The man in the casket had none of the waxy pallor of death. There was color in his cheeks, the color of life, not the falseness of a mortician's rouge. But his eyes were closed, the long-fingered hands were folded peacefully across his chest, and the fluted, beak-like nostrils showed no signs of breathing.
A man and a woman were arguing in low tones nearby and showed no awareness of the man in the casket. It was late, after midnight, and the tent was otherwise empty. Their voices, even in contention, had a hushed, sepulchral sound in the big tent.
The woman was slight, lithe as a whippet, and with the purity of beauty of a madonna. Her eyes were the color of ripe limes, and her tinted curls clung to her head like a snug, blonde helmet. There was nothing madonna-like about her figure. A yellow sweater boldly outlined full breasts and tight gray slacks sketched exciting thighs and a sweep of lovely leg.
She said in a tense whisper, "Cotty, I can't. I simply can't. Basil will have to come out any minute, and he's always angry if I'm not here when he comes out."
"You'd think I was asking you out on a hot date, instead of just up to the cook tent for a lousy cup of coffee."
"But don't you see? Cotty ... to Basil it's the same thing!" She tried to make him understand.
"No, Paula, I don't see," Cotty Starke said. "All I can see is a beautiful girl like you married to a man twice her age!"
In a blur of motion Paula slapped him. "You haven't the right to talk to me like that!"
Cotty's hand went to his cheek, knuckled away the sting of her slap. He said sullenly, "All I had in mind was a sort of celebration. This is our biggest day since I've been the ten-in-one talker. We grossed over a half grand today."
A spark of malice struck the cool green eyes. "Then why don't you wait until Basil's out? I'm sure he'd be happy to celebrate with you. After all, he does own the show."
"That's just what I need ... that cold-blooded, superior bastard along..." Without thinking his glance swung to the man in the casket, and he felt a chill sweep along his spine. "Look, he's watching us!"
Paula glanced around without an outward show of concern.
The grave, if such it could be called, occupied a position of prominence in the tent, isolated by several feet from one end of the platform running down the center of the tent. The area around the pit was chained off; a section of striped canvas hung from the chain, dragging the ground like a woman's old-fashioned skirts. Actually the grave was nothing more than a rectangular pit, dug before the first performance of each carnival date. The bottom two-thirds of the casket was covered with dirt, packed in tightly and mounded on top. The upper third of the casket was clear glass. The casket was set on a slight slant, giving the spectators on the entrance side of the pit an unobstructed view of the man inside. A heavy chain was wrapped around the casket lid, held in place by a large Yale padlock.
The eyes of the man in the casket, deep black and strangely compelling, were wide open, returning the stares of the two people looking down at him. His gaze was baleful, faintly menacing. Otherwise, he hadn't moved; the hands were still crossed over his chest. But now there was a barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest.
Cotty shivered. He whispered, "Christ, he always spooks me when I see him looking up out of that damned coffin. like a dead man come to life."
Paula's laughter was mocking. "That's the name of the exhibit, Cotty. 'Buried Alive!'"
Before Cotty could frame a retort, he heard the scamper of feet behind him. He glanced around, knowing in advance who he would see. He looked down into Juval's face.
Juval was a dwarf, standing just short of four feet, with stubby, powerful arms and legs. His was a gargoyle's face, always fixed in a grin. He was a deaf mute.
Cotty invariably felt uneasy around Juval. But then both Basil Greer and Juval spooked him. And, when Greer was out of the casket, Juval was in almost constant attendance, trotting along after the man in unswerving devotion. Juval had never learned to read and write. The only way he could communicate was through pantomime, and Greer was the only person who could interpret his pantomimicry. Now Juval capered on his short legs, gesticulating. He caught Paula's attention and gestured toward the pit.
She nodded, saying curtly, "Yes, Juval. It's time to dig him up now."
Juval bobbed his head and did a jig, leaping high in the air and hitting his heels together. He was carrying a half-empty pop bottle. He set the bottle on the ground and darted into the shadows at the end of the tent. He was back at once with a short-handled spade. He began shoveling away at the mound of dirt covering the casket. He worked with amazing speed.
Cotty watched, his gaze drawn to the casket in spite of himself. Someone, certainly not Paula since she'd spoken scarcely a dozen words to him before tonight, had once told him that Basil Greer would die of suffocation within minutes of coming out of the trance unless freed from the casket. Cotty was vague about the particulars; it had something to do with only a very few minutes, ten at the most, of oxygen left at the end of an eight-hour trance. During the trance itself, Greer's bodily processes almost ceased and he consumed only a minimal amount of air. But the instant he came out of the trance, his body functions resumed and he needed the normal amount of oxygen.
Cotty was baffled by the whole business. The casket was airtight; that much he knew. He had seen it examined by townies, reputable citizens who had no reason to lie. The casket wasn't gaffed; there was no gimmick. And that was what confounded him. He couldn't understand why Greer worked without a gimmick, especially in an act as potentially dangerous as this one. To Cotty the very word carnie implied a gimmick.
He glanced around at the sound of Paula's voice. "Aren't you going to help Juval dig Basil out, Cotty?" Her full, red lips twitched with amusement. "You do work for him now."
Cotty said tautly, "I didn't hire out to use a shovel."
"Why not? It won't hurt that golden throat of yours."
Cotty glared at her. The sweater had slipped down to show one golden-brown shoulder. During the evening's performances, she always wore brightly colored dresses that swept the ground in a gypsy-like effect, leaving her shoulders bare. She spent the warm summer mornings sunning herself behind the side show tent, attired in a brief sun suit that shortened Cotty's breath and speeded his pulse each time he came across her there. And during the past two weeks, that was as often as he calculated he could without arousing Greer's suspicions.
Paula shrugged. "Suit yourself." She took a pack of cigarettes from her slacks pocket and put one in her mouth.
With a glance at Juval to make sure the dwarf wasn't watching, Cotty asked, "Then you won't go up with me for a cup of coffee?"
Her glance was indifferent. "I thought we'd settled that."
"We settled nothing! What makes you so high and mighty? A cup of coffee, for God's sake!" he said savagely. "You know your trouble? You're cold. You're like ice. You look like a real hot number, but I think not. I think it suits you being married to an old man. What does it feel like being in his arms? like being pawed by a corpse? Which is about what he is!"
This time she didn't take offense. She simply gazed at him as though he were a spoiled brat whose petulant antics amused her. The look galled Cotty. He felt a rise of fury. Then a clod of dirt slipped off Juval's spade and thudded hollowly onto the half-uncovered casket. The dirge-like sound scraped Cotty's nerves like a saw, and he shivered convulsively. He whirled about and plunged from the tent. Paula's taunting laughter followed him.
Outside, he paused beside the bally platform to stab a cigarette into his mouth. In the flare of match his dark, handsome face had a lean, hungry look. This was not so much a look of the features as from something within him. Cotty Starke had known hunger; he had known the grinding hunger that comes from going days without food. Nowadays he ate well but the hunger was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He was twenty-five, give or take a year or two. He had never known the exact year of his birth. Different people had given him different dates.
He stood smoking, gazing along the deserted midway, fighting back his smoldering resentment of Paula. He reviewed what little he knew of Basil Greer.
When he'd first gone to work for the ten-in-one as a ticket seller, he'd naturally been curious about Greer's act, the star attraction. Cotty's curiosity had mounted once he'd learned to his own satisfaction that the act wasn't gimmicked. It had taken some time to convince him of that. But he'd seen the casket opened during Greer's trance. He'd seen it examined carefully and pronounced airtight. Magnets in the lid and the casket itself sealed it off when closed, much as a refrigerator door operates. He'd seen needles poked into the man's skin without Greer flinching; he'd seen a mirror held to Greer's mouth without a trace of moisture showing. Once, Cotty himself had searched for a pulse and found none. It always took a qualified doctor to detect signs of life.
These examinations were usually conducted on the first night of a new carnival date and representatives of the local press were always present, resulting in a flood of publicity, followed by a sellout business for the sideshow.
And once, just two weeks ago, Cotty had watched through the trailer window as Greer hypnotized himself into the trance. It had been an eerie few minutes. Greer had stretched out on his back on the couch in the trailer with his hands crossed over his chest. At the foot of the couch had been a metronome fixed in the beam of a flashlight. As Cotty had watched without comprehension, Greer had slipped silently into the coma. Two canvas men had entered the trailer and carried Greer, stiff as a board, into the tent and placed him in the casket. Then Paula had locked the chain around the glass lid, and Juval had shoveled the dirt in.
Cotty didn't understand it. He didn't understand it in the same way he didn't understand Paula Greer. Married to an old man like that, a man who spent almost half of his life in a casket, you'd think she would be happy to live a little! With a snarl Cotty ground the cigarette out under his toe. From his pocket he took a small atomizer and sprayed his throat, then started down the midway, his footsteps making a rustling sound in the dry wood shavings spread on the ground. He headed toward the front of the midway where a smear of light located the cook tent in the carnie night. The rest of the carnival was dark except for the few bulbs on a light stringer circling the midway. The rides down the center crouched under their night hoods like sleeping animals of fantastic shapes. On each side the show tents hulked dark and still, their banners rolled up for the night.
Now Cotty approached the line of concession tents: the hanky-panks, the honest percentage games, and the two-way joints, the gimmicked games. The two-ways joints, sometimes called flat joints, were all fixed with the odds a hundred percent in favor of the carnie whenever the operator felt inclined to use the gaff. The flat joints were so named, according to Gil Meeks, "because they leave the marks flat broke when they walk away."
The front flaps of all the concession tents were down, like greedy mouths satiated and closed for the night. All but one. The flap to Gil Meeks' wheel joint was still up. Cotty paused to peer in. The interior of the tent was dark, but Cotty saw the glow of Gil's cigar.
"Gil?"
"Hi, kid," said a raspy voice from the darkness.
"What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark like that?"
"Having a couple of belts, what else? Hop in, kid."
Cotty placed both hands flat on the counter top and vaulted over. The reek of whiskey and cigar was powerful. A camp chair was shoved against his legs and Cotty sat down. He took out a cigarette. In the spurt of match flame, Gil Meek's narrow, swarthy face grinned at him. He held out a pint bottle. "A short snort, kid?"
"You know better than that, Gil," Cotty said.
"Yeah, I forgot. I find it hard to understand, a carnie teetotaler." There was a gurgling sound in the dark and Meeks drank from the bottle. "You take those Billboard ads too seriously. 'No boozers wanted.'"
"That's not it," Cotty said testily. "I saw enough boozing when I was a punk kid."
"Spare me the details, kid." Meeks sighed. "I've heard the sad story, remember? Orphan child farmed out to drunken foster parents, so forth and so forth."
"Well, that happens to be the way, it was, Gil. I don't know how many times some goon I was farmed out to came home stinking drunk and whacked me around."
"Nobody'd ever do that to me," Meeks said softly. "If they had, I'd've laid the bastard's head open with an axe!"
"But I..." Cotty hesitated, a wind of caution sweeping his brain. He had done just that once. At fifteen he had opened a foster father's head with a chopping axe. To this day Cotty didn't know if the blow had killed the man. He had fled before finding out. He'd been running ever since. He had never related the incident to anyone. Even now he couldn't bring himself to tell this man; not even to Gil Meeks who was his best friend on the carnie.
Meeks was speaking. "But what, kid?"
"Nothing. Nothing important."
Cotty felt rather than saw the man shrug. He heard him drink from the bottle again. Then Meeks said, "Where've you been anyway? I've been watching for you. The freak show closed two hours ago. What were you doing?"
"I was trying to get Paula to have a cup of coffee with me. I thought some sort of celebration was in order. You know what, Gil?" In his excitement Cotty leaned forward. "I really pulled 'em in tonight. We grossed over half a grand!"
"That so? Yeah, I was in the tip during my break, watching you. You're good, kid. I already told you that. But that Paula broad now..." The man whistled softly through his teeth. "I'd go easy there, if it was me. Greer's no man to fool with. I think he'd kill a man who laid a hand on her."
"Ah, that son of a bitch! If he ever...." Cotty's fists knotted on his knees. "What does she see in him, anyway?"
Meeks whistled again. "Say, you have got hot pants for her, ain't you?" After a moment he went on thoughtfully, "But how do you figure a woman? Remember, Basil Greer was once big time with that escape act of his. The Carnie's a big step down for him, sure, but he's still pulling in the loot. If you ask me, that's what she sees in him."
"You just wait," Cotty said tensely. "I'll have a show of my own one of these days and then I'll be pulling in the loot."
"Sure, kid, sure. And when you do, maybe Paula'll let you buy her that coffee. Or something a little more expensive. She doesn't strike me as the coffee kind." Meeks chuckled. Then his voice changed. "Speaking of hot pants, how about that little cashier in the cook tent? How would she take to you strutting in with Paula in your hip pocket?"
"To hell with her," Cotty muttered. "Debra doesn't mean that much to me. She's just another...."
They both fell silent as footsteps crunched along the midway outside. Then a man wearing a loose-fitting suit loomed tall in front of the tent.
"Hi, Patch," Meeks called out cheerfully.
"Is that you, Meeks?" Dan Fields asked in his deep voice.
"Sure is, Patch. Anything wrong?"
"No, nothing wrong. I was just wondering why your tent fly was still up."
"We were just having a couple of belts, Patch. Have one?"
"No, thanks. Not right now. Who's that in there with you?"
Cotty raised his voice. "It's me, Patch. Cotty Starke."
Dan Fields grunted. "Oh...." With a nod of his head the man moved away in his deliberate walk.
Meeks and Cotty didn't speak until the footsteps had receded. Then Meeks said musingly, "Speaking of boozing, there's a booze fighter if I ever saw one."
"That's the way he always struck me. And I've never cared much for him, either. He's too damned nosy for my taste."
CHAPTER TWO
Both men were wrong. Dan Fields wasn't a booze fighter. True, there was a monkey on his back, but the monkey was Dan himself. Dan knew that many of the carnies of the Greater Universe Shows considered him an alcoholic because he refused to drink with them. But he cared very little for the opinions of others. By nature he was a secretive man, and he hugged his own secret next to his heart.
It was ironic in a way, perhaps even amusing. But it wasn't amusing to Dan the fixer. For that's what he was! that's what Patch meant in carnie lingo. The Patch was the man who fixed it with local authorities so the gaffed carnie games could operate unfettered. It was Dan's chore to arrange matters so the girlie shows could strip their performers to the bare navel, so they could put on the blow-off shows where everything went for a price, sometimes even the girls themselves.
At twenty-five, eight years ago, Dan Fields had been a practicing attorney just out of law school. He had been afire with ambition, burning with idealism, imagining himself a knight tilting at the windmills of injustice. He had been on his first important case, defending a man charged with a gang killing. On the surface it had looked open and shut, a sure victory. It was a well-known fact that the city administration was corrupt, and Dan had been sure his client was the victim of a frame. Dan had been approached early in the trial with a juicy bribe offer to do less than his best to win the case. In a fine fury of outrage he had refused.
From that moment things went wrong. A key witness disappeared; another perjured himself. Dan lost the case. And the world crashed down around his ears. A juror charged him with offering a bribe; his client accused Dan of coaching him to perjure himself. And he was charged with collusion in the disappearance of the key witness. More, he was accused of being romantically involved with her. Disbarment proceedings were started. Within a very short time Dan lost his right to legally practice law. He left the city with his hat in his hand, stunned, bewildered, and disillusioned. Of all the charges fired at him, he had been guilty of only one. He had been in love with the disappearing witness, an exciting, affectionate blonde with the bed pyrotechnics of a firecracker. Her disappearance explained many things that had puzzled him. Most of all, it explained their last night together, the night before she disappeared. That night was Dan's idea. It was supposed to be a celebration. The tide of optimism was running high in Dan; he was positive he would win his case.
The blonde's name was Beth Wilson. She had bright blue eyes, a heart-shaped face and a throaty voice. She supported herself giving dancing lessons while working toward her ambition to become a ballerina.
They had an excellent dinner, preceded by several potent martinis and topped off by two brandies.
Outside the restaurant, Dan said, "Your place? Or mine?"
Beth clung to his arm, her body rubbing against his like a purring cat's. "Yours, darling. This is your night. It should be one you'll remember."
That was the first statement of hers that seemed a little out of context, but his senses were too engaged to allow him to ponder it. His senses were further engaged during the short cab ride to his bachelor apartment as they locked together in a straining embrace, his hand filled with the pulsating swell of one breast, his mouth savoring the heated-nectar flavor of her lips. In his apartment clothes came off like so much chaff.
When they were finally on the bed, Adam-and-Eve naked, Beth laced her long dancer's legs around him and drew him down to her, into her, and said in a raw voice, "Make this one good, darling! Make it one we'll always remember!"
It was all of that. Mindless moments of blazing passion brought them to a climax that left Dan breathless and left Beth in a dead faint. Or else she pretended to faint to prevent his questioning her. Afterward, he was never sure. He fell into a deep sleep of utter relaxation. When he awoke, Beth had dressed and gone.
Before he left town Dan learned that Beth hadn't been killed. Nothing so melodramatic as that. She was living, and living well, in another city. The point was obvious to him. She had been paid to earn his trust, then disappear at the crucial moment.
For a year, two years, Dan drifted. Then somehow, he was never quite sure how it came about, he became Patch, the fixer for Greater Universe, doing exactly what he had been accused and convicted of doing, offering bribes.
He often thought of quitting carnival life; there were other jobs, even jobs allied with the law, at which he could work, but he had never made the initial move to leave. Despite his distaste for some of the things he had to do, there were compensations in carnie life. The nomadic aspect, for one. Never in one town over two weeks at a time, thus never being forced into forming friendships with people. Even the carnies themselves changed from week to week, from month to month, almost always from one season to the next. And the hard core of individuals who did remain with Greater Universe season after season never made the demands of friendship. Not unless it was sought and Dan never sought it. The last thing he wanted was the trust of another human being. Certainly he would never wholly trust anyone again.
There was a certain prestige connected with his job. Next to Bart Roberts, the owner of Greater Universe, Dan had the most authority and was accorded the most respect, as much respect as a carnie gave to anyone. Although he couldn't practice law openly, his advice was regularly sought in legal matters: the making of wills, the legality of contracts and business transactions, et cetera. Certainly a carnie would never consult, or trust, a town lawyer. Dan was, in a weird sense, the source of law and order on the carnival. It was his task to see that the grifters and the con artists never went too far; he legislated and interpreted the carnie code of justice; he was expected to smell out trouble before it developed and do what he could to prevent it.
He knew the name, Patch, was a term of contempt to some of the carnies, that they called him shoo-fly behind his back. But when they got into trouble it was to him they came running....
Dan sighed as he neared the cook tent. He paused for a moment and ground out his cigarette under his heel before going in. He was never sure when this mood would strike him, this senseless weighing of the past against the present. But it seemed to him that, increasingly of late, he was groping his way toward an assessment df his status in the world. Of one thing he was sure: There was a time coming, and soon, when he would have to decide if he was to make the carnival his whole life. Because there was a time in the lives of all carnival people when the world outside the carnie became wholly alien. It has been truly said that once a carnie, always a carnie. Dan wasn't sure if he had passed the point of no return yet.
He sighed again and entered the cook tent. The tent had a long counter with stools and a number of tables with folding chairs. At this hour the counter was full, as were most of the tables. The cook tent was open to the public, of course, but its primary purpose was to feed the carnies, those who didn't cook their own meals, and Evan Frost who operated the cook tent did little to encourage town trade. All in all, the cook tent offered little competition to the concession stands selling hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, cotton candy, candied apples, snow cones, et cetera.
After the carnival closed down for the night, the cook tent served as a gathering place; even those people who cooked in their trailers or tents came in for coffee and pie. They gathered to exchange scuttlebutt and to boast of or bemoan the night's grosses.
Near the tent entrance, at the front end of the long counter, was the cashier's booth.
Pausing, Dan nodded to the brown-haired girl in the booth. "Hi, Debra."
"Dan...." Debra twinkled at him. "All tucked in for the night?"
Dan grinned slowly. "All tucked in." It was their private joke. Each night Dan made a cursory inspection of the midway after closing, ending at the cook tent. "Like a beat cop making the last round before going off duty," Debra had once said to him with her twinkling grin.
Debra Frost was nineteen. Evan Frost had kept his daughter away at school, bringing her on the road only last season. She had none of the hard veneer and bright glitter of a carnie girl. She was petite, quick-witted, and completely charming. And, Dan was convinced, wholly innocent.
Sometimes she reminded him of a tame rabbit, all cuddly and trusting, arching her back to be stroked by any hand reaching out. If he could ever again bring himself to trust any woman....
Dan was unaware he had been staring until Debra said, "Dan?"
He felt a flush mount to his face. He shuffled his feet in the sawdust and said hastily, "Nothing, Debra, nothing. Just woolgathering, I guess."
He moved quickly down the counter. At this late hour there were no waiters on duty; people wishing to use a table had to serve themselves. Dan got his pie and coffee and found a table for himself near the front. He lingered over a second cup of coffee for a long time. This was the best time of the day for him. The carnival, as Debra had said, was tucked in for the night and he could relax.
The crowd was thinning out. After a little, Debra got a cup of coffee and joined him at the table. She sat so she could watch both the tent entrance and the cashier's booth. Each time someone came in, she looked up, eagerness naked on her face.
Dan asked, "Waiting for Cotty Starke?" She nodded with a quick, shy smile. "Look, Debra, about Cotty...."
"Yes, Dan?" she urged.
He heaved a sigh. What business was it of his if she chose to lose her head over someone like Cotty Starke? He said nothing, willing to let it drop.
But Debra wasn't. "You don't much like Cotty, do you, Dan?"
Dan shrugged. "I suppose you could say that, yes."
"I won't pry into your reasons, Dan, but don't you sometimes think you take your duties too seriously?" Her black eyes snapped with temper. "I'm a grown woman now, Dan. I can take care of myself!"
He gazed at her thoughtfully. Physically she was a grown woman; there was no denying that. Yet he doubted that she could hold her own with Cotty Starke who had never been anything but grown up. Whatever else Cotty had experienced, a normal childhood was not one of them. Of this Dan was confident. Dan wasn't sure why he disliked the man. Cotty was glib and had a sharp eye for a fast buck, but both these qualities were common to a successful carnie. There was something dark and secretive about him and an attitude of Cotty Starke first, to hell with everybody else!
Dan had to admit to himself that he could be reading something that wasn't there, all because Cotty had all too obviously captured Debra's heart. He started to speak, then changed his mind as he saw Cotty enter the tent and come down toward their table. Debra, her gaze still on Dan's face, didn't see him. Dan kept his face expressionless and watched Cotty approach.
Cotty was tall, well-built and moved with a supple grace. His hair was thick and black and straight. His dark face was almost classically handsome. The pencil-line moustache over his sensual mouth had a theatrical quality. Most of all, Dan didn't like his eyes. They were gray, the depthless gray of winter ice. But, Dan further admitted grudgingly, his good looks probably had a strong female appeal. And he was certainly an asset to the freak show. His voice was deep and compelling. Although his vocabulary was limited, it was peppered with colorful phrases and he talked with all the fervor of a revivalist.
Cotty said, "Ready, Debra?"
Debra spun around, her features breaking into a glad smile. "Oh, yes, Cotty! Wait until I tell Evan I'm leaving."
She hurried away toward the counter where her father leaned on his elbow talking to several carnies.
Cotty gave Dan a nod that just missed being insulting and turned on his heel. He crossed to the cashier's booth to wait for Debra.
Dan fought down a rise of temper. He hunched over his cup, staring bleakly down into the dregs. It had been his feeling for some time now that he was going to have trouble with Cotty Starke. The feeling was stronger than ever in him at that moment.
CHAPTER THREE
Outside the cook tent Cotty held Debra back while he cupped his hands to light a cigarette. He didn't offer her one; she didn't smoke. He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. "I don't like that guy worth a damn."
"Dan? The feeling's mutual," Debra said with a mischievous chuckle. "He doesn't like you, either."
He peered at her narrowly. "Have you been talking to him about me? I don't know as I like that."
Debra dropped her gaze and folded her hands demurely before her, as though acknowledging the rebuke.
Cotty decided not to pursue it. What the hell was Dan Fields to him ? He let his breath go with a sigh and said, "Well, what's the schedule? What do we do tonight?"
Without looking up, Debra said, "How about a movie? There's a late one showing in town. A musical."
Cotty grunted in exasperation. Debra was a movie addict; she gulped movies like an insomniac swallowed pills. Sometimes the movie houses in the towns where the carnival played had late showings for the carnie employees who never got through work until well past midnight. With a resigned shrug Cotty took her arm and started down the midway.
Debra said meekly, "I've already told Evan that's where we were going. Since that night two weeks ago when we were out so late...."
They were passing under a light and Cotty saw the wash of color across Debra's face. He grinned faintly and her glance jumped away.
