“Go on, Stan. Hurry. Don’t let ’em get started.”
As if he had a pistol pointed at his back, Stan marched across the tent to the spot where trouble was simmering. From the corner of his eye he saw Joe Plasky hop on his hands down the steps behind his own platform and swing his way toward the corner. He would not be alone, at least.
Plasky got there first. “Hello, gents. I’m one of the owners of the show. Everything all right?”
“Like hell it is,” blustered one of the marks. A young farmer, Stan judged. “This here tattooed son-of-a-bitch got five dollars of my money by faking. I seen this here strap swindle afore. I aims to get my money back.”
“If there’s any doubt in your mind about the fairness of any game of chance in the show I’m sure the Sailor here will return your original bet. We’re all here to have a good time, mister, and we don’t want any hard feelings.”
The other mark spoke up. He was a tall, raw-boned sodbuster with a mouth which chronically hung open, showing long yellow teeth. “I seen this here trick afore, too, mister. Cain’t fool me. Cain’t nobody pick out that loop, way this feller unwinds it. A feller showed me how it works one time. It’s a gahdamned swindle.”
Joe Plasky’s smile was broader than ever. He reached in the pocket of his shirt and drew out a roll of bills and took off a five. He held it up to the farmer. “Here’s the money out of my own pocket, son. If you can’t afford to lose you can’t afford to bet. I’m just returning your bet because we want everybody to have a good time and no hard feelings. Now you boys better mosey along.”
The youth shoved the five into the pocket of his pants and the two of them slouched out. Plasky turned to the Sailor. His smile was still there, but a hard, steady light shone in his eyes. “You dumb bastard! This is a tough town. The whole damn state is tough. And you haven’t any more sense than to start a Heyrube. For Christ’s sake watch your step! Now give me the five.”
Sailor Martin spat between his teeth into the dust. “I won that fin and I could of handled them two jakes. Who elected you Little Tin Jesus around here?”
Plasky put his fingers in his mouth and whistled a single blast. The tip around the last platform was on its way out and Hoately turned back. Joe waved his hand in an arc and Hoately signaled back and let the canvas drop to close the front entrance. Outside old Maguire began to grind, trying to gather a tip and hold them until the show was opened again.
Bruno dropped lightly from his platform and strode over. Stan felt Zeena beside him. Major Mosquito was running back on his infant’s legs, shrilling something incoherent.
Joe Plasky said evenly, “Sailor, you been leaving a trail of busted hearts and busted cherries all along the route. Now you’re going to hand me that fin and pack up your gear. You’re quitting the show. Hoately will back me up.”
Stan’s knees were weak. Zeena’s hand was on his arm, her fingers gripping it. Would he be expected to take on the Sailor? Joe was a cripple, Bruno a superman. Stan was broader and heavier than the Sailor but the thought of a fight sickened him. He never felt that fists were good enough. He would have carried a gun except that it was a lot of trouble and he was afraid of killing with it.
Martin eyed the group. Bruno stood quietly in the background. “I don’t fight no cripples, polack. And I don’t owe you no five.” The Sailor’s lips were pale, his eyes hot.
The half-man acrobat reached up and took him by the hand, gripping the fingers together and bending them so that the tattooed man quickly sank to his knees. “Hey, leggo, you bastard!”
Silently and with his face a blank, Plasky crossed his forearms. He let go of Martin’s hand and seized the collar of his robe in both fists. Then he levered his wrists together, forcing the backs of his hands into the Sailor’s throat. Martin was caught in a human vise. His mouth dropped. He clawed frantically at the crossed arms of the half-man but the more he tugged, the tighter they crushed him. His eyes began to bulge and his hair fell over them.
Major Mosquito was leaping up and down, making fighting motions and shadowboxing. “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Choke him till he’s dead! Kill the big ape!” He rushed in and began hammering the Sailor’s staring face with tiny fists. Bruno picked him up, wriggling, and held him at arm’s length by the collar of his jacket.
Joe began to shake the tattoo artist, gently at first and then harder. The calm deadliness of that ingenious and unbreakable hold filled Stan with terror and wild joy.
