Chapter 8
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?"