Stan slid his arm around her and kissed her. In the swaying, plunging gait of the train their teeth clicked and they broke apart, laughing a little. Her hand smoothed his cheek. “I’ve missed you like all hell, honey.” She buried her face in the hollow of his throat.
Over her shoulder Stan looked into the car of sleepers. Their faces had changed, had lost their hideousness. The girl Molly had waked up and was eating a chocolate bar. There was a smudge of chocolate over her chin. Zeena suspected nothing.
Stan raised his left hand and examined it. On the ball of the ring finger was a dark streak. Daub. He touched his tongue to it and then gripped Zeena’s shoulder, wiping the stain on the black dress.
They broke apart and pushed down the aisle to a pile of suitcases where they managed to sit. In her ear Stan said, “Zeena, how does a two-person code work? I mean a good one—the kind you and Pete used to work.” Audiences in evening clothes. Top billing. The Big Time.
Zeena leaned close, her voice suddenly husky. “Wait till we get to the burg. I can’t think about nothing except you right now, honey. I’ll tell you some time. Anything you want to know. But now I want to think about what’s coming between the sheets.” She caught one of his fingers and gave it a squeeze.
In the baggage coach Major Mosquito turned over his hole card. “Three deuces of swords showing and one wild one in the hole makes four of a kind. Ha, ha, ha, ha. The Hanged Man!”
When Stan woke up it was still dark. The electric sign which had been flaring on and off with blinding regularity, spelling out the name of Ayres’ Department Store, was quiet at last and the smeared windowpane was dark. Something had wakened him. The mattress was hard and sagging; against his back he felt the warmth of Zeena’s body.
Silently the bed shook and Stan’s throat tightened with a reflex of fear at the unknown and the darkness until he felt the shake again and then a muffled gasp. Zeena was crying.
Stan turned over and slid his arm around her and cupped her breast with his hand. She had to be babied when she got this way.
“Stan, honey—”
“What’s the matter, baby?”
Zeena turned heavily and pressed a damp cheek against his bare chest. “Just got to thinking about Pete.”
There was nothing to say to this so Stan tightened his arms around her and kept quiet.
“You know, today I was going through some of the stuff in the little tin trunk—Pete’s stuff. His old press books and old letters and all kinds of stuff. And I found the notebook he used to keep. The one he had the start of our code in. Pete invented that code himself and we were the only people that ever knew it. Pete was offered a thousand dollars for it by Allah Kismet—that was Syl Rappolo. He was one of the biggest crystal-workers in the country. But Pete just laughed at him. That old book was just like a part of Pete. He had such nice handwriting in them days …”
Stan said nothing but turned her face up and began kissing her. He was fully awake now and could feel the pulse jumping in his throat. He mustn’t seem too eager. Better love her up first, all the way if he could do it again.
He found that he could.
It was Zeena’s turn to keep quiet. Finally Stan said, “What are we going to do about your act?”
Her voice was suddenly crisp. “What about the act?”
“I thought maybe you were thinking of changing it.”
“What for? Ain’t we taking in more on the pitch than ever? Look, honey, if you feel you ought to be cut in for a bigger percentage don’t be bashful—”
“I’m not talking about that,” he interrupted her. “In this damn state nobody can write. Every time I stick a card and a pencil under the nose of some mark he says, ‘You write it for me.’ If I could remember all that stuff I could let ’em keep the cards in their pockets.”
Zeena stretched leisurely, the bed creaking under her. “Don’t you worry about Zeena, honey. When they can’t write their names they’re even more receptive to the answers. Why, I could quit the question-answering part of the act and just get up there and spiel away and then go into the pitch and still turn ’em.”
A thrill of alarm raced along Stan’s nerves at the thought of Zeena’s being able to do without him before he could do without her. “But I mean, couldn’t we work a code act? You could still do it, couldn’t you?”
She chuckled. “Listen, schniggle-fritz, I can do it in my sleep. But it takes a hell of a lot of work to get all them lists and things learned. And the season’s more than half over.”
