And maybe Nicholas Justice remembered how to do it all these years later.
Marley opened her eyes and stared at the computer screen. Her screen saver was up.
She was on a bench in Central Park. Teddy on her left, Marisol on her right. Big smiles. Cheese!
She said, “But when could Mr. Justice have hypnotized you, Marisol?
“Not when we were at ba
nd practice.
“Not when we were leav—”
Suddenly, Marley felt a jolt way deep down in her body.
“When you went to see him! By yourself!”
Excited—maybe more excited than she’d ever been in her life—she ran to her door, flung it open, and screamed, “Dad!”
Startled, Mr. Zimmerman, who was downstairs in his office, shouted, “Marley. Are you okay?”
“Dad,getuphererightaway.I’vegotit.Iknowwhathappened.Dad, hurry!”
Even before her father reached the top step, jumping two at a time, Skeeter on his hip, Marley was shouting into her phone.
“Teddy.Teddy,whereareyou?I’vegotit.Mesmero.Hypnosis.Call me now.”
With her father peering over her shoulder, Marley read everything she could find on mesmerization and hypnosis. By the time she finished, she was certain she was right.
chapter 12
Marley ran all the way from her family’s brownstone to 93rd Street and Columbus Avenue—a distance of almost a mile— her flip-flops slapping the hot concrete and soggy asphalt as she zagged around yipping dogs, delivery boys on bikes and slow-moving shoppers. She arrived panting and parched, and was now as sweat-soaked as her father had been.
Forgive me, she thought as she stepped into the little vestibule of the Povedas’ apartment building. I hate to wake you up after you worked all night, Mr. Poveda, but . . .
As she was about to press the bell, she turned to see Mr. Poveda and his two sons.
“Hey, Marley,” said Boli.
“Hey, Marley,” said Cristian.
“Hello,” said Mr. Poveda.
Marley saw his tentative smile.
“Mr. Poveda . . .” She was out of breath. “¿Usted sabe donde está Marisol?”
His eyebrow raised, he replied, “Ah, no sabía que usted también habló español, Marley.”
“I don’t.” Gasp. “A few lessons . . .” She took a deep, deep breath. “Marisol. Donde . . .”
“Marley?”
She turned. Marisol was standing behind her, in her hand the rings of a plastic shopping bag filled with husky ears of corn.
Marley said, “Where have you been? I called.” No time for air kisses now.
Putting down the bag, Marisol ran her hand along her belt to find her cell phone. “It’s off,” she said as she lifted it. “We took the boys to the Pied Piper Children’s Theatre.”
Her breath beginning to return, she blurted, “Marisol,Ihaveto talktoyou.Ihavenews.”
Mr. Poveda excused himself, tapping Boli and Cristian on the back of their Mets caps to shoo them inside. He nodded his good-bye to Marley and his daughter.
“What?” Marisol asked, tugging the front of her pink blouse over her midriff.
“Tell me about your visit to Wendell’s uncle on Monday afternoon. After you left the diner.”
“I already did. Marley, what’s going on?”
“Tell me again. In detail. Marisol, please.”
Marisol shrugged. “I told him that we were good kids. That we were serious students—”
“Yes, yes. But can you remember anything unusual happening? ” Before he hypnotized you, she wanted to add.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I spoke to him and he apologized. Then the lobby was very quiet, and he asked me if I would like to—
Marisol’s cell phone interrupted, beckoning her with a strange, tinny ring tone.
Exasperated, Marley grimaced at the annoying noise—until she realized what the song was. Then her eyes opened wide.
It was that odd, insistent piece of oompah music that’s played at circuses and carnivals and even at the Central Park Carousel when the wooden horses go up, down, and around.
“Marisol—”
Marisol quickly snapped off the phone, ending the irritating sound.
Then, as she returned the phone to her belt, she stepped forward, bumped a shoulder into Marley, and proceeded to walk south along the avenue.
The bag of corn collapsed on the sidewalk.
“Marisol?”
Marley’s friend kept walking, her head held high, her back rigid.
"Marisol . . . ?”
Marley trotted to catch up.
Marisol’s blank expression was exactly the same as it was in the security videos.
Like a zombie’s.
“Marisol, wait.”
Marley stepped in front of her friend. She reached out and put her hands on her shoulders.
Marisol’s eyes were empty orbits, her pupils dilated.
“Marisol . . . ? Say something.”
But Marisol didn’t reply. She edged around her friend again, squeezed past a parking meter and walked to the corner. She looked both ways, then crossed Columbus and continued south.
“Marisol . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She could not believe this was happening in bright sunlight on a beautiful summer afternoon in New York City.
“Wait!”