"Anyway, after that night," Debra hurried on, "he made me promise to always let him know where I was going."
"And you're always yakking about being grown up! You'd better let your old man in on the secret."
She made a sound of distress. "But darling, don't you see? Ever since Mom died ... I was only seven ... I've been away at school. Now that I'm back Evan can't yet believe that I am grown up. I have to give him time to get used to the idea."
They passed through the midway entrance, the arching neon tubing overhead cold and silent. They caught a cab uptown.
The movie theater was about half filled; a large number of those present were carnies. Cotty and Debra took a seat in the back of the house. Debra snuggled close, her hand warm and still in his. She concentrated all her attention on the movie, a brassy musical. Cotty cared very little for movies and he was soon restless. His gaze drifted around the darkened theater, picking out those carnies he knew. He would much rather have been in a bar at that moment, a bar filled with carnies. Not to drink, but to talk of his big day. His roving glance finally swung back to Debra's rapt face and he smiled to himself. She was wholly absorbed in the movie. She was like a kid in many ways. But not all. Definitely not all!
Last season had been Cotty's first as a carnie. He had worked as a shill for Gil Meeks' wheel joint. A shill is considered only a step above the canvasmen and the ridemen in the carnie social structure. He had met Debra toward the end of last season when she'd come to visit her father, but it wasn't until this year that his increased status as a show talker had given Cotty the courage to ask her for a date. There had been immediate resistance from Evan Frost. Evan was big and burly, always strong with cooking odors. The two men had disliked each other at once. At first, Evan had refused to allow his daughter to go out with Cotty. But Debra had prevailed. Evan couldn't deny her anything for very long.
In the beginning the dates had been innocuous enough: a movie, a late dinner in town, and once a dance. Then came the night Debra had mentioned a little while ago, the night when they didn't return to the carnival lot until dawn. Debra had been a virgin. Nothing could have surprised Cotty more. He had known many women, the first at fifteen, a married woman more than twice his age. But he had never known a virgin....
It had been a warm night, that night two weeks ago, with a moon full and golden. From their very first date, Cotty had tried to seduce her, but Debra had always managed to fight him off at the last moment. She would let him go so far and that was it. Some instinct had warned him not to force it and he had accepted the rebuffs with ill grace.
But this particular night was different from the start. They had been to dinner and Debra had had two drinks which left her slightly tipsy. Afterward, they strolled hand in hand through the empty streets. Debra clung to him, her fingers digging into his arm. She was unduly nervous, her laughter too quick and climbing. Once, she pulled him into a darkened store front and lifted her mouth. She was in a sweater and a thin summer skirt. In his arms she was soft and pliable, her mouth loose and hot and sweet. A moan clogged her throat as he kissed her. Cotty felt a throb of desire. But, as his hand probed under the sweater for her breast, Debra tore away from him with low, nervous laughter.
There was a small park on the edge of town. It was deserted at that hour of the night. They found a great tree spreading its branches over a gentle slope. The grass was thick and fragrant, shadow-speckled from the moonlight sifting down through the leaves.
Cotty pulled Debra down onto the grass with him. She snuggled into the crook of his shoulder. Cautiously he cupped her breast in his hand. She stirred, murmuring, and then was still. Her lips at his ear, she whispered, "Cotty ... Do you love me? Tell me, please."
He experienced a spasm of annoyance. They were all the same. Every woman wanted to hear those words. Even the first one, who'd probably accommodated at least a hundred men, had demanded that assurance. She had withheld her favors until Cotty had mouthed the words she wanted to hear.
To Debra he said, "What do you think? Why do you think I spend all my time with you?"
Her soft sigh came. "I just wanted to hear you say it, darling." Her lips moved down his neck and across the line of his jaw to his mouth. When his tongue entered her mouth, her fingers dug into the muscles of his back in relaxing convulsions. Then she fell away and lay prone on the grass.
Cotty raised up on one elbow and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, the lashes long and shadowy. In the moonlight her skin glinted like the surface of a pearl. Her breasts were pert mounds under the sweater. He caught at the bottom edge of the sweater and Debra raised herself slightly, elevating her hands over her head. He peeled the sweater off in one motion. His fingers found the snap of her brassiere. Her breasts were small and white, the nipples the color of a kitten's tongue. He closed his hands around the smooth firmness of her up-thrust breasts and a pulse banged in his throat as he felt the leaping response of the tiny breast-buds. She seemed about to burst with the ripening approach to womanhood. Her body was young, untried, yet her eyes were knowing and hungry.
He lowered his mouth to the warm flutter of the pulse in her throat. Against his ear were the mute murmurings of her parted lips. His mouth moved down to her breasts and found an erect nipple. He could hear the wild thumping of her heart. His fingers moved over the sleekness of stockings, over taut garters and onto firm, silken thighs. He drove his hand all the way up to nylon-sheathed softness. Debra gasped, her breath hissing, and she arched against his hand. Suddenly she went lax, a moaning sound coming from her. Then she was naked beneath him; somehow his own clothes were stripped away. He felt her lightly touching fingers on his bare back as she waited. He responded to her unvoiced command with experienced hands and practiced movements. In a moment he moved around on his knees to take her. Dimly he heard her whispered plea, "Cotty ... be gentle. This is the first time for me."
He didn't believe her, not for a second, but he was too far gone in lust to care one way or another. He took her in straining, shuddering silence. There was a moment when she flinched away from him with a small cry of distress, but her wail was lost in the great roaring in his head. Debra went limp under him. Unheeding, Cotty drove desperately toward the final skyrocketing flare of ecstasy, his body pounding her relentlessly.
When it was done, when his passion broke, leaving him weak and shuddering, he knew she had been telling the truth. He had been the first. She lay in a broken sprawl, her face turned away into the crushed grass. As the full knowledge of her virginity burst upon him, he felt a surge of powerful male pride. He held himself ready for the tears, the recriminations. But there were no tears, then or later. If she felt any regrets, she never expressed them to him. Not once. And that was not to be the last time. Twice, since that night...."Cotty?"
He started and glanced around at the sound of Debra's voice, blinking in the sudden glare of light. The movie was over and people were leaving the theater. He nodded curtly to Debra's inquiring look and followed her out into the aisle. In the lobby Cotty paused to light a cigarette. Debra was prattling something about the movie, but he listened with only a part of his mind.
"Starke?"
He spun around at the sound of his name. Basil Greer loomed tall just behind him with Paula on his arm. Paula stood with her eyes downcast, the madonna face demure and untroubled. She looked as untouchable as an ice maiden.
"It was my thought that you understood our relationship." Greer's voice was slow, measured, as though he spoke past a speech impediment. "In any case, I will clarify it for you now."
"But I...." Cotty started to say.
"You work for me as a front talker," Greer swept on. "And that is the extent to which you are involved with my wife and me. Do I make make myself clear?"
"No, you don't make yourself clear." Cotty felt a prod of temper. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
Greer's gaze was level. "I think you do. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. There is a line which you do not step over. If you do, I will find myself another front talker."
Cotty's will crumpled under Greer's penetrating stare and he had to look away. Greer led Paula off. Just before they passed through the theater entrance, she glanced back. Her look was taunting. And yet, somehow, she contrived to make it seem they were conspirators, sharing some guilty secret. Cotty's humiliation was scalding. He could only stare after them, seething.
Debra tugged at his sleeve. "Cotty? What was that all about, darling?"
He rounded on her. "Just shut up! Just shut the hell up!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Cotty found himself wanting Paula Greer more and more as the days wheeled past. It became something of an obsession with him. She didn't encourage him, not in the slightest. Not once during the next two weeks did she relax her cool, indifferent manner toward him. This only served to inflame his passion. He had a strong hunch that she would be willing under the right circumstances, the right circumstances, of course, being the elimination of her husband. She never hinted of this to Cotty, but his conviction grew steadily.
He did learn that she was deathly afraid of Greer and didn't dare leave him. "He'd find me, no matter where I went, and drag me back," she said with a shudder. "And I don't know what he'd do to me then."
This conversation, the first break in her reserve, took place one morning after Greer and Juval had left for a nearby town on business. Paula remained behind. On learning of this, Cotty went looking for her. He found her sunning behind the freak-show tent, a bandanna binding her breasts and a strip of cloth not much larger than a diaper across her loins. She was lying on a blanket as vividly red as blood, and she reminded Cotty of the many pictures he'd seen in the girlie magazines. She had black cups over her eyes, and he wasn't sure she knew of his presence.
He stood looking down at her for a full minute. Absently he took out a cigarette and lit it.
"If you're going to stand there and look at me like that, the least you could do is light one for me." She drew one golden leg up.
Cotty dropped to his knees on the edge of the blanket, fumbled out a cigarette with trembling fingers, lit it, and put it between her lips.
Paula drew deeply on the cigarette and let smoke drift out of her mouth. Without preamble she said, "I'm frightened to death of Basil, you know."
Cotty listened to her attentively, but he was disconcerted by the eye cups. It was like talking to a blind person. He didn't know whether or not she kept the cups on as a gesture of contempt, but he decided not to push his luck. He said, "How do you think he'd find you so damned easy?" He laughed lightly. "He's not psychic, is he?"
"Don't laugh," she retorted. "He could be. Sometimes I think he is." With an abrupt gesture, she removed the cups. The green eyes smoldered with more emotion than he'd ever seen her display. "Besides, there's another reason I won't leave him. I've been married to that man for five years now. You know what you said the other night about it being like living with a half-dead man ? Well, it is! Every time he touches me..." A shudder rippled her body. "I think of him being dug out of that damned casket every night. I feel I've earned his money!"
Cotty was taken aback by her vehemence and was surprised by her sudden decision to confide in him, but the mention of money caught his attention above everything else. "Money? What do you mean, his money?"
"He's loaded, didn't you know? I don't know how much, but it has to be considerable. Basil was a top-money attraction for twenty years with an escape act." She laughed shortly. "Until his guts leaked out!"
"How did that happen?"
"His strongest act was patterned after Hou-dini's most famous stunt. Basil was strapped in a straitjacket, locked into a trunk, and lowered into a river. His performance was always spectacular. Sometimes he popped to the surface before the trunk even had time to settle to the bottom of the river. Sometimes he waited until everyone thought he had drowned. Well, one day he outsmarted himself! He waited too long, then something went wrong and he nearly drowned. They pumped a barrel of river water out of him. He never had the guts to go down again and that finished him as an escape artist and brought him down to the carnie level. God, how he hates it! How the mighty have fallen!" Her laughter was bitter, her contempt scalding.
Cotty said, "How did he do it? How did he always manage to get out of the trunk?"
"How do I know? He didn't confide in me."
"But the act must have been gimmicked!"
"Of course it was gimmicked." She ground out her cigarette in the grass with an indelicate snort.
"The guys who do these stunts never reveal their secrets. They take it with them when they die. And that's another thing. ... He's scared green that he'll die in that casket some day, that he won't be dug up in time. That's why he'll only trust Juval for that chore. Juval spooks me, too, but I sometimes feel sorry for the little guy. Basil's made the dwarf so dependent on him that Juval would be lost without him. Juval has been with Basil since the little guy was about ten. Juval worships him and sometimes I think he's the only person Basil's ever cared for. He's the only one I've ever seen him gentle to. But even there he played a dirty trick. Juval's brighter than you might think but Basil never taught him to read and write. He did teach him a bastard form of sign language that only the two of them can understand. Oh, he's a wonder, my husband. The guts of a chicken, with a sadistic streak de Sade would have been proud of, all that money and a tight fist to go with it. And a lush, to boot!" Cotty stared. "A lush?"
"Oh, a secret one, of course! He has been interested in hypnosis for years and studied it extensively. Now it boils him to have to use self-hypnosis in what he considers a cheap carnie act. But show business is all he knows and he can't quit. So, most nights after he's dug up, he sits in the trailer and gets quietly smashed. To forget, he says. Not that I mind too much. It keeps him out of my hair." She slanted a glance at him, laughing again. "Not that he bothers me too much in that respect. Since he lost his guts, he lost that, too. He can't get it up anymore."
Cotty wasn't shocked by her sudden crudity. On the contrary, it excited him; he read it as a raw invitation. But, remembering her previous brush-offs, he decided to pay her back in kind. He looked away, making an elaborate business out of lighting a cigarette. After a little, he said casually, "Considering you feel that way about him, why did you marry him in the first place?"
She sat up, eyes blazing, and Cotty braced himself for a whack across the mouth. Then she relaxed and lay back down. "Give me a cigarette, will you, sweetie?"
He lit a cigarette for her and she put the cups over her eyes again, then told him how Greer had found her stripping in a burlesque house in St. Louis and had made her a part of his act. She was surprisingly frank but even so Cotty read much between the lines, sketching in some parts he was convinced she skipped over. Greer had taught her how to wear clothes, how to walk, how to talk and many other things as well. When she learned he had money, she was ready to accept when he offered to marry her. That happened after she'd been in his act for two years, after he'd made her over to his liking.
"You know what he says sometimes? He says I'm his Liza, like that flower girl in some play by Shaw, that he made me over from nothing into what I am." She ripped the cups away, her lip curling. "Can you imagine that coming from him?" she laughed sarcastically.
Cotty very well could. He suspected that Greer had turned a vulgar stripper into an exciting, sophisticated woman. He doubted that the man had been able to improve her morals to any great extent. But that was all to the good. That, too, only made her more exciting.
"Sure, he taught me some things," Paula went on. "After all, I didn't get much schooling. I was raised around carnie girlie shows and burlesque houses. My mother was a show girl. My old man ... I never knew him. I don't think my mother ever knew for sure who he was." Paula had slipped easily into a flip manner, her voice becoming brassy; even her body in repose managed to appear taunting, wanton. Cotty caught himself eyeing her pelvis uneasily, as though he expected her to perform a series of lewd bumps and grinds any second. He wet his lips and tore his gaze away.
Paula continued in a biting voice, "But can you imagine Basil handing me that crap? Setting himself up so high above me! He's a bastard and all the carnies have him pegged for one. He thinks he's too good to associate with the carnies and they couldn't care less."
"Does he often go off like this with Juval?"
Her shoulders twitched in a slight shrug. "A couple of times a week during still dates like this, when we only show in the evenings. In a few weeks we start playing the fairs. God, what a grind that'll be! In that damned tent from noon until after midnight with the townies asking stupid questions. 'How does he do it?' 'You sure he isn't really dead ? ' 'How does it feel like, being married to a man like that?'" Her voice was savage, mimicking. "I could tell them what it's like! It's a drag, that's what it's like! At least with Basil and Juval out of my hair like this I can relax a little. I may get bored stiff but I don't have to watch every move I make."
Cotty said, "We could do something about the boredom, have a beer or something."
"No!" she said explosively.
He leaned forward and put his hand on her thigh just above the knee. Her skin was smooth, silken, heated from the sun. "I only meant...."
"I know what you meant." She slapped his hand away, her glance darting about. "And keep your hands off! Suppose someone saw you and told Basil?"
"Oh, I don't think you need worry. You know carnies mind their own business. And you said yourself they don't like him. So who would...? "
"I'm not taking any chances. Just because I felt like letting my hair down and talking a little. ... God, I need someone to talk to! But that doesn't mean I want to risk everything playing games with you." Her eyes glittered like frost. "You get randy, go play with that mousy cook tent cashier. The way she pants after you, I imagine she falls on her back and spreads her legs every time you crook a finger."
Anger poured through Cotty, bringing him to his feet. He stood glaring down at her. "You're a cold, teasing bitch!" he said in a choked voice. "You can't treat me this way!"
"Can't I, sweetie?" she said mockingly. "I'd say that's just what I am doing."
Cotty spun on his heel, trembling with fury. It was as though a door had opened to unspeakable delights, only to be slammed in his face as he started across the threshold. As his anger began to subside, his mind went back over the scene, probing at it as a tongue probes at a sore tooth, and some of it didn't ring true. The way she'd opened up to him, then closed it off like the wrench of a faucet didn't make good sense. Had she been acting there at the end? Had she been afraid somebody was watching? It was an answer that he desperately wanted to believe and it did make more sense.
And yet, during the next few days, he was to wonder. She was cold and distant again, even in what few moments he could manage alone with her. It began to get to him, making him short-tempered and snarling. His frustration only increased his itch for her and caused him to try again and again, meeting with repeated rebuffs.
Even Gil Meeks commented on his surliness. "What's gotten into you lately, kid? You're as raunchy as a bear. Aren't you still pulling 'em in at the freak show?"
"I'm doing fine, better than ever," Cotty said. Which was true. With added experience and a growing technique he had made the ten-in-one the top grosser on the midway. "It has nothing to do with the show. It's Paula. She's driving me up the walls."
Meeks laughed. His cigar winked like a red eye in the darkness of the concession tent. "Broads! You young studs are always in a lather over some broad. I'm glad I'm past that."
Cotty tried to see the man's face in the dark. He wasn't that old, for hell's sake! Meeks couldn't be far past forty. Cotty managed to keep his curiosity in check. He heard a bottle clink, smelled the strong odor of whiskey and heard Meeks swallow. Then the man said in a toneless voice, "I know what you're thinking, kid. I used to be a womanizer, but no more. And age has nothing to do with it. I got caught in the wrong bed by a husband waving a pistol around. He was a lousy shot. At least I think he was a lousy shot. Anyway, with one bullet, he made me as useless as a neutered tomcat." His short laugh was mirthless. "And that's why I get my kicks nowadays from booze, cigars, and money."
He fell silent, and Cotty recalled Paula's remark about Greer. A dark shadow moved across his mind like an arctic wind. When a man lost that, for whatever reason, he lost his main reason for living.
After a moment Meeks said, "What I can't figure is why Paula Greer, kid? You've got Debra Frost dangling and a carnie's the best place in the world for easy tail."
"I don't know, Gil," Cotty said. "I really can't explain it to you."
Naturally Debra noticed something was wrong with him. In his obsession with Paula, he saw less and less of Debra. She asked him repeatedly what was wrong and he brushed her off. She tried to find the blame within herself and that only made him furious.
"Goddammit, stop pushing me!" he snarled at her. "Why do women always think they have to come first before everything else? I've got other things on my mind. I'm not going to be a show talker all my life!"
"I'm sure you're not, darling," she murmured. "I just thought it was something I'd done. Or maybe another girl. That isn't it, is it, Cotty?"
"Of course not," he said automatically. "Why would you think that?"
"I just wondered, is all."
He slanted a glance at her. She was walking with her head bent, one toe scuffing the sawdust. He was walking her from the cook tent to the Frost trailer. This was about the only time he saw her of late, on the rare occasion when he stopped in the cook tent for a late cup of coffee. He wondered if she did know about Paula. But how could she? There was nothing to know. He realized that if there were something between Paula and himself and Debra was accusing him, he wouldn't be at all angry. He would be pleased.
He had a sudden inspiration. Glancing around, he saw that they were directly opposite Meeks' flat joint. Cotty seized Debra's arm, hustled her under the tent fly, helped her over the counter, then vaulted after her.
Debra had no chance to protest until they were inside. Then she said breathlessly, "What are you doing, Cotty?"
'You said something about another girl. I'm going to show you there's no other girl."
"But darling. ... Here?"
"Here. Can you think of a better place?"
He found her in the dark and pressed her back against the counter, his mouth stifling any further protest. He knew that Meeks usually slept in a hotel room. But sometimes, when he'd had too much to drink, he spent the night on a cot in the tent. The possibility that Meeks might be there, a few feet away, didn't bother Cotty. On the contrary, it gave him a perverse thrill.
Briefly, Debra was stiff, unresponsive, in his arms. Then her body went soft and pliable, her curves and hollows fitting into his. He closed his hand around the shape of her breasts through the sweater she was wearing and she accepted the thrust of his tongue in her mouth with a shuddering sigh. When he took his mouth away to breathe, she said worriedly, "I don't like this, Cotty. Somebody might see us. And Evan will be expecting me...."
"Nobody'll see us. And like I told you, it's high time you were letting your old man know you've grown up."
His impulse to steer her into the tent had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. But the touch of her body, the taste of her mouth, her half-yielding, half-rebellious attitude-all had sparked his desired
He closed with her again, jamming her roughly against the counter, grinding his mouth down on hers until their teeth clashed painfully. A yelp of mingled surprise and outrage came from Debra. She drummed her fists on his shoulders and squirmed wildly. Cotty tightened his arms around her cruelly, then raised his mouth to say, "Stop acting up, Debra. You know I don't like teasers."
"But Cotty, I'm not teasing! You started this. ... Oh!"
Craftily he had slipped a hand under her skirt, then drove it all the way up to the nexus of her thighs. She cried out as he rotated his knuckles and sagged against him.
"Now tell me you don't want it, baby," he said gloatingly. He hooked his fingers in the elastic of her panties and ripped them from her loins, shredding them like so much confetti. He unzipped his trousers, releasing himself, and drove against her, taking her ruthlessly, her back banging against the counter each time he lunged to her.
It was over quickly, their mutual climax shattering. Debra cried out shrilly, shuddering, and clung to him fiercely.
Cotty's hands released their grip on her hips. He found the edge of the counter and gripped it with all his waning strength as the receding spasms of ecstasy ripped through him. Debra slipped bonelessly through his grasp and fell in a huddle on the ground.
Cotty heard her start to sob. Women, he thought dimly; they're all alike. They all want it, but when they get it, they start the tears flowing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Debra's fears were justified. They weren't caught, but they were heard, then seen. Dan had been making a last round of the midway. He paused across from Meeks' flat joint to light a cigarette. It was then he heard a muffled sound from the tent. He tensed, listening. The sound came again and he recognized it as that of a woman in ecstasy. He debated lifting the tent fly and exposing whoever was inside, but it was none of his business if some carnie was banging a broad in there, unless it was some under-age townie girl and that could be trouble.
It was this that prompted him to melt back into the shadows of the caterpillar ride across the way and wait, the coal of his cigarette hidden by his cupped hand. He felt a faint shame at his spying, yet it was his job to know what was going on around the midway. And he was curious. Although he didn't think Gil Meeks was a swish, he'd never seen the man with a woman.
A few minutes later, he observed Cotty Starke and Debra emerge from the tent. Cotty had Debra's hand in his and he started up the midway with her. With a sudden jerk, Debra tore away from him. She said something in a voice too low for Dan to hear and started up the midway, half running. Cotty took two steps after her, then stopped with a contemptuous toss of his head. He turned back to lean against the counter and fire a cigarette as casually as he could.
Dan's first impulse was to confront Cotty, let him know exactly what he thought of him. He had to hold himself in check with an effort. It was none of his business, and carnies were well-known for their aversion to nosiness. It was bad enough to be known as the Patch; to become known around the carnie as the Meddler would be the last straw.
Besides, Debra was old enough to know the game, as well as the score. Whatever she had been doing with Cotty (and Dan's imagination could supply the details all too vividly), it obviously wasn't the first time. If she chose to play hanky-panky with Cotty Starke, let her! But Dan knew, as he watched Cotty drop his cigarette into the sawdust, grind it under his toe, and saunter up the midway, that his attempt to downgrade Debra to himself wasn't good enough. He liked her far too much. He didn't wish to see her hurt by Cotty, which Dan felt would eventually happen.
Sooner or later, he would have to have a word with Cotty about it, the very thing he had sworn he would never do again, get emotionally involved enough to be concerned with what happened to a fellow human being. Maybe if he just warned Cotty to go easy. ... The opportunity presented itself two nights later.
Dan stood in the crowd before the freak show as Cotty began his bally pitch. Juval was on the bally platform, banging on an iron wheel with a hammer, capering on his short legs. Cotty, sporty in dove-colored slacks and a bright shirt, marched up and down the platform with cat-like steps, chanting into the small microphone cupped in his hand. "Hi, lookee! Everybody down this way, folks! This is where the freaks are! The strange, the unusual, the weird, the unbelievable! Gather down in close for a free show!"
Cotty motioned and a parade of freaks filed up the short steps and lined up on the bally platform. Ikey, the tattooed man, a lean individual of forty, wearing only a loincloth, every inch of his exposed epidermis, excepting his face, covered with tattoos. Flowers, ships, miniature landscapes, panels of comic strip characters. He rippled a bicep and a naked woman, the pubic area blanked out, performed an obscene dance.
Next, the crucified man, who had small holes bored through his hands. With a hose he shot jets of water through the holes while the gathering crowd stretched, craning necks, and oohed and aahed. Next came Fumo, a tall man in a flaming-red Satan's suit complete with horns, carrying two blazing torches. He tilted his head far back, rammed a torch down his throat until it seemed to go out, then removed it and leaned toward the audience, breathing flame like a dragon of olden times. Then Steel strutted onto the platform, carrying a sword with a long, thin blade. He also tilted his head back and swallowed the sword until only the hilt was in evidence.
Now Cotty gestured grandly. "That's enough.
After all, we're here to make money. We can't show all our wonders for free, now can we?" He chuckled companionably. "What you see up here, ladies and gentlemen, is only a small sample of what goes on inside."