Clem Hoately came running up. “Okay, Joe. Guess he’s educated. Let’s break it up. We got a good tip waiting.”
Joe smiled his smile of one raised from the dead. He released Sailor, who sat up rubbing his throat and breathing hard. Plasky reached into the pocket of the robe and found a wad of bills, took out a five and put the rest back.
Hoately picked the Sailor up and stood him on his feet. “You knock off, Martin. I’ll pay you up to the end of the month. Pack up your stuff and leave whenever you want to.”
When Martin was able to speak his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Okay. I’m on my way. I can take my needles into any barber shop and make more dough than in this crummy layout. But watch out, all of you.”
Middle evening and a good crowd. Beyond the canvas and the gaudily painted banners Hoately’s voice was raspy.
“Hi, look! Hi, look! Hi, look! Right this way for the monster aggregation of nature’s mistakes, novelty entertainments, and the world-renowned museum of freaks, marvels, and curiosities. Featuring Mamzelle Electra, the little lady who defies the lightning.”
Stan looked across at Molly Cahill. When she held the sputtering arc points together she always flinched; the last day or two, whenever he saw it, a little thrill leaped up his spine. Now she bent over and placed her compact behind the electric chair. Bending stretched her sequinned trunks tight over her buttocks.
It’s funny how you can see a girl every day for months and yet not see her, Stan thought. Then something will happen—like the way Molly’s mouth presses together when she holds the arc points and the fire starts to fly. Then you see her all different.
He dragged his glance away from the girl. Across the tent the massive chest of Bruno Hertz shone pink with sweat as he flexed the muscles of his upper arms, rippling under the pink skin, and the crowd rubbered.
Molly was sitting demurely in a bentwood chair beside the heavy, square menace with its coiled wires, its straps and its chilling suggestion of death which was as phoney as everything else in the carny. She was studying a green racing form. Absorbed, she reached down and scratched one ankle and Stan felt the ripple go up his back again.
Molly’s eyes were on the racing sheet but she had stopped looking at it and was looking through it, her mind in the dream she always dreamed.
There was a man in it and his face was always in shadow. He was taller than she and his voice was low and intense and his hands were brown and powerful. They walked slowly, drinking in the summer reflected from every grass blade, shining from every pebble in fields singing with summer. An old rail fence and beyond it a field rising like a wave, a pasture where the eyes of daisies looked up at a sky so blue it made you ache.
His face was shadowy still, as his arms stole about her. She pressed her hands against the hardness of his chest, but his mouth found hers. She tried to turn her head away; but then his fingers were caressing her hair, his kisses falling upon the hollow of her throat while his other hand found her breast …
“Over here, folks, right over here. On this platform we have a little lady who is one of the marvels and mysteries of the age —Mamzelle Electra!”
Stan came up the steps behind Joe Plasky’s platform and sat on the edge of it. “How they going?”
Joe smiled and went on assembling the novelties in his joke books, slipping the free gifts between the pages. “Can’t complain. Good crowd tonight, ain’t it?”
Stan shifted his seat. “I wonder if the Sailor will try to do us any dirt?”
Joe swung himself closer on hi
s calloused knuckles and said, “Can’t tell. But I don’t think so. After all, he is carny. He’s a louse, too. But we just want to keep our eyes open. I don’t think he’ll try to call me in spades—not after he’s felt the nami juji.”
Stan frowned. “Felt what?”
“Nami juji. That’s the Jap name for it—that crosshanded choke I slipped on him. That takes some of the starch out of ’em.”
The blond head was alert. “Joe, that was terrific, what you did. How in hell did you ever learn that?”
“Jap showed me. We had a Jap juggler when I was with the Keyhoe Shows. It’s easy enough to do. He taught me a lot of ju-jit stuff only that’s one of the best.”
Stan moved closer. “Show me how you do it.”
