by Pete Hautman
Carmen settled into her seat. If he didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine with her. The first Saturday of the fair was going to be a long, hard day. The sky was bright blue, and the air was warming quickly. In most ways she dreaded the long hours ahead, but a part of her was looking forward to the energy and focus the day would bring. Responsible? The word had a strange flavor. Did he think he was her dad, or what?
The Daily News, official newsletter of the Minnesota State Fair, predicted a new attendance record that Saturday. As many as a quarter of a million people were expected. The weather looked like a perfect eighty-degree high, the sky appeared cloudless for two hundred miles in every direction, and Garth Brooks was scheduled to play the grandstand.
As usual, Sophie already had the front of the Taco Shop open and the deep-fryers heating by the time Axel and Carmen arrived. Ever since Axel had given her the title “manager” and promised her a bonus, Sophie had been putting in heroic hours. It was hard for him to believe that she was stealing from him. Nevertheless, as soon as she left the stand to visit the rest rooms, Axel took a careful look at the tortillas in the cooler. The flour tortillas came from Garcia’s in plastic bags of one hundred, and the smaller corn tortillas in pouches of six dozen. He moved some of the bags aside and found eight ten-count pouches of Zapata tortillas, a grocery store brand, tucked in behind the regular stock.
So Tommy was right. Sophie was H.O.’ing. It was the only possible explanation. Eighty extra tortillas, assuming they were made into Bueno Burritos, would translate into over two hundred dollars. Over the course of the fair, that would add up to $2,400. Axel replaced the tortillas. So much for the five-hundred-dollar bonus he’d planned to give her. He would have to do something about it. But not today, not with a record crowd pouring through the gates. When Sophie got back from the john, it would be business as usual.
They had a line by ten that morning, and in the rush and bustle of business, Axel quickly purged his mind of Sophie’s tortillas, the bald kid in the Maverick, and his missing .45. The day flew by without the usual midafternoon slump. Sophie, Carmen, Juanita, Kirsten, and Janice, the weekend gill, hardly stopped moving all day. By early evening they’d run out of cups, and Axel had to go begging from other concessionaires, none of whom were eager to dip into their supplies to help a competitor. He finally coaxed half a case out of the Orange Treet guy by promising to give him free tacos for the rest of the fair. At seven o’clock, Sophie told Carmen to start skimping on the cheese. At seven-thirty, they ran out of corn tortillas; and shortly after nine o’clock, they ran out of the flour.
Twenty years in the business, and Axel had never run out of tortillas. Elated by record sales but distraught over the business he was losing, Axel ran to each of the three other Mexican food concessions on the fairgrounds and tried unsuccessfully to buy more tortillas. He thought about making the run to Cub Foods, but by the time he got back with them it would be too late to do any good. Garcia’s truck would show up the next morning with Sunday’s supply of fresh tortillas, and they could start all over again. He returned to the stand empty-handed but feeling better knowing that he had at least tried.
An exhausted Sophie stood proudly at the serving window, offering refried beans to each new customer. Axel stopped and watched as she actually sold some. A bubble of pride expanded in his chest; the woman really and honestly cared about his business. He had planned to talk to Sophie about the grocery-store tortillas that night, but he didn’t have the heart to hit her with it after such a killer day. He told her to go home, told her he and Carmen would close up the stand. Wearily, Sophie agreed. Axel watched her walk off toward the parking lot, thinking she was worth every penny he paid her. Maybe even worth every penny she stole.
Carmen and Kirsten, with little to do in the way of food preparation, sat on folding chairs by the side of the stand, smoking cigarettes. Kirsten was just getting started with her first pack of Virginia Slims. She watched Carmen carefully, trying to emulate her stylish smoking technique. Carmen had a way of taking the smoke into her mouth, then letting it stream out over her upper lip into her nose. She called it a French inhale. When Kirsten tried to do it, she sneezed and started coughing.
“First you got to learn to inhale regular,” Carmen said. “You got to start a little at a time.”
Kirsten nodded, her eyes watering, and took a tiny puff from her Virginia Slim.
Juanita was perched on a cheese carton, chewing on a fingernail. Carmen offered her a cigarette.