Dan, remembering Cotty when he first came on the carnie, had to marvel at the man's newly acquired assurance. Last year, working as a shill for Gil Meeks, Cotty had been friendless, secretive, distrustful. Now he strutted the bally like he owned the freak show instead of Greer. And in a way, Dan thought, he did. No carnie show made money unless it had a good front talker, one who could wheedle, charm, and cajole the majority of an audience into lining up at the ticket box after a spiel. A good talker needed the brass of a con man, the colorful vocabulary of an advertising man, and the swaggering assurance of a bull alone in a field of young heifers. And Cotty Starke possessed all three. Dan didn't like him as a man, yet he had to admit that he came on strong as a barker.
Now Cotty wheeled and pointed a dramatic finger at the big center banner stretched across the entrance to the tent. The banner depicted the buried casket with Basil Greer in it, his eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. Across the top of the banner were blazoned huge letters: BURIED ALIVE!
"That is our main attraction, ladies and gentlemen," Cotty said smoothly. "You have to see it to believe it! Basil Greer, buried alive in an airtight casket and padlocked in. Prominent citizens of your fair town have examined both Mr. Greer and the coffin and can testify there is nothing faked about the exhibit. This man was breathing, eating, living, even as you and I, only short hours ago. Now he is, for all practical purposes, dead. He is not breathing. His heart is not beating. Yet, about two hours from now, he will return once more to the land of the living! You have to see it with your own eyes to believe it! So step right up and buy our tickets! No waiting, no delay, the show never stops. It is going on inside right this very minute!"
With a flourish of his hand, Cotty sent the performers hurrying from the platform and into the tent. Juval gave the wheel a final clang and scampered away. Cotty talked for a few minutes more, pacing up and down the platform exhorting the crowd. Dan stood back, smoking a slow cigarette. He appraised the tip, the crowd Cotty had drawn. And he had turned over half of them, lined them up at the ticket box. Oh, he was good, he was damned good!
When the last ticket was sold, Cotty hung the mike on the ticket box and disappeared down the steps behind the bally. Dan put out his cigarette and went around behind the platform. Cotty had his head canted back and was spraying his throat with an atomizer.
Dan said, "Starke...."
Cotty's head came down and his face darkened with displeasure when he saw who it was. "Oh, it's you, Patch."
At that moment the strip of canvas reaching from the bally platform to the ground jiggled furiously, catching Dan's attention. A short figure emerged, rump first, from under the platform, then faced around, and Dan recognized Juval. And he recalled that Juval, unless it was raining, slept under the platform. The dwarf saw Dan, his gargoyle's face split in a grin, and he capered, the bottle in his hand sloshing pop on his chin. He licked at it with a long tongue, detoured around Cotty, and darted into the tent.
Cotty glared after him, scowling blackly, and muttered something too low for Dan to hear. His scowl still intact, he looked at Dan. "You want something, Patch?"
Many of the carnies called him Patch, some affectionately, some half sneeringly, but Cotty managed to bracket the word with a contempt that set Dan's teeth on edge. He said tautly, "About Debra...."
"What about Debra? Her old man gives me a hard enough time, now you. What business is it of yours?"
"Everything that affects the carnie is my business!" Dan retorted. He adopted a more conciliatory tone. "Debra's a nice girl. I don't want to see her hurt."
"A nice girl?" Cotty sneered. "How would you know she's a nice girl?"
Dan gritted his teeth and held his tongue in check.
"The way you put it, she's a nice girl and I'm a bastard, right? Is that the way you meant it."
"You said it, I didn't."
"Patch. ... If I get out of line on something to do with the carnie, maybe that's your business. At least you could go to Roberts about it. But my personal life is my personal life and you stay the hell out of it!"
"Starke, if you hurt Debra, I'll come down on you like a tree." It had been a long time since Dan had been so angry. His rage made him tremble, and he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from smashing Cotty in the face.
Cotty returned his stare for a moment, then turned away with a contemptuous hitch of his shoulder. Dan stood and watched him saunter into the tent. Already he was wondering what had possessed him to say a thing like that. What had possessed him to start it in the first place? Starke was right; it wasn't any of his business. And if Debra ever found out he was meddling in her private life, she'd blow sky high! He knew her well enough by now to predict that reaction.
She found out. And she blew. She confronted him late that same night in the cook tent. She didn't see him when he came in. But when Dan had his coffee and pie and was seated at a table, she spotted him and came charging over, battle colors hoisted.
She stopped at his table, hands on her hips. "How dare you, Dan Fields!" she biazed. "How dare you speak to Cotty about me!"
"He didn't waste any time telling you, did he?" Dan said mildly.
"And why shouldn't he?"
"Knowing him, I guess I should have expected him to go running to you first thing."
"Knowing him! How about me, Dan? Do you know anything at all about me? I've never been so humiliated in my life!" Tears stood in her eyes. "You must think I'm still a child."
His own temper stirred. "Sometimes you act like one. Debbie."
"Oh! You make me so ... damned mad!" She stamped her foot, then leaned down to pound on the folding table with her fists. Dan's coffee sloshed over. "Who do you think you are, my father?"
"If I were, I'd turn you over my knee."
"Just try it. I dare you!" She thrust her face close to his and they glared at each other.
"Here! What's with you two?" a husky voice said.
Dan had forgotten where he was. He came to with a start and glanced around. Evan Frost, an apron wrapped around his ample waist, stood near, scowling at them in puzzlement and some concern.
Debra whirled to face him. "Evan! He's impossible! Dan's utterly impossible!"
Evan Frost said, 'I don't know about that, girl, but you'd better get back to your register."
A number of carnies were lined up at the register, waiting to pay their bills. Debra said, "Oh!" and hurried away.
Dan's gaze followed the saucy bounce of her behind. He noted the way her long, lovely legs twinkled as she ran.
Frost said, "Dan, what is it? Anything I should know about?"
Dan looked at him, his glance vague. Frost was close to sixty, with a shock of iron-gray hair and warm blue eyes. His round face was red from the range and still wore the unaccustomed scowl. Normally, he was the most genial of men; only where Debra was concerned did he ever show temper.
Dan forced a smile. "Nothing you should know about, Evan. It was all my fault. Debra had every right to be mad. I was sticking my nose in where it didn't belong."
Frost looked relieved, nodded cheerfully, and turned back toward the counter.
Dan switched his gaze back to the cash register and Debra. He knew now why he had stuck his nose in, why he was concerned about her. He was in love with her. It was incredible, it was hard for him to accept, yet there it was.
And that should be good for a laugh all right. He, Dan Fields, the man who didn't want to get emotionally involved with anyone, in love with a girl hung up on a man like Cotty Starke!
CHAPTER SIX
Cotty worked on a percentage basis, ten percent of the gross, and he was paid by Greer after every night's final show. On the opening day of their first fair date, the freak show grossed seven hundred dollars, the biggest day of the season, and Cotty walked away with seventy dollars for his day's work.
He wasn't much of a gambler, but he had a feverish need to celebrate his big day. He didn't drink, there was no chance to celebrate with Paula, and an evening spent at the movies with Debra certainly didn't appeal to him. So, his hand clamped around the wad of bills in his pocket, he ducked into the G-tent, a small tent behind the Streets of Paris girlie show. The G-tent was as simple a gambling operation as possible, holding only an ancient dice table, the green felt ripped in several places. In many of the towns the local law wouldn't give Dan Fields permission to put up the G-tent. As a result, the table always did a thriving business during those infrequent times it was set up.
Carnies were two deep around the table when Cotty came in. The flat joint operators took turns running the G-tent, taking a percentage of the winnings for their efforts. Gil Meeks was in charge of the crap table tonight. He caught Cotty's eye and winked as Cotty worked his way up to the table.
The dice were at the other end of the table from Cotty. He was content to wait and watch for a little. The table had once been a regular crap table, with the field, et cetera, marked off. But the numbers and the markings had all faded and were ignored by the players. It was strictly a back alley game, with the shooter backing his rolls and the others either betting with or against him. The only rule was a dollar minimum bet. Meeks' function was to police the game, do what he could to discourage the cheaters, and toss in a new set of dice every so often.
When the dice came to Cotty, he bet five dollars. He crapped out on the first roll, put down another five, and rolled an eight. He sevened out on the third roll. As the dice went around the table, he awaited his turn before betting again. He knew that the only thing that would satisfy him, feed his elation, would be a hot run with the dice, his money against the others. It really didn't matter much whether he eventually won or lost. One long, hot run was all he wanted, reaching a big climax, the last roll of the dice either breaking him or taking all the money on the table. He vaguely recognized the sexual parallel and didn't care.
He lasted longer the second time, making his point four times, running his original five up to close to a hundred dollars, letting it all ride until he sevened out trying for a six. The dice started around again. Cotty felt a touch on his elbow. His pulse speeded up, his heart gave a lurch, and he knew it was Paula before he turned. The blonde hair was in disarray, the green eyes had a wild glitter, there was a strong odor of gin on her breath, and the madonna face had a depraved look.
"Hello, sweetie," she said huskily. Under the cover of the table her fingers found his hand and enclosed it. Her skin was dry and hot.
"Paula, what...? " Then he saw the swollen right eye, already discoloring, and the smear of blood-like lipstick on one cheek.
She squeezed his hand to cut off his questions and said close to his ear, "Sometimes I'm good luck, Cotty. Can I be your good luck piece, sweetie?"
Wildness exploded in him like overripe fruit bursting, and the night began to swing, taking on an abandoned gaiety that carried them beyond all present worries. The dice came to Cotty. He scooped them up in his cupped hands and held his hands up to Paula's lips. She kissed each knuckle of one hand, her hot gaze never leaving his.
Cotty threw a twenty on the table, waited until he was covered, and tossed the dice. A seven. He let the forty ride and rolled an eleven. He let the eighty ride. This time he rolled a four. Usually he gambled in total, concentrated silence. Tonight, the fever was on him. Always aware of Paula at his side, he exhorted the dice, "Litth; Joe! Come to daddy. Two by two! Four the hard way!"
On the third roll he made his four, made it the hard way. Exhilaration pumped through his veins like adrenalin. He looked at the pile of bills before him. One hundred and sixty dollars. He waited until he was covered and threw the dice again. A seven. Three hundred and twenty dollars.
A crescendo of groans swept the table. Now some of the bettors switched and began to ride with Cotty. His next roll was an eight. He blew on the dice. "That's it, sweetie! Oh, you're really hot!" Paula's voice was a moan, her breath hot in his ear. Her hand crept toward his loins under cover of the table, her fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh like claws as he tossed the cubes with an expulsion of breath.
"Eighter from Decateur!" Cotty chanted. "Big eight, hard eight, any old eight!" Six times he threw the dice. Breaths were held around the table, then escaped with a sound like hissing steam each time the dice stopped tumbling. And then ... Two fours! Six hundred and forty dollars! This time he had to wait a little before he was covered. He came out and his point was five. And this time he tossed the dice until his arm grew numb.
"Don't those damned dice have a seven ? " someone muttered.
"No seven, dice! Five, little fever!" Cotty intoned. "Five is half of ten, dice! Five!"
And five it was. A trey and a deuce. Twelve hundred and eighty dollars on the table before him now! He glanced at Paula. She nodded, eyes blazing like cold fire. Her nails dug painfully into his thigh. "Yes! Once more. One more time, sweetie!"
His glance moved around the table. He felt nine feet tall. "You heard the lady! Come up with it! Twelve hundred and eighty on the table! Who'll cover it?"
They came up with it, grumbling and digging deep, but finally his twelve eighty was covered. He drew a deep breath and threw the dice. He watched them tumble over and over. One spun crazily to a stop. A four. Cotty's breath left him in a shout as the other dice stopped spinning. "There's your seven!"
He had beaten them all. Already they were turning away from the table, pockets turned out, faces dolorous, muttering curses, leaving him with all that money and Paula. Twenty-five hundred and sixty dollars! Giddily, Cotty scooped up the bills, Paula helping him, and stuffed them into his pockets. He counted out Meeks' cut, returned the man's wink, then took Paula's arm and held the tent flap while she ducked under.
Outside, he took her arm again and held her back while he lit cigarettes for both of them. In the flare of the match, Paula's face had a dreaming look. Her eyes were unfocused, her mouth open and loose. Cotty said, "Now are you going to tell me what happened?"
Her mouth snapped closed like a steel trap, her teeth making a clicking sound. "He hit me.
The bastard hit me and drove me out of the trailer."
"What for?"
"What for? For no reason except he's drunk and mean."
Cotty felt sure there was more to it than that, but he wasn't about to push his luck. He took her arm again and maneuvered her under the girlie-show tent flap. She went willingly enough. Her brief spurt of vicious temper gone, she had sunk back into lethargy again.
Cotty had never felt more alive. This was going to really be his day. His best day as a show talker, winning twenty-five hundred. ... And now this! It was almost too much to take in. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his heart thudded like a trip hammer, and his lust was running out of control.
There was a small night light burning in the tent, throwing enough illumination to guide them up the steps and onto the stage. Cotty had been in here one night with Debra. There had been a pile of velvet curtains stacked at the end of the stage, curtains used as a backdrop for the girlie performances. Cotty would never forget the shivery feel of velvet on his bare knees and elbows as his body had drummed away at Debra. If they were still there. ... They were, piled high as a bed.
Cotty backed Paula until the backs of her legs struck the stacked curtains. She stood passive, stood as though drugged, as his hands groped for her breasts through the thin blouse she wore. There was even no response as his mouth came down hard on hers. Cotty felt a stab of disappointment. Was she really as cold as she often seemed ?
Then her lips parted slightly, Cotty drove his tongue into her mouth, and she came pantingly alive. She caught his tongue between her teeth and bit down until the taste of his own blood filled his mouth. The sharp jab of pain brought a grunt from him, but it only served to increase his desire. His hands cupped her firm buttocks, forcing her against him. Her loins moved against him in a slow, sensuous, abandoned rhythm. He pushed his leg between her thighs.
Paula moaned, shuddering, and agitated herself against him. She ripped her mouth away from his with the sound of wet paper tearing and said, "God, sweetie. ... Good! How good to feel a real man again instead of a corpse!"
"I was wrong," he said, marveling. "You're not cold at all."
Paula murmured, "Even ice melts, sweetie." Her hand was fumbling with his trousers.
Something still bothered him. "You've always been so careful before. But tonight ... in front of all the carnies. Somebody's sure to run to Greer with it."
"What did I have to lose? He threw me out. Beat me and threw me out. And for no reason. That's what makes me so spitting mad!"
Something still bothered Cotty, something not quite right. Then he ceased to care as Paula's small hand invaded his trousers and found him. He grunted explosively, fell against her, and they tumbled to the pile of curtains, Cotty landing on top of her. The fall had fucked her skirt up around her waist. He drove a hand toward the V of her thighs, his knuckles brushing across wire-haired resiliency, and he realized she wasn't wearing panties.
Paula's breath scorched his cheek. She chuckled lewdly. "That's right, sweetie. I came all prepared."
She drove her tongue in his ear like a wedge. Cotty jumped, his body convulsing. Paula's legs scissored his hips, she rose in a mighty surge, her pelvis grinding, and they were joined without further preliminaries.
"Oh, oh! Yes, sweetie!" she cried shrilly. "That's it! That is indeed ... it!"
Their bodies worked in frantic rhythm and counterpoint. Her nails raked his back, shredding his shirt to ribbons, and her heels drummed along the backs of his legs.
His ecstasy shook him like a tidal wave. Sensation after sensation ripped at him; his pleasure was intense, unbelievable. She was all he had ever wanted in a woman.
She attained one shuddering, straining peak, then was immediately with him again, her body moving with a tidal surge. His own passion spiraled high and broke, the sharp rapture so powerful that a white light burst blindingly behind
Cotty's eyes, driving him to the edge of unconsciousness.
Dimly he heard Paula's scream of completion. She rose against him once more, lifting him high, then fell away. He fell with her. He seemed to fall endlessly, down a deep, dark well of warmth and receding pleasure.
After a long while she said, near his ear, "You're good, sweetie, the very best. I've been wanting this to happen since the moment I first set eyes on you!"
"Then why the hell did you stand me off so long with that cold-fish act?" he said with rasping breath.
"The time wasn't right, sweetie. We had to wait until...."
She broke off with a muted scream as sudden light blazed down on them. Cotty's blood turned to ice in his veins. It took an effort of will to roll off Paula and onto his back. He threw his hand up to shield his eyes from the powerful beam of light.
"You didn't waste any time, did you, Paula?" Basil Greer said. "You went running to him like a bitch in heat and he was only too willing to serve you."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paula snapped, "I don't see what you have to be upset about! You threw me out!" She made no effort to arrange her clothing.
"That's true, my dear, I did, and I'm truly sorry about that. I wasn't ... myself." If Greer had been drunk earlier, he showed no signs of it now. His speech wasn't slurred. He spoke in the slow, measured cadence that always reminded Cotty of an undertaker's unctuous tones.
Paula's full lips drew back in a sneer. "You were drunk, why don't you admit it?"
"All right, I will admit it. And for that reason I can find it in me to overlook your behavior ... this time."
Cotty gave an involuntary leap as he glimpsed a movement to the right of Greer. Juval stepped forward into the light, grinning at Cotty. That explained how Greer had found them. Juval had been spying. Cotty had always disliked the dwarf; now he actively hated him.
"But this time only. I will not overlook it again. And my behavior does not in any way excuse yours, Starke." Greer's voice had hardened. Now his hand moved into the light and Cotty saw the gun. His terror increased, and he braced himself for the impact of a bullet. "I could shoot you, Starke, and nobody would blame me. Paula..." Greer gestured with the gun. "Please make yourself decent!"
For the first time a flicker of fear showed in Paula's face. She sat up and hastily pulled her dress down.
"I warned you once before, Starke," Greer went on. "But I'm going to take into consideration provocation. ... Paula can be very provocative, I have reason to know ... and go against my better judgment. And I will be candid enough to admit that my motives aren't purely altruistic. You are an excellent front talker. You are making money for me, and I doubt I'd be able to find another talker this late in the season. But this is definitely my last warning. I imagine she has confided in you my ... inadequacy. Even so, a man has some pride. I will not be cuckolded! Not again!" The man's voice was cold, deadly, sending a chill down Cotty's spine. "I will not hesitate to kill you. Both of you! Come, Paula."
Paula jumped to her feet and started off, her face averted from Cotty. The flashlight beam swung away, leaving Cotty in merciful darkness. He watched the three go down the steps, Juval in the lead. The dwarf held the tent wall up, and Paula and Greer ducked under and were gone.
Only then did Cotty find his voice. "I could kill you first! You and that damned dwarf!"
The sound of his voice, harsh and raging, startled him a little. It was only then that he could relax, his fear gradually receding. He found that he was sheathed in a cold sweat, and his muscles ached from being held tense so long.
And yet, even through his scald of humiliation, his mind was already going back over what had happened. There was something about it that didn't ring true. Oh, not Basil Greer. His cold fury and deadly threat was real enough. But Paula....
Cotty felt the same as after the morning he'd found her sunning behind the freak show tent. He felt that she hadn't been as terrified as she'd pretended. And it wasn't quite in character for her to come looking for him, enticing him into laying her. She was too calculating of repercussions to lose control of herself. Even angry at Greer for striking her and throwing her out of their trailer, Cotty couldn't see her risking everything to get back at her husband, especially since she claimed to be terrified of him. But what could her motive be in coldly running the risk?
Cotty gave up trying to figure it out. He got to his feet, adjusted his trousers, and left the tent. Outside, he paused to light a cigarette.
How simple it would be if he could kill Basil Greer! He would like nothing better than to see the man dead. He was certain Paula would marry him. Then he would have Paula, Greer's money, and the freak show! But kill Greer?
Cotty's thoughts jumped back to the time when he'd clobbered that farmer with an axe, and he knew he couldn't kill a man in violence. He admitted that he didn't have the guts for it. Even after all these years, he still awoke from nightmares of that moment. He would never forget the bright blood spurting from the hole the axe had made. If there were only some way he could eliminate Greer without resorting to violence....
He started up the midway. The tent flap to Gil Meeks' joint was up. Cotty hesitated, uncertain. Meeks' blurred voice floated out to him. "Hop over, kid, and join me."
Cotty vaulted over the counter into the warm, womb-like darkness of the tent, smelling of cigar and whiskey.
A bottle rattled against Meeks' teeth; liquor gurgled. "You were hot at the table tonight, kid."
"We grossed seven five at the freak show today."
Meeks whistled softly. "And you won twenty-five big ones. Not bad. Not bad at all!"
"Not only that but I banged Paula Greer," Cotty said crudely. He knew he was being incautious, but he didn't give a damn.
"You have had a day for yourself, haven't you, kid?"
"Up until the time Greer caught us at it."
Meeks whistled again. "And what did he do?"
"Nothing. Just warned us not to let it happen again." He hit his leg with the flat of his hand, the sound like a pistol shot. "I wish the sonofa-bitch was dead! Not for just eight hours but for good!"
"Then you'd have his broad and his show. It figures," Meeks said musingly. "You feel that way, why don't you kill him?"
"Don't think I haven't thought about it!"
"Haven't the stomach for it, huh, kid?"
Cotty drew a ragged breath. "Gil. ... I killed a man once and I don't think I could do it again."
"Yeah. The first one's always the hardest." Meeks drew on the cigar. In the brief, red glow he grinned mirthlessly. "For two grand of what you won tonight, I'll do it for you, kid."
Cotty shook his head violently, sure he hadn't heard right. "How much of that booze have you drunk, Gil?"
"Oh, I'm drunk, but not all that drunk."
"But why would you...? "
"Because I like you, kid, and I don't mind doing a favor for a friend." He laughed lightly, then his voice changed. "That and the money. I once told you I get my kicks nowadays from collecting loot."
"But ... just like that?"
"Just like that." Meeks' voice was matter-of-fact; all traces of drunkenness had disappeared. "It'll be easy. I've already got it figured out. Let me lay it out for you."
Most of the carnies who lived in house trailers hauled them from show lot to show lot behind their cars. But those carnies important enough had their trailers carried overland on a flat car on the show train, thus allowing them to sleep during the hop instead of driving all night. Greer was important enough.
There was a carnie phrase, red-lighting, which meant pushing an enemy, a trouble maker, off the slow-moving train. Usually it meant nothing more than the inconvenience of catching the next train; at worst, it might mean a broken arm or leg.
"But I'm familiar with the route the train takes to the next show town. I've logged it several times before," Meeks went on. "About a third of the way there, around three in the morning when everybody's asleep, the train passes over a mile-long trestle spanning a deep gorge. A body falling into that canyon will splatter like a can of tomatoes when it hits bottom."
"But how will you manage it?" Cotty asked.
"Easy, kid. I'll be in the sleeping car. So will the dwarf. He always sleeps there on these hops. And Greer will be dead drunk by that time. He always is. I'll make my way down the train. ... That'll be no sweat. I've ridden many a freight in my day, dodging brakemen all the way. I'll manage to get Greer to open the trailer door. One push and away he goes! Everybody will think he got up in a drunken stupor, forgot where he was, opened the door and stepped out. Even if somebody does smell dirty work, who'd ever suspect me? What motive could I have for killing Greer?"
Cotty felt a strong pulse of excitement. It just might work! He said, "Too bad you can't handle the dwarf at the same time."
Meeks chuckled. "No sale. No two birds for the price of one. Not even for a buddy. Besides, with Greer out of the way, Juval will be no problem. He'll probably disappear on his own."
Cotty thought of something. "But what about Paula? If she's in the trailer with Greer, won't she be...? "
"That's where you come in. I can't do it all. You shouldn't be on that train, either. They do have reason to suspect you. So you'll manage to miss it, both you and the broad." His laughter had lewd undertones. "You should be able to find something to do to pass the time!"
"I like it!" Cotty exclaimed. In his excitement he jumped to his feet. "All right, Gil, it's a deal!"
"One thing, kid...."
"What's that?"
"The geetus. The two grand in advance, not C.O.D. It's not that I don't trust you, but on a deal like this...."
Cotty managed a half-hour alone with Paula twa nights later. About ten in the evening, a hard rain blew in, sending the townies scurrying for cover. Since it was yet early and on the chance the rain might not last long, they didn't roll the banners up for the night and didn't dig Greer up. Cotty saw Juval squatting on his heels beside the casket, his attention focused on the man inside, and Paula stood at the tent entrance, smoking and staring out at the rain. Cotty seized his chance.
He stepped up behind her and said in a low voice, "Paula, I have to talk to you."
She turned her head slowly. Her face was closed in, almost hostile. "You're awfully brave all of a sudden. You heard what Basil said."
"Greer's asleep and Juval's watching him, so who's to know? Look, this is important."
Her gaze searched his face. Some of his urgency must have gotten through to her, for she said, "All right, Cotty. But it had better be important."
