Nightmare Alley

by Len Levinson

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You certainly are a moody one.”

  “Am I?”

  “You are. Take my word for it.”

  He turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, gazing into her eyes. “I’m crazy about you,” he said.

  A peculiar Mona Lisa smile played on her lips, and for a moment Lieutenant Breckenridge thought he saw contempt in her eyes, but decided it was only the strange combination of moonlight and shadow. He leaned forward to kiss her lips, but she stopped him again.

  “No,” she whispered, wagging her forefinger in front of his face.

  “Why not?”

  “Make a wish first.”

  “I have nothing to wish for, because I have everything I want here with me now.”

  She looked at him slyly. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m telling you the truth, Lieutenant.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to a woman to have your way with her?”

  “Not me.”

  “Face the ocean, close your eyes, and make a wish. It’s a tradition here on the islands, you know. The natives often come to spots like this, overlooking the ocean when the moon is full, and make wishes.”

  “Really?” he asked. “I never heard of that custom before.”

  “You haven’t been here that long.”

  “Ah, that must be it.”

  “Go ahead. You wish first, and then I’ll make my wish.”

  “Right here?”

  “You can move a little closer to the edge. The natives say the closer you are to the water the better.”

  He pointed toward the rocks. “We can go down there and really get closer.”

  “This will be fine. We don’t have to overdo it.”

  “Okay.”

  He stepped toward the edge of the cliff and looked down at the partly sandy, partly rocky slope. Closing his eyes, he wished: Please have this girl fuck me without too much trouble.

  “You son of a bitch!" she screamed.

  She kicked him square in the ass with all her strength, and Lieutenant Breckenridge went flying over the edge of the cliff. He landed on his stomach, and the stones tore his shirt and flesh as he tried to grab on to something to stop him. His hand closed around a small thorny bush, ripping his fingers to shreds, and he cried in pain, letting go of the bush and tumbling over onto his back at the same time.

  The incline was steep, and Lieutenant Breckenridge couldn’t slow his momentum. He kicked out his leg as a brake, and his shin slammed into a boulder, making him shout in pain again. The rocks on the ground rent his shirt, and his face scraped against dirt, removing a layer of skin. He clutched wildly at another bush and shredded both his hands. He tumbled over and around as he plummeted down the incline. He thought for sure he was going to die.

  “Haaaalllpppp!" he screamed.

  But there was no one to save him, and the sand and rocks scraped his hide off his body as he continued his downward descent, rolling, flipping. flailing wildly with his hands, bumping his head, skinning his knees and elbows.

  He rolled into a pile of boulders at the bottom of the hill and came to a sudden stop, half unconscious and lying on his back. Blinking his eyes, he looked up the hill and saw Diane Latham drawing back her arm. She threw a rock at him and it sailed down the hill. He was too weak and disoriented to get out of the way, but her aim was off and the rock thudded into the ground several feet to his right.

  “What was that for!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “You know very well what it was for, you rotten bastard!”

  She turned and walked out of his line of sight. A few seconds later he heard the engine of the Packard start up, and then shafts of light from the headlights projected over the edge of the cliff. The shafts of light angled to the side, and he realized she was backing up and turning around. He rolled over and got to his hands and knees, shaking his head, trying to figure out what had happened to him.

  What have I ever done to that bitch? he asked himself, and men he remembered Lieutenant Utsley. Lieutenant Utsley must have got real nasty with her, he realized. Probably tried to make her blow him right off the bat.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge got to his feet and leaned against a pile of boulders as the ocean crashed against the shoreline only twenty feet away. He ached all over and checked himself out, but didn’t think anything was broken. He looked up the hill; it was a long, steep way to the top. It was also a long way back to the post, and few cars were on this remote part of the island, so he probably wouldn’t be able to hitch a ride.

  He leaned forward and moved his left leg in his effort to climb the hill, but his ankle gave out and he collapsed onto his face. Cursing softly, he lay on the ground and took deep breaths, wondering how women could be so cruel.

  The Singapore Lounge was a filthy, grungy bar near the docks of Honolulu. Soldiers, sailors, and Marines in uniform and civilian clothes were lined up three deep at the bar or seated around tables. Dim lighting was provided by electric bulbs inside Japanese lanterns of red, white, and blue, suspended from the ceiling. Frankie La Barbara and Morris Shilansky were seated at a tiny table in the comer, drinking shots and beers. They both wore civilian slacks and brightly colored Hawaiian shirts covered with designs of flowers, canoes, hula-hula girls, and the bright, blazing sun.

  Shilansky had crafty eyes and a nose like a hawk. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s dangerous.”

  A cigarette dangled out of the corner of Frankie La Barbara’s mouth. “You think it’s as dangerous as going to New Guinea?”

  “Yeah, because we can get the firing squad.”

  “Bullshit,” Frankie said. “First of all, they ain’t gonna catch us, and second of all, if they do catch us, they’ll just send us to the stockade for a little while.”

  “I don’t wanna go to the stockade here. They say it’s a real hellhole.”

  “You think it’s a worse hellhole than New Guinea?”

  Shilansky thought for a few seconds. “No.”

