Chapter 6
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."