The Mortal Nuts

by Pete Hautman

  Dean lifted his hat by its crown and fanned himself with it. “This fucking sun,” he remarked to no one. He moved toward the shade of the Giant Slide, found a light pole to lean against, and examined his surroundings. His senses had become so acute that each blade of trampled grass stood out against its neighbors. An old guy in bib overalls and a green baseball cap stood a few yards away, hands buried in his pockets, looking at him. The old man nodded when he caught Dean’s eye.

  “Hot one, ain’t she?” he called out in a cracked voice.

  Dean gave the guy a cold stare, then returned his attention to the restroom entrance. What the hell was Carmen doing in there? He amused himself by fixing his gaze on a teenage girl waiting in line outside the restroom. If he focused, he felt, he could make her turn toward him. Lock eyes with her. He felt a presence behind him, turned his head. The guy with the green hat, inches away, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “You got a light, Mac?” The hair on his jaw was about the same length as the hair on Dean’s head. They both needed a shave.

  Dean said, “Get lost.”

  “What, you don’t got a light?”

  Dean took a quick look at the restrooms. No Carmen.

  The old man said, “You waitin’ on your gal?”

  Dean stabbed a forefinger at the old man’s chest. “What did I just tell you?”

  The old man laughed.

  “You think that’s funny?” Dean said. He squeezed his right hand into a fist, thinking about letting the guy have it—bam!—right in the nose.

  The old man widened his eyes and puffed out his lower lip, causing the unlit cigarette to point straight up at his left eye. He scratched the underside of his chin. “Guess I did,” he said. “Women is funny. Use to have one myself, y’know. Built like a fuckin’ Cadillac, bazooms like watermelons. Had a tattoo of an M-l rifle on her left ass-cheek and a birthmark the shape of Texas on t’other. Name was Tricksy. Gal was fast as lightning every way you can think of ’cept for one. Used to take her twenty minutes just to take a leak. Fuckin’ women. You go figure.”

  Dean stared at the old man, his lower lip moving up and down as he absorbed what he was hearing. The guy had eyes about six different colors, and more wrinkles than a ton of raisins. As Dean watched, the cigarette migrated from one side of his mouth to the other, bobbing up and down like a snake charmer’s flute.

  Axel had once seen a TV show about people who exploded. It had been one of those shows where they tell about UFOs and werewolves and people who can bend nails with their minds. Stuff he didn’t really believe. But the segment about people who exploded—not exploded, really, just sort of burst into flames—had sounded very scientific and convincing. They even had a scientific name for it, he remembered: spontaneous human combustion.

  At the time, Axel had wondered what those people who exploded felt like just before it happened. Now he thought he knew. They felt like this.

  His nest egg, all the money he’d managed to accumulate over the past twenty-five years, had been dug up by a couple of dogs, and the only person who might be able to return it to him, Sam O’Gara, had also disappeared. And Sophie—he’d never seen her like this before. She was raging, muttering under her breath, slamming things around the restaurant. Kirsten was so shook up she was screwing up every order, making tacos into tostadas, nachos into burros, and giving people Sprite when they’d ordered iced tea. Carmen was wandering the fairgrounds with a pocketful of dope. He wanted to run after Carmen and lock her in her room, where she’d be safe. He wanted to find Sam, find him and grab him by the ankles and shake loose his money. He wanted to be a thousand miles away from Sophie and her anger. But he couldn’t have any of that, because there was a line in front of the restaurant, people who wanted—who needed—Bueno Burritos. He was trapped inside a cage he had made for himself, and if something didn’t give, he was afraid he would ignite, leaving behind nothing but a horrified crowd of fairgoers and a charred spot on the restaurant floor. They would write about it in the Enquirer, and only fools like him would believe it to be true. But it would be.

  “You’re crazy,” Axel muttered as he started building a row of six Buenos.

  Sophie said, “What?” Hands like claws, ready to pounce on him.

