“Wait a minute, young fella. What are you talkin’ ’bout?”
“As I said, it’s absolutely none of my business. And you are a man in the prime of life and old enough to be my father and by rights you should be the one to give me good advice and not the other way round. But in this case I may be able to do you a good turn. I sense that there are antagonistic influences surrounding you. Someone near to you is jealous of you and your ability. And while part of this extends to your work as a peace officer and your duties in upholding the law, there is another part of it that has to do with your church …”
The face had changed. The savage lines had ironed out and now it was simply the face of an old man, weary and bewildered. Stan hurried on, panicky for fear the tenuous spell would break, but excited at his own power. If I can’t read a Bible-spouting, whoremongering, big-knuckled hypocrite of a church deacon, he told himself, I’m a feeblo. The old son-of-a-bitch.
Stan’s eyes misted over as if they had turned inward. His voice grew intimate. “There is someone you love very dearly. Yet there is an obstacle in the way of your love. You feel hemmed-in and trapped by it. And through it all I seem to hear a woman’s voice, a sweet voice, singing. It’s singing a beautiful old hymn. Wait a moment. It’s ‘Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me.”’
The deputy’s mouth was open, his big chest was lifting and falling with his breath.
“I see a Sunday morning in a peaceful, beautiful little church. A church into which you have put your energy and your labor. You have labored hard in the Lord’s vineyard and your labor has borne fruit in the love of a woman. But I see her eyes filled with tears and somehow your own heart is touched by them …”
Christ, how far do I dare go with this? Stan thought behind the running patter of his words.
“But I feel that all will come out well for you. Because you have strength. And you’ll get more. The Lord will give you strength. And there are malicious tongues about you, ready to do you an injury. And to do this fine woman an injury if they can. Because they are like whited sepulchers which appear beautiful outward but are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness and …”
The deacon’s eyes were hot again but this time not at Stan. There was a hunted look in them too as the youth bore down:
“And the spirit of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, has shined upon them but in vain, because they see as through a glass, darkly, and the darkness is nothing but a reflection of their own blackness and sin and hypocrisy and envy. But deep inside yourself you will find the power to combat them. And defeat them. And you will do it with the help of the God you believe in and worship.
“And while I feel the spirit talking to me straight out, like a father to his son, I must tell you that there’s a matter of some money coming to you that will cause you some disappointment and delay but you will get it. I can see that the people in this town have been pretty blind in the past but something in the near future will occur which will wake them up and make them realize that you are a more valuable man than they ever would admit. There’s a surprise for you—about this time next year or a little later, say around November. Something you’ve had your heart set on for a long time but it will come true if you follow the hunches you get and don’t let anybody talk you out of obeying your own good judgment which has never let you down yet —whenever you’ve given it a free rein.”
Hoately had evaporated. Stan turned and began to move slowly toward the gate. The midway outside was buzzing with little groups of talk. The entire carny had been sloughed and the deputies had chased the townies off the lot. Stan walked slowly, talking still in a soft, inward voice. The old man followed beside him, his eyes staring straight ahead.
“I’m very glad to have met you, Marshal. Because I expect to be back here again some day and I’d like to see if my Scotch blood had been telling me true, as I’m sure it has. I’m sure you don’t mind a young fellow like myself presuming to tell you these things, because, after all, I’m not pretending to advise you. I know you’ve lived a lot longer than I and have more knowledge of the ways of the world than I could ever have. But when I first set eyes on you I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a man and a servant of the law who is troubled deep in his mind,’ and then I saw that you had no reason to be because things are going to turn out just the way you want them to, only there will be a little delay …”
How the hell shall I finish this off, Stan wondered. I can talk myself right back into the soup if I don’t quit.
They reached the entrance and Stan paused. The deputy’s red, hard face turned toward him; the silence seemed to pour over Stan and smother him. This was the pay-off, and his heart sank. There was nothing more to be said now. This was where action started. Stan felt out of his depth. Then he suddenly knew the business that would work, if anything would. He turned away from the old man. Making his face look as spiritual as possible, he raised one hand and rested it easily in a gesture of peace and confidence against the looped canvas. It was a period at the end of the sentence.