“No, thank you,” Juanita said.
Carmen said to Kirsten, “Juanita is very polite.”
That cracked them up, all three of them. It had been a long day.
James Dean stood between the railroad tracks at the back of the forty-acre parking lot, tossing stones up in the air and trying to hit them with an old broom handle. He was a lefty. Because it was dark, he could only connect with about one out of every four or five swings, and most of those he drove straight into the ground. Now and then, though, he got a good piece of one, and the rock would go sailing out into the parking lot. He caught this one rock perfect, listened, heard the sharp crack of stone on safety glass.
Last night, he’d closed up the bar with Tigger and Sweety.
They’d been on the sidewalk, just leaving, when Tigger had suggested that Dean stay with them at “Headquarters.”
That had sounded good to Dean. Tigger had an aging, oil-burning Cadillac Fleetwood, about a ’76, rust-spotted black, with tinted windows and a peeling black vinyl roof. Dean got in his Maverick and followed the smoke through a tangled neighborhood, parked on the street, then accompanied his new friends down an alley, over a fence, and through the broken basement window of a dark, boarded-up house. The air smelled of spray paint, mildew, piss, and cigarette butts.
Tigger lit a candle, then said he had to go grab the juice. At first, Dean thought he was going for a bottle, but Tigger crawled back out through the window trailing a long orange extension cord. A minute later, the work lamp at the end of the extension cord blinked on.
“Headquarters” contained two mattresses on the floor, a torn vinyl beanbag chair, a few hundred beer bottles, an old TV. Empty spray cans were scattered among the beer bottles. Spray-painted slogans and drawings covered the walls. Heil Hitler. White Power. Fuck Off and Die. A few scattered swastikas, crosses, and skulls. One wall bore an enormous stylized vagina, fluorescent pink labia stretching from floor to ceiling. A pile of well-thumbed magazines—Soldier of Fortune, High Times, assorted skin mags—sat atop an upended cardboard box.
“This is, like, our meeting place,” Tigger explained as he climbed back in through the window. “A bunch of us hang here.”
“What’s the deal with the light?” Dean asked.
“The guy next door has an outside outlet. We just plug ourselves in. He don’t miss it.”
Dean nodded. A real four-star operation, this. He’d have been better off sleeping in his car. “There a bathroom here?”
“Yeah. What they used to call the furnace room. The toilet paper’s on top of the water heater.”
Despite all that, he’d slept pretty good. The mattress wasn’t bad, and nothing ran over him or bit him during the night, although he had heard some scurrying
Tonight things would be different. Tonight he’d get himself a real room, and tomorrow, if Tigger could be believed, he’d be scoring himself a chunk of very pure, very cheap, very marketable meth.
Dean tossed a rock into the air, swung the broom handle as hard as he could. He hit the rock low. It went up in the air, came down a few feet away.
Enough. He decided to quit before he dropped a rock on his head, or before some guy with a busted windshield came looking for him.
Axel bought Carmen a bomb pop on the way to the truck. Carmen liked bomb pops. She liked to bite away the ridges, feeling the red, white, and blue ice cold on her front teeth. Twelve hours of action had left her numb; she sucked the bomb pop and listened to Axel chatter about what a great
day they’d had. The day’s receipts were inside his burlap shoulder bag Axel patted the side of the bag affectionately.
“A great day,” he said. “You did a great job, Carmen. You’re a great kid.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If the rest of the fair is good—hell, even if it’s not good—I’m going to be giving you a nice bonus. Buy yourself some new clothes.”
Carmen bit the tip off her bomb pop and looked at the money bag.
“That would be great.”
“You worked hard. You deserve it.”
“I sure do.”
Axel gave her a sharp look. He unlocked the passenger door and opened it, then circled the truck and let himself in the other door.
“You stick with me, Carmen, and you’ll do all right.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not kidding you. Hang in there with me, Carmen. I’ll take care of you. I really will. We’re a team.”
Carmen pulled the bomb pop out of her mouth and looked at Axel. He was staring at her, looking right into her eyes. He looked like he was going to cry.