Marisol walked on, unyielding and without emotion.
With nothing else to do—or at least nothing that came to mind—Marley followed her.
A half mile or so later, never separated by more than twenty feet, the two friends crossed Broadway and began down the slope toward West End Avenue.
And then they walked along the north side of the wonderful old building where Nicholas Justice was employed as a doorman.
Steam was coming out of Teddy’s ears.
Not literally, of course. But he was furious. I’m not a baby, he thought. I’m me, I’m happy to be me, and I’m proud of me.
And more to the point: I don’t want to dress like the men in Soho. I would look ridiculous in aviator sunglasses, a sharp-cut Italian wool blazer, fitted silk shirt, tightly tailored jeans and pointy-toed boots.
What kind of thirteen-year-old wants to look like a model posing in Milan or Paris or New York City?
I can’t even grow stubble on my face!
“Look around. Do you see anyone who dresses like you?” said his sister Kiana, as she pointed a long manicured fingernail toward the busy, buzzing boutiques that lined sunny West Broadway. She was as tall and lean as her brother was short and stout, and her hair shimmered down her back.
“Nobody like me here, no,” Teddy replied wryly. He clutched rectangular shopping bags in each fist. The bags were filled with blouses, light sweaters, camisoles and T-shirts Kiana and their cousin Mei bought, one item costing ridiculously more than the next.
“What do people think when they see you?” Kiana asked, as they slalomed through shoppers and milling tourists.
“Yes, what do they think?” Mei added. “Tell us.”
Kiana said, “Your image is the most important th— Oh, Mei, look!”
She lifted up her sunglasses, grabbed Mei by the elbow and veered quickly toward another crowded shop. This one sold shoes.
Teddy found an uncomfortable bench in the corner of the store.
“Conspiracy,” he groaned as he began to dig through the shopping bags to find his cell phone.
Her back against limestone, Marley waited on the side street as Marisol entered through the revolving doors.
She was certain Justice had mesmerized Marisol and compelled her—that was the word: compelled —to take the Habishaw. The carnival music was the trigger to activate the suggestion he had planted in her mind: “When you hear it, come to me.” Hypnotists did it all the time on TV—getting people to cluck like chickens or do crazy dances on a word or sound command, and the audience would laugh hysterically.
But there was nothing funny about this. Marisol was in danger.
Marley edged carefully around the corner and stole a quick glance inside the building, expecting to see Marisol with Nicholas Justice, all phony and snarky, with Marisol under his control.
Taking out her cell phone, she prepared to dial the Two-Oh and ask for Sgt. Sampson. She’d let Justice hear the call. Even if the policeman was still out, it would have an impact.
With her th
umb, she tapped the 212 area code.
Then, darting through the shadows, she burst boldly through the revolving doors.
Justice was not at his station. The vast lobby was empty.
And the steel door that led to the basement where the Kingston Cowboys had held their very brief rehearsal was closing ever so slowly.
Burying the phone in her pocket, Marley raced to grab the door before it banged shut.
It took a moment for her eyes to adapt to the darkness.
But she heard the zombie-step slap of Marisol’s huaraches on the cement stairs.
She followed, and soon she was belowground.
She saw Marisol entering the wooden shed near the boiler where Wendell stored his drums. It was wide open. The padlock had been removed.
“Marisol,” Marley hiss-whispered. “Wait, Marisol.”
Following, peering through darkness, Marley watched as her friend nestled in a corner.
“Marisol?”
Suddenly, out of the shadows behind them, Nicholas Justice appeared.
“You!” he shouted.
Marley’s heart seemed to leap in fear as he drew closer, closer.
“You helped her steal that violin!”
The blank expression on Marisol’s face didn’t change.
“Wait until the police get here,” he said, as he leered angrily.
“Right,” Marley said. “When they get here, they’ll learn about you.”
“Oh really?”
“That’s right. You hypnotized her!”
Justice laughed. “And who will believe that?”
“You did. You are—”
Before Marley could finish her sentence, Mr. Justice raised his right palm in front of Marisol’s face. Quickly, he recited, “Three, two, one” and snapped his fingers, making a sound as loud as a gunshot.
Marley watched as Marisol blinked and shook her head as if waking from a long, confusing slumber.
“Marley . . . ?” she said, as she looked around. “I . . .”
Justice reached and tugged the rumpled canvas that had been tossed over Wendell’s drums. He gathered it into a roll in his arms.
On top of Wendell’s drums was a white box, the kind that held dozens of long-stemmed roses.
Dropping the paint-splattered canvas, Justice pulled the string on the naked bulb above their heads. Raw bright light filled the shed, momentarily blinding Marley and Marisol.