The deputy let out a long, whistling breath, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and stood looking out on the darkening midway. Then he turned back to Stan and his voice was just an ordinary old man’s voice. “Young fella, I wisht I’d met you a long time ago. Tell the others to go easy in this town because we aim to keep it clean. But, by God, when—if I’m ever elected marshal you ain’t got nothing to worry about, long as you have a good, clean show. Good night, son.”
He plodded away slowly, his shoulders squared against the dark, authority slapping his thigh on a belt heavy with cartridges.
Stan’s collar was tight with the blood pounding beneath it. His head was as light as if he had a fever.
The world is mine, God damn it! The world is mine! I’ve got ’em across the barrel and I can shake them loose from whatever I want. The geek has his whisky. The rest of them drink something else: they drink promises. They drink hope. And I’ve got it to hand them. I’m running over with it. I can get anything I want. If I could hand this old fart a cold reading and get away with it I could do it to a senator! I could do it to a governor!
Then he remembered where he had told her to hide.
In the black space where the trucks were parked, Zeena’s van was behind the others, dark and silent. He opened the cab door softly and crept in, his blood hammering.
“Molly!”
“Yes, Stan.” The whisper came from the black cavern behind the seat.
“It’s okay, kid. I stalled him. He’s gone.”
“Oh, Stan, gee, you’re great. You’re great.”
Stan crawled back over the seat and his hand touched a soft, hot shoulder. It was trembling. His arm went about it. “Molly!”
Lips found his. He crushed her back on a pile of blankets.
“Stan, you won’t let anything happen to me—will you?”
“Certainly not. Nothing’s ever going to happen to you while I’m around.”
“Oh, Stan, you’re so much like my dad.”
The hooks which held the sequinned bodice came open in his shaking fingers. The girl’s high, pointed breasts were smooth under his hands, and his tongue entered her lips.
“Don’t hurt me, Stan, honey. Don’t.” His collar choked him, the blood hammering in his throat. “Oh. Stan—hurt me, hurt me, hurt me—”
CARD V
The Empress
who sits on Venus’ couch amid the ripening grain and rivers of the earth.
THE NIGHT was quiet at last, with only the katydids. The ferris wheel stood as gaunt as a skeleton against the stars; the cookhouse lights were lonely in the dark.
Stan stepped down into the grass beside the van and held his hand up to help Molly. Her palm was hot and damp. When she stood beside him she clung to him for a moment and pressed her forehead against his cheek. They were almost the same height. Her hair smelled sweet and tickled his lips. He shook his head impatiently.
“Stan, honey, you do love me—don’t you?”
“S
ure I do, baby.”
“And you won’t tell a soul. Promise me you won’t tell. Because I never let any man do it to me before, honest.”
“Are you sure?” Stan thrilled at his power over her. He wanted to hear her voice with fear in it.
“Yes, honey. Yes. Honest. You hurt me something terrible at first. You know—”
“Yes.”
“Darling, if I’d ever done it before you wouldn’t have hurt me. Only I’m glad you hurt me, honey, I’m glad. Because you were the first.”
The air was chilly; she began to shiver. Stan slipped off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “Gee, you’re good to me, Stan.”
“I’ll always be.”
“Always?” Molly stopped and turned to face him, resting both hands on his forearm. “What do you mean, Stan?”
“Just always.”
“You mean until the season’s over and we all split up?” Her voice held a deeper question.
Stan had decided. In his mind he saw the blaze of the foots, with himself standing there straight. In command. Molly was in the audience in an evening gown, walking slowly down the aisle. The marks—the audience—craned their necks to look at her. She was an eyeful. The placards at each side of the stage said simply, STANTON. The big time.
“Molly, you like show business, don’t you?”
“Why, sure, Stan. Daddy always wanted to see me in show business.”
“Well, what I mean is— Well, let’s head for the big time. Together.”
Her arm slid around his waist and they walked on again, slowly. “Darling, that’s wonderful. I was hoping you’d say that to me.”