“Okay,” she said, looking away. She hated it when Axel got maudlin. She thought about the six-pack of canned martinis waiting in her room, wondering whether they would still be cool from the night before. Not that it mattered. They went down just as fast warm.
Two hundred yards away, James Dean sat against the back of Tommy Fabian’s Winnebago, playing with Axel’s .45, feeling the checkered wooden handle, smelling the tangy odor of gun oil. He had never fired a pistol. Cocking the hammer, he sighted along the top of the barrel. The gun was heavy. He uncocked it carefully, set it in his lap. The long wait had diminished much of his excitement. He was getting hungry. To pass the time, he played the scene out again in his mind, seeing Tiny Tot’s face when he showed him the gun. He wasn’t sure what he would do after that, but whatever it was, Tiny Tot wouldn’t like it.
He gripped the gun and listened. He could hear footsteps.
The footsteps passed. It was still too early.
He let his head fall back on the rear bumper of the RV and watched the moon, not quite full. A faint ringing sound wound its way through the RV camp—someone’s mobile phone, perhaps. Dean thought, It tolls for thee, Tiny Tot.
What he would have to do, he had decided, was show him the gun about two seconds after he got to the door. Take charge of the situation before Tiny Tot could figure out which key to use. Come around the side of the Winnebago fast.
Nearby, someone in one of the RVs turned on a radio. Some old disco music from the seventies, before his time. Dean closed his eyes and listened, breathing deeply.
Something jarred him awake, a movement of the Winnebago’s bumper against his head. He jumped up, heard the gun flip off his lap, hit the ground. Shit! He looked around the corner of the motor home.
Shit! The donut guy was there, already standing on the fucking step, turning the key. Where had the gun fallen?
No time. Tiny Tot had the door open. He was stepping inside. His plan forgotten, Dean ran straight at him, caught the door just before it closed, tore it open. He saw Tiny Tot turn toward him, mouth open, then twist away, reaching for something. Dean grabbed him by the ankles, jerked. Tiny Tot went down hard, the RV shaking, then twisted around with something in his hand, bringing it down on Dean’s shoulder. Galvanized by a shock of pain, Dean threw himself backward out the door, dragging Tiny Tot with him, hurling the little man hard against the wheel of the Peterbilt. A baseball bat flew from Tiny Tot’s hands, thudded to the gravel a few yards away. His cowboy hat fell forward onto his lap. He sagged against the big tire of the semi, his eyes bugging out, gasping for breath. Dean ran for the bat, scooped it up as Tiny Tot drew a loud breath, started to rise, saw Dean coming at him with the bat, and raised his arms.
Dean swung the bat, a downward chopping motion, hitting the donut man’s forearm. Tiny Tot howled and fell back against the tire. Dean struck again, the bat glancing off Tiny Tot’s skull. The little man’s face went slack, his eyes pointing in two different directions, blood curtaining over his right ear. The sight of blood made the earth tilt; Dean dropped to his knees and closed his eyes. His ears filled with a rushing sound. He swallowed. The sound in his ears abruptly ceased. Voices. He heard someone shouting something. He pushed aside the dizziness, dropped the bat, and jumped up into the Winnebago, searching frantically for Tiny Tot’s money bag. Everything was so bright, so in focus, it was hard to see, like a television with the contrast set too high. There, on the floor. He scooped up the bag in one hand, jumped out. The donut guy was moving, crawling away. Dean kicked him twice in the ribs till he curled up, his hands over his bloody head, fingers glittering. A flashing horseshoe snapped into hard focus. Dean kicked again, and again, until Tiny Tot’s arms flopped away from his head. He ripped the horseshoe ring from Tiny Tot’s slack fingers.
Someone yelled, “Hey! What’s going on back there?”
There was a watch too, glittering in the faint light. Dean tore it from Tiny Tot’s wrist. The band broke. He threw the watch away and started to run, then remembered his gun. He found it immediately, right where he’d dropped it at the back of the RV. His senses were totally keyed; he was seeing like a fucking owl.
“Hey!” A figure appeared from the other side of the Peterbilt. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Dean pointed the .45 at the figure, a tall, burly man with a dark beard. He could see every detail of the man’s face, every wrinkle, every pore. He was too out of breath to reply, so he just waited for the man to get close enough to see the gun.