"Where can we talk?"
"The trailer's as safe a place as any."
Cotty held a newspaper over their heads, Paula held her long skirts up out of the mud, and they ran through the pelting rain to the trailer. Cotty had never been inside the Greer trailer. He had peeked in that one time while watching Greer hypnotize himself, but the interior had been dim and all his attention had been focused on Greer.
Inside the trailer Paula flipped on a light and said, "What would you like to drink?"
"Nothing, thanks."
"That's right, you don't drink, do you?" she said with poisonous sweetness. "Well, I can certainly use one."
While she went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a drink, Cotty looked around the trailer. He was both astonished and impressed. He had known the trailer was big, but he had assumed it was probably secondhand, the interior old and drab. It was far from it. It was beautifully furnished, with all the modern appliances. There was a small living room, a kitchenette, a shower, and a bedroom down a short hall. He estimated the trailer to be worth twenty or thirty thousand.
Clearly Greer did have money, after all.
The bedroom door stood open, and Cotty got a glimpse of the bed. A spasm of jealousy gripped him at the thought of Paula sharing that bed with Greer. Then he remembered what she'd told him about Greer and Greer's confirmation of it, and he felt his face stretching in a foolish grin.
"Well?" Paula said impatiently. "What's so darned important?"
Cotty glanced at her, hesitated for a moment, then got right down to it. "Teardown is two nights away. I want you to manage to miss the tfain and stay over with me."
She stared. "You must be out of your skull! You heard Basil! He'll kill us for sure this time!"
Cotty pushed all caution aside. He said softly, "He might not be able to. It might be the other way around."
Expecting a marked reaction, he was disappointed. She accepted it as calmly as though he'd just told her it had stopped raining. She dipped her nose into her glass, took a measured sip. Her mouth, when she took it away from the glass, was moist and very, very red. The green eyes were as opaque as glass. She said, "I think you'd better explain that remark, sweetie."
He shook his head. "No, no. That's just what I can't do. The less you know, the better. Can't you just take me on faith?"
"Faith? On faith?" She started to laugh, then choked it off, eyes narrowing. "Now let's get it straight ... I'm to miss the train, stay behind, and you're to stay with me?"
"That's right."
"And something's to happen to Basil on the train?"
Cotty didn't reply.
Paula finished her drink without taking her gaze from him. She set the glass down very slowly. "We'll need a reasonable excuse."
Exultation swept Cotty. "I'll think of something, don't worry. Just leave it to me."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dan had a strong feeling that trouble was brewing between Cotty Starke and Greer. It was a feeling he could not shake. And if violence exploded between the two men, it could tear the whole carnie apart. Townies didn't like carnival people, and town cops would often seize any excuse to close a carnival down.
So he kept a close watch on the freak show, lingering around the edges when his presence wasn't required elsewhere. The Wall of Death, the motordrome, was situated directly across the midway this week from the freak show. Greer had complained bitterly about the drome's proximity, since the drome's bailies were always so noisy, often drowning out any front talker nearby. But Greer's complaints had been ignored. Every show operator complained whenever the Wall of Death was located close to his attraction, so it was spotted in a different location each week. It was the freak show's turn this week. The Wall of Death was too lucrative an attraction to discontinue.
His close watch on the ten-in-one placed Dan in the vicinity when trouble suddenly boiled up at the motordrome the last night before tear-down.
Dan was standing near the bally platform when Gabe August came out to do his last bally of the night. Gabe was darkly handsome, about thirtyfive, and wore a fringed jacket, black leather pants and black boots polished to a high gloss. He was a flamboyant figure of a man, exuding male virility. Since Dan made it a point to learn all he could about all members of the carnival, he was familiar with Gabe's history. He had been a racing car driver, but he had been too careless of risk, too prone to take chances. He had wrecked a number of expensive cars, always lucky enough to survive with minor injuries, but soon no racing car owner would employ him to drive.
Gabe's trouble was too much courage. He was one of the few men Dan knew who was utterly without fear. Of course, it took a man with pure guts to perform the feats Gabe did on the walls of the old motordrome. Most carnival shows are gimmicked in some way, but not the drome. There was nothing faked about most of the events inside that wooden silo. Death was always a close companion of any man who rode a cycle on the walls.
Now Gabe climbed astride his big motorcycle, which had just been wheeled out onto the platform, and revved the engine. A thunderous roar split the night, and a crowd began clotting the area immediately before the bally platform. The wheels of the motorcycle spun madly on the set of rollers under both front and back wheels. Dan watched as the crowd continued to gather to the accompaniment of the cycle's roar.
In a little while Gabe climbed down off the cycle and took the microphone hanging on the ticket booth. "Folks, inside the wooden walls of the drome, you will witness the most death-defying stunts man has ever been privileged to see! See three motorcycles on the walls at once! See the midget car driven by Tina Pride mount the walls with her fierce African lion as a passenger! See it all inside for the price of a single admission ! Tickets are on sale now, folks, and the show will start in a very few minutes!"
From behind Dan came a voice raised in derision, "Fake, fake! It's all a goddamned fake!"
Dan swung around, tensing for trouble. It was there, in the form of six hulking youths ranging in ages from eighteen to the early or mid-twenties. All had long, greasy hair, long sideburns, and were decked out in black leather jackets with red crosses stitched over the heart, and jeans that had long since lost their original color to grease and dirt. The jeans looked stiff enough to stand alone like stovepipes. And they all wore black leather boots.
Bikies, six bikies, and all spoiling for trouble.
One half turned aside to spit in contempt, and Dan saw the red letters, Devil's Own, stitched across the back of his jacket.
On the bally platform Gabe said in an even voice, "Who said that?"
One, a sneering man of about twenty-three and probably the leader of the gang, took a strutting step forward. "I said that, man! And I ain't afraid to chew my words again! You're about as good on that hog as some chick!"
One of his companions said, "You tell 'em, Batman!"
Gabe smiled amiably. "Well, I guess you have a right to your opinion, Mr. ... Uh, Batman." Gabe turned away to stride up and down again, talking into the mike. "The show starts inside right away, folks. Get your tickets. Hurry, hurry!"
Dan sighed with relief. But he kept a wary eye on the six bikies. It might be over, it might not. Usually a heckler only wants momentary attention, and once he gets it, he wanders off. But Dan soon saw that this wasn't to be the case with this half-dozen. They were spoiling for trouble.
His surmise was correct.
In the middle of Gabe's spiel, the one called Batman again stepped forward. He said jeeringly, "We still say you're a fake, man! We've got a bike rider here, name of Jake, can ride rings around you any day of the week!"
Gabe halted his striding and looked down at them. He said tightly, "Okay, stud. Tell you what I'm gonna do. If you can rake up enough cash among you for tickets, come in and watch the performance. After my show if your buddy, Jake, has the guts for it, I'll pay him a hundred bucks to ride the wall solo. If he does it, I'll even refund the money you paid out for tickets. You won't be out dime one. Fair enough?"
Dan considered stopping it before it went too far. If the bikies accepted Gabe's challenge, rode the walls and crashed, getting injured in the process, the carnival could face a huge lawsuit. But it was Gabe's show, and Dan hated to interfere. And it was collecting a large tip. If the bikies did take up the challenge, Gabe would play to a full house.
Even now they were lining up before the ticket box, yelling encouragement to Gabe and taunting the bikies, who were conferring among themselves. It was unusual for townies to take the side of a carnival performer. Dan had a hunch that the six were local bullies, unpopular with the townspeople.
Apparently the jeers and taunts of the townspeople swayed the bikies. They broke ranks and marched one by one to the ticket box and bought tickets, then went up the long flight of steps leading up to the wooden walkway circling the top of the drome. Dan looked down as they passed him and saw a knife sticking out of a scabbard in the boot of the one called Jake, a big, burly-shouldered man.
Dan experienced a quick chill of apprehension. Trouble was looming up. But it was too late now, the thing was already underway.
Gabe squatted down on the platform and called, "Patch?"
Dan went over.
"What do you think, Dan? When I saw you, I thought you'd bust it up."
"It was in my mind. Then I decided that it was your ass on the chopping block. If you want to risk it, why should I mix in and stop you?"
"That's right, Patch!" Gabe laughed heartily. "It's my ass!" He clapped Dan on the shoulder. "You coming up to watch?"
"I'm coming up to watch."
With the aid of the man in the ticket box, Gabe hauled the cycle off the rollers and through the gate behind the bally platform leading to the floor of the silo. The ticket seller had closed up shop. The platform around the drome would safely hold only so many people, and it was three deep now.
Dan went up the long flight to the narrow platform circling the lip of the deep, cup-shaped wooden bowl. He had to elbow a place for himself against the wall, which stood waist-high above the platform, a steel cable circling the top two feet above that. The entire drome was constructed of wooden sections, the bottom hard-packed dirt. The lower third of the sections were set at a slant, the upper two-thirds straight up and down all the way to the top. The motordrome was more of a chore to tear down and move to the next lot than most of the rides.
Gabe was fiddling with his bike on the bottom of the silo as Dan gazed down. Finished with his last-minute adjustments, Gabe glanced up at the faces ringed around and waved cheerfully. Then he straddled the machine and kicked the engine into roaring life.
The Devil's Own were lined up directly across the well from Dan, staring down into the pit, which now vibrated with an ear-splitting thunder as Gabe gunned the engine. Dan noticed, with some relief, that the six bikies didn't seem quite so cocky now. He had a hunch they wouldn't be eager to accept Gabe's challenge when he got through with his performance.
Abruptly the motorcycle and rider leaped forward, angling at the slanted walls. The wheels spun around the wall at dizzying speed, tires hugging the wall to form a ninety-degree angle against the boards. With each spiral around the walls, the cycle mounted higher and higher until it was on the vertical boards. Then Gabe's face was almost on a level with the top. The spectators gaped, shrinking back like high weeds in a strong wind each time Gabe whooshed around. The front wheel of the bike was perilously close to the taut cable now.
On about his fifth swing around the top, Gabe spotted Dan and winked, grinning broadly. Then he took his hands from the handlebars and, using only his knees, calmly steered the cycle downward until it almost crashed nose-first into the hard ground. At the last possible instant he twisted it upward and was once more speeding like a rocket around the walls, circling toward the top. Then he slowly turned himself around in the saddle until he was riding backward. After a half-dozen rounds riding like that, he faced around again, cut the engine and coasted easily to the ground. He dismounted and bowed to the accompaniment of thunderous applause and shrill whistles from the audience.
Dan glanced across the well. The bikies were watching quietly. They seemed subdued, none applauding, and he was sure they had been impressed in spite of themselves.
Down below Gabe was pushing his cycle out through the slanting door set in the wall at the bottom of the silo. Now another man entered, pushing a midget car before him. It was not much more than a toy, painted a blinding white and polished to a high gloss. And behind the midget car came Tina, resplendent in white, even down to the boots. She was a platinum blonde of about thirty, with a lush enough figure to be working the girlie show. Her full breasts strained at the tight white blouse, the nipples clearly visible.
Whistles and catcalls rained down into the silo. Tina nodded and smiled, accepting the accolade like royalty.
She was far from that. Tina was the joke of the carnival. Even among carnival people, notorious for loose sexual morals, Tina was unusual. It was said of her that she was like a boxcar; she would couple with anything that bumped into her.
Dan knew from firsthand experience. He hadn't been with the carnie a week before Tina cornered him in a darkened concession tent one rainy night and was all over him, panting like a barnyard animal in rut.
Later, Dan learned to be more cautious of personal involvements with carnie women. But Tina caught him in a randy moment, and he cooperated with her.
Not that his cooperation was particularly needed. Dan had heard men laugh about women who had practically raped them, but he hadn't believed it. After the episode with Tina, he became a believer.
She had his trousers open, his hardening penis out before their first kiss was broken. Moaning like a wounded creature, she pulled him down on top of her on the ground, her dress already up around her waist. There was nothing under the dress, and she guided him inside her with dispatch.
It was a wild, hot coupling, over with quickly. Even with the haste of their mating, she had two heaving, screeching orgasms before Dan finished. And when it was over, she got up at once, shook herself like a wet dog to rid herself of the wood shavings sticking to her and left the tent without a word.
He had been leery of her since, but she hadn't approached him again. The encounter had occurred in Gil Meeks' concession tent, and talking to Gil about it later, the wheel operator had laughed and told Dan, "Think nothing of it, Patch. Tina tries 'em all first chance she gets, every new man that walks onto the lot. It wouldn't surprise me she doesn't have a go at some of the new broads. But I guess she hasn't gone that far down the road yet, at least I haven't heard."
Now, down below, the door opened and Queenie, the ancient lioness, came padding into the well, prodded from behind. Queenie squatted halfway across to urinate. A wave of laughter swept the crowd.
Dan grinned. This part of the drome show was gimmicked. Queenie was always kept heavily doped during show times, and she was about as dangerous as a pussycat. The dope they kept her on affected her kidneys, and she invariably squatted down to urinate every time she was forced into the silo.
Tina prodded the lioness and she leaped into the car, settling down sleepy-eyed. Tina got on the seat beside the animal, put the little car into gear and drove it in an ever-widening circle around the bottom of the drome. After a moment Tina changed gears and accelerated, starting her dizzying journey up the walls of the silo. At first she circled around the lower, slanted sections, each circle bringing her nearer to the straight walls. Then she was on the perpendicular sides, rapidly corkscrewing toward the top. Queenie's great, shaggy head lay flat on the hood of the car. The big cat accompanied the snarl of the motor with a steady, coughing roar of her own.
Tina didn't come up as far as Gabe had on his cycle, but she circled more than halfway up the walls. Finally she reduced the speed of the midget car, dropping lower and lower. Then it was on the slant-wall again. Tina cut the motor and coasted silently to a stop. Queenie's roar died with the sound of the motor.
Tina jumped out and bowed, waving to the applause. Queenie climbed out slowly and ambled over to the door, waiting for it to open and let her out.
Tina left the drome and the midget car was pushed out. Then three motorcycles were wheeled into the silo, Gabe's among them. Gabe and two other riders mounted up, started up the motors and sent them racing up the walls. The sound was much worse with three cycles on the walls, and the old drome vibrated. Dan could feel the shaking under his feet like the aftershocks of an earthquake. The three bikes raced up and around, crisscrossing on every complete turn, each time barely avoiding what seemed a near collision. Dan had heard the story of just that happening a couple of years before, the season before Gabe took over the Wall of Death. A board on one wall section had worked loose, throwing one cycle into another, and all three had crashed together to the ground. Two riders had been killed, and the third never rode again.
After several rounds, the three riders coasted to the bottom, shut off the motors and bowed to much applause and shouting. Then the other two wheeled their machines out, leaving Gabe alone.
Gabe held up his hands for quiet. The crowd fell silent expectantly. Gabe called up, "Well, Jake? Want to take a little ride for that hundred bucks?"
The six bikies were silent, shuffling uneasily, not looking at one another. They drev back a little from their chosen rider, who said nothing as he gazed down at Gabe. He looked pale and shaken.
Dan had already started working his way around the drome to the far side. He was sure that the man wasn't going to accept the challenge, and he was also sure that Gabe had the good sense not to push it.
But the crowd didn't have Gabe's good sense. A voice hooted, "What's wrong, Devil's Own? You all turned chicken ? "
Dan began pushing people out of his way, hurrying. He was all the way around and approaching the bikies when another voice said scornfully, "The Devil's Own are sissies! They need wings to fly!"
Then the crowd around Dan began scattering like quail, pressing back. As Dan broke through the circle, he saw the reason. Jake had jerked the long knife from his boot. He stood in a crouch, swinging the knife back and forth. Light glinted wickedly off the blade.
Teeth bared in a snarl, he said, "Who said that? What mother said that? Come on, I'll open up your guts!"
The crowd was dispersing fast, some running for the stairways, others fleeing to the far side of the drome. Dan was left alone, confronting the six bikies. He risked a glance down into the silo. Gabe was gone, and Dan knew he had gone for help. The "Hey, Rube!" call would be out.
But help might be too late.
Dan faced the bikies again. At least Jake's was the only knife in evidence. Dan took a step forward, hand out. "Give me the blade, Jake. You use that, you'll be in trouble, bad trouble."
Jake sneered, showing yellowed teeth. "You're the one in bad trouble, carnie man. You want this cutter, you have to take it."
And without warning he swooped at Dan, coming in low, the knife slicing across in a glittering arc.
Dan sucked in his breath and quickly stepped back. The knife swooshed past his belly, the tip of it just nicking his shirt. Cat-like, Jake danced three steps back before Dan could set himself to charge.
Grinning wolfishly, Jake advanced again in his lethal crouch, the knife blade weaving back and forth slightly, like a snake preparing to strike. Dan backed warily, awaiting his chance. He thought of aiming a kick at the man's knife hand. But if he missed, he would-likely lose his balance and fall, and the bikie would pounce on him before he could recover and carve him up like a piece of meat.
Then Dan feigned a dart to the right. Jake struck, the knife flashing. At the last possible instant Dan turned sideways, and the knife whistled harmlessly past. This was enough to unbalance Jake momentarily, and Dan moved, crowding in. He seized the man's thick wrist and twisted it down. At the same time he brought his leg up and cracked the wrist over his knee. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter. Jake yowled. Again Dan brought the arm up and down with all his strength. There was a popping sound, and Dan knew the man's arm was broken.
Jake howled, and Dan let him go. He staggered back, screaming in agony, and fell to his knees, one hand clutching the broken arm.
Dan's glance darted to the others, and he knew that his victory was short-lived. They were advancing on him, shoulder to shoulder across the narrow catwalk. There were no knives in sight, but Dan knew that the odds of five-to-one were prohibitive. He didn't have a prayer.
Then, all of a sudden, the catwalk was alive with carnies as they came swarming up the steps. They took the bikies from behind. After a brief but violent scuffle, it was all over, the bikies being hustled off the drome.
Dan leaned against the wall, expelling his breath in a gusty sigh. Gabe came hurrying toward him, his handsome face concerned. "Dan, are you all right?"
"I think so, Gabe," Dan said shakily. "Thanks for bringing the troops to the rescue. It was just in the nick."
"I'm sorry, Patch. It's really all my fault. I brought it on. I played right into their hands. The next time I do that, kick my ass all over the lot, will you?"
"I just may do that, Gabe..."
He was interrupted by the clapping of a pair of hands from across the well, and a voice said sneeringly, "Good show, Patch. I didn't think you had it in you!"
Dan glanced over at Cotty Starke, leaning on the wall across the drome. His dislike for the man surfaced.
"I noticed you stayed over there, well out of the way."
"But you're the carnie Patch. Ain't that right?" Cotty said innocently. "That means you're the troubleshooter. Trouble pops up, it's your job to shoot it down. Right, Patch?"
CHAPTER NINE
After thinking it over, Cotty decided there was really no need to dream up an excuse. They would simply contrive to miss the train. The only one who would demand an explanation would be Greer and he would be dead. The carnies would assume that Cotty and Paula had stayed behind to shack up, and Cotty was more than willing for them to think that.
Most carnies like teardown night; the break in routine, the excitement of leaving one town for another, their pride in tearing down what was, in effect, a small city, moving it intact a hundred miles or so and setting it up again within a span of twenty-four hours or less.
Cotty hated it. There was too much hard work involved, and he'd had enough of hard work before joining the carnie. All the men worked at tearing down the rides and the shows; Cotty's position as a front talker didn't exempt him. Of the freak show crew only Greer didn't help. Immediately after getting out of the casket, he retired to the trailer and started belting a bottle. That was all to the good. When the time came to pull the trailer to the show train, Greer would be passed out; he would never miss Paula.
The bars in town were open until four o'clock, and there was a small one a block away from the lot. Paula went there to wait for Cotty. Shortly after two the freak show was down, the last wagon load lumbering off the lot behind a tractor, bound for the railroad yards a mile away. There was still a lot of activity. The concession tents and the show tents were always the first down; some of the rides wouldn't be down and on the train until after daylight.
Cotty left the lot and headed for the bar and Paula. He was filthy. That was one bad feature about the plan: to lull any possible suspicions, it was necessary for them to stay behind without a change of clothes, without so much as a toothbrush. Yet Cotty considered that a small discomfort to pay. He stopped at an all-night service station and used the men's room to clean up as best he could.
Paula was alone in a booth in the rear of the bar. She gave him a humid glance as he slid into the booth next to her. "Hi, sweetie. I thought you'd never get here."
She was well on her way to being swacked. Cotty knew they couldn't risk renting a room until after the show train had pulled out, so he figured he might as well break a long-standing rule and have a few drinks. Consequently, by the time they finally left the bar, he was flying pretty high. As they started up the deserted street arm in arm, Paula said, "You're spiffed, sweetie. Maybe there's hope for you, after all."
At any other time he might have been annoyed. But not tonight. Nothing could get under his skin on this night. He looped an arm around her shoulders, his hand cupping one pulsating breast.
"You're not what I'd call exactly sober."
"The better to love you, sweetie." In the light from the street lamps the madonna face looked totally corrupt.
Desire surged in Cotty; his blood flowed thick and hot; his throat closed up until he couldn't speak. They passed the mouth of a dark alley, and he was tempted to shove her into the alley and take her then and there, propping her against the wall and ramming himself against her until she was bruised and battered and yelling for mercy.
But at that moment Paula spotted a hotel sign up the street. She pointed a wavering finger. "There's one, sweetie! That's what we're looking for!"
Cotty was dubious. He'd seen better hotels. "We should be able to find something better than that, for hell's sake!"
"I'm tired and drunk and filthy. I don't much care what it's like so long as it has a bed and a bath."
A bored desk clerk rented them a room and showed not the least hint of curiosity about their lack of luggage. The hotel was ancient, their room sparsely furnished. The bed sagged in the middle and squeaked rustily.
Pai; a bounced up and down on the bed and grinned lasciviously at him. "Looks like we're going to have sound effects, darling."
Cotty reached for her. He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her until she was on her knees. She opened her mouth for the probe of his tongue. He twined his fingers into her hair and forced her mouth to his until they were both gasping for breath. Finally she tore her mouth away, slipped down and out of his grasp, then rolled across the bed with a flash of silken limbs. She got to her feet and started for the bathroom door, keeping the bed between them. "Not until I've had a bath. I can't even stand myself!"
On her way to the bathroom, she stepped out of her shoes and was unbuttoning her blouse as she went through the door. Dizzy from the drinks he was unaccustomed to and from his taut lust, Cotty sank down on the edge of the bed.
"There's no tub, but there is a shower," Paula called from the bathroom.
Cotty sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed, hands dangling between his knees, his imagination running wild as he visualized Paula stepping out of her skirt, stepping out of her panties (if she happened to be wearing panties), unsnapping her bra and freeing those marvelous breasts....
Reaching a sudden decision, he removed his shoes and socks, then stood up and started for the bathroom door. He took off his clothes as he went, leaving them behind him like a spoor. The shower started to hiss and roar as he stopped in the doorway. He stepped out of his shorts, then reached over and swept aside the plastic shower curtain, a fine spray immediately hitting him. Paula, washcloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other, gaped at him. "Let me help you with that," he said.
Before she could answer, he stepped inside and pulled the curtain closed. The shower stall was crowded, but that was all right. In fact, it was just fine as far as Cotty was concerned. No matter how slight the movement of either, their bodies touched. The points of contact burned like fire. They seemed, to Cotty's inflamed imagine, to crackle like the severed ends of high-tension wires. He took the soap and washcloth from Paula, thoroughly soaped the cloth, then began on her shoulders, covering her with a foamy lather, working always downward toward her up-thrust breasts. Paula stood passively, her arms hanging limply, head thrown back, eyes clenched shut. Now and then she jumped slightly as the washcloth skirted a sensitive area.
Her tumescent nipples felt like slick pebbles to his touch. He dipped his head and took one between his teeth, worrying it, the water sluicing down his body. He tongued the rough texture of the nipple, the soapy taste not unpleasant, and Paula moaned, her fingers combing his wet hair. In a little while he continued soaping her body vigorously. And then the washcloth brushed the pout of her femininity, and Paula shuddered mightily. She slumped and would have fallen if he hadn't caught her. Her eyes were open but glazed, unseeing. "Sweetie ... please, oh please!"
Cotty bent slightly, put his hands under her buttocks, and walked with her the short distance to the shower wall. He took her roughly, without ceremony. As he went into her, Paula shouted and seemed to go mad. Her pelvis drummed against him in a compulsive rhythm. Her head arched far back, banging into the wall each time he surged to her.
It was weird, animalistic, but fiercely pleasurable as they mated in mindless sensation. The hot water pelted down on them unheeded. Their bodies were slick as grease, making the whole thing very difficult. Paula's nails ripped and tore at his back in her frantic efforts to find purchase, and Cotty knew his back would be ribboned with blood. In the white heat of his pleasure the pain only spurred him on to greater effort.