“I mean it. Together we can get right to the top. You’ve got the class and the shape. I mean, you’re beautiful and we can work up a two-person code act that’ll knock ’em dead.”
Molly’s arm tightened around him. “Stan, that’s what I always wanted. Daddy would be awful proud of us. I know he would. He’d be crazy about you, Stan. The way you can talk your way out of a tight place. That’s what he admired most in anybody. That and not double-crossing a pal, ever. Daddy said he wanted on his tombstone, ‘Here lies Denny Cahill. He never crossed up a pal.”’
“Did he get it?”
“No. My grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. The stone just says, ‘Dennis Cahill’ and under it the dates when he was born and when he passed away. Only one night, just before I left Louis-ville, I went out and wrote it below the dates with chalk. I’ll bet some of the chalk is still there.”
They had reached the Ten-in-One. Inside a single bulb glowed. Stan peered in. “All clear, kid. Get into your things. I wonder where the others are?”
While Molly was dressing behind the curtains of Zeena’s stage Stan walked over to the cookhouse and found the cook cleaning coffee urns. “Where’s the bunch?”
“Scattered. The bulls run in a couple of fellows on the wheels and games. They even sloughed the cat rack. The fixer’ll get ’em sprung tomorrow. And I’ll have to put on a tub of water so they can boil up and get the crumbs out of their clothes. Want a cup o’ java?”
“No, thanks. I want to find my bunch. Got any idea where they went?”
The cook wiped his hands and lit a cigarette. “Hoately’s gone up the road to a lunch wagon or something. Roadside joint. You can’t miss it. He said he didn’t want to hang around the lot tonight. Can’t blame him. Seems somebody put in a beef to the cops about the geek show you fellows got. And about the wheels. Way I heard it, that tattooed guy used to be in the Ten-in-One and had the run-in with Plasky was in town shooting off his mouth.”
“Sailor Martin?”
“That’s the son-of-a-bitch. What I heard, he worked on the townies and got them to beef to the cops. Can you imagine a carny doing that? Somebody ought to stick a butcher knife up his rear end and kick the handle off.”
Stan heard a low whistle from outside and said good night to the cook. Molly was standing in the shadow of the Ten-in-One, looking prim and neat in a dark suit and a white silk blouse. He took her arm and they set off down the road.
It was a chicken-dinner shack; from inside came voices and laughs. He pushed open the screen door.
At a table with a red-checkered tablecloth the bunch was gathered. Pints of whisky stood among plates of chicken bones. Hoately was talking:
“… and the minute I heard the kid go into that jerk-’em-to-Jesus routine I knowed we was all set. I want to tell you, it was something to watch. That old buzzard’s trap was hanging open a mile—lapping up every word the kid handed him.”
He paused and let out a whoop at the sight of Stan and Molly.
The others helloed; Zeena bustled up and put her arms around Molly and kissed her. “Sakes alive, honey, I’m glad to see you. You come over and sit down right by Zeena. Where on earth did you skedaddle to? We knew they didn’t pinch you or Stan because Clem hung around and watched. But I was looking all over for you.”
“I hid in the van,” Molly said. She looked down at her purse and ran her finger over the clasp.
“And Stan!” Zeena enveloped him in a hug and kissed him warmly on the mouth. “Stan, boy, you sure done noble. I always knew you were a mentalist. Imagine that—giving a cold reading to a cop and getting away with it! Oh, I just love you.”
The rasping, fiddle voice of Major Mosquito cut through. “Come on over and have a drink. Hoately’s treat. Come on over. I’m getting stinko.”
They took their seats, and a gangling youth with spiky hair brought in two more plates of chicken. “Watch them bottles, folks. Town’s hell on enforcement.”
Stan and Molly sat together. Suddenly they were ravenous and dug into the chicken.
Joe Plasky said, “Nice going, kid. You kept your head. You’re real carny, and no mistake.”
Bruno said nothing. He had been about to start on his fourth plate of chicken but now it lay in front of him, neglected. Molly caught Stan’s hand and squeezed it under the tablecloth. They exchanged a quick look.