“I could learn it.”
She thought for a while and then she said, “It’s all right with me, honey. It’s all down in Pete’s book. Only don’t you lose that book or Zeena’ll cut your ears off.”
“You have it here?”
“Wait a minute. Where’s the fire? Sure I’ve got it here. You’ll see it. Don’t go getting sizzle-britches.”
More silence. At last Stan sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I better get back to that pantry they rented me for a room. We don’t want the townies here to get any more ideas than they’ve got already.” He snapped on the light and began to put on his clothes. In the garish light overhead Zeena looked haggard and battered like a worn wax doll. She had the sheet pulled over her middle but her breasts sagged over it. Her hair was in two brassy braids and the ends were uneven and spiky. Stan put on his shirt and knotted his tie. He slipped on his jacket.
“You’re a funny fella.”
“Why?”
“Getting all dressed up to walk thirty feet down the hall of a fleabag like this at four in the morning.”
Somehow Stan felt this to be a reflection on his courage. His face grew warm. “Nothing like doing things right.”
Zeena yawned cavernously. “Guess you’re right, kiddo. See you in the morning. And thanks for the party.”
He made no move to turn out the light. “Zeena, that notebook— Could I see it?”
She threw off the sheet, got up and squatted to snap open the suitcase. Does a woman always look more naked after you’ve had her, Stan wondered. Zeena rummaged in the bag and drew out a canvas-covered book marked “Ledger.”
“Now run along, honey. Or come back to bed. Make up your mind.”
Stan tucked the book under his arm and switched off the light. He felt his way to the door and with caution turned back the bolt. Yellow light from the hall sliced over the patchy wallpaper as he opened the door.
There was a whisper from the bed. “Stan—”
“What is it?”
“Come kiss your old pal good night.”
He stepped over, kissed her cheek and left without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
The lock of his own door sounded like a rifle shot.
He looked each way along the hall but nothing stirred.
Inside, he tore off his clothes, went to the washbowl and washed and then threw himself down on the bed, propping the book on his bare stomach.
The first pages were taken up with figures and notations:
“Evansport. July 20th. Books—$33.00 taken in. Paid—Plants at $2—$6.00. Plants: Mrs. Jerome Hotchkiss. Leonard Keely, Josiah Boos. All okay. Old spook workers. Boos looks like deacon. Can act a little. Worked the found ring in the coat lining …”
“Spook workers” must refer to the local confederates employed by traveling mediums. Swiftly Stan flipped the pages. More expenses: “F. T. rap squared. Chief Pellett. $50.” That would be an arrest on a charge of fortune telling.
Stan felt like Ali Baba in the cavern of riches left by the Forty Thieves.
Impatiently he turned to the back of the book. On the last page was a heading: “Common Questions.” Beneath it was a list, with figures:
“Is my husband true to me? 56, 29, 18, 42.
“Will mother get well? 18, 3, 7, 12.
“Who poisoned our dog? 3, 2, 3, 0, 3.” Beside this was the notation, “Not a big item but a steady. Every audience. Can pull as cold reading during stall part of act.”
The figures, then, were a record of the number of similar questions collected from the same audience. The question “Is my wife faithful?” had only about a third the number of entries as the one about the husband.
“The chumps,” Stan whispered. “Either too bashful to ask or too dumb to suspect.” But they were anxious to find out, all of them. As if jazzing wasn’t what they all want, the goddamned hypocrites. They all want it. Only nobody else must have it. He turned the page.
“There is a recurring pattern followed by the questions asked. For every unusual question there will be fifty that you have had before. Human nature is the same everywhere. All have the same troubles. They are worried. Can control anybody by finding out what he’s afraid of. Works with question-answering act. Think out things most people are afraid of and hit them right where they live. Health, Wealth, Love. And Travel and Success. They’re all afraid of ill health, of poverty, of boredom, of failure. Fear is the key to human nature. They’re afraid….”