Release struck them together. Cotty grunted and slammed Paula against the wall a final time. Paula screamed in mingled pain and ecstasy and clung to him. They remained locked together for a long moment as they shuddered out their passion. Then Cotty's grip slowly loosened, and Paula slid out of his arms and into a huddle on the floor. Her hair was wet and matted and clung to her scalp like seaweed.
All of a sudden Cotty realized that the needle spray was ice cold; the hot water was all gone. He turned and groped blindly for the knobs to turn off the shower.
It was a longer hop than usual for the carnival; the show train was to travel all of the day after teardown and all of the next night, arriving at the new location in time to set up and open for the third night.
Cotty had planned on catching the first train out, but they discovered such a depth of sensuality in themselves that he threw caution to the winds and remained in the hotel room most of the day with Paula. After all, what did it matter? With Greer dead, who was to question their continued absence?
Paula was everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman. He knew now that she had from the beginning hoped that he would somehow manage to eliminate her husband. She as much as admitted it. That explained her strangeness toward him, explained her leading him on, then rebuffing him. Once this knowledge would have enraged him. Not now. Now they both had what they wanted. No matter how it was brought about; it was an accomplished fact and that was all that counted.
It was after dark when they arrived at the new lot. The carnie was set up and operating, the midway ablaze with light. As yet there were only a few people on the midway. Only the rides and concessions were running, the shows not yet open. The freak show tent was up, the banners stretched taut in a slight breeze. The center banner was also up, depicting Greer in the casket.
Paula stopped short, her fingers digging into his arm. "Cotty...."
The banner had sent a shock along his nerve ends, also. He squeezed her hand. "Don't worry about it, baby," he said lightly. "The show must go on and all that crap. They've probably dug up some poor chump to take his place."
"I suppose you're right but...."
"Of course I'm right! Now come on." He hustled her past the empty bally and ticket box and into the tent. There were a few freaks on the center platform and others milling around, but Cotty was drawn irresistibly to the end of the platform and the Buried Alive! exhibit. The casket was there, fresh dirt mounded over the bottom end. They crowded close until stopped by the chain. And there in the casket, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest, was Basil Greer!
CHAPTER TEN
Dan had never seen a guiltier look than that on Cotty Starke's face as he stared down at Greer in the casket. Dan had been standing with his back against the center platform, moodily smoking a cigarette, when Cotty came in with Paula. He had been waiting for them and was pleased they didn't give him a glance as they passed. He wanted to observe their reaction when they saw Greer. He watched them closely now. They stood for a long moment as though frozen, then Paula swayed, seemingly on the verge of fainting, but Cotty gripped her arm tightly and held her upright. He seemed to come out of his daze. He dug out cigarettes for them and lit them.
Dan toed out his own cigarette in the sawdust and moved quietly in behind them. "Starke ... Mrs. Greer."
Cotty's head snapped around, his eyes wide and staring. Then a film drew over them as though he'd jerked the cord on a shade. "Oh, Patch. Paula ... Mrs. Greer and I missed the damned train! How about that?" The man's laughter had a false ring to it. "I went uptown after teardown to an all-night restaurant. I ran into Mrs. Greer. We decided to have breakfast together. We got to talking, my watch had run down without my knowing, and so ... we missed the train!"
It was about as lame an excuse as Dan had ever heard, and he was positive it had been concocted on the spot. As Cotty had talked, Dan had switched his gaze back and forth between Cotty and Paula. She had nodded now and then in agreement, but her glance kept straying to the casket as though against her will.
Dan said, "In missing the train, you missed quite a bit of excitement."
"That so?" Cotty said casually, too casually. "What was that?"
"On the train last night Gil Meeks ... You knew Meeks, I believe, Starke? In fact, wasn't he a good friend of yours? He got down the train to the flat car carrying Greer's trailer. When Greer, who was ... uh, a little under the weather ... opened the trailer door, Meeks tried to push him off the train. Now why on earth would he try to do a thing like that, do you suppose?"
Dan took out a cigarette, cupped his hands to light it. He never once removed his gaze from Cotty's face. A muscle twitched in the man's cheek. Dan knew he was seething with impatience. He let him wait; he was enjoying Cotty's discomfiture.
Finally Cotty said, "Gil tried to kill him? What happened V
"Juval, that's what happened." Dan grinned. "Juval was under the trailer."
As though he'd heard his name spoken, Juval suddenly appeared at Dan's side, face asunder with a watermelon grin. Dan ruffled his hair and glanced up in time to see hate spasm Cotty's face as he stared down at the dwarf.
Dan continued, "At the sound of a scume, Juval woke up and threw himself at Meeks' legs. Meeks was knocked off the flat car and down into the gorge." Anger crept into Dan's voice. "I'd say he had it coming to him. We had to scrape him up with a shovel."
Cotty's gaze was still on Juval. "But I thought Juval always...." He broke off abruptly, his glance coming up to meet Dan's.
Dan nodded. "That's right, he usually sleeps in the sleeping car on hops, but I suppose he got worried when Mrs. Greer missed the train and he hid under the trailer. At least that's what he told Greer. I'd say it's a good thing he did, wouldn't you say that, Mrs. Greer?"
Paula started. "What? Oh ... Yes. Yes, of course."
"There's one other strange thing. ... We found two thousand dollars on what was left of Meeks' body. That's a big roll for a flat-joint operator to be carrying." He looked straight at Cotty. "Would you have any ideas about that, Starke?"
"Me? Why would I know, Patch? Maybe he had a good week."
Dan had talked to Bart Roberts about that and had learned that Meeks had had a lousy week. And Dan also knew about Cotty winning over two thousand in the G-tent a few nights ago. He would be willing to swear that the money found on Meeks was money Cotty had paid the man to kill Greer. Yet Dan knew he didn't have a prayer of proving it. He said, "It also strikes me as odd that you and Mrs. Greer missed that train the very night all this happened."
"Odd? What's odd about it? Coincidence. Nothing more than coincidence." Cotty had regained most of his composure. The look he gave Dan was bold, arrogant. "If we're going to give a show tonight, I'd better get a bally going." He turned to Paula. "And you'd better go change."
"Yes. Yes, I'd better," Paula said quickly. She hurried off.
Dan leaned against a tent pole and lit a cigarette, his glance following Cotty out of the tent. He made a hell of a detective! He knew intuitively that Cotty had conspired with Gil Meeks to murder Greer, yet he knew he hadn't a snowball's chance of proving it. The police, not being overly concerned with the death of a carnie, had dismissed Meeks' death as an accident. Dan, having nothing more than a hunch, hadn't disagreed with them orally. In the back of his mind had been the thought that he might know more when he'd had a chance to confront Cotty and Paula Greer. His hunch, now, was stronger than ever, but he knew he couldn't go to the police with a hunch.
He straightened up with a grunt. Why was he playing detective, anyway? He was a lawyer and a disbarred one at that.
He left the tent with loping, angry strides.
Yet he lurked near the freak show, was in and out of the tent a dozen times during the evening. He was there when Greer came out of the trance and was dug up by Juval.
Both Cotty and Paula were there. Dan had to admire Cotty's guts. Or his brass. Of course, it would have looked odd if he hadn't been there.
Greer came up out of the casket truly like one returning from the dead to confront his slayers. His abnormally pale features took on a dark flush when he saw Cotty and Paula, and his eyes blazed. He advanced on Cotty with the stiff-legged gait of Frankenstein's monster. "I'm not going to kill you, Starke," he said glacially. "I swore I would but I'm reneging on my promise. You're not worthy of soiling my hands. But you're fired as of this moment. I'll manage without a front talker if necessary. Now get out of this tent and don't ever set foot in here again!"
Cotty had backed a couple of steps before the man's threatening advance. "Aren't you even going to listen to our story?"
"Your story?" Greer roared. "I don't need to hear your explanation. It's written on your faces. You've been rutting together like animals. Now get out!"
Cotty stood his ground for a moment. He looked uncertainly at Paula, who refused to meet his glance. Then he muttered, "I'm going, I'm going." He wheeled around and strode out.
"And me, Basil? Are you going to throw me out, too?" Paula asked with a show of defiance.
Greer turned his fierce glare on her. "I should.
If I had the courage of my convictions, I would." He sighed heavily. "But if you'll give me your promise to stay away from Starke...."
Paula's brief show of spirit crumpled away and she leaped at Greer's small concession. "I promise. I swear I won't see him again."
"Not that your promises are anything but counterfeit currency."
"It'll be different this time, Basil. I promise."
Dan had stood to one side all the while, listening closely. He was struck by the falseness of Paula's humility, yet Greer seemed to accept it at face value. This gave Dan a brief insight into the man's character; he liked for those around him to grovel before him. Apparently Paula knew this and took advantage of it. Dan hadn't thought about Greer much one way or another. Now he felt a ping of dislike for the man.
For the first time Greer appeared to notice him. "Fields ... There is an ancient aphorism about airing one's dirty linen in public. I'm afraid much of my private life is already common knowledge around the carnival, a subject for much gossip."
It was more of a question than a statement, but Dan didn't feel obliged to respond to it. His distaste for the sordid scene he'd witnessed, and for its participants, mounted. "Your private iife doesn't concern me, Greer, so long as it doesn't interfere with carnie business."
Greer acknowledged the thrust with a slight inclination of his head, an ironical gleam striking the deep-set eyes. "I'll do my utmost to see that it doesn't in the future."
It had been Dan's intention to warn Greer that he was positive Cotty had paid Meeks to push Greer off the train, but the man's manner had put him off. Greer's reputation for arrogance, his contempt for carnies, Dan included, was well-deserved. Dan gave him a short nod, turned on his heel, and left the tent.
Yet it nagged at him. He felt it his duty to warn the man. He didn't have a chance to speak to him the next day; he had business at the city hall taking up the day and didn't return to the lot until that evening. But he made it a point to be at the freak show at the time Greer was due to come out of the trance. As he approached the darkened tent, he heard Greer's voice raised in anger. He hurried inside.
Only Greer, Juval, and Paula were in the tent. Dan knew of Greer's aversion to being observed while being removed from the casket. There were standing orders for all side show people to be out of the tent at these times, only Juval and Paula allowed to remain. Now it appeared that Paula was no longer exempt.
"You were looking at me as though I were already a corpse!" Greer raged at her. "I saw you!"
"Basil, you're imagining something that simply isn't so!"
"Imagining? Does that mean I'm supposed to be losing my mind?" Paula stamped her foot. "You're simply impossible these last two days! I don't have to listen...."
"You will listen, my dear," Greer said in a silky voice. "And you will do as I say. From this night forward, no one is to be in this tent, not even you, when Juval releases me from that coffin. Do you understand?"
Paula tossed her head. "Oh, I understand. And you don't have to worry. Do you think I like to be here, for heaven's sake, and watch you come to life like a zombie every night?"
Dan, watching carefully, saw Greer flinch at the taunt, but the man said nothing. Paula flounced off without another word. Before she was out of the tent, Greer had seized Juval by the arm and communicated with him by some hand signals that Dan made no attempt to understand. Juval bobbed his head rapidly and darted away.
Greer turned to Dan. "Fields...."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Greer," Dan said awkwardly. "I didn't mean to overhear all that."
The other gestured wearily and heaved himself up onto the two-foot-high center platform. "It's all right, I understand. And it's I who should apologize, apologize for my ill manners of last night. Perhaps you're wondering why I put up with a strumpet like Paula. Perhaps you've heard that I'm impotent...."
Dan made a sound of embarrassment.
Greer brushed it aside. "No, I want you to understand. You're an educated man, perhaps you can appreciate my position. Paula is all I have, all I've ever had. Oh, there's Juval, but that's something different. I wasn't always like this. When I married Paula, I was a whole man and it was all right between us. I had my work and I had Paula. Then my work was lost to me...." A spasm of anguish contorted his face. "That is also when I began to fail with my wife. Now I cling to her, allowing her to humiliate me, accepting her abuse. ... Ah!"
The last was uttered as Juval came hurrying into the tent with a bottle of whiskey. Greer seized it, uncapped it, tilted it up and drank without offering it to Dan. When the man finally lowered the bottle, an unhealthy flush stained his cheeks.
"I don't know why you're telling me all this, Mr. Greer."
"I'm telling you this because I often yearn for an ear to confide in. I can converse with Juval by the hour, and often do when drinking, but he is less than a satisfactory conversational companion."
"Mr. Greer," Dan interrupted, "there's something I must tell you, warn you about. I don't know if your wife is involved, but I'm convinced Cotty Starke paid Meeks to kill you. The thing is, I have no proof. But he may try it again."
"It is of little importance," Greer said indifferently. Already the liquor was taking effect; his speech had thickened. "Oh, I'm sure your deduction is probably correct, but I can't find it in me to care. Sometimes I think it would be a blessed relief. ... Death in a normal manner, even if violent. You know what I live in deathly fear of?" He jerked his head toward the pit, gaping open like a wound. "I have constant nightmares of dying in that casket, of coming out of the trance some night with no one there to get me out, the air slowly going. And I scratch and claw at the lid in vain, until my fingers are raw and bleeding."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"All right, folks. Everybody wins, nobody loses!" Cotty chanted. "Get your money down before the Wheel of Fortune starts to spin!"
He ran an appraising glance over the small knot of men clustered before the wheel joint. Two of the men were shills, the others marks. The shills ranged on each side of a sweating fat man who was so drunk he could hardly stand, but he was betting recklessly. On the oilcloth spread on the counter were thirty-seven numbers, eighteen black, eighteen red, and one green, all corresponding to the numbers on the big wheel at the end of the counter to Cotty's right. The mark was betting heavily on the red, a dollar against Cotty's ten, and was losing steadily. Cotty waited until all bets were down and spun the wheel.
His thoughts were bitter. Reduced to operating a gaffed wheel joint! He had taken over Gill Meeks' wheel joint. It was the only opening left on the carnie, except a job as a rideman or a canvasman, and he wasn't about to stand still for that much of a comedown! After being dumped by Greer, Cotty had seriously considered leaving the carnie, but in the end he had decided to stick it out. Greer couldn't live forever. The way he drank, he would fall off the train some dark night unaided. Cotty wanted to be around when that happened.
He had tried to talk to Paula once but to no avail. She had turned a livid face to him. "You had everything fixed, you said! like hell you had everything fixed! Just get away from me and stay away!"
The funny thing was, he didn't blame her for feeling the way she did. In her place he would probably feel the same way. He was still confident everything would be all right between them with Greer out of the way.
The indicator on the wheel began to slow. Cotty leaned his midsection against the "belly gaff," preparing to apply the brake so the indicator would stop on a black number. The wheel joint was gimmicked, of course. In theory, the players placed their bets on the red or black, the operator spun the indicator, and the fortunate winner was paid off in the merchandise stacked on the shelves in back of the tent, Hams, clocks, kewpie dolls, et cetera. In practice, it was a different story. The prizes were a come-on, designed to hook the mark into playing for money. Many of the prizes were phony. The hams in Cotty's joint, for instance, were all pure sawdust under the brand-name wrappers.
Meeks' set up, now Cotty's was a typical "creeper" gaff, so-named because the large indicator moved very slowly, allowing the operator a better chance to control it. The wheel was marked off in thirty-seven colored triangles to match the oilcloth on the counter. If the indicator arrow stopped on the green triangle, the mark earned the "right" to play until he won. The axle of the indicator was set on a tripod. The legs of the tripod appeared to be firmly embedded in the counter. Not so. Two were, but the third was slightly loose, not enough to be noticed by those not in the know but loose enough to serve a purpose. A long piece of wood, hidden by the counter top, extended down from the loose leg to where Cotty stood. When Cotty wanted to control the wheel, he leaned casually against a piece of wood. That pushed the loose leg of the tripod forward. Unlike the other legs, this loose one had been hollowed out. Inside it was a rod hooked onto the counter and extending up so it was within a fraction of an inch from the axle on which the indicator turned. The movement of the loose leg leveraged the rod against the axle, thus making it an effective brake.
An operator skilled enough could operate the piece of wood with his belly, thus the phrase, "belly gaff." Cotty wasn't yet that skillful and had to use it cautiously. A good operator could stop the indicator on any numbered triangle he wished and could keep it up all evening. Cotty sometimes missed, but he succeeded most of the time and that was enough to keep him far ahead of any mark. This time he managed to stop the indicator just where he wanted it.
The fat mark slammed his fist down on the counter in disgust. "That cleans me! I need a drink!" He stumbled off, muttering to himself.
The play was desultory after that. Soon only the two shills were left. Cotty nodded to them and they wandered off. Cotty leaned on his elbows on the counter, smoking moodily. It was growing late and the midway crowd was thinning out. The freak show was up the midway from the wheel joint. By leaning farther out, Cotty could see the bally platform. Greer had hired a lush as Cotty's replacement. He was always so drunk by the end of the evening that he had trouble negotiating the platform steps. He had a voice as squeaky as a rusty door hinge, his pitch was cliche-ridden, out-of-date, and carnie rumor had it that-the freak show gross had fallen off badly.
Cotty snarled an obscenity and dropped his cigarette into the sawdust without bothering to grind it out. He groped under the counter for the atomizer. His throat was raw and raspy; he had been smoking too much. He started to spray his throat. Then in a burst of temper he hurled the atomizer toward the back of the tent. It struck a shelf and shattered. What did it matter about his throat? To operate a wheel joint a voice as croaky as a bullfrog's would serve just as well.
He lit another cigarette and leaned on the counter again. Some of the rides and most of the shows were closing down for the night. He might as well slough the wheel joint, even though he'd earned little more than enough to pay for his room tonight and to eat on tomorrow.
He saw Debra Frost hurrying up the midway toward the cook tent. He leaned out and called to her, "Hi, Debra! How about...? "
Her head went back, and she sailed right on past without even glancing his way. Well, damn her, too! Now that he wasn't making big money, she wouldn't even talk to him. Fury raced through his veins like venom. Who did she think she was, scrubbing him like that? If he had her on her back for a few minutes, she wouldn't be so damned standoffish! That gave him an idea. Craftily he considered it. She had to pass right by here to get to the rear of the lot where the Frost trailer was parked. And she usually left the cook tent an hour or so before her father....
Quickly Cotty turned out the lights, lowered the tent flap, took the day's receipts up to the office wagon and settled up. Then he returned to the tent and leaned against the counter, nearly hidden in the shadow of the tent. He smoked several cigarettes and then watched the carnival close down for the night. The show front banners were all rolled up. The rides were hooded for the night. The top half of the Ferris wheel seats were removed. The lights went out one by one until finally only the overhead stringer down the midway was left. Once Dan Fields plodded by, paused to peer at Cotty in the darkness, then went on without speaking.
Finally he saw her coming. He watched her approach, watched that clean-limbed stride, the slight hitch in her walk as she swung her right foot forward. He had always thought that hitch provocative; now it seemed to him the most exciting thing he'd ever seen. Heat flushed his groin and lust raged through him. When she drew abreast of the tent, he said thickly, "Debra, I want a word with you."
She broke stride momentarily, squinting into the shadows. "The words I have for you, you wouldn't want to hear, Mr. Starke!" She started on.
He was on her in two strides, his hand closing around her wrist. He hauled her back into the shadows, slamming her against the counter hard enough to wring a small cry of pain from her. He pinned her there with his body. "What's with you?" he said in a grating voice. "Why am I so untouchable all of a sudden? I'm no different now than from the last time we were together!"
She didn't try to get away from him. "Maybe you aren't any different. But that only means I was stupid before and didn't see." Her voice stung with contempt.
"See what, goddammit?"
"See you for what you really are! As soon as you could take up with that horrible freak show woman you'd have nothing more to do with me. And now that she's through with you, you come running back to me. Well, thanks but no thanks!"
"You know what's wrong with you? You're jealous!"
"Jealous? Of that?"
"There's no need for you to be jealous, baby. I'll show you...." Still holding her pinned against the counter, he put his mouth close to her ear and told her in graphic, obscene detail just what he intended to show her.
Now she began to struggle. She beat on his chest with her fists and tried to knee him. He crowded her back until her back arched cruelly over the edge of the counter. She whimpered with pain. He found her mouth in the dark. At first her lips were a straight line. Then, suddenly, they parted, and Cotty drove his tongue into her mouth. And Debra bit down hard. The pain was like the slash of a dull knife blade. Cotty jerked his head back with a roar of outrage. "Why, you little bitch! I'll show you...! "
He hit her across the face with his hand. Her head struck the tent pole at the end of the counter. She moaned softly, sagging in his arms. He closed his hand like a vise around one breast. That was enough to revive her, and she became an armful of spitting, clawing wildcat. He rammed an elbow into her stomach, driving the breath from her, and banged her head against the pole again. She went lax, gagging.
In his mingled lust and fury, Cotty was blind to anything else. He wanted to hurt her, humiliate her, ram himself into her until she screamed for mercy. In the swirling red mist of his thoughts she was Debra, Paula, Greer, Juval....
All the fight had gone out of Debra now. She was only half conscious, and he had to prop her up. He weighed taking her inside the tent, dragging her behind him as an animal drags its prey into a dark cave to feast at leisure. But he couldn't wait that long. And if someone did happen by and see them, she would be humiliated that much more.
He reached down for the hem of her skirt, bunching it up around her waist, hooked his fingers in the elastic of her panties, and started to rip them from her loins. Suddenly he was seized from behind and torn away from Debra. He felt himself flying through the air to land ignominiously on his belly, his face plowing a furrow in the sawdust. Instantly he rolled over and sat up, spitting sawdust.
Dan Fields stood protectively in front of Debra, shoulders sloping forward, long arms dangling into fists. He said, "I warned you about Debra."
Cotty's rage propelled him to his feet, snarling. "You've stuck your long nose into my business for the last time, Patch! I'm going to pound you into the ground like a tent stake!"
"I'm sure," Dan said calmly.
Cotty launched himself at the other man, arms wind-milling. Dan avoided the rush easily, gliding smoothly to one side and slamming a fist into Cotty's gut like a sledgehammer. The breath whooshed from Cotty's lungs and he doubled up in agony as he stumbled past. Then Dan brought the edge of his hand down across Cotty's neck in a stunning blow. Pain exploded in Cotty's skull, and once again he was facedown in the sawdust. He gathered himself, rolled over, and came up on all fours, his head up. Before he could get to his feet, Dan brought a knee up under his chin.
Cotty was driven back until he sprawled on his back as flat as a board. He skirted unconsciousness. His head felt dislocated, an island of pain floating away from his body.
After what seemed an eternity and with much painful effort, he raised his head. Dan was leading Debra away, his arm around her waist.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For the first time in his life, Dan was proud of being involved in a brawl. Clobbering Cotty Starke was the first positive action he had taken since becoming a carnie. He glanced down at Debra stumbling along at his side. "Are you all right, Debbie?"
"I ... I think so," she said shakily. She fingered the back of her head and winced.
"Did that. ... Did he do that?"
She said quickly, "No, no. It's just that I bumped my head against the tent pole while we were ... wrestling."
"When you get to the trailer, you'd better take a hot shower and get into bed and try to forget what happened. I don't think you need fear he'll bother you again."
"Dan She hung back. "I'd rather not.
Not right away. Evan'll be coming in soon and I'd rather not be there when he comes in. I'm all right, really I am, but could we...? "
He hid his sudden pulse of delight behind gruffness. "If you're sure you're up to it?"
"I'm sure."
"What'll it be then? A movie?"
"Not a movie. Not tonight. That's where we always. ... " she broke off, then glanced up at him with a trace of shyness. "Would you buy me a drink? Or is that too forward of me?"
"Forward, yes." His delight was released in a burst of laughter. "But I thought you'd never ask!"
She linked arms with him, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Let's stop by the trailer first. I'll fix my face, run a comb through my hair, and leave a note for Evan. And you know something?" It was her turn to laugh. "He won't object, which must say something. For one thing he-likes you, Dan."
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she liked him. He kept silent. Why push his sudden good fortune? In that moment he felt almost benign toward Cotty. But for him, bastard that he was, this wouldn't be happening, might never have happened.
They found a small, uncrowded bar not far from the lot. Dan paused in the doorway, letting his glance sweep the lounge. He didn't see a single carnie, at least not one he knew, and he was glad of that. With a hand under her elbow, he guided Debra to a booth in the rear.
Dan ordered martinis for them. When the waitress had left with their order, Debra said, "I may get tipsy, Dan. Will you take care of me?"
"I'll take care of you," he said solemnly.
"It's only happened to me once. That's when it all started with Cotty. ... " Her glance skittered away. "Anyway, now I feel like celebrating the end of something." She looked squarely at him. "I should have listened to you, Dan, instead of ranting and raving at you."
He squirmed uncomfortably. "We all make mistakes," he said, recalling his own gross misjudgment of Beth. He felt a stir of astonishment. For the first time since it had happened, he had thought of Beth without bitterness. He added, "We wouldn't be human otherwise."