Zeena poured herself a drink and took it in two swallows. “Liquor’s terrible, Clem. It’s that bad, I nearly left some—as the Scotch fella says.”
Clem Hoately was picking his teeth with a sharpened match. “Short notice. I asked one of the deputies—young fellow who looked okay—where I could pick up a pint. He sent me to his brother-in-law. Town’s all right if you case it careful. We won’t have no trouble after tonight. That old son-of-a-bitch that sloughed us was the toughest they got. We’ll open tomorrow night and pack ’em in. Best advertising in the world.”
Molly looked startled. “I—I shouldn’t think it would be safe.”
Hoately grinned. “You can wear riding boots and breeches. That’ll be all right. You got the shape to look good in ’em. Don’t worry about it.”
Zeena took a chicken bone from her mouth and said, “I think we all ought to give Stan a great big hand. We might have got into a peck of trouble if it hadn’t been for him. I always say, there’s nothing like the second sight. Anybody who can give a good reading’ll never starve. Only, gosh”—she turned to face Stan—“I never knew you could spout the Bible, the way Clem’s been telling us.” She paused, chewing, and then went on, “Stan, ’fess up. Were you ever really a preacher?”
He shook his head, hard lines at the corners of his mouth. “That was my old man’s idea once—to make me one. Only I couldn’t see it. Then he wanted me to go into real estate. But that’s too slow a turn. I wanted magic. But the old gent was a great hand at quoting scripture. I guess a lot of it rubbed off onto me.”
Major Mosquito, holding a tumbler in both hands, lifted it. “Here’s to the Great Stanton, purveyor of fun, magic, mystery and bullshit! He’s a jolly good fellow, he’s a jolly good …”
Bruno Hertz said, “You shut up. You talk too much for little fellow.” His sad steer’s eyes were on Molly. Suddenly he blurted out, “Molly, you and Stan going to get married?”
The room got as quiet as if a needle had been lifted off a record.
Molly choked and Zeena slapped her on the back. Her face was red when she answered, “Why—what makes you think—”
Bruno, bold and desperate, stumbled on. “You and Stan been together! You going to get married?”
Stan looked up and met the strongman’s gaze levelly. “As a matter of fact, Molly and I are going to head for vaudeville. We’ve got it all figured out. In the two-a-day nobody’s going to run her in for wearing skimpies.”
Zeena set down her glass. “Why—why, I think that’s just splendid. Clem, did you hear? They’re going to try the two-a-day. I think it’s perfectly fine. I think it’s great.” She crushed Molly in another hug. Then she reached out and rumpled Stan’s hair. “Stan,—ain’t—ain’t you the foxy one! And you all the time —making out like you never—never knew the child was on the face of the earth.” She dumped more whisky in her glass and said, “All right, folks, here’s a toast to the bride and groom. Long life and may all your troubles be little ones—eh, Molly?”
Hoately lifted his coffee cup. Major Mosquito said, “Hooray! Let me hide under the bed, the first night. I’ll be quiet. Just let me—”
Bruno Hertz poured a small drink for himself and gazed at Molly over the glass. “Prosit, Liebchen.” Under his breath he muttered, “Better wish luck. You going to need luck. Maybe some day you going to need—”
Joe Plasky’s Lazarus smile was like a lamp. “All the best, kids. Glad to see it. I’ll give you a letter to a couple of booking agents in New York.”
Zeena cleared the plates and glasses from before her with an unsteady sweep. She reached into her purse and drew out a pack of cards. “Here you are, kids. Now’s a good time to see what the Tarot has for you. The Tarot’s always got an answer.” She shuffled. “Go ahead, honey. Cut ’em. Let’s see what you cut.”
Molly cut the cards and Zeena grabbed them and turned them over. “Well, what d’you know—The Empress! That’s her, honey. See, she’s sitting on a couch and it’s got the sign of Venus on it. That’s for love. And she’s got stars in her hair. That’s for all the good things your husband’s going to give you.”
Nightmare Alley Page 10