  “Then what the fuck are you worried about?”

  “I dunno. Going AWOL is a big step.”

  “Going to New Guinea is a bigger step. On New Guinea we won’t have much of a chance. If the Japs don’t get us, the snakes will, or the scorpions, or fucking malaria, or you name it.”

  “Desertion in the face of the enemy might be worse.”

  Frankie waved his arms wildly through the air. “What fucking enemy? Where do you see the enemy? There ain’t no enemy on Oahu, you asshole. And they ain’t gonna catch us anyway, because we’re smarter than they are.”

  “We are?”

  “Maybe you’re not, but I am.”

  “Then why don’t you go AWOL yourself? What do you want me to go with you for?”

  Frankie narrowed his eyes and glared coldly at Morris Shilansky for a few moments. Then Frankie leaned back in his chair and hung his arm over the back. “As a matter of fucking fact, I don’t need you for anything. I just thought I’d do you a favor and let you come with me, but if you wanna die on New Guinea, that’s okay by me. If you wanna be an asshole, be an asshole. It don’t make a shit to me either way.”

  A waitress with a big ass walked by, and Frankie lunged toward her, grabbing her apron and making her stop.

  “Hands off the merchandise, big boy,” she said, looking down at him with her eyebrows raised.

  “Two more shots and two more beers,” Frankie said.

  Frankie let go of her apron and turned around to face Morris Shilansky again. Shilansky was deep in thought, staring at his half-full glass of beer.

  “Now what’s your problem?” Frankie asked.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Shilansky replied.

  “About what?”

  “About going AWOL with you.”

  Frankie raised his forefinger to his lips and glanced around furtively. “The walls got ears,” he said. “Keep your voice down.”
/>   “Sorry.”

  Frankie threw up his arms. “Make up your mind, asshole, because after this round, I’m going over the hill.”

  “Where you going?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “You’ll get caught.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Other guys get caught.”

  “Other guys ain’t Frankie La Barbara.”

  Morris Shilansky raised his glass of beer to his lips and threw back his head, emptying the glass down his throat. Then he brought the bottom of the glass down hard on the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wondered what to do. He knew that he definitely didn’t want to go back to the war, but on the other hand, he was afraid of going AWOL. He’d heard numerous stories about how prisoners were beaten to death by sadistic sergeants in the stockade and nobody gave a fuck.

  The waitress returned with the drink orders, placing the two shot glasses and the two bottles of beer on the table.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Frankie replied with a smirk. “Sit on my face.”

  “Why, you dirty pig,” she told him, disdain and contempt in her voice.

  “You got a great ass, kid,” Frankie said.

  “You got a big mouth.”

  “The better to eat your pussy with.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What next? That’ll be a dollar and a half for the drinks, please, and don’t give me any more crap or I’ll hit you over the head with this tray.”

  Frankie pulled a massive roll of bills out of his pocket, and her eyes bugged out of her head. He peeled off two one-dollar bills and tossed them onto the table. “Keep the change, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She scooped up the money and walked away quickly, but she didn’t get far. A sailor with his white hat on the back of his head grabbed her arm and pulled her toward his table.

  Morris Shilansky shook his head. “What a rotten job she’s got.”

  “The bitch is in love with me,” Frankie La Barbara said.

  “In love with you? She hates your fucking guts.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because of the way you were talking to her.”

  “You’re a bigger asshole than I thought. The worse you treat ‘em, the better they like it. You oughtta know that by now.”

  “I still think she hates your guts.”

  “I could fuck her tonight if I wanted to.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  Shilansky reached into his pocket. “You’re on.”

  Frankie reached into his pocket, too, then stopped. “I can’t fuck her tonight because I’m going AWOL.” He pointed his forefinger at Morris Shilansky. “And you’d better not rat on me, you big asshole.”

  “I ain’t no stool pigeon, Frankie. You should know that by now.”

  Frankie La Barbara looked down at his shot and beer. “Yeah. Okay. Well, I guess this is gonna be our last drink together. You’re going to New Guinea to get your ass shot off, and I’m going over the hill.” He raised the shot glass into the air. “Good luck to you, buddy. You’re gonna need it when you hit that New Guinea beach.”

  Morris Shilansky raised his own glass. “Good luck to you, Frankie. I hope they don’t catch your ass.”

  “They won’t—don’t worry about it.”

  Both men touched the rims of their shot glasses to their lips, then tilted their heads back and poured the whiskey down their throats. It was cheap whiskey and burned all the way down, so they reached for their bottles of beer to put out the fire.

  It was their sixth shot and beer apiece, and the sudden onslaught of more alcohol into their systems made them dizzy. Frankie took out a cigarette and lit it up, inhaling deeply. Morris Shilansky peered through the smoke at the crowd of servicemen laughing, shouting at each other, and getting drunk as quickly as they could. Waitresses threaded their way through the mob, and the jukebox blasted a Glenn Miller tune.

  “Hey, Frankie,” Morris Shilansky said, “when you go AWOL, where are you gonna hide?”

  “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  “Come on, Frankie, tell me.”

  “What you wanna know for?”

  “I just wanna know.”