  “I was talking to myself,” he said. Jesus Christ, he’d better be careful. He wasn’t the only one ready to blow. One wrong word, a single bad burrito, a fly landing on the wrong person’s nose at the wrong time—it was the goddamn Middle East, all packed inside a hundred eighty square feet. He felt the weight of the .45 in his pocket, tugging down on his right suspender. Every time he moved, it rubbed the outside of his thigh. Looking up from his work, he rolled his neck and let his eyes play across the crowded mall. He picked his way from face to face. Even after twenty-five years, they still looked like individuals to him. Then he saw a familiar green cap making its bobbing progress in the direction of the Taco Shop, and for a moment he felt it, an intense burning sensation, just above his belly, hot enough to ignite human flesh.

  Sophie had always wanted one of those Shit Happens bumper stickers. She saw them all the time, but she didn’t know where to buy one. It was so true, especially now. It came in waves, like the weather. When had it started? She tried to think back. Even as she smiled at her customers, took their money, pushed their food across the counter, and shouted instructions at Kirsten and Axel, a part of her mind was reviewing the last few days, trying to remember when this latest shit storm had rolled in. Was it when Carmen arrived from Omaha? When the fair started? Or was it when Axel made her a partner? She was having mixed feelings about that. Ten percent a year. What did that mean? And in the meantime, she was doing most of the work. In years past, Axel had spent most of every day in the Taco Shop, doing whatever needed doing. But this year … This year, every time she turned around he was going somewhere, or gone, or just standing out back, doing nothing at all. Like he thought now he had a partner he didn’t have to hold up his end anymore. Well, if he didn’t care enough about the business to do his share, then the hell with him. Telling her she was crazy, when he was the one acting like a jerk. There was this other bumper sticker she liked: Don’t like my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. As long as she was the one running this restaurant, he was going to have to help out, and not just for a few minutes here and there. Sophie turned around, thinking to share her thoughts with Axel whether he liked it or not. But Axel was gone, his apron hanging by the door, still moving.

  Chapter 36

  I here was only one thing Sam could have said that would have prevented Axel from asking about his missing money, and he said it.

  “Hey, Ax, I think I just met up with that guy you was telling me about. Your Bald Monkey fella. Just talked to him. Doggin’ that little gal a yours, all dressed up like Roy Rogers.”

  “You—you what him?” Axel shook his head, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “You mean, he’s here?”

  “I’d a grabbed him, only I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I was dealing with the right asshole.”

  “Got his head shaved, right?”

  “On the sides, anyway. He’s wearing one a them cheap cowboy hats.”

  “Got a cut on his eyebrow?”

  “Couldn’t see. He’s wearing his Foster Grants. Your little gal, she gave him the slip. C’mon.” Sam turned and started walking away.

  Axel blinked back his confusion and followed, his eyes on the sagging seat of Sam’s overalls. The crotch hung low, about eight inches north of his knees. Sam walked with a hip-swinging gait, each movement of his legs forming a shallow arc, like a toddler carrying a load in his diaper. Axel hurried forward and came up alongside him.

  “What do you mean, she gave him the slip? Was he chasing her?” Confusion was becoming anger; he put a hand in his pocket and gripped the .45 to keep it from abrading his thigh.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Where are we going? You know where they went?”

  “Once he realized she’d got away, he ask
ed me where was the Tilt-A-Whirl, then headed off toward the midway.”

  “You’re sure it was the same guy?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “So it might not be him.”

  “Might not be. Only how many shave-headed friends can Carmen have?”

  Axel did not reply. He really didn’t know. The Ferris wheel, at the entrance to the midway, loomed above them. Beyond lay a quarter-mile-long, U-shaped gauntlet of rides and games, and a milling crowd of cash-carrying suckers being willingly harvested by an organized gang of carnies.

  “There must be ten thousand people here,” Axel said.

  “Just look for a straw cowboy hat,” Sam said.

  “Maybe we ought to split up.”

  Sam grabbed Axel by the elbow. “Hold on, Ax. Talk to me here. What are you plannin’ on doin’ once we find him?”

  Axel caressed the slide of the .45, slick with sweat and gun oil.

  “I just want to make sure Carmen’s okay. Get her back to the stand.”

  “What about the guy?”

