Nightmare Alley

by William Lindsay Gresham

  It was late and the lights were fewer. Around them the town’s roar had softened to a hum. And spring was coming with poplar trees standing slim and innocent around a glade with the grass hummocks under one’s hands—can’t I ever forget it? His eyes blurred and he felt his mouth tighten.

  The next moment Lilith’s hand was through his arm, pressing it, turning him across the avenue to the apartment house where she lived, where she worked her own special brand of magic, where she had her locked files full of stuff. Where she told people what they had to do during the next day when they wanted a drink, when they wanted to break something, when they wanted to kill themselves with sleeping tablets, when they wanted to bugger the parlor maid or whatever they wanted to do that they had become so afraid of doing that they would pay her twenty-five dollars an hour to tell them either why it was all right to do it or go on doing it or think about doing it or how they could stop doing it or stop wanting to do it or stop thinking about doing it or do something else that was almost as good or something which was bad but would make you feel better or just something to do to be able to do something.

  At her door they stopped and she turned to him, smiling serenely, telling him in that smile that he wasn’t coming in tonight, that she didn’t need him, didn’t want him tonight, didn’t want his mouth on her, didn’t want him to kneel beside her, kissing her, didn’t want anything of him except the knowledge that when she wanted him in the night and wanted his mouth on her and wanted him kneeling beside her, kissing her, she would have him doing all those things to her as she wanted them done and just when she wanted them done and just how she wanted them done to her because she had only what she wanted from anybody and she had let him do those things to her because she had wanted them done to her not because he could do them better than anyone else although he didn’t know if there was anybody else and didn’t want to know and it didn’t matter and she could have him any time she wanted those things done to her because that was the way she was and she was to be obeyed in all things because she held in her hand the golden thread which carried the current of life into him and she held behind her eyes the rheostat that fixed the current and she could starve him and dry him up and kill him by freezing if she wanted to and this was where he had gotten himself only it didn’t matter because as long as one end of the golden wire was embedded in his brain he could breathe and live and move and become as great as she wanted since she sent the current along the wire for him to become great with and live with and even make love to Molly with when Molly begged him to tell her if he didn’t want her any more so she might get some man before she looked like an old hay-burner and her insides were too tight for her ever to have a kid.

  All these things he saw in the full lower lip, the sharp cheekbones and chin, the enormous eyes of gray that looked like ink now in the dark of the vestibule. He was about to ask her something else and he wet his lips with his tongue. She caught his thought, nodded, and he stood there, three steps below her with his hand holding his hat, looking up at her and needing and then she gave him what he was begging for, her lips for a full, warm, soft, sweet, moist moment and her little tongue between his like the words, “Good night” formed of soft moisture. Then she had gone and there he was for another day, another week, another month, willing to do anything she said, as long as she would not break the golden wire and now he had her permission, which she had pulled out of his mind, and he hurried off to take advantage of it before she changed her mind and sent him refusal, chilling along the invisible wire embedded in his brain, that would stop his hand six inches from his lips.

  Three doors down was a little cocktail bar with a glass sign over it that was illumined some way from inside and said “BAR.” Stan hurried in. The murals jagged crazily this way and that up the three-toned wall and a radio was playing softly where the bar man nodded on a stool at one end of the bar. Stan laid a dollar on the polished wood.

  “Hennessy, Three Star.”

  “ ‘Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss—’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s from The Harlot’s House. Shall we go in?”

  They were walking down a side street in the early summer twilight; ahead of them Lexington Avenue was gaudy with neon. In the basement of an old brownstone was a window painted in primary blues and reds; above it a sign, “Double Eagle Kretchma.” Gypsy music was filtering out on the heated air.

  “It looks like a joint to me.”

  “I like joints—when I’m in the mood for dirt. Let’s go in.”

  It was dark with a few couples sliding around on the little dance floor. A sad fat man with blue jowls, wearing a Russian blouse of dark green silk, greasy at the cuffs, came toward them and took them to a booth. “You wish drinks, good Manhattan? Good Martini?”

  “Do you have any real vodka?” Lilith was tapping a cigarette.

  “Good vodka. You, sir?”

  Stan said, “Hennessy, Three Star, and plain water.”

  When the drinks came he offered the waiter a bill but it was waved away. “Later. Later. Have good time first. Then comes the payment—the bad news, huh? Have good time—always have to pay for everything in the end.” He leaned across the table, whispering, “This vodka—it’s not worth what you pay for it. Why you want to come here anyhow? You want card reading?”

  Lilith looked at Stan and laughed. “Let’s.”

  From the shadows in the back of the room a woman stepped out and waddled toward them, her bright red skirt swishing as her hips rolled. She had a green scarf around her head, a curved nose, loose thin lips and a deep, greasy crease between her breasts which seemed ready to burst from her soiled white blouse at any moment. When she wedged herself into the booth beside Stan her round hip was hot and burning against his thigh.