Debra apparently took no notice of the pompous aphorism. She nodded, brow furrowing in thought. "The thing is, when I make a mistake it's a real darb, not to mention unbelievably stupid. I should have seen Cotty for what he is."
"He's a slick article. He's fooled other people. It's only when it gets down to the raw that he shows himself."
"Oh, it didn't just happen tonight," she said swiftly. "I realized he was just stringing me along while he made a play for that freak show bitch!" She colored, her hand going to her mouth. "I'm sorry, Dan. That makes me out to be a jealous woman, doesn't it? Of course, I never did like Paula Greer."
Their drinks arrived, giving Debra the chance to shut up and bury her nose in the martini glass. The drinks were good, very cold and dry. Dan shook out cigarettes, remembered in time that Debra didn't smoke, and lit one for himself.
He thought it time to get her mind off Cotty Starke. "Now that you've been a functioning carnie for half a season, what do you think of it?"
She considered it, black eyes grave, head tilted to one side. "I've found it exciting, this year, but I don't think the excitement will last. A year or two and I'm sure I'll get fed up. There's no ... permanence to it."
"That's the reason most carnies claim to like it."
Debra nodded. "I know, but I think that's an excuse. Most carnies are misfits, don't you think so, Dan?" Her gaze was disconcertingly direct.
Dan ducked his head to take a sip of his drink. He mumbled, "In most cases, yes."
Most cases? A small corner of his mind jeered at him. What was he, Dan Fields, but a misfit? Was he trying to exempt himself?
As though scanning his thoughts, she said, "You were once a practicing attorney, weren't you, Dan? That's how carnie rumor has it."
"For once carnie rumor has it right." He took a deep breath and plunged into it. For the first time he told another human being about Beth and the rest of it. Whether it was in self-defense or because it was Debra, he didn't know. Whatever the reason, he found it amazingly easy to tell after the first few words.
The telling of it took almost an hour and three more drinks. At the end of it, Debra said, "You had some bad luck, Dan. I know many people use that as a ready excuse, but in your case I think it fits. I can see how you'd want to pull into yourself and lick your wounds but. ... For the rest of your life?" The drinks had slurred her speech, heightened her color, and made her owlishly serious. "You're going to stay a carnie for the rest of your life? Shurely. ... Surely you can practice law again soommer. ... Somewhere."
He ducked his head. "I suppose I could if T worked at it. I think about it every winter after the season's over but the new season starts and there I am on the road again. Maybe I don't think it's worthwhile trying."
"Well, I think it's worthwhile!" A loud belch escaped her. She slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him with widening eyes. She giggled behind her hand. "Dan ... I think I'm drunk!"
"I'm not exactly sober myself. It's time we were taking you home."
He put money on the table to pay for their last drink and a large tip for the waitress. Then he stood up and helped Debra out of the booth. She staggered a couple of steps, then got herself under control and walked sedately beside him and out the door.
On the street she said, "Dan. ... You stay in a hotel, don't you?"
"I do."
"Take me home with you."
He broke stride. "I don't think so, Debbie."
"Yes! Oh, I know what you're thinking ... I'm drunk, yes, but not all that drunk! Dan, I don't want to be alone tonight. I want somebod close to me. I want you close to me!"
He had been reacting to her sexually all evening but had managed to shunt all erotic thought of her aside. Now that the way was open to him so suddenly, and so easily, desire raged through him like a brush fire. He curbed his racing thoughts and said slowly, "You sure you know what you're saying, Debbie?"
She looked up at him, eyes soft and unfocused, mouth open and wet. "I'm sure, Dan. I've never been so sure of anything in my life. You know I'm not a virgin, Dan, but Cotty's the only man I've known. Now. ... What do they say? The hair of the dog?"
The words and the uncertain laugh that followed would have struck him as coarse coming from anyone else. Coming from Debra, it seemed as innocent as a child begging for a peek at her present on Christmas Eve. He fought a brief but losing battle with his conscience before saying, "Debbie, there's nothing I would like more."
"It's settled then!" she cried and buried her flaming face against his arm. "Did you ever know a girl more forward?"
His hotel room was a place to sleep, little more. He didn't rent a room with the thought of taking a woman to it. He hadn't touched a woman other than a whore since Beth. Carnie women are usually available and many had let him know they were willing, but Dan had resisted all opportunities, fearing emotional entanglements. And now he was doing exactly what he'd sworn he wouldn't. He had committed himself to the defense of another human and was about to commit himself even more.
Inside the room he closed the door with his back against it. Debra turned into his arms, her mouth hotly seeking, her fingers plucking urgently at his clothing. Her mouth had the taste of gin flavored with honey and ... yes, of woman. In his arms she was all woman, eternal female. The air of innocence she had shucked like a cloak. His hands caressed the supple shape of her back, the exciting jut of her buttocks, and his body felt the proud thrust of firm breasts and mounded belly. It had been so damned long since he'd had a woman in his arms responding to his touch. His senses grew drunk with it.
After a time she pulled back out of his arms and said breathlessly, "Dan ... darling, do you have a shower?"
He nodded mutely.
"Forgive me but I must take a shower. I can still feel Cotty's hands on me." She shuddered expressively. "Wait for me? Be patient?" She kissed the tips of her fingers, then touched them to his lips.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said hoarsely. "The patience, I can't promise."
She started off, still lurching ever so slightly from the drinks.
"Debbie, wait
Dan opened the room's one closet, took down a robe and tossed it to her.
He paced the room restlessly, smoking chain fashion. When he heard the roar of the shower, a mighty shudder seized him. In a sudden decision he tore at his clothes, dropping them into a heap on the floor until he was naked. Then he threw them into the closet and slammed the door. He stripped the covers from the bed, leaving only the sheet. He got into bed and pulled that over him. He fired another cigarette and listened. His hearing seemed acutely sensitive; he fancied he could hear each individual drop of water pelting down on Debra.
The shower shut off. Then she came through the door and toward him, toweling the brown tumble of hair. She was lost in the vastness of his robe. Her delicate feet appeared and disappeared under the bottom of the robe, peeking at him like shy, pink animals.
She stopped when her knees touched the bed. She let the towel drop to the floor. Then she made a slight movement and the robe followed the towel. In the dim light from the bedside lamp, her body was pink and white, bold curves and shadowed mystery. Under his gaze, her nipples burst into erect life like sudden-blooming flowers on a field of white.
Dan reached up to cup one breast and he felt a shudder run through her as the nipple grew in his palm. With his other hand he swept the sheet from his body. Debra's gaze drifted over him. He lay proud and masculine under her glance. A sigh escaped her, her eyes went out of focus, and her face softened, the features blurring as though seen under water.
"Ah, Dan ... my darling!" She came down on the bed beside him on her knees.
Despite the prodding of his desire, he was tender with her. He turned her until they lay side by side and held her gently in his arms as he filled his mouth with her nipples, first one, then the other. Under his caresses she lay with her head thrown back, her eyes wide and yet somehow sightless, a musing smile on her lips.
With lips and fingers, he probed for the touch buds of her passion. Soon she was pitching and tossing, her head rolling from side to side. His hand opened, fan-fingered, on her thigh. A strangled moan came from her, and veins pulsed in her straining throat. Her breasts rolled unevenly.
Finally, as his nerve centers raged with desire, she reached up and drew him down to her. "Don't be so gentle, damn you!" she said in a hoarsened voice. "I'm a woman, not a toy!"
He moved over her, poised himself, then drove toward her. She searched for him with her loins as his hands cradled her hips. She was strong and demanding. She was artful and violent. Pleasure strained her cheeks, and her cries contracted to guttural moans. "Oh, oh, OH! My darling, I love you!" The words seemed ripped from her, like cries of agony.
Dan was too far gone in passion to heed her. Her voice reached him as from a great distance. Her heels set up a drumming sound on the taut mattress. His ecstasy broke. At the same time she cried out sharply and rose, her straining body lifting him clear of the bed. A spasm gripped her like a seizure. She held him like that, their mutual ecstasy unending. The mindless seconds ran on and Dan was in the grip of an intense pleasure he had never experienced, had never hoped to experience.
Of course it had to end. A trembling sigh came from Debra. In a muffled voice she said, "So good, darling. So very good!"
They collapsed together in an exhausted tangle of limbs. As Dan tried to escape the tangle, Debra tightened her arms around him fiercely and held him to her. And, as an echo, her words came back to him, "My darling, I love you!"
And he loved her, too. He knew that now. But he couldn't bring himself to say it. Not even now. It was a final step he wasn't prepared to take.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cotty droned, "Get your bets down, gents, before the Wheel of Fortune spins. It spins and spins, and where it stops nobody knows!"
His thoughts were far removed from what he was doing. Every time he thought of last night, and that was almost constant since he hadn't slept much, a hot rage boiled up in him like a foul bubble threatening to burst. He had plotted ways and means to kill Dan Fields and had discarded them all as too risky. But he would think of some way. He would never be content until he saw Dan dead.
"Well, Mister Wheelspinner, what are you waiting for? Christmas?" a sneering voice asked.
Cotty came to himself with a start. The man speaking was a redneck farmer who had been betting steadily for an hour, losing almost as steadily, and who fortified himself from time to time from a pint bottle of whiskey. A glance at the counter told Cotty that all the bets were down. "All right, sport, keep your pants on," he said roughly and spun the indicator.
The farmer smirked at him, and Cotty longed to smash his fist into the sneering face. He tore his glance away. He noted that the man had bet on a black number. Maybe he could do nothing else but he could damned well make sure this corn-shucks bastard came up empty-handed! He concentrated on manipulating the stick to brake the indicator. His anger betrayed him. His muscles were trembling, and at the last instant he miscalculated. The indicator came to a dead stop on black and on the farmer's number.
The man beat on the counter in his glee. "I win! Finally, goddammit, I win!"
"A winner! We've got a winner!" Cotty chanted, mentally cursing the fates, the farmer, Dan Fields, Debra, the whole stinking carnival. He moved back to the shelves and took down a dusty kewpie doll. He plunked it down before the farmer. "Our lucky winner gets a gorgeous kewpie doll to take home to his little girl!"
"Now just a damned minute here!" the farmer bleated. "I've got one of those hams coming to me!"
"I'm afraid you're mistaken, friend."
"Like hell I'm mistaken! I told my old lady I'd bring home a ham and I'm not leaving here without one. You said a three-time winner gets a ham. Well, I've won three times in a row!"
With a sick feeling growing in his gut, Cotty realized that the man was right. He had won three times in a row!
The farmer snarled, "Now do I get that ham or do I tear this crummy joint apart?"
An ugly sound came from the large crowd that had gathered. They pressed in against the counter. The whole set-up was as fragile as a castle constructed out of matchsticks; it wouldn't take much pushing to collapse it. Cotty had never witnessed a lynch mob, but he imagined it must be something like what he faced now. He realized he had no choice. He said weakly, "You're right, friend, my mistake."
"Well, all right! Let's have the ham then!"
Cotty turned away to the shelves and took down one of the fake hams. He could only hope that the farmer would take it away without opening it. His thoughts skittered away from what would happen after the man got home and found out the ham was a phony. There were four days left of the fair date, and the farmer would-likely come roaring back. At the moment Cotty could only be concerned about escaping the current bind. He placed the ham gingerly on the counter. "Here you are, friend," he said with false cheer.
"By God, how about that!" In his exuberance the farmer raised a fist as large as a sledgehammer and brought it down on the ham. The rotten covering burst and sawdust spurted out. The farmer stared in disbelief, his face red as fire.
The men crowded around, a threatening murmur coming from them. Terror nibbled at Cotty's nerve ends like a herd of mice. The booth began to shake and Cotty backed up.
And then, as though he had a pipeline connected to all trouble points, Dan Fields was there. He shoved his way up to the counter and said pleasantly, "All right, gentlemen, what seems to be the trouble here?"
The farmer whirled on him. "What's it to you, bud? You in charge or something?"
"You might say that I am," Dan said calmly, "in a manner of speaking."
"Okay then, this is what's wrong." The farmer jabbed a finger through the ham covering and more sawdust leaked out. "I won this here ham, won it fair and square, and it turns out to be nothing but sawdust!"
"I see." Dan studied the sawdust for a moment, then raised his gaze to look directly at Cotty. His glance was withering. Cotty could think of nothing to say. Dan turned to the farmer and said smoothly, "I can see why you're upset, sir, but there's no cause to be..."
"No cause!" the farmer shouted in outrage.
"Not in the least. You see, these hams are all here for display only. We keep the real hams refrigerated. We have to in hot weather like this. If you'll just come along with me, I'll see that you get the ham you won. The operator should have explained this to you. But he's new and-likely didn't know." He took the farmer by the arm and started to lead him away. Then he stopped and came back alone to Cotty. He leaned across the counter and said in a low voice, "Close this joint, Starke. Slough it right now and don't open it again during the current stand."
Dan went back to the farmer and led him away. A few of the men still lingered, milling about with dark looks and dire mutterings. Cotty hurriedly turned out the lights and dropped the tent flap. He was too relieved at his unexpected rescue to feel any anger. But as he smoked a cigarette in the darkened tent his anger and frustration seeped back. He knew he was through. Even if Bart Roberts didn't fire him, he doubted he'd have the guts to operate the wheel again. And the word would spread around the lot before the night was over; he'd be the butt of carnie jokes. He could just hear the jibes: "Hey, Cotty, how about a ham sandwich? Oh, I forgot ... you like sawdust sandwiches, don't you?"
With a snarl he threw his cigarette down. He lifted the tent flap and peered out. The men had drifted away. He ducked under the sidewall and stood for a moment in indecision. He didn't know which way to turn or what to do.
Then his glance came to rest on the Streets of Paris girlie show tent. The front was closed down, but from the sounds of music coming from inside, Cotty knew that a show was still in progress, the next to last show of the night. He remembered that the girlie show had been given the go-ahead by the local police to operate a blow-off here. It was one of the few times all season that the show had been granted permission to give a blow-off.
Suddenly making up his mind, Cotty rounded the tent and passed through the front flap. The ticket seller standing just inside started toward him. Then, recognizing Cotty as a carnie, he subsided and motioned him on in.
The inside of the tent was emptying out now. The customers, mostly male, were coming toward Cotty and the entrance. He stood aside to let them past, lighting a cigarette. The inside of the big tent was filled with rows of folding chairs, about two hundred all together. In the rear of the tent was a small stage made from a truck bed backed across the tent. The curtains were drawn now. A group of men were lined up at one end of the stage, buying tickets for the blow-off from Jackie Ransom, the manager of the Streets of Paris. Jackie was in her fifties now, long past her prime. She had been a carnie showgirl all her adult life and was tough as old shoe leather.
Cotty waited until the line had dwindled down to three men, then he strode down between the folding chairs and became the last man in line. When it came his turn, Jackie held out her hand for his money without looking at him.
Cotty mumbled, "I'm with it."
Jackie glanced up. Her cold gaze measured him. It was customary for carnies to have free admission to any show or ride on the lot, but Cotty knew that Jackie didn't approve of carnie males bulling their way into her blow-offs to get their jollies free.
Scowling in disapproval, she jerked her head and stepped aside.
Striding past, Cotty muttered under his breath, "Screw you, Jackie!"
The blow-off was held in a small tent immediately on the opposite side of the truck bed. It was packed to the bulging sidewalls when Cotty entered. Here there was no distance between the audience and the performer. In the center of the tent was a roped-off area, resembling a prize fight ring, except that it was considerably smaller. There was a tiny wooden platform in the center of the ring.
Working his way up to the ropes, Cotty was reminded of the pit in the freak show where the geek ate the heads off live chickens. At the moment this particular pit was empty. The men gathered around, already partially aroused by the main show, were growing impatient. The closest the main show ever came to total nudity was a girl wearing pasties and a G-string. Here they had been promised full frontal nudity, plus other hinted-at delights.
They began to clap. "Bring the girls on!"
Suddenly in the background a record player started up. The tinny music reminded Cotty of the scratchy sound tracks of old pornographic movies.
Now Jackie Ransom escorted a girl through the crowd and held the ropes up for her to duck under. The blow-off seldom featured more than one girl. Most of the carnie girls refused to perform blow-offs, even for the additional money.
Cotty recognized the girl as Lana Lamont. Lana was one of the chorus girls in the Streets of Paris show. She was a tall blonde with a bust of awesome proportions and a lush figure to match, all covered at the moment with a toe-length robe. Carnie rumor had it that she was a roundheels, a nympho who would fall down if a man pointed a finger at her and pushed lightly.
Lana stood still in the pit, smiling lazily, her eyes smoky.
Voices pelted her from the audience.
"This ain't what we paid to see!"
"Take it off, take it off!"
"Show us what you got, baby!"
"Oh, ah, what you do to me! Oh, oh, what I could do to you!"
She unbelted the robe, folding it back. Underneath, those fabulous breasts strained at a flimsy bra. A tasseled G-string danced at her loins as she moved her hips languidly.
Then she gave a shrug and the robe fell from her shoulders, falling unheeded to the ground.
"Hot damn, that's some better!"
"Get hot, baby, get hot!"
"Move something. Let's see you move it, doll!"
Her hips began to move in and out, in the ancient bump and grind, in the motions of simulated intercourse. She danced around the ropes, leaping nimbly back out of reach as some spectator tried to grab at her. The scratchy music heated up, as did her dance. Her hips gyrated wildly now, the G-string flipping out and up with every flick of her hips. Then she came too close to the ropes directly in front of Cotty, and a man reached out a long arm, hooked fingers like claws in the V between her breasts and ripped away the flimsy bra. He waved it overhead in triumph, like a victory flag.
A voice hooted, "Take it home to your old lady, Mac! Give her a whiff, maybe it'll turn her on!"
Lana's freed breasts bounced on her torso. She cupped them in her hands and lifted the globes toward the audience, the brown nipples erect as pointing fingers.
The watching men pushed against the ropes, threatening to snap them.
"Take the rest off!"
Without a break in her pumping hips, Lana reached one hand around behind her and did something, then gave her gyrating pelvis an extra flip. The G-string popped free of her loins and sailed into the crowd like a launched missile. Hands grabbed at it, and it disappeared, swallowed up in the crowd.
Now Lana flopped onto her back on the wooden platform. She ran her hands down over her breasts, rounded belly and the insides of her thighs. She contrived to make her hands seem the hands of someone making passionate love to her. She raised her knees and spread them, feet flat on the boards. All the while her hips continued to pump, her hands busy, inching always closer to the blonde tuft at the nexus of her thighs.
She twisted slowly, counterclockwise, body writhing, the tempo of her pumping hips increasing steadily. She twisted all the way around the platform, so that all the spectators could see everything there was to see.
A slant-jawed, wet-eyed man leaned as far across the ropes as he could. He took a lighted cigarette from between his lips and handed it to her. "See what you can do with that, doll baby."
Lana accepted the cigarette and put it in her mouth.
"Not that way! We're not paying you for that! You know what to do with it!"
Lana ignored the man's challenge and continued her hip gyrations. But the others took up the call.
"Come on, baby, let's see you do it."
"We didn't pay extra money just to come in here and see a naked broad."
"We want our money's worth!" Several of the men began to stamp their feet. Their mood had suddenly turned ugly. Cotty quickly worked his way to the back against a sidewall so he could duck out if it became necessary-There, leaning against a tent pole, he smoked a cigarette and watched with some amusement as Jackie Ransom, flanked by two burly canvasmen, forced her way to the pit and under the ropes. Cotty saw other men scattered throughout the crowd.
He knew that this was the reason many carnies didn't approve of the girlie show blow-offs. All too often, the men paying extra money for the blow-off attraction were sorely disappointed and sought a way to release their anger. They were never directly promised more, but the hint that they could expect more was subtly planted in their minds. Besides, they had seen just about all there was to see, outside of outright copulation, there on the wooden platform. Cotty had often thought he would stage something like that if he was running the show. True, he might get into trouble with the local fuzz in most of the towns they played. But it would be worth the trouble. God, the crowds that would draw!
Jackie was waving her hands for attention. "Gents, now don't be unreasonable. We promised you a show in the nude. We delivered! We went as far as the local law allows. Don't blame us." Jackie tried aningratiating smile. "You wouldn't want us to be arrested, now would you?"
The two rough-looking canvasmen ducked under the rope to range alongside her. Each carried a tent stake. Lana had scrambled off the platform and into her robe.
There were some grumblings, some angry cries of, "Gyp, we're being gypped!" But a few of the men began drifting out. The others milled for a bit, still complaining.
But it was all over, the tension gradually lessening. In a few minutes the tent was empty, the canvasmen following the crowd outside to make sure they didn't try to return. Jackie was alone with Lana in the tent, talking in a low voice with many gestures. Lana listened with her head down. Cotty stood where he was, waiting. Jackie finally climbed out of the pit and started out. She swept past him without a glance.
Lana was fumbling in her robe pocket. Cotty strode forward, digging out his cigarettes. He leaned over the top rope, extending the pack. "Here."
She squinted at him nearsightedly. "Who...? Oh, I know you, you're..."
"Yeah, Cotty Starke. I run the wheel joint next door."
She took a cigarette, then stooped to duck under the rope as he held it up for her. He held a match to her cigarette, and Lana inhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of smoke with a toss of her head.
She shivered. "Those guys scared me! For a minute I thought..." She drew on the cigarette again, then started toward the tent entrance.
Cotty fell into step beside her. "Where are you going, Lana?"
She shrugged. "Oh, I'm going to my trailer, have a belt of booze and rest for a bit."
"How about me coming with you? I could use a drink."
She slowed, flashing him a dubious glance. "Oh, I don't know. I don't know as I know you that well . : . "
"That's easily taken care of. We can get acquainted in a hurry."
He seized her arm and turned her toward him, his mouth groping for hers. She struggled briefly, then subsided as he ran one hand inside the loose robe and fondled her breast. Lana groaned and came against him hard, her pelvis grinding. He knew she was little better than a whore. But that was what he wanted, someone he could roll in the gutter with, someone he could vent his frustration on.
Lana took her mouth away to mutter, "Honey, it'll have to be a quickie. I have to get back for the last show."
"A quickie's fine with me."
They went out of the blow-off tent and turned left. Arm in arm, her hip brushing his with every step, they rounded the big tent to the row of small house trailers occupied by the showgirls. Lana's trailer was large enough only for a bed, a sink, a hot plate, a dressing table, and a small shower.
Inside, Lana shut the door, shucked the robe and turned to him. Up this close, her figure was of truly Amazonic proportions, breasts, hips and thighs. At the sight of her body Cotty's arousal was full and complete.
"You're something else, Lana," he said hoarsely.
She laughed throatily. "Why, thank you, sir."
He took her by the shoulders, maneuvered her to the low bed, and pushed lightly. She fell back onto the bed, landing on her back, plump thighs rising like milk-white columns. Her hips were already in motion. Cotty unzipped his trousers and came down on the bed on his knees. She rose to meet him eagerly, a groan coming from her.
It was indeed quick. And Cotty was rough with her, pounding her body relentlessly into the thin mattress. He received no complaints. On the contrary. "That's it, honey! Treat me mean. Get rough. That's the way I like it!"
In her frenzy her breasts bounced wildly on her torso. Cotty buried his face between them. She smelled of stale sweat and cheap perfume. He drove at her, hips pumping. His passion broke suddenly and he went rigid.
"Wait, honey! Not ... that ... quick! Oh! Yes, yes! That's it! Now, now!"
When it was over, Cotty got up, adjusted his clothes, and left without a word. Lana lay with her eyes closed, mouth open and slack, her breathing loud and rasping.
Some of the tension had drained out of Cotty, but he still felt a driving need to strike out at everything and everybody. He stopped at the mouth of the alley created by the show tent and wheel joint, lighting a cigarette.
Up at the far end of the midway was the grandstand. As Cotty glanced that way, the nightly fireworks heralding the end of the grandstand show began. Within a short while a flood of people would pour out of the grandstand, the majority of them strolling along the midway for the last time tonight. The talkers would trod their ballys, the joint operators would exhort their marks, and he stood here not earning a thin dime!
He saw a familiar figure hurrying up the midway toward the freak show. It was the dwarf, Juval, carrying a bottle of cold pop. He made the trip to a concession stand a half-dozen times a night for a bottle of pop. He would drink about half of it, leave the bottle under the bally platform where he slept while he worked a bally, then duck under there to finish it. He did this on and off all night.
All of a sudden a great calm settled over Cotty. A solution to all his problems had just popped into his head. Or it had been germinating for days and just now surfaced. He examined it from all angles and couldn't find a single flaw. All he had to do to eliminate Greer was to delay the man's coming out of the casket for about twenty minutes, or an hour to be perfectly safe. In that time Greer would have breathed all the air in the casket and would be dead. And the way to do it was quite simple, involving not the slightest risk to Cotty personally. In addition, there would be no blood and violence.
The crowning, ironic touch was that Greer himself had made it possible. Only Juval was trusted to dig him up. And now not even Paula was allowed to remain in the tent. It was Juval's sole responsibility. All Cotty had to do was put the dwarf out of commission for a couple of hours. And Juval's addiction to pop made that very easy.