Stan looked past the pages to the garish wallpaper and through it into the world. The geek was made by fear. He was afraid of sobering up and getting the horrors. But what made him a drunk? Fear. Find out what they are afraid of and sell it back to them. That’s the key. The key! He had known it when Clem Hoately had told him how geeks are made. But here was Pete saying the same thing:
Health. Wealth. Love. Travel. Success. “A few have to do with domestic troubles, in-laws, kids, pets. And so on. A few wisenheimers but you can ditch them easily enough. Idea: combine question-answering act with code act. Make list of questions, hook up with code numbers. Answer vague at first, working toward definite. If can see face of spectator and tell when hitting.”
On the following pages was a neatly numbered list of questions. There were exactly a hundred. Number One was “Is my husband true to me?” Number Two was “Will I get a job soon?”
Outside the front of Ayres’ Department Store had turned rosy-red with the coming sun. Stan paid it no heed. The sun slid up, the sound of wagon tires on concrete told of the awakening city. At ten o’clock there was a tap on the door. Stan shook himself. “Yes?”
Zeena’s voice. “Wake up, sleepy head. Rise and shine.”
He unlocked the door and let her in.
“What you got the light on for?” She turned it out, then saw the book. “Lord’s sake, kid, ain’t you been to bed at all?”
Stan rubbed his eyes and stood up. “Ask me a number. Any number up to a hundred.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Will my mother-in-law always live with us?”
Zeena sat down beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. “You know what I think, kid? I think you’re a mind reader.”
The carny turned south and the pines began to line sandy roads. Cicadas drummed the late summer air and the crowds of white people were gaunter, their faces filled with desolation, their lips often stained with snuff.
Everywhere the shining, dark faces of the South’s other nation caught the highlights from the sun. They stood in quiet wonder, watching the carny put up in the smoky morning light. In the Ten-in-One they stood always on the fringe of the crowd, an invisible cordon holding them in place. When one of the whites turned away sharply and jostled them the words “Scuse me,” fell from them like pennies balanced on their shoulders.
Stan had never been this far south and something in the air made him uneasy. This was dark and bloody land where hidden war traveled like a million earthworms under the sod.
The speech fascinated him. His ear caught the rhythm of it and he noted their idioms and worked some of them into his patter. He had found the reason behind the peculiar, drawling language of the old carny hands—it was a composite of all the sprawling regions of the country. A language which sounded Southern to Southerners, Western to Westerners. It was the talk of the soil and its drawl covered the agility of the brains that poured it out. It was a soothing, illiterate, earthy language.
The carny changed its tempo. The outside talkers spoke more slowly.
Zeena cut the price of her horoscopes to a dime each but sold “John the Conqueror Root” along with them for fifteen cents. This was a dried mass of twisting roots which was supposed to attract good fortune when carried in a bag around the neck. Zeena got them by the gross from an occult mail-order house in Chicago.
Stan’s pitch of the magic books took a sudden drop and Zeena knew the answer. “These folks down here don’t know nothing about sleight-of-hand, honey. Half of ’em figure you’re doing real magic. Well, you got to have something superstitious to pitch.”
Stan ordered a gross of paper-backed books, “One Thousand and One Dreams Interpreted.” He threw in as a free gift a brass lucky coin stamped with the Seal of Love from the Seventh Book of Moses, said to attract the love of others and lead to the confusion of enemies. His pitch picked up in fine style. He learned to roll three of the lucky coins over his fingers at once. The tumbling, glittering cascade of metal seemed to fascinate the marks, and the dream books went fast.
He had learned the verbal code for questions not a day too soon, for the people couldn’t write or were too shy to try.
“Will you kindly answer this lady’s question at once?” Stan had cued the question, “Is my daughter all right?”