  Axel said, “You go down the right side. I’ll go this way.” He entered the midway, moving quickly, not looking back at Sam. As soon as he passed through the gate, the decibel level climbed. Every ride hammered the crowd with rock and roll—overamped tape loops of heavy-metal electric guitar clawed at his ears. Axel didn’t know any of the songs. To his ears it was noise, the same jarring, discordant crap Carmen liked. He tried to ignore the music and concentrate on looking at every face under a cowboy hat. There were a lot of them. Cowboy hats were big this year. Every one he saw produced another surge of adrenaline. He concentrated on keeping his cool. Tommy was dead, and he couldn’t change that. Tommy had already killed his killer. Axel’s priority had to be Carmen. If she was on dope, she needed his help, whether she was with Bald Monkey or not.

  Cowboy hat, dead ahead.

  Axel picked up his pace, came up beside the cowboy-hatted figure, caught a look at his profile.

  Another blank, blond and bearded. He relaxed his grip on the gun.

  As he was walking past a wheel game, a horn-shaped speaker blasted in his ear. “Every playah a winnah!” Axel veered away from the game. “Only way to lose is to not play the game,” the mike man called after him.

  He decided to continue down the length of the midway and meet up with Sam. If they hadn’t found Carmen by then, then he’d say the hell with it and get back to the stand. He was passing the Headless Woman joint when something caused him to stop and look behind him.

  White cowboy hat, a few paces behind him. Axel took three quick steps and snatched the oversize hat. The kid let out a yell and jumped back. The front of his shirt read: Let’s Rodeo. His head was shaved like a new recruit, but it was the wrong kid. This one had a pointy nose and tiny, startled eyes. Axel let his breath hiss out.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  The kid grabbed his hat. His small eyes narrowed. “Crazy old fucker,” he said in a nasal whine. He smashed the hat back onto his head and backed up a few steps.

  “I thought you were somebody else,” Axel said.

  “You been eatin’ too many tacos, old man.” The kid took a few steps to the side, then continued up the midway, looking back over his shoulder every few steps.

  Axel felt ridiculous. He was suddenly sure that that was the bald kid Sam had spotted. How many cowboy-hatted skinheads could there be? He shook his head and forced himself to smile. Wild-goose chase. He pulled his gun hand from his pocket and rolled his shoulders, willing the tension from his body, watching the white hat bob and disappear up ahead. The clamoring rock and roll, the clanking of the rides, the hammering of the generators, the voices and shouts and happy screams, all blended together. Carmen, he decided, had probably gone back to the Motel 6. It was time for him to return to the stand, time to take care of business.

  He was thinking about how many tortillas he would need to get through the last weekend, when an unwelcome thought wriggled into his conscious mind. Something that kid had said. Something about eating too many tacos.

  Dean found Carmen standing in line, waiting to board the Tilt-A-Whirl. An old AC/DC tune blasted from the speakers mounted on both sides of the ride. He cut in, draping an arm over her shoulder. She rolled her sleepy eyes toward him and said, “Where’d you go?”

  “Didn’t go anywhere, Carmy. Where’d you go?” He flexed his arm, pulling her face into his chest, giving her head a gentle squeeze. She felt loose, like wet clay.

  She said, “You want to go with me on the Tilt-A-Whirl?”

  “Sure, why not?” Maybe it would wake her up a little.

  The more Axel thought about it, the more it bothered him. Why would the kid say anything about tacos if he didn’t know Axel was in the taco business? And how would he know that Axel was in the taco business? Axel picked up his pace, weaving through the crowd, trying to relocate the white hat. He was nearing the end of the midway, where he’d have to turn and go back up the other side.

  There. He broke into a run. The .45 slapped against his thigh. He felt something rip, stopped, reached in his pocket. The thin fabric had given way; the barrel of the gun now poked through a hole at the bottom of the pocket, hanging down to his knee. Axel looked around, saw no one watching, and pulled out the gun, turning his pocket liner inside out. He wedged the gun into his waistband, tugged loose his shirttails to cover the protruding grip.