Cotty ducked into the wheel joint. No one had yet been able to locate Gil Meeks' relatives, if he had any. For the lack of a better place the man's personal effects were in a trunk under the counter. Cotty remembered what a difficult time Meeks had in sleeping when he wasn't drinking. He always had a supply of sleeping pills on hand.
Not daring to turn on a light, Cotty opened
Meeks' toilet kit. And there, just as he had hoped, he found a nearly full bottle of prescription sleeping pills. He took out several, returned the kit to the trunk, and relocked the trunk.
Then he joined the crowd around the freak show bally. The new talker was just getting into his pitch, bringing the freaks out one by one. Cotty worked his way through the press of people until he was against the neck-high platform at the opposite end from the ticket box. He got one break. Maude, the six hundred pound fat lady, was on the end of the platform squatting on a reinforced camp stool. The talker and all the other performers were on the other side of her, and Maude effectively blocked Cotty from their view. And he knew there was no danger of her looking down and recognizing him; when she was sitting she could only look straight ahead, being unable to see down past her triple chin and enormous stomach.
Cotty waited until Steel, the sword swallower, tilted his head back and started wedging the sword blade down his throat. At the precise moment when the crowd's collective attention was riveted on Steel, Cotty took out his lighter, pretended to drop it, and dropped down on all fours. He scuttled under the canvas drop like a bug, confident he hadn't been observed. Under the platform were a pair of blankets spread out on a strip of canvas and a wooden box holding Juval's personal belongings. A single bulb hung down from a drop cord, casting a yellow light. And on the box was the half-empty pop bottle. Without touching the bottle Cotty dropped in four pills one by one.
Then he crouched by the drop, lifted it just enough to crawl under. He had to force his way upright. One man looked at him in a startled way. Otherwise, he was unnoticed.
Cotty bounced his lighter in his hand and said to the startled man, "Dropped my lighter."
As he started away, Cotty heard the talker start to turn his tip. "All right, folks, buy your tickets right now! The show's starting on the inside right away! Positively the last show of the night!"
When Cotty regained the safety of the wheel-joint tent, he was sweating freely. His nerves were taut as wires. The next forty-five minutes were crucial. The show would last a half hour. Fifteen minutes after that the tent would be empty, as per Greer's instructions, the banners rolled up, the front lights all out. Long before that Juval should be sound asleep, and he, Cotty, would be home free!
He waited the full forty-five minutes before leaving the wheel joint. The midway was deserted and darkened. He strolled casually to the freak show bally. The lights were out, the banners rolled up. At the bally platform, he glanced around carefully. Seeing no one, he ducked under the flap. His heart thumped painfully. Juval was sprawled on his back on the blankets, his mouth open, dead to the world. Cotty sighed with relief.
The empty pop bottle lay beside the dwarf's right hand. Cotty scooped it up and crawled out from under the platform. Before getting to his feet, he glanced around. His luck still held; he was unobserved. He stood up, lit a cigarette, and sauntered up the midway toward the cook tent. Before he reached it, he veered down the side of the tent to the line of trash barrels. He raised the lid from one barrel and shoved the pop bottle down into the trash as far as it would go. Then he strolled into the cook tent, his features carefully arranged in a smile.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dan was making his last round of the midway. The carnival appeared to be buttoned up for the night. Now he paused opposite the freak show. Something nagged at him. The banners were up, the front lights out, but there was a bright light still blazing inside that tent. He hesitated for a moment. He knew Greer didn!t want anyone watching him come out of the pit. Yet Greer should have been out a half hour or more. Then why the light inside?
Reaching a decision, he started for the tent, his step quickening. He stopped just inside, his glance jumping about. There wasn't a soul in sight. Evidently they had forgotten to turn out the lights. He turned toward the switch box on the tent pole beside the entrance. His hand touched the switch, then dropped away without throwing it. Something drew him toward the pit. Abruptly he realized what was wrong. There was no pile of dirt! He broke into a run. Greer was still in the casket. His mouth was open, his face contorted in a stricture of death. One hand was caught on the inside edge of the glass lid. The nails were splintered, the fingers smeared with blood.
Dan raced back to the tent entrance and yelled twice at the top of his voice. Then he hurried back to the freak show truck parked behind the tent. He got the three shovels from the tool box under the truck bed and sped back into the tent. Carnies were already gathering. Dan tossed two of the shovels to two men and attacked the dirt with the third shovel. After a moment he paused to shout, "Somebody find Juval. He has the key to the locks. Look under the bally!"
They had the dirt scooped off the casket in less than three minutes. Dan dashed the sweat from his eyes and looked around as Steel came up. "Here's the key, Patch. Juval's under there all right, but something must be wrong with him. He's alive but I can't wake him."
Dan snatched the key and quickly unlocked the padlocks. They got Greer out of the casket, stretched him out on the ground, and Dan began artificial respiration. He knew with a sick feeling that it was a waste of time, but he had to try. He was relieved by another carnie after five minutes. They were still at it ten minutes later when a doctor hurried into the tent. The doctor was graying, plump, disgruntled, wearing house slippers and pajama tops stuffed into his trousers.
The doctor set his bag down beside Greer and examined him. His examination was quick but thorough. Finally he snapped his bag closed and stood up. "This man is dead, has been dead for a half hour or more, in my judgment."
Dan remembered the times doctors had briefly examined Greer while the man was in a trance and had mistakenly pronounced him dead. But this was different. Those times, Greer had been serene, composed as though he'd died while sleeping peacefully. This time, there were many signs indicating how violently he had died. All his fingers were torn and bloody. And there were several places in his forehead where the skin was broken, indicating his frantic efforts to break out of the casket. No, this time there would be no miraculous revival, no Lazarus rising from the dead.
Dan sighed and said to Steel, "Go call the police, will you? And some of you see if you can bring Juval around."
The doctor left and Dan stationed himself by the casket and Greer's body, shooing everyone back beyond the chain. He lit a cigarette and smoked moodily. He noted Cotty Starke on the outer fringes of the crowd. And he knew, as he had known when Meeks tried to kill Greer, that Cotty was somehow responsible. But, again, it was all instinct and a hunch; he had no evidence to back it up.
The police was represented by three deputy sheriffs. The one in charge, Jared Lawton, was a roly-poly man of fifty. He was short, fat, with a face as round and red as an apple. Contrary to popular opinion pertaining to fat men, he had the sour disposition of a hermit. He made no effort to conceal his contempt of carnies in general and couldn't be overly concerned about the death of one carnie in particular.
Dan told Lawton as much as he knew about Greer's death. When he was finished, the deputy snorted in disbelief. "Now let's get this straight.
... This dead man, he went into a sort of trance for about eight hours every night. He stopped breathing, his heart practically stopped beating?"
"That's right, officer," Dan said slowly. He was staring at Paula who had entered the tent shortly after the arrival of the deputies. She stood looking down at Greer, her hands clasped before her. Her face was empty of expression, and there were no tears. Not that he had expected any but....
"I don't believe it!" Lawton said. "What was the trick?"
"No trick, officer."
"Then how did he do it?"
"Officer, is that important?" Dan looked at the deputy with a sigh. "The medical term is catatonia. A catatonic seizure. It happens rarely, to some people. All bodily functions cease, or close to it, until the seizure is over. The thing is, Greer hypnotized himself into this trance...."
"I still don't believe it." Lawton looked down at Greer. He muttered, "Carnies! A bunch of freaks and nuts!" He wheeled on Dan again. "How do you know he just didn't die in this trance? A man fools around with nature like that ... granting what you say is true ... no telling what may result."
"Officer, look at him! It's obvious he was conscious before he died, that he died fighting for breath, fighting to get out of the coffin!"
"Yeah." Lawton scrubbed his knuckles across the stubble of beard on his chin. "Then where's the guy who's supposed to dig him up? Seems to me he's to blame. Probably drunk...."
A voice said, "Here's Juval now."
The carnies opened a lane for Juval who was being supported by Steel on one side, Ikey, the tattooed man, on the other. Juval's face was slack, his eyes uncomprehending, and he kept slumping in their grasp.
"A dwarf? Oh, for God's sake!" Lawton said disgustedly. "What next?"
All of a sudden Juval saw Greer's body and his face came alive. He broke free of Steel and Ikey and ran to Greer. He fell to his knees beside the body. A terrible look came over his face as he tried to cry out. He touched Greer's cold cheek with just his fingertips, then looked at the shovels, the pile of dirt, the open casket, and his face crumpled with grief.
Lawton stepped forward. "All right, little man, let's hear your story."
Dan said, "Officer. ... He's deaf and dumb."
"What? He's what! Oh, that tears it! That really rips it down the middle!" For a moment the deputy looked ready to give up. Then he said, "All right, how? Does he write? Does somebody talk to him in deaf and dumb language?"
"That's going to be hard to do, I'm afraid," Dan said uncomfortably. "He doesn't read or write and doesn't understand sign language. At least none that any of us know. Greer ... the dead man ... taught him a sign language only the two of them understood."
"Oh, for...! " Lawton stumped off a few steps, then wheeled and came back. "I don't know what I'm getting all steamed up about. This guy died of natural causes as far as I'm concerned. All right, so somebody goofed. The shrimp here got drunk or something...."
"Juval doesn't drink."
"All right, all right, so he fell asleep then! Whatever happened, he didn't do what he was supposed to do. That's your problem, not mine. If you ask me, I think the dead guy's as much to blame as anyone. If I ever tried a stunt like that, the Lord forbid, I'd have everyone in sight standing by to get me out, not a deaf and dumb dwarf, for God's sake!"
Dan wanted to argue, but he knew he had no ground to stand on. And, in one respect, Lawton was correct. Greer had been largely responsible for his own death. If he had entrusted the digging up to more than one person, this wouldn't have happened. So he only shrugged and stood to one side while the deputy, after consulting with Paula, supervised the removal of Greer's body.
Dan felt a presence by his side, felt a small hand creep into his. Debra said, "I just heard, Dan. It's horrible, isn't it? Dan, did Cotty ... f
"How in the hell do I know, I'm no detective!" he said in annoyance. Then he glanced down into her upturned face. "I'm sorry, Debbie. I just don't know. I think so, for all the good that does me. But I shouldn't take it out on you."
She squeezed his hand. "It's all right, darling.
I understand," she said softly.
As Greer's body was taken out of the tent, the carnies all trailed behind, like a funeral cortege. Finally only Dan, Debra, and Juval were left in the tent. Dan would have thought the dwarf would have accompanied the body. Instead he stood gazing down into the empty coffin, his figure hunched in voiceless grief, as though he expected the nightly miracle to recur and Greer would arise once again from the dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Cotty had made no attempt to approach Paula in the tent. Once, he had maneuvered until he caught her glance. A look passed between them, a current of understanding. He moved along with the carnies following Greer's body to the arch over the midway entrance. There, they all stood silently while the body was loaded into a police ambulance. Paula got into a car with the deputy in charge, and the official cars drove away.
The carnies milled about for a little, talking in awed whispers, then drifted away one by one. Cotty slipped away before they were all gone and returned to the wheel joint. He collected all his things and packed them into a bag which he left under the counter. Then he scouted out a truck close enough to the Greer trailer where he could watch. He climbed into the cab and settled down to wait for Paula. He knew she would be back before morning.
It was after three when she finally returned. Cotty waited until she was in the trailer, the lights on, before he clambered down out of the truck cab. All the other trailers and tents were dark, not that it mattered to him if anyone happened to be watching. He crossed to the trailer and rapped softly on the door. It was opened promptly, as though Paula had been expecting him. And, after he'd bounded up the steps and stepped inside, he knew from her broadening smile that she had been expecting him.
"You came through, sweetie," she said huskily. "I didn't think you would but I was wrong. You did it and that's all that matters!"
"It was easy, went smooth as silk. All I had to do was...."
"No, I don't want to know!" She motioned him quiet. "I have only one question. ... Is there any way...? "
He felt a stab of disappointment that he wasn't going to be allowed to tell her about it. But perhaps she was right. He said, "Not a way in the world! I can never be connected with it!"
"Good! Wonderful! Peachy! Whoo-ee! I feel like I'd just been let out of jail!" She threw up her hands and pirouetted toward the kitchen area. "Lock the door, sweetie, and come here. There's a bottle of champagne in the frig. We're going to celebrate. Oh, boy, are we ever going to celebrate!"
Cotty locked the door and shot the bolt. He crossed to her on a tide of jubilation. "What if the carnies are watching us?"
She tossed her head. "Let 'em! They've never liked me, anyway. I'm not a carnie at heart never have been. I'll keep the freak show until the end of the season but that's it. By then I'll have Basil's money and this gal's going to have herself a merry old time spending it!"
"You're sure about the money?"
"Sweetie, I'm sure! He was loaded. Take my word for it."
She took the champagne bottle from the small refrigerator and handed it to him. He held it by the neck and looked at her appraisingly. "And just where do I figure in all this?"
"I'll need somebody to help me spend it, won't I? It wouldn't be near as much fun by myself." She crowded against him, belly and breasts touching. "You helped me get it, didn't you? Don't think I'm not grateful."
She tilted her face up, and Cotty lowered his mouth to hers. She'd already had a drink or two; her mouth was flavored with gin. She rotated her pelvis against him and Cotty experienced a leap of desire, and yet a small part of his mind was busy assessing the situation. He had other plans for Greer's money. He didn't have Paula's aversion to carnie life; he felt himself peculiarly suited to it. If Greer's legacy was large enough, and Cotty had a hunch it was, he could buy a carnival of his own. Perhaps even Greater Universe. Then what a pleasure it would be to get rid of Dan Fields, the Frosts, and Juval. Juval most of all. He might have a little trouble bringing Paula around, but he was confident he could manage her. He knew just how sexually hungry she was after all those years with the impotent Greer. If he handled it right, she would become his sexual slave.
Paula broke the kiss with a gusty exhalation of breath. She bent her head back, her eyes heavy-lidded. "Oh, sweetie, are we ever going to celebrate tonight!"
Cotty popped the cork from the bottle and poured two foaming glasses, gave Paula one and picked his up. He clinked it against her glass. "A toast to Basil Greer and his money," he said with mock solemnity.
"Oh, yes, sweetie, I'll drink to that. Yes, indeed!" She drained her glass with a toss of her head.
Cotty drank the tart champagne in two long swallows. It was his first drink of champagne. It tickled his nose, but he liked the taste. He took Paula's glass, plumped both down on the sink, and filled them to the brim again.
Paula giggled. "If you keep on like this, I'll make a boozehound out of you yet."
"This is good." He grinned. "Maybe I'm loosening up a little."
"I'm going to work on loosening you up, sweetie, now that we have all the time in the world."
She took a less greedy sip from her glass this time, then moved in close. She ran her hand inside his shirt. Her hand was cold, causing him to Jump. She drew her nails back and forth across the taut skin of his belly. She found his navel and teased it lightly with a long nail. Then she rotated the heel of her hand around his stomach in ever-widening circles. Finally she reached his belt and tried to run her fingers under it.
"Wait..." he said. He finished his champagne and fumbled his shirt open, the buttons popping off like melon seeds. He took the shirt off and tossed it behind him. "Is this better?"
"Much better!" She flew against him, her arms going around his back, one hand holding the glass. The nails of her other hand playfully raked the muscles of his back. She blew her warm breath on his chest, stirring the matted hairs. She caught a flat nipple between her teeth and nipped gently.
Cotty tensed. He dug his fingers into her hair, cupping her skull, and forcing her face harder against him. He picked up his glass and finished the drink. Then he moved Paula back from him and gestured. "Now you."
"Tit for tat?" she giggled again. "All right. You pour while I do it."
He lined the two glasses up on the drain board and filled them while Paula reached behind and expertly unzipped the yellow blouse she wore. She shrugged out of it and tossed it in the general direction of his shirt. Under the blouse she was wearing a black bra.
Catching the direction of his glance, she threw her breasts forward in bold relief. "Black for mourning, what else?" She held out her hand for the glass.
And so it turned into a game. A garment removed, a glass of champagne consumed. Paula turned on the small radio on the refrigerator and turned it into a strip tease as a disc jockey on a late night station played dance music.
Long before their clothes were removed, Cotty was giddy from the champagne and pulsing desire. Paula was undressed first, and she reached unsteadily for the champagne bottle. Cotty was astonished to see the last few drops drain out as she tilted the bottle over her glass.
He stepped out of his shorts as she drank the last of the champagne. When Paula's head came down, her eyes flared wide at the sight of his nakedness. Her eyes were sharp and avid as she looked at him, then went vague. She drew a ragged breath. "Ah, sweetie! Oh, good Lord!" She stumbled toward him. "Dance with me, baby. I want to dance."
In his arms she was hot pinpoints, penetrating him all over at the same time, smothering him in warmth and perfumed womanhood. Holding her close, he felt her body mold to his, touching from their cheeks to their knees. Her moist lips brushed his ear lobe. Then she ran the tip of her tongue inside, and Cotty's arms closed convulsively around her.
They swayed drunkenly to the music. Cotty felt himself growing warmer against her thighs, against the impetuous curve of her abdomen. His hands slipped down her back, fingertips seeming to crackle as they brushed her velvety flesh. Her firm hips moved under the stroke of his hands, and her fingers entwined in his hair, pulling slightly.
He felt her breath coming quick and warm on his cheek. Slowly he moved his face down and around until his eyes were immediately in front of hers, and he saw the twin, green-irised images of himself reflected there. He lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was soft-fleshed and warm at first, then became a teeth-clashing fierceness as they stopped swaying. The music had stopped and a harsh-voiced announcer was busy with a news summary. Cotty reached behind him and fumbled the radio off.
"Sweetie. ... Lord!" Paula said thickly.
Her head arched back, and Cotty dipped his face to the pulse at the base of her throat. He fluttered his tongue there. Paula's fingers were claws on his naked back. She groaned aloud, shivering, as he lowered his face to her breasts. The swollen nipples were slick to the touch of his tongue.
His hands moved smoothly over her flesh, touching the soft hollow of her back and fanning outward over the pout of her taut buttocks. He lightly stroked the shallow valley bisecting them. She moved against him in a slow, lazy, circular motion that grew more abandoned second by second.
"Sweetie, sweetie!" she said again. "Do me! Take me now. Make me feel it!"
Circling her with his arms, he picked her up and carried her toward the bed at the far end of the trailer. She was by no means a small woman, yet she felt light as a feather in his arms. As he paused to push open the door with his toe, she fastened her teeth in his ear lobe and bit down hard.
He grunted, jerking his head aside, and he felt the warm trickle of blood down his neck. Paula laughed hoarsely and nipped at his neck and shoulders as he carried her to the bed. He dropped her so roughly she bounced twice before she lay still in a wanton sprawl.
Now she reached up and pulled him down to her, met his fall in a spasm of moving flesh, corralling his wildness with her arms and legs. As he went into her, she cried out sharply. "That's so good, sweetie! So-o good!"
His mouth on hers, his tongue moving, Cotty felt himself falling into a deep, scented well, tumbling over and over into a sweet darkness that suddenly seemed to explode with silvery sparks. He drove toward final surcease and attained it with a wrenching cry.
He drifted up from what could have been a few minutes of sleep or two hours. Paula's head was cradled on his shoulder, her teeth lightly gathering a fold of the skin there. She was combing her fingers idly through the hairs on his chest.
"Paula," he said tentatively, "I'm back as a front talker tonight, right?"
"Of course, sweetie. What else? For that matter, you run the whole shebang. I don't want to be bothered with it."
He felt a surge of elation. And he recalled leaving the tent at the tail end of the carnies trailing Greer's body. He had glanced back briefly and saw Juval's tiny figure slumped in sorrow beside the empty casket. He had a strong hunch that this was the beginning of a vigil that was to last for several days.
He said with growing excitement, "I have an idea that may pull the marks in like a magnet."
"I don't want to hear it," she said petulantly, placing her hand over his lips. "I don't want to talk business. We were going to celebrate, remember? Well, we've hardly started! So just forget about business!"
Irritation jabbed at him. Damn it, he wanted to talk business! But Paula was leaning over him, her face darting at him in little nipping kisses. Her hair tickled his nose and he fought back a sneeze. Paula's head dipped lower. She kissed his chest, drew the flat of her tongue across his nipples. Cotty raised his face just enough to follow the progress of the blonde, bobbing head. Her talented hands were busy, also. Slowly, then quickly, his body responded to her ministrations. His breathing grew labored, and he started to twitch to her touch.
Suddenly she raised a glowing face. Her grin was wicked. "You see, you didn't want to talk business, anyway!"
Cotty grunted in answer and reached for her shoulders to flip her over on her back.
"No, sweetie! Let me! Let me do it!" She placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed him down on the bed. She moved over him, hesitated only briefly, then shimmied down. And Cotty was plunged once again into mindless pleasure.
His hunch proved correct. Juval's vigil beside the open pit continued the next day. All efforts to lead him away had failed. The freak-show people brought him food and water, but he refused everything except a little water, leaving his post only for calls of nature and hurrying right back.
When Cotty and Paula entered the tent shortly before noon, the freaks flocked around Paula and told her about Juval's vigil. She was indifferent. She seemed to drift about in a sort of stupor, life coming to her eyes only when Cotty touched her.
When she refused to act, Steel said, "I think we should take that damned coffin out of here and fill up the pit. Then maybe the little guy will break off."
Cotty spoke for the first time. "No! Everything stays just as it is, including Juval!"
They glanced at Paula for confirmation. She pushed her fingers into her hair and said listlessly, "Cotty's in charge now. You all take your orders from him."
No one seemed particularly surprised, but Cotty was the target of black looks and mutterings, all of which increased in volume when he told them what he had in mind.
At the end he said, "Some of you may not like it. You can always quit. For those who stay, it's business as usual. Mr. Greer was an old-time showman." He grinned wolfishly. "I'm sure he would be the first to say, 'The show must go on.' "
He knew that few, if any, would quit, not in mid-season. Carnie ridehands, canvasmen, joint operators, even front talkers, were a nickel a dozen and could always find jobs with another carnival, but the freaks were booked in advance of the season and would have trouble finding another opening this late.
Although they were playing a fair date and were supposed to open at noon, Cotty had several things to do and couldn't open until evening. But then his idea was more than justified. All he had to do was drum up a crowd and point his cane at the banner strips pasted across the center "Buried Alive!" banner. The first strip said, "See the pit where the 'Buried Alive!' man actually died!" The second said, "See his beloved dwarf continue his sad vigil!"
As he had surmised, the crowd's morbid curiosity did the rest. He knew word had spread among the townies about the strange death of a carnie freak. Cotty didn't even deliver a pitch. They fought to get in line at the ticket box. The tent was filled within minutes, and Cotty had to stop the sale of tickets for a while. He strolled into the tent. The freaks were on the center platform, but they were getting little attention. The bulk of the crowd was clotted around the pit, threatening to snap the chain.
Highly pleased with himself, Cotty worked his way through the crowd to the chain. The people were very quiet as they gazed in hushed awe at Juval, who stood without moving, his head bowed, his back to those watching. He showed no signs that he was even aware of their presence.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dan's disgust was so powerful he wanted to vomit. When word had reached him, he found it hard to believe. Even Cotty Starke couldn't possibly be that callous! Yet it was all true. He had arrived in time to observe Cotty's brief bally and had watched the people streaming in. He wasn't particularly surprised at that. He had long since lost all wonder at the things people did. The mere fact that they would pay money to view a platform full of freaks, fake or authentic, had destroyed any illusions in that direction. But that anyone could stoop so low as to make money off a dead man and the grief of a poor deaf and dumb creature!
Rage slashed through him, burning away the disgust. He saw Cotty emerge from the tent and stop behind the ticket booth to light a cigarette. Dan ground out his own cigarette and rounded the booth. Cotty saw him coming. He seemed to go tense. Then he visibly relaxed, a sneering half grin on his handsome features.
"Around a carnie you learn to expect almost anything, but this ... this stunt is the most despicable thing I've ever witnessed!" Dan realized his temper was running away from him. He made a strong effort to hold it in check.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Patch," Cotty said indifferently.
"You know goddamn good and well what I mean! Using Greer's death and Juval's...."
"We're pulling in the loot, aren't we?"
"Starke, as soon as those people get out of there, I want you to close this tent and keep it closed until Greer's had a decent burial!"
"You want? You want! Just who the hell are you to be ordering me around?" Cotty's eyes narrowed to slits. "Paula turned this show over to me and tonight's going to be the biggest gross this nut collection's ever had. And you tell me to slough it? Not a chance, shoo-fly!"
"Then you're forcing me to go to Bart Roberts."
"So go! You know what he'll tell you when he gets the word on how my idea ... my idea ... is paying off?" Cotty hooted with laugher. "He'll tell you to go whistle up a tent pole!"