Chapter 21
The cute one that worked in the donut place, the one that reminded Kirsten of Luke Perry, showed up at the taco stand before they even had the fryer up to temperature. Kirsten leaned over the counter.
“Morning,” she said.
He smiled at her.
“How’s it going?” Kirsten asked. “You hungry already?” God, did that ever sound lame. She wished she knew his name, but since they had been trading tacos and donuts back and forth for three days now, it seemed like it would be rude to ask him. He didn’t know her name, either, but he called her Blondie, which she liked. So she just thought of him as Luke. She loved that name: Luke.
“Mr. Speeter around?” he asked.
Kirsten shook her head. “Huh-uh.”
The kid, Luke, frowned and looked up and down the mall. “You seen Mr. Fabian?” he asked.
“Who?”
“My boss?”
“Huh-uh.” Thinking, God, do I sound like a dork, or what?
He looked past Kirsten into the stand, where Sophie was shredding lettuce.
“We’re supposed to be open now, only he never showed up this morning.”
Sophie came up to the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “Tommy hasn’t shown up?”
“He’s like two hours late already. What do you think we should do?” He pointed at the locked-up donut stand, where eight girls in Tiny Tot T-shirts were standing under the eaves, watching him. “They’re talking about going home.”
Now that Luke was talking to Sophie, Kirsten could look at him real close. She liked the way his upper lip sort of folded back when he smiled, and she was hoping he would smile now while she could get a good look. He had a few pimples, but she let her eyes slide away from them, and anyway, they weren’t permanent. His eyes, though, his eyes were the best thing of all. When I have my kids, Kirsten thought, I want all nine of them to have eyes that same bright sparkly blue.
Sophie pointed up the mall, her arm blocking Kirsten’s view. “Here comes Axel now.”
The kid intercepted Axel several yards away, talking and pointing at the Tiny Tot stand. Sophie went back to shredding lettuce. Kirsten watched Axel hand Luke a ring of keys, clap him on the shoulder, and point at the donut stand. Luke, a determined look on his TV-star face, nodded several times, then trotted toward the bored octet of Tiny Tot girls, holding the keys in the air and waving them.
�
��Where’s Carmen?” Sophie asked as Axel stuck his head through the back door.
“She’ll be taking the bus in this morning. I had to leave early. Tom Fabian called me from the hospital at six o’clock this morning.”
Sophie scraped shredded lettuce into a stainless-steel bin and pressed it down with the lid. “He have a heart attack?” she asked, tearing open a five-pound plastic bag filled with grated cheese.
“He got jumped. Somebody beat him up. He looks pretty ugly. He can hardly talk.”
Kirsten said, “Wow!”
“I had to pick up the keys from him. It was either that or he was going to crawl out of the hospital on his hands and knees and open the stands himself. The doctor made him call me.”
He looked across the mall at the Tiny Tot concession, where the nine teenagers in their Tiny Tot T-shirts were moving around with an excess of confused energy.
“Look at that,” Sophie said. “They don’t know what they’re doing. Tommy should have a manager. I mean a real manager, not some high school kid.”
“I don’t know,” Axel said. “Looks to me like they’re doing okay. In any case, Sam’s going to come out later. Tommy asked him to run things while he was laid up.”
“Sam O’Gara?” Sophie let her mouth drop open.
Axel smiled, almost laughing. “Hey, he’ll do fine. All he’s got to do is sit on the stool and eat donuts. Those kids know what they’re doing. Look at them. They already got the front of the stand open. Another ten minutes they’ll be frying and bagging. Look, I’ve got to go get his other two stands up and running.”
Sophie pushed out her chin. “What about our stand?”
“What about it? You can’t run things without me?”
Sophie crushed her lips together.
“I’ll be right back,” Axel said. “Listen, if Sam shows up, take him over and introduce him to Duane, would you?”
“Who’s Duane?” Sophie asked.
Axel pointed toward the Tiny Tot stand, at the Luke Perry clone. A look that fell somewhere between horror and nausea crossed Kirsten Lund’s face. “Duane?” she said.