  “You cut the cards, lady; we see what you cut, please. Ah, see! Good sign! This card called The Star. You see this girl—she got one foot on land, one foot on water; she pour wine out on land and water. That is good sign, lucky in love, lady. I see man with light hair going to ask you to marry him. Some trouble at first but it come out all right.”

  She turned up a card. “This one here—Hermit card. Old man with star in lantern. You search for something, no? Something you lose, no? Ring? Paper with writing on it?”

  Against Lilith’s blank, cold face the gypsy’s questions bounded back. She turned another card. “Here is Wheel of Life. You going to live long time with not much sickness. Maybe some stomach trouble later on and some trouble with nervous sickness but everything pass off all right.”

  Lilith took a puff of her cigarette and looked at Stan. He pulled two bills from his wallet and held them to the gypsy. “That’ll do, sister. Scram.”

  “Thank you, mister. But lots more fortune in cards. Tell lots of thing about what going to happen. Bad luck, maybe; you see how to keep it away.”

  “Go on, sister. Beat it.”

  She shoved the bills into her pocket along with the Tarot deck and heaved out of the booth without looking back.

  “She’ll probably put the hex on us now,” Stan said. “Christ, what corn. Why the hell did I ever leave the carny? I could be top man in the mitt camp right now and tucking ten grand in the sock at the end of every season.”

  “You don’t want to, darling.” Lilith sipped her vodka. “Do you think I’d be sitting here with you if your only ambition was to be top man in a—what did you call it?”

  “Mitt camp.” He grinned weakly. “You’re right, doctor. Besides I’d probably have pulled the switch once too often and gotten jugged.” He answered her frown. “The switch is what the gypsies call okana borra—the great trick. You have the chump tie a buck up in his hanky. He sleeps on it and in the morning he has two bucks and comes running back with all his savings out of the teapot. Then when he wakes up next time he has nothing in the hank but a stack of paper and he comes back looking for the gypsy.”

  “You know su
ch fascinating bits of folklore, Mr. Carlisle. And you think you could ever be happy using those very keen, crafty brains of yours to cheat some ignorant farmer? Even if you did make ten thousand a year and loaf all winter?”

  He finished the brandy and signaled the waiter for a refill. “And when it rains you read mitts with your feet in a puddle and a river down the back of your neck. I’ll stick to Mrs. Peabody’s house—it’s got a better roof on it.”

  Lilith’s eyes had narrowed. “I meant to speak to you, Stan, when we got a chance. There are two women who will be introduced to your congregation, not directly through me, naturally, but they’ll get there. One of them is a Mrs. Barker. She’s interested in yoga; she wants to go to India but I told her not to uproot her life at this stage. She needs something to occupy her time. I think your Cosmic Breath would be just about right.”

  Stan had taken a slip of paper from his pocket and was writing. “What’s her first name?”

  “Give me that paper.” She put it in the ashtray and touched her lighter to it. “Stan, I’ve told you not to write down anything. I don’t want to have to remind you again. You talk very glibly about making a million with your brains and yet you continue to act as naïve as a carnival grifter.”

  He downed the drink desperately and found another in its place and finished that one as quickly.

  Lilith went on. “The name is Lucinda Barker. There’s nothing else you need to know.”

  There was silence for a minute, Stan sullenly rattling the ice in the chaser glass.

  “The other woman is named Grace McCandless. She’s single, forty-five years old. Kept house for her father until he died three years ago. She’s gone through Theosophy and come out the other side. She wants proof of survival.”

  “Give—can you tell me something about the old man?”

  “He was Culbert McCandless, an artist. You can look him up with the art dealers probably.”

  “Look, Lilith, give me just one ‘test.’ I know you’re afraid I’ll louse it up and they’ll think back to you. But you’ve got to trust me. After all, lady, I’ve been in this racket all my life.”

  “Well, stop apologizing and listen. McCandless went to bed with his daughter—once. She was sixteen. They never did it again but they were never separated. Now that’s all you’ll get. I’m the only person in the world who knows this, Stan. And if your foot slips I shall have to protect myself. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, pal. Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand the bum air.”

  Above them the summer leaves cut off the glow of the city in the night sky. By the obelisk they paused for a moment and then Lilith took the lead and they passed it. The back of the Museum seemed to leer at him, full of unspoken threats with doom straining at its leash in the shadows.

  When she came out of the bathroom her hands gleamed white against the black silk robe as she tied the cord. On her feet were tiny black slippers. Lilith sat at the desk by the bedroom window and from its side compartment took a case containing several flat drawers, labeled “Sapphires,” “Cat’s Eyes,” “Opals,” “Moss Agates.”

  She said, without looking at him, “The notes wouldn’t do you the slightest bit of good, Stan. They’re all in my own shorthand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her glance, raised to his for the first time, was calm and benevolent. “While I was in the bathroom you went into my office and tried out the key you had made for my file cabinet. I saw it on the dressing table after you had taken off your clothes. Now it’s not there. You’ve hidden it. But I recognized the notches. You took the impression from my key the last time you went to bed with me, didn’t you?”

  He said nothing but smoked quickly; the ember of his cigarette became long and pointed and angry red.