People were streaming out of the tent. Cotty flipped away his cigarette and bounded lithely up the platform steps. Dan could only stare after him in boiling frustration. He knew Cotty was right. Bart Roberts would charge admission to view the death throes of his own mother if it appeared lucrative enough.
As Cotty began pounding on the iron wheel, Dan turned and strode into the tent, angrily pushing people out of his way. There were still a few bellied up to the chain, gawking at Juval. Dan ducked under the chain and confronted them. "All right, folks, on your way. This particular freak is taken off display until further notice."
But when he dropped to one knee beside Juval, the hopelessness of his situation struck him. How could he communicate with the dwarf? How could he tell him that his grief was being exploited in the tawdriest way possible?
"Juval." He touched Juval on the arm and Juval swung his face around. The grimace that passed for a smile was still on the out-of-proportioned face, but now it was a clown's smile, infinitely sad. Staring into the dark eyes was like gazing into the inky blackness of tiny, bottomless wells.
"Juval, all this is no good," Dan said gently. He formed each word slowly with his mouth and felt idiot laughter bubble up in him. Juval didn't read lips, so what did it matter how fast the words came at him? "You're being used to make a buck. Hard as it is to accept, Greer is dead and he's never, never coming back to life!"
Juval's eyes were without comprehension. As soon as Dan stopped talking, he switched his gaze again to the casket. Dan got slowly to his feet, his futility bitter. It was simply no use. Juval would stay here at least until teardown four nights away. Maybe when the tent was gone, the pit closed up, he would finally be able to accept Greer's death.
He lit a cigarette. Over his cupped hands he saw Paula down the tent, and he knew what he was going to do. He strode purposefully down to her. "Mrs. Greer...."
She looked at him without recognition. Her face had a loose, dreaming expression, and for a moment he thought she was drunk. She said thickly, "Hello, Patch."
"I'd like a word with you."
She raised and lowered one hand. "So talk."
"Not here, some place private. Your trailer would be best. It's a legal matter and concerns you."
All at once she was alert, wary. "Legal? Concerns me?"
He simply nodded.
Her green eyes measured him. "All right, Patch, if it's all that important."
"It's that important."
She turned away with a flounce of long skirts and headed for the front of the tent.
"Not that way. The back way, Mrs. Greer." Dan didn't want Cotty to suspect anything; he wanted it sprung on the man with the suddenness of a gallows trap opening.
Without looking around Paula changed direction, veering toward the rear of the tent. They didn't speak again until they were inside the Greer trailer. There she faced him. "Well, Mr. Fields?"
"I had intended to wait a decent interval before breaking this to you, Mrs. Greer," Dan began, "but this obscene exhibition with Juval changed my mind...."
"Never mind the moralizing," she snapped, "just get on with it!"
"A few nights ago ... right after Meeks tried to push him off the show train ... your husband came to me and had me draw up a new will. He destroyed the old one, in which you were the chief beneficiary-"
Her sharp intake of breath was like a cry of pain. "Destroyed?"
"That is correct. Under the new will, Juval inherits everything, all except one dollar for you. Greer estimated his estate at approximately one hundred thousand dollars."
Paula had gone as pale as snow, and her eyes seemed to sink into deep sockets out of which they blazed at him. "You're lying! I'll break it! He can't do this to me!"
"He not only could but did," Dan continued steadily. "The will was duly witnessed and I am a competent enough attorney, I assure you, to draw up a will. The will is perfectly legal and will stand up in a court of law. You, of course, have the right to contest it, but it will be a waste of time and money." Dan realized that he was talking more like an attorney than he had in a long time. He had always disliked the windy, pompous verbiage of lawyer dialogues, but it sounded good to his ears now. "There are two stipulations in the will. Since Juval isn't competent legally, a trust was set up. I am the executor of that trust, at least for the time being. Not a chore I particularly relish, I assure you. But that trust will provide you with a good income, providing you take good care of Juval. So you see, your husband did provide for you financially."
Paula had recovered from the initial shock enough to sneer. "Some providing, being stuck with him!"
"The second stipulation states that should Juval predecease you, the trust is resolved and the remainder of the estate then goes to you." He couldn't tell her how hard he'd argued with Greer on the last point. He had failed to convince the man that this placed Juval in jeopardy.
Paula's eyes had brightened noticeably, and she had herself under control again. Dan fancied he could read the thoughts racing through her head. With calculated malice he said, "I tried to persuade Greer that he should make the contents of the will known to you. And to Cotty Starke. Had he done so, he could very well be alive right now."
This made no impression on Paula. She batted the air between them with one hand, as though swatting a buzzing insect. "Listen, Dan..." There was a feverish intensity about her. "Who knows about this besides us ? The witnesses ? And they're carnies, I'll bet."
Caught off-guard, he said, "As a matter-of-fact, they are."
"You know carnies, and I know carnies. For a small chunk of that hundred thousand, they'll forget they ever saw a will. Then you can tear it up and nobody'll need ever know. Basil will have died without leaving a will and his money will all come to me. We'll split it right down the middle!"
Dan's thoughts jumped back to Beth and the false bribery charges, and he was sickened to the depths of his soul.
"Dan?" Something in his face must have revealed what he was thinking, because she took two gliding steps toward him, the planes of her face softening, blurring, before his very eyes. "And that's not all, sweetie. I go with the bargain. Together, we can have a ball!"
He took an involuntary step back, shaking his head. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
Paula hooked her fingers in the low neckline of her dress and ripped it down to her navel. She had nothing on under the dress, and her breasts popped free, the tumescent nipples aimed at him like weapons.
Dan bolted, almost taking the door from its hinges in his hurry. He plunged down the steps, gulping greedily at the clean air after the foulness she had offered him.
"You're a damned fool, Patch! And you're not even a man. I always thought so, now I know!" Her taunting laughter pursued him until he was out of hearing.
It was still early, and the midway teemed with people. Dan ignored them, plowing through them toward the cook tent. As he paused by the cash register inside, Debra took one quick look at his face and said, "Wait, Dan, I'll be right back."
She hurried down the counter, returning in a moment with a waiter in tow. She placed him in charge of the cash register, threw a sweater around her shoulders, then looped her arm in Dan's and they left the tent.
She wouldn't let him speak until they had passed through the entrance arch and were strolling along quiet, tree-lined streets. The streets were deserted, and soon the blare of the midway was behind them. Debra pressed his arm and said, "Now, what is it, darling? Tell me!"
He told her about the talk with Paula. When he was finished, he had regained his composure and was ashamed of running away. like a child fleeing a bogieman! "But the way she put it to me, it brought it all back. Beth and everything that happened before. It seemed like I was living it all over again!"
"Darling, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I can see just how it would hit you. That awful woman!" Debra shivered. "I never did like her but ... there's one good thing; Juval getting all that money. Now he'll be taken care of."
"You think so?" he said dourly. "With the money going to Paula if Juval dies, the temptation'll be too much. Somehow, between the two of them, they'll find a way to do away with Juval."
"But Dan, you're the trustee. Can't you watch after him?"
"Not every minute. Besides, there's nothing in the will that says they have to stay with the carnival. Paula can take Juval away somewhere and I can't tag along like a bodyguard!"
"Then there's nothing can be done about Mrs. Greer and ... and Cotty?"
"Nothing that I can see."
"I always thought people couldn't get away with murder." She added softly, "Poor little guy. Poor Juval."
Dan hadn't paid any particular attention to the direction they had been walking. Now he saw that they were in front of his hotel,, and he realized that Debra must have steered them this way. He held back.
Debra tugged at his arm, looking up at him with a tender smile. "Come on, Dan. Come along, darling."
There was a restraint between them. Dan felt it the moment they were inside his room. Although Debra had brought it about, she seemed oddly shy now that she was alone with him behind closed doors. Perhaps she was regretting it. Their one time together had come about more or less by accident.
Dan said, "Maybe we shouldn't be here like this."
Her glance jumped to him. "Oh, no, darling, I want to be here. It's just that...." She moved close to him, her face tilted up. "Outside there, you acted as though you didn't want me."
"I want you, Debbie. You can be sure of that."
He cupped his hand under her chin and kissed her gently. Her lips trembled briefly under his touch, then her mouth opened and she returned his kiss with a fierceness that took his breath away. Her ardor astounded him.
They helped each other undress, doing it without haste and stopping often to kiss and caress. When they were finally together on the bed, Dan made slow, lingering love to her. The first time had been more or less done in haste. Now he took time to explore her body with lips and hands, familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny.
She returned his caresses timidly at first, but she gradually became bold, inventive, under the prod of desire. He kissed her mouth until she was breathless and panting. He kissed her breasts until the nipples tautened to the bursting point. With the tip of his tongue he explored the convolutions of her navel while her fingers combed his hair. All the while his fingers lightly stroked her back, breasts and trembling thighs. When his hand cupped her, Debra uttered a muted cry and arched her head back into the pillow, the tendons standing out like cords.
He said softly, "Debbie. . . ? "
"Yes, darling, oh, yes!"
Still infinitely gentle, he moved to take her. She surged to him, moaning, when he went into her. Her head rolled from side to side on the pillow, hair whipping across her face. Ecstasy stained her cheeks pink. She stretched her arms out straight on each side, her fingers gathering the sheet in folds.
Their lovemaking was a wild, sweet abandon, their pleasure intense. In his rapture Dan forgot his brief moment of unmanliness before Paula and was all man, all male. As their mutual peak neared, he grew rougher, wilder.
Debra welcomed it, matching his wildness with a vigor of her own. Her small hips drove at him in a fury. Her mouth was open, her eyes clenched shut.
And when their frenzy broke, when Dan fell toward her, his body shuddering in release, Debra said strongly, "Dan. ... Oh, how I love you! You can't know. ... Oh, oh!"
"I love you. too, Debbie. Very much."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The evening was a huge success for Cotty. The tent was full all evening. As rapidly as it emptied, it filled again. People were always lined up waiting to get in. After the fourth short bally, he stopped called the freaks out to the platform. After each show he gave the wheel a few whacks. When a crowd had gathered, he said a few words into the mike and turned them in.
One thing did dampen his pleasure. Paula's behavior puzzled him. Every time he went into the tent he found her hovering in clucking solicitude around the dwarf. She kept the crowd back from the chain and refused to answer any questions fired at her. Once, Cotty saw her urging food and water on Juval. Juval continued his fast and only took a little water.
Cotty simply couldn't understand it. During a lull between shows, he tried to question her. "What's with you and the runt, Paula?" He laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd adopted him, for God's sake!"
"Your job's the front end, Cotty. You handle that and I'll take care of things inside." Her manner was cold, aloof, the Paula of old. "You're having a big night. Be happy with that."
"I am happy. I should think you would be, too."
"I couldn't care less." She shrugged and turned her back.
Baffled, he stared at her. She stepped to Juval and began talking to him in a low voice, pointing to her lips and wriggling her fingers. She was trying to get through to him, for hell's sake!
Cotty heard the buzzing of voices behind him as a new mob surged in. He returned to the bally platform. He would get it all straightened out after closing.
The freak show was the last to close. The other shows were closed and dark, most of the rides shut down, when Cotty finally went inside. Paula was gone, the tent empty except for Juval.
It was Paula's job to take the night's receipts to the office wagon, but Cotty was perfectly content to perform that chore. Holding the heavy canvas bag by the neck, he sauntered up the midway. Some of the carnies he met turned their heads away without speaking, but most of them had a friendly word of congratulations on his big night. He knew that what had happened would, in time, become a carnie legend. Carnies, most of them anyway, admired a moneymaker and they weren't particular about the methods used, Dan Fields to the contrary. Again Cotty indulged himself in the dream, the dream about what he would do if he used Greer's money to buy Greater Universe. Mr. Shoo-fly Dan Fields would be the first to go!
After checking the night's take in at the office wagon, he briefly considered going by the cook tent and do his part in embellishing the Cotty Starke legend. But Paula's odd behavior tonight nagged at him like the twinges of a sore tooth. He had to find out why her sudden concern for the dwarf.
There was a light on in the trailer, but the door was locked. He was going to have to ask Paula for a key. He had to knock several times before she finally came to the door.
"Oh, it's you."
"Yes, it's me," he growled, stepping inside. "You took long enough."
She was wearing a floor-length dressing gown and carried a glass. She motioned with the glass, sloshing some of the liquor on the gown. "You want a drink, help yourself. You know where it is."
He eyed her uneasily. She was unsteady on her feet; she must have been drinking heavily since closing. "I don't want a drink. Not now. First, I want to know why the business with Juval."
"I don't have to explain anything to you!" she blazed at him.
"Oh, yes, you do! We're partners, remember?" In two strides he had her wrist in an iron grip.
"Partners! What a joke!" She threw back her head and laughed. The laughter sounded dangerously close to hysteria.
Cotty tightened his grip cruelly. "If it's such a joke as all that, suppose you let me in on it."
"Ouch!" She tried to free her arm. "Damn you, that hurts! Let go!"
"Okay, but tell me."
"All right, sweetie, why not? You'll have to hear the good news some time." She gulped the rest of her drink. "You'd better sit down. It's a dinger."
Apprehension tightened his nerve ends. He groped behind him for a chair and sat down. His mind raced frantically. They couldn't suspect anything about Greer's death! Not unless he'd been seen slipping under the bally platform. But even if he had, how could Paula know about it?
She said, "My dear husband was worth one hundred thousand dollars...."
"But that's great, better than we'd expected!"
" ... and he left ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars of it to Juval. And the other dollar went to me! How about that for a knee-slapper, sweetie?"
It was too much for him to grasp. "But he couldn't do that!"
"He could. He did. He made a last-minute will. It's iron-clad, Dan Fields says."
"Patch? What the hell does he know?"
"He knows. Don't kid yourself. He was once a top-drawer attorney. That was my first thought, too, to fight it, but I changed my mind. There's another kicker, you see." Her sudden smile was sly. "The money's actually in trust for the little guy. And so long as I take good care of him, the trust takes good care of me."
Cotty stared. "You mean you're going to play nursemaid to a dwarf?"
"Oh, it won't be all that bad. I've been thinking about it. He's not helpless or anything like that. If I can get him away from the carnie...."
She broke off and crossed over to make herself a drink.
After the initial shock, Cotty's mind was stirring, probing at it. "Was that all there was in the will?"
She looked around quickly, eyes narrowing. "All? Don't you think that's enough?"
"I was just wondering if that was all the bad news," he muttered. "So where does that leave me?"
"I'll finish out the season. You can run the freak show until then. After that...." She shrugged, tasted her fresh drink. "I don't know."
"You don't know!" Cotty sprang to his feet. "Look, we had plans. Why do you think I put all those sleeping pills in Juval's pop bottle ? We were going to spend Greer's money together!"
"We were. But I just told you. I don't have the money."
"You said you'd be getting so much for taking care of Juval."
"That's true, sweetie. Enough for the two of us but not enough for a third party."
"Two of us. Oh, I get it." He sneered. "It's you and the dwarf now. Is he going to share your bed, Paula? Do you think he'll make a good bang? Or wait ... maybe you already know how he is in bed!"
Without warning, she dashed the contents of her glass into his eyes and followed it up with a roundhouse slap with her open hand. The alcohol stung his eyes and his ears rang painfully from the slap. He pawed frantically at his eyes.
"You bastard! You've got a mind like a cesspool," she said in a frigid voice. "Get out of my sight and stay out!"
Then he was outside, the door slamming behind him. He heard the bolt snick home with a sound of finality. He mopped at his face and eyes until he could finally see again. Then a cold and killing fury seeped into him. Juval! The dwarf was to blame for everything going wrong. Even tonight's huge gross was due to Juval. The show would have pulled them in tonight even without a talker; they had flocked in to see Juval and an empty casket. And now it turned out that Juval had inherited all of Greer's money. It was intolerable!
The midway was dark and deserted as Cotty made his way to the freak show tent. He held his breath as he pushed back the entrance flap and peered in. The overhead lights had been turned off but the night light, a weak bulb at one end of the tent, threw enough light to show Juval staring down into the empty casket. Doesn't he ever get tired, for hell's sake? Cotty thought in exasperation. This irritating thought was so minor in the face of his overpowering rage at Juval that Cotty grinned faintly. It was enough to relax him a little, enough to let him calmly consider what he had to do. He had to kill Juval; there was no other way. And it would have to be a violent death this time, done with his own hands. Anything less wouldn't do. This time the thought of violent death didn't bother him in the least. And it should be easy. After all, a dwarf....
He smoked a cigarette all the way through, his gaze never leaving the unmoving figure of Juval. Cotty refused to consider the consequences of his act. He would handle that when the time came. The thought of killing Juval was as pleasurable as the anticipation of sex. In fact, as he contemplated it he felt a sudden and powerful erection. He drew a deep breath, threw away his cigarette, took a last quick look around the tent, and moved quickly and quietly up behind the dwarf. Not that it mattered. Juval couldn't hear him.
In one smooth motion, he hooked his arm around Juval's neck, clamped his other hand around the wrist, making the arm a noose of iron. Juval tensed, then exploded into savage action. His strong hands clawed at Cotty's arm. He kicked back with his heels. His small, wiry body whipped and lashed wildly. Cotty hung on grimly, applying as much pressure as he could. After a moment the dwarf slumped in Cotty's grip, his body going limp. Exultation surged through Cotty. His wrist was already slick with sweat. He relaxed his grip ever so slightly so he could get a better, firmer hold.
Then his arms were seized in powerful hands. Juval crouched slightly, and Cotty found himself flying through the air. He turned over once in flight and, falling, struck his head against the end of the casket. Pain exploded in his skull. He was never completely unconscious. He could feel himself being moved, hauled about roughly. He tried to protest, to struggle, but both his voice and his will to move his muscles seemed paralyzed. Now he was lying on something as soft as silk. Dimly he heard a thumping sound, followed by the clank of chains. ... Chains?
Then he was suddenly, horribly, awake. He was lying stretched out in the coffin, his hands folded across his chest. And looming over him, seen through the thick glass of the coffin lid, was the gargoyle face of Juval. Cotty heard himself screaming obscenities. He beat on the glass with his fists; it was tough as iron. After much difficulty, he managed to remove one shoe. The heel was leather with a metal cap. He pounded on the glass with the shoe heel. The metal cap made a few scratches on the glass and that was all. Juval's face disappeared from view.
All at once Cotty realized he was tiring. He lay very still, listening to the pound of his heart. He was bathed in sweat and his breathing made a rasping sound. How long had he been locked in the casket? Ten minutes? Fifteen? He tried to recall how long the air in the coffin was supposed to last. Twenty minutes? But that was for a man coming out of a deep trance, lungs not fully functioning yet.
Panic pounced on him like a ravening animal. He beat on the glass again with the shoe. He lost the shoe and pounded on the lid with his fists, his head. He ripped the satin lining with his nails.
He scrabbled for purchase on the edge of the glass with his fingers until they were raw and bleeding. He no longer felt pain. He strained up, his nose smashed flat on the glass, his eyes rolling wildly in an effort to see. He saw nothing. He fell back. He couldn't breathe. His lungs felt ready to burst. Unconsciousness washed over him in waves of blackness.
His last thought was of Paula. She had won. Damn her, she had.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dan found him there early the next morning when he went into the tent to check on Juval. He saw nothing unusual at first. Juval was still there; it didn't look as though he'd moved a muscle all night. Dan drifed over toward him. He was in a bemused state of benevolence this morning. After a night of love and ecstasy beyond belief, he had just escorted Debra to her father's trailer. This morning, the world was lit by a rosy glow. He couldn't even find it in himself to hate Cotty Starke.
Then he grunted aloud. The chains were around the casket! The lid was down, the chains padlocked around it. He took a few running steps, vaulted over the chain, and skidded to a stop against the coffin. He stared down into Cotty's dead face. Cotty was not handsome in death; he had died violently and horribly. Dan knew it would be a waste of time to get him out and try to revive him. He turned slowly to confront Juval. The dwarf's face was devoid of all expression.
It was doubtful the full truth would ever be known, but Dan was certain he could make a close guess. Some time during the night Cotty had tried to kill the dwarf, and Juval had turned the tables. But one question stood out above all others: Had this whole vigil of Juval's been an elaborate trap to lure Cotty to his death? Dan had a feeling that it had been. But if that were true it had to mean that the dwarf knew Cotty was somehow responsible for Greer's death. And yet, why couldn't he have known? Deaf and dumb and illiterate he might be, but he was far from stupid. And i course Paula had told Cotty about the mone;. That had to be the reason he had made an attempt on Juval's life.
Dan glanced at the casket again and shivered. What a horrible revenge! Yet it was fitting. He sighed and stared past Juval. He had to call the police. Without looking at him, he paused long enough to press the little guy's shoulder in encouragement. With what he faced he was going to need it.
The deputy sheriff in charge this time was a man named Hopkins. He was lean, fiftyish, competent. If he had any built-in animosity toward carnies, he hid it well. He listened quietly as Dan told what he knew, interrupting with a shrewd question now and then. Dan went back to the attempt to push Greer off the train and told it ii chronological order.
"It's a mess, isn't it? A real bitch," Hopkins said when Dan was finished. His gaze rested o; Juval in speculation. "I guess there's no doubt h locked Starke in the coffin?"
"I'm afraid not."
Hopkins sighed. "How do I get a straight story out of a guy who can't speak, hear, read, or write
If we knew Starke had a hand in killing the other guy, it'd go easier on the dwarf."
There was a commotion among the silent carnies gathered back of the chain. Dan and the deputy turned to look. It was Paula, in slacks and sweater. A carnie held up the chain and she ducked under. She gave Dan a passing glance and strode on to the casket. Her hair was unkempt, the madonna face looked corrupt, and she trailed a cloud of gin fumes.
"That's Paula Greer, Basil Greer's wife," Dan said. He debated a moment, then took a chance. "Officer, I didn't tell you this before, but I'm sure she knew what brought on Greer's death. I'm positive she and Starke were behind the first attempt on Greer's life, the one on the train, and they somehow managed to prevent Juval from digging him out. Understand, I have nothing concrete to go on, only a hunch. But I'd be willing to stake my life that was about the way it happened."
Hopkins gave him an appraising glance, nodded briefly, then swung his gaze to Paula. He said slowly, "It's worth looking into. It's been my experience that oftentimes hunches pay off in police business. You say she's now legally the dwarf's guardian?"
Dan nodded.
"Then that gives me a legitimate reason to take her downtown and question her."
"It's obvious, at least to me, that there was a struggle here last night. Starke must have attacked Juval and Juval defended himself. You can see the marks in the dirt."
"Yeah, I saw all that. Still, locking him in that casket...." Hopkins' gaze switched to the casket.
At that moment Paula, staring down at Cotty, began to laugh. Her laughter had the climbing, scratchy sound of hysteria. She spun around to face Juval, her face contorted. "Who put the pills in the bottle this time, Juval? Who?" She giggled and clapped her hands together. "Not me! No, no, no, not me!"
Hopkins grunted and stepped up to seize her arm. Paula struggled briefly, then gradually quieted. The deputy said something to her in a low voice. She nodded without speaking.
Beside Dan, Debra said in hushed tones, "Darling, I just heard. Dear God, how many more are going to die?"
Dan shook his head and she fell silent. Deputy Sheriff Hopkins was leading Paula away. He stopped to speak to another deputy, who then moved over to stand beside Juval. Hopkins went on out with Paula, the carnies following in his wake. Soon only Dan, Debra, the deputy and Juval were left in the tent.
"What will happen to Juval, Dan?" Debra asked.
"I don't know. It's hard to figure," Dan said slowly. "If they can get Paula to implicate Starke in Greer's death, it will help. That would implicate her also, but I think she's about to fall apart. I also think the deputy is convinced that Juval acted last night in self-defense. ... Except for that business of locking Starke in the casket to die." He shuddered. "Perhaps a plea of temporary insanity. God only knows, Juval's been half out of his mind with grief since Greer died." His voice gathered strength. "But I know one thing for sure."
"What's that, darling?"
"I'm staying here and doing what I can to help Juval," he stated with some belligerence. "Since I'm not a member of the bar in good standing, I can't defend him in court, but I can see that he gets a good attorney. And I'll stick around to do whatever else I can to help him."
"Does that mean you're leaving the carnival?"
His gaze was direct. "Don't you think if s about time? Long past time?"
"Yes, Dan." Her smile was tender, understanding. "It's time for you to go."
"And you? How about you, Debbie?"
"What do you mean ? " she asked in a low voice.
"I love you. You know that."
"I...." Her glance slid away. "Yes, Dan, I know that."
"Then will go you with me?"
"Dan, everything has happened so fast." Now she looked up at him. "Not just yet. Not for a little while. For one thing, I need time to prepare Evan."
"But when you're ready, you'll come to me."
"Yes, darling," she said simply. "When I know it's time, I'll come."
As they watched the deputy lead Juval from the tent, Debra's hand crept into Dan's and clung.