Plasky reached over and slid his right hand up Stan’s right coat lapel until he was grasping the collar at the side of Stan’s throat. He crossed his left arm over his right and gripped the left side of the collar. Suddenly Stan felt his throat caught in an iron wedge. It loosened immediately; Plasky dropped his hands and smiled. Stan’s knees were trembling.
“Let me see if I can do it.” He gripped Plasky’s black turtle-neck sweater with one hand.
“Higher up, Stan. You got to grab it right opposite the big artery in the neck—here.” He shifted the younger man’s hand slightly. “Now cross your forearms and grab the other side. Right. Now then, bend your wrists and force the backs of your hands into my neck. That cuts off the blood from the brain.”
Stan felt a surge of power along his arms. He did not know that his lips had drawn back over his teeth. Plasky slapped his arm quickly and he let go.
“Christ a-mighty, kid, you want to be careful with that! If you leave it on just a mite too long you’ll have a corpse on your hands. And you got to practice getting it quick. It’s a little hard to slip on but once you’ve got it the other fella can’t break it— unless he knows the real Jap stuff.”
Both men looked up as Maguire, the ticket seller, hurried toward them.
“She-ess-oo flee-ess-eyes!” He ducked past them to where Hoately stood on the Electric Girl’s platform.
Plasky’s smile widened as it always did in the face of trouble. “Shoo flies, kid. Cops. Just take it easy and you’ll be all right. Here’s where Hoately will have to do some real talking. And the fixer will have to earn his pay. I been expecting they’d slough the whole joint one of these days.”
“What happens to us?” Stan’s mouth had gone dry.
“Nothing, kid, if everybody keeps his head. Never argue with a cop. That’s what you pay a mouthpiece for. Treat ’em polite and yes ’em to death and send for a mouthpiece. Hell, Stan, you got a lot to learn yet about the carny.”
A whistle sounded from the entrance. Stan’s head spun toward it.
A big, white-haired man with a badge pinned to his denim shirt stood there. His hat was pushed back and he had his thumbs hooked in his belt. A holster containing a heavy revolver hung from a looser belt on a slant. Hoately raised his voice, grinning down at the marks below Molly’s platform.
“That will conclude our performance for the time being, folks. Now I guess you’re all kind of dry and could stand a nice cold drink so I call your attention to the stand directly across the midway where you can get all the nice cold soda pop you can drink. That’s all for now, folks. Come back tomorrow night and we’ll have a few surprises for you—things you didn’t see tonight.”
The marks obediently began to drift out of the tent and Hoately approached the law. “What can I do for you, Chief? My name’s Hoately and I’m owner of this attraction. You’re welcome to inspect every inch of it and I’ll give you all the cooperation you want. We’ve got no girl shows and no games of skill or chance.”
The old man’s hard little colorless eyes rested on Hoately as they would on a spider in the corner of a backhouse. “Stand here.”
“You’re the boss.”
The old man’s gaze flickered over the Ten-in-One tent. He pointed to the geek’s enclosure. “What you got in there?”
“Snake charmer,” Hoately said casually. “Want to see him?”
“That ain’t what I heard. I heard you got an obscene and illegal performance going on here with cruelty to dumb animals. I got a complaint registered this evening.”
The showman pulled out a bag of tobacco and papers and began to build a cigarette. His left hand made a quick twist, and the cigarette took form. He licked the paper with his tongue and struck a match. “Why don’t you stay as my guest and view the entire performance, Chief? We’d be glad—”
The wide mouth tightened. “I got orders from the marshal to close down the show. And arrest anybody I see fit. I’m arresting you and—” He slid his eyes over the performers: Bruno placid in his blue robe, Joe Plasky smilingly assembling his pitch items, Stan making a half dollar vanish and reappear, Molly still sitting in the Electric Chair, the sequins of her skimpy bodice winking as her breasts rose and fell. She was smiling tautly. “And I’m taking that woman there—indecent exposure. We got decent women in this town. And we got daughters; growin’ girls. We don’t allow no naked women paradin’ around and makin’ exposes of ’emselves. The rest of you stay right here in case we need you. All right, you two, come along. Put a coat on that girl first. She ain’t decent enough to come down to the lockup thataway.”