  The cowboy hat was no longer visible. Axel decided to cut across the center island, between the Gravitron and the Tilt- A-Whirl, and head the kid off as he came up the other side. He ducked through a yellow bally-cloth divider. The area between the rides was a jungle of snakelike electrical cables. Above him to his right, the Gravitron, an enormous saucer- shaped device covered with flashing yellow, red, and green lights, was picking up speed. Axel wasn’t sure what happened to the people who entered the ride, but they always looked a little sick when they exited. The Tilt-A-Whirl, to his left, seemed tame by comparison.

  Axel picked his way over the cables, reached the other side, and climbed the low fence. Before him, the canvas front of the Cavalcade of Human Oddities stretched for fifty feet in either direction. Each performer was depicted in a series of crude but exciting painted banners. The Pretzel Girl, shown with her limbs tied in pretzel-like knots. Tortura, the Puncture-Proof Girl. The Human Blast Furnace. Serpentina, the Snake Woman. Axel had met Serpentina, an old friend of Tommy’s. She was also playing Electra, Mistress of the Megawatt, this year. Behind him, the Tilt-A-Whirl clanked into life. The kid could be anywhere. He might’ve gone into the Hard Rock Funhouse or one of the other attractions, or ducked between the rides as Axel had, or simply taken off his hat and melted into the crowd. The rattling and clattering of the Tilt-A-Whirl became louder. Axel moved away from the noise, throwing a glance back at the undulating, whirling platform. Something caught his eye. A cowboy hat, in one of the Tilt-A-Whirl’s spinning tubs. It was there, then it was gone. He squinted, trying to track the spinning cupola. The hat appeared again, and then he saw Carmen, screaming, her eyes wide. The tub whirled, and they were gone.

  The effect, when the ride was operating, was both elegant and bewildering. The tub swept by again, but this time facing the other way. Axel couldn’t see them. On the third sweep they appeared again. He stepped to the side, followed their tub with his eyes through its looping course up and around. Carmen was screaming. She looked terrified. What was the kid doing to her? He was grabbing her, holding on to her, shouting at her.

  “Let go!” Dean pried Carmen’s hands away from his body, held them. His ear was ringing from her screams. Crazy bitch.

  “Eeee!” she shrieked, her mouth a distended grin.

  Dean closed his eyes, willing the ride to end, hoping he wouldn’t ralph all over himself. He had business to take care of, and here he was on the Tilt-A-Whirl, having his guts scrambled.

  Carmen shrieked again, sending a needle of sound tunneling into his right ear. He turned his head away and opened his eyes to a blurry
, striped world of garish, rushing color. He clamped his jaw tight and shut his eyes again. He couldn’t decide which was worse. Just when he thought he wasn’t going to make it, the spinning slowed and the Tilt-A-Whirl slowed. The blurred horizon took form. The tub rocked to a complete stop. He tried to get out, but the safety bar remained locked across the top of his thighs.

  Carmen said, “You got to wait for the guy to come let us out.”

  Dean had about had it with her. He said, “I oughta fuckin’ smack you for getting me on this thing.”

  “You better not.”

  “Oh?” Did she want to get hit?

  Carmen pointed. He followed her finger, at first seeing nothing, then, standing at the exit gate, the old man, staring up at him, less than thirty feet away. He was holding the pistol in both hands, not even attempting to conceal it. Dean twisted, trying to get his legs out from under the lap restraint.

  “Ow! What are you doing?” Carmen said.

  “I got to get out of here.”

  He had one leg out from under the bar.

  Carmen waved. “Hey, Axel!”

  “Move the fuck over!” Dean shouted.

  “He’s not gonna shoot you,” Carmen said. “At least I don’t think he is.”

  Axel had time to think while he was keeping his sights on Bald Monkey, but he was trying not to. The hot, animal flush felt too good. He fantasized pulling the trigger again and again. For Tommy. For Carmen. For the hell of it. Could he make the shot? Forty years ago he could have, but now he would be as likely to hit Carmen—or somebody else—as he was to hit his target. He thought about this and other technical aspects of shooting. He didn’t let himself think about the consequences of a successful shot other than to imagine the monkey falling through the air, crumpled like a well-shot canvasback.

  Carmen smiled and waved. The scene had become unreal to Axel; he felt as if he was watching himself go through motions. He had felt this way when Tommy got shot—like he wasn’t really there. Like someone else was making his decisions.