Chapter 11
"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.