  “Well, I don’t wanna tell you. If you wanna know, you gotta come with me.”

  “Why d’ya want me to come with you?”

  “Because two is better than one. If you went with me, we could look out for each other. But that’s okay; I’ll do fine all by my lonesome.”

  “Maybe I’ll go with you if you tell me where you’re going.”

  “No deal. But I can promise you it’ll be safer than New Guinea, you dumb asshole.”

  “I ain’t no dumb asshole.”

  “No?” Frankie was half in the bag now, and he reached forward, pulling open the buttons on the front of Shilansky’s Hawaiian shirt. “What’s that?” Frankie asked, pointing to a scar on Morris Shilansky’s stomach.

  “You know what it is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s a bayonet wound.”

  “And what’s that one?”

  “Another bayonet wound.”

  “What about that cut on your forehead?”

  “Jap rifle butt.”

  “Where’d you get that big scar on your shoulder that I can’t see but I know is there?”

  “Jap bullet.”

  Frankie shook his head scornfully. “You’re gonna die on New Guinea, you stupid asshole, but you’re too dumb to realize it. What’s even worse than that, you’re too dumb even to save your life. Do you really think you’re gonna survive another trip to the front?

  Morris Shilansky furrowed his brow and thought about that for a few minutes. He knew damn well that the odds were against him. He’d seen too many die already. The booze was twisting his mind, and he didn’t want to get shot at anymore. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I will.”

  “Then what the fuck you gonna go for?”

  “It’s my duty.”

  Frankie snorted and looked at Shilansky as if he were a pile of shit. “Duty?” he asked. “Are you kidding me? You think it’s your duty to die for a fucking jungle that you never even heard of before?”

  “You heard what Sergeant Cameron said. If we don’t fight them here, we’ll have to fight them in San Francisco.”

  “We won’t have to fight them anywhere if we go AWOL, asshole. Other guys who think like Sergeant Cameron will fight them and stop them because they believe all that happy horseshit, but I don’t and neither do you. Am I right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frankie looked at his watch. “I gotta get going. If you wanna die, that’s your business. They’re gonna bury you in some swamp someplace while I’m sticking my dick into that fat waitress back there. See you around, chump. Keep your head down.”

  Frankie stood and held out his hand. Shilansky dragged himself to his feet and shook it. Frankie winked, pulled his hand away, and turned around, swaggering toward the door. A serviceman in a Hawaiian shirt stumbled in front of him and Frankie pushed him out of the way. He patted a waitress on the ass, stole a bottle of beer off another waitress’s tray, and was swallowed up by the smoke and tumult of the Singapore Lounge.

  Shilansky was still on his feet, but his knees wobbled and he leaned back against the wall. He felt peculiarly alone and desolate, although he was surrounded by other men and the crew of waitresses. I should go back to the post, he said to himself, but he didn’t want to go back. They were going to send him to New Guinea, and he knew he was going to die there. You can’t keep going to the front and expect not to get killed. I don’t want to die. I’m too young to die. Shilansky had been a crook before the war, and crooks always think they can beat the system. He didn’t think he could beat the war, but he might be able to go AWOL successfully, especially if he was with Frankie La Barbara, who was a very sharp guy.


  Shilansky closed his eyes and saw himself lying on the ground in a jungle, bleeding from ten different places, dead as a doornail. He blinked and saw himself fighting knife to knife with a Jap soldier twice as big as he. Blinking again, he saw himself being blown to bits by Japanese hand grenades.

  He lurched after Frankie La Barbara, but bumped into the table and fell to his hands and knees on the floor. The white arm of a sailor blouse appeared and helped him to his feet. Shilansky staggered into the crowd, waving his hands over his head.

  “Wait for me!” he shouted. “I wanna go with you!”

  Craig Delane, the rich ex-socialite from New York City, sat at a table in the post library, reading the entry on New Guinea in an encyclopedia:

  New Guinea is the world’s largest island after Greenland. Its total area is 344,158 square miles and is located only one hundred miles from the Australian mainland. Political control of the island is divided between Australia and the Netherlands. The island is dominated by a complex mountain system and has many active volcanoes. It experiences the hot and humid climate common to equatorial regions, but the highlands have much cooler temperatures.

  Rainfall is heavy. The north coast receives one hundred inches annually, and some spots receive even more. November to April is the monsoon season, and May to October brings torrential rains to the main parts of the island that stand athwart the southeast trade winds. There are numerous large swampy areas. Rivers frequently overflow their banks. The average temperature is eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit, fluctuating no more than seven degrees up or down the scale throughout the year.

  New Guinea encompasses a huge variety of vegetation, and much of the island is botanically unexplored. More than two-thirds of the island consists of rain forests, and areas of poor drainage have swamp forests. Many highland areas are covered with hardy variations of kunai grass, also known as spear grass. The forest floor consists of moss and decayed vegetation many feet thick. Lichens and moss can be found on most trees.

  Fauna is remarkably similar to that of Australia. There are more than one hundred species of marsupials, and the tree kangaroo is the largest indigenous animal. New Guinea is famous for its birds of paradise, whose beautiful and distinctive plumage causes them to be hunted by natives, who sell the feathers to traders.