Chapter 2
Thunder shook the sky with demented ferocity. Lightning flashed, illuminating the canvas tents on the Midway. In the brief flashes, the rides appeared to be huge iron monsters transported from another world. The howling wind shook the tents in a weird dance, and eerie shadows became grotesque forms with many tentacles, reaching toward me.
I shivered as I moved forward. The wind whipped the canvas side wall of the tent I was passing, slapping me sharply in the face. I almost lost my footing in the ankle-deep mud. I cursed loudly. A hell of a night to be called out on a case!
It was here, among all these rides and amusement games, that a killer had crept cunningly and stealthily in the darkness of the night, to strike down his victim. The bold headlines flashed vividly through my mind. They screamed: Sheik O'Dea, operator of a girl show, shot and killed in a girl show tent.
There were pictures of the girl show; pictures of O'Dea's flamboyant wife, and of other girls working in the show. Some of the pictures were cheesecake, some were pictures of the carnival, and there were pictures of every other damned thing connected with the murdered man.
The newspapers were having a field day. This was something way out of the ordinary for a small town like Pottsville, and they were making the most of it. Generally, all the paper had was an occasional news item such as that somebody's college daughter was visiting for a weekend or who had dinner at whose house.
Peering down the inky Midway, I could distinguish a police car parked on the right. I wondered where Sam Grass was to be found. Over the phone, he had said I would find him in a big Spartan house trailer, near the entrance to the Midway. Lightning again spit with its angry forked tongue, and in the sudden glare, my gaze fell on a long silver trailer.
Rain dripped from my hat brim and bounced on my nose as I trudged toward the trailer with mud sucking at my shoes.
I wondered what kind of a man Sam Grass was. All I knew was that he sounded frantic, that he seemed desperately in need of help. I knew that his call had something to do with O'Dea's murder, seeing it had occurred on his Midway. A nice juicy murder was just what I needed for my first case!
As I was trying to estimate how many policemen were roaming around the grounds, the beam of a flashing hit me squarely in the eyes, and two strong arms pinned my arms securely to my side.
I struggled, then when I realized resistance was futile, I yelled, "What in the hell is going on? What do you want?"
A gruff voice snapped, "We'll ask the questions, wise guy. Now, what are you doing here?"
They were policemen all right. I smiled, but it was without humor.
"Sam Grass sent for me. I'm Steve Donlon, a private investigator," I snapped right back at them. No sense taking a back seat.
One of the cops spoke. "Can you prove who you are?"
I reached into the inside jacket pocket beneath my trench coat and pulled out my driver's license and my badge. I shoved them into the cop's outstretched hand.
He flashed the light on the items and looked them over carefully, with practiced efficiency.
"No need to get riled up. We're only doing our duty," he said, mildly.
The other policemen glanced at my license and at my badge.
"Think he's all right, Joe," he asked.
"Yeah. He looks like the real thing."
The one called Joe turned to face me. "You can go. But make sure you head straight for Mr. Grass's trailer. We'll be watching every move you make."
I took my license and my badge from his hand and rammed them back into my pocket.
"Thanks. Thanks for nothing," I said, thoroughly exasperated.
As I walked up to the trailer, I shivered from the cold. Then, when I reached the door, I banged on it.
It flew open, immediately, framing me in a blaze of light.
"Mr. Grass?" I inquired.
The figure in the doorway stood aside and gave a nervous laugh. "Come on in. Sorry