  “I was going to send you home, Stan, but I think you need a little lesson in manners. And I need my toenails fixed. You can help me with the polish. It’s in the drawer of the bed table. Bring it over here.”

  Dully he stamped out his cigarette, spilling some of the embers and quickly sweeping them back into the tray. He took the kit of nail polish and went over to her, feeling the air against his naked flesh cold and hostile. He threw his shirt over his shoulders and sat down on the carpet at her feet.

  Lilith had taken the drawer marked sapphires from its little cabinet and was lifting the stones with a pair of jeweler’s forceps, holding them in the light of the desk lamp. Without looking at him she shook one foot free of its slipper and placed it on his bare knee. “This is very good for you, darling. Occupational therapy.”

  The Great Stanton twisted cotton on the end of an orange-wood stick and dipped it into the bottle of polish remover. It smelled acrid and sharply chemical as he swabbed one tiny toenail with it, taking off the chipped polish evenly. Once he paused to kiss the slender foot at the instep but Lilith was absorbed in her tray of gems. Growing bolder, he drew aside the black silk and kissed her thigh. This time she turned and pulled the robe primly over knees, giving him a glance of amused tolerance. “You’ve had enough sinfulness for one evening, Mr. Carlisle. Be careful not to spill polish on the rug. You wouldn’t want me to rub your nose in it and then throw you out the back door by the scruff of your neck, would you, darling?”

  Bracing his hand against the curved instep he began to paint her nails. The rose-colored enamel spread evenly and he thought of the workbench out in the garage and its paint cans. Painting a scooter he had made out of boxes and old baby-carriage wheels. Mother said, “That’s beautiful, Stanton. I have several kitchen chairs you can paint for me.” The old man had been saving that paint for something. That meant another licking.

  “Stan, for heaven’s sake, be more careful! You hurt me with the orange stick.”

  He had finished the first foot and started on the other without knowing it.

  “What would you do for a shoeshine if you didn’t have me around?” He was startled at the amount of hostility in his own voice.

  Lilith laid down a sapphire, narrowing her eyes. “I might have another friend of mine do them. Possibly someone who could take me to the theater, who didn’t have to be so afraid of being seen with me. Someone who wouldn’t have to sneak in and out.”

  He set down the bottle of polish remover. “Lilith, wait until we make a killing. One big-time believer—” But he didn’t sound convinced himself; his voice died. “I—I want to be seen with you, Lilith. I—I didn’t think up this setup. You were the one who told me to hang on to Molly. If I went back to the carny—”

  “Stanton Carlisle. Pastor of the Church of the Heavenly Message. I didn’t think you could be jealous. I didn’t think you had that much of a heart, Stan. I thought all you cared about was money. And power. And more money.”

  He stood up, throwing off the shirt, his hands clenched. “Go on, pal. You can tell me about as many other guys as you want. This is fifty-fifty. I’m not jealous if another guy shakes hands with you. How’s that so different from—the other thing?”

  She watched him through eyes almost closed. “Not so very different. No. Not different at all. I shook hands regularly with the old judge—the one who set me up in practice when I was a court psychiatrist on a city salary. All cats have gray paws in the dark, you know, Stan. And I can vaguely recall, when I was sixteen, how five boys in our neighborhood waited for me one evening as I was coming home from night school. They took me into a vacant lot and shook hands with me one after the other. I think each came back twice.”

  He had turned as she spoke, his mouth hanging open idiotically, his hair falling over his face. He lurched over to the dressing table with its wing mirrors, gaped at his image, his eyes ravaged. Then in a spatter of desperate groping he seized the nail scissors and gouged at his forehead with them.

  The stab of pain was followed instantly by a tearing sensation in his right wrist and he saw that Lilith stood beside him, levering his hand behind his shoulder until he dropped the scissors. She had not forgotten to pull up her robe and
held it bunched under one arm to keep it from brushing her toes with their wet enamel.

  “Put a drop of iodine on it, Stan,” she said crisply. “And don’t try drinking the bottle. There’s not enough in it to do more than make you sick.”

  He let the cold water roar past his face and then tore at his hair with the rich, soft towel. His forehead wasn’t bleeding any more.

  “Stan, darling—”

  “Yeah. Coming.”

  “You never do anything by halves, do you, lover? So few men have the courage to do what they really want to do. If you’ll come in here and fuss over me a little more—I love to be fussed over, darling—I’ll tell you a bedtime story, strictly for adults.”

  He was putting on his clothes. When he was dressed he pulled up a hassock and said, “Give me your foot.”

  Smiling, Lilith put the gems away and leaned back, stretching her arms luxuriously, watching him with the sweetest of proprietary smiles.

  “That’s lovely, darling. Much more accurately than I could do it. Now about the bedtime story—for I’ve decided to risk it and ask you to stay over with me. You can, darling. Just this once. Well, I know a man—don’t be silly, darling, he’s a patient. Well, he started as a patient and later became a friend—but not like you, darling. He’s a very shrewd, capable man and he might do us both a lot of good. He’s interested in psychic phenomena.”