Stan noticed that the stubble on the deputy marshal’s chin was white—like a white fungus on a dead man, he thought savagely. Molly’s eyes were enormous.
Hoately cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Looky here, Chief, that girl’s never had no complaints. She’s got to wear a costume like that on account of she handles electric wires and ordinary cloth might catch fire and …”
The deputy reached out one hand and gripped Hoately by the shirt. “Shut up. And don’t try offering me any bribes, neither. I ain’t none o’ your thievin’ northern police, kissin’ the priest’s toe on Sundays and raking in the graft hell-bent for election six days a week. I’m a church deacon and I aim to keep this a clean town if I have to run every Jezebel out of it on a fence rail.”
His tiny eyes were fastened on Molly’s bare thighs. He raised his glance ever so slightly to take in her shoulders and the crease between her breasts. The eyes grew hot and the slack mouth raised at the corners. Beside the Electric Girl’s platform he noticed a neat young man with corn-yellow hair saying something to the girl who nodded and then darted her attention back to the deputy.
The law lumbered over, dragging Hoately with him. “Young lady, git off that contraption.” He reached up a red-knuckled hand toward Molly. Stan was on the other side of the platform feeling for the switch. There was an ominous buzzing and crackling: Molly’s black hair stood straight up like a halo around her head. She brought her finger tips together. Blue fire flowed between them. The deputy stopped, stony. The girl reached out, and sparks jumped in a flashing stream from her fingers to the deputy’s. With a shout he drew back, releasing Hoately. The buzz of the static generator stopped and a voice drew his attention; it was the blond youth.
“You can see the reason, Marshal, for the metal costume the young lady is forced to wear. The electricity would ignite any ordinary fabric and only by wearing the briefest of covering can she avoid bursting into flame. Thousands of volts of electricity cover her body like a sheath. Pardon me, Marshal, but there seem to be several dollar bills coming out of your pocket.”
In spite of himself, the deputy followed Stan’s pointing finger. He saw nothing. Stan reached out and one after another five folded dollar bills appeared from the pocket of the denim shirt. He made them into a little roll and pressed them into the old man’s hand. “Another minute and you’d have lost your money, Marshal.”
The deputy’s eyes were half shut with disbelief and hostile suspicion; but he shoved the cash into his shirt pocket.
Stan went on, “And I see that you have bought your wife a little present of a few silk handkerchiefs.” From the cartridge belt Stan slowly drew o
ut a bright green silk, then another of purple. “These are very pretty. I’m sure your wife will like them. And here’s a pure white one—for your daughter. She’s about nineteen now, isn’t she, Marshal?”
“How’d you know I got a daughter?”
Stan rolled the silks into a ball and they vanished. His face was serious, the blue eyes grave. “I know many things, Marshal. I don’t know exactly how I know them but there’s nothing supernatural about it, I am sure. My family was Scotch and the Scotch are often gifted with powers that the old folks used to call ‘second sight.”’
The white head with its coarse, red face, nodded involuntarily.
“For instance,” Stan went on, “I can see that you have carried a pocket piece or curio of some kind for nearly twenty years. Probably a foreign coin.”
One great hand made a motion toward the pants pocket. Stan felt his own pulse racing with triumph. Two more hits and he’d have him.
“Several times you have lost that luck-piece but you’ve found it again every time; and it means a lot to you, you don’t exactly know why. I’d say that you should always carry it.”
The deputy’s eyes had lost some of their flint.
From the tail of his eye Stan saw that the Electric Chair above them was empty; Molly had disappeared. So had everyone else except Hoately who stood slightly to the rear of the deputy, nodding his head wisely at every word of the magician’s.
“Now this isn’t any of my business, Marshal, because I know you are a man who is fully capable of handling his own affairs and just about anything else that is liable to come along. But my Scotch blood is working right this minute and it tells me that there is one thing in your life that is worrying you and it’s something you find it difficult to handle. Because all your strength and your courage and your authority in the town seem to be of no avail. It seems to slip through your grasp like water—”
Nightmare Alley Page 9