Zeena’s voice had taken on a deeper southern twang. “Well, now, I get the impression that the lady is worried about someone near and dear to her, someone she hasn’t heard from in a long time, am I right? Strikes me it’s a young lady— It’s your daughter you’re thinking of, isn’t it? Of course. And you want to know if she’s well and happy and if you’ll see her again soon. Well, I believe you will get some news of her through a third person before the month is out.…”
There was one question that came up so often that Stan worked out a silent signal for it. He would simply jerk his head in Zeena’s direction. The first time he used it the question had come to him from a man—massive and loose-jointed with clear eyes smoldering in a handsome ebony face. “Am I ever going to make a trip?”
Zeena picked it up. “Man over there is wondering about something that’s going to happen to him and I want to say right here and now that I believe you’re going to get your wish. And I think it has something to do with travel. You want to make a trip somewheres. Isn’t that so? Well, I see some troubles on the road and I see a crowd of people—men, they are, asking a lot of questions. But I see the journey completed after a while, not as soon as you want to make it but after a while. And there’s a job waiting for you at the end of it. Job with good pay. It’s somewhere to the north of here; I’m positive of that.”
It was sure-fire. All of ’em want North, Stan thought. It was the dark alley, all over again. With a light at the end of it. Ever since he was a kid Stan had had the dream. He was running down a dark alley, the buildings vacant and black and menacing on either side. Far down at the end of it a light burned; but there was something behind him, close behind him, getting closer until he woke up trembling and never reached the light. They have it too—a nightmare alley. The North isn’t the end. The light will only move further on. And the fear close behind them. White and black, it made no difference. The geek and his bottle, staving off the clutch of the thing that came following after.
In the hot sun of noon the cold breath could strike your neck. In having a woman her arms were a barrier. But after she had fallen asleep the walls of the alley closed in on your own sleep and the footsteps followed.
Now the very country simmered with violence, and Stan looked enviously at the sculptured muscles of Bruno Hertz. It wasn’t worth the time and backbreaking effort it took to get that way. There must be an easier way. Some sort of jujitsu system where a man could use his brains and his agility. The Ackerman-Zorbaugh Monster Shows had never had a “Heyrube” since Stan had been with them, but the thought of one ate at his peace of mind like a maggot. What would he do in a mob fight? What would they do to him?
Then Sailor Martin nearly precip
itated one.
It was a steaming day of late summer. The South had turned out: hollow-eyed women with children in their arms and clinging to their skirts, lantern-jawed men, deadly quiet.
Clem Hoately had mounted the platform where Bruno sat quietly fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan. “If you’ll step right this way, folks, I want to call your attention to one of the miracle men of all time—Herculo, the strongest man alive.”
Stan looked back to the rear of the tent. In the corner by the geek’s enclosure Sailor Martin had a couple of local youths engrossed in the strap on the barrelhead. He took a leather strap, folded it in the middle, then coiled it on the top of a nail keg. He placed his own finger in one of the two loops in the center and pulled the strap. His finger had picked the real loop in the strap. Then he bet one of the marks he couldn’t pick the real loop. The mark bet and won and the Sailor handed him a silver dollar.
Zeena drew the curtains of the little stage and came out at the side. She drew a handkerchief from her bosom and touched her temples with it. “Whew, ain’t it a scorcher today?” She followed Stan’s glance to the rear of the tent. “The Sailor better go easy. Hoately don’t like anybody to case the marks on the side this far south. Can’t blame him. Too likely to start a rumpus. I say, if you can’t make a living with your pitch you don’t belong in no decent Ten-in-One. I could pick up plenty of honest dollars if I wanted to give special private readings and remove evil influences and all that stuff. But that just leads to trouble.”
She stopped speaking and her hand tightened on Stan’s arm. “Stan, honey, you better take a walk over there and see what’s going on.”
Stan made no move to go. On the platform he was king; the marks in their anonymous mass were below him and his voice held them, but down on their level, jammed in among their milling, collective weight, he felt smothered.
Suddenly one of the youths drew back his foot and kicked over the nail keg on which Martin had wound the strap with the elusive loop. The Sailor’s voice was raised just a fraction above conversational level and he seemed to be speaking to the mark when he said, clearly and coolly, “Hey, rube!”
Nightmare Alley Page 8
