Chapter 13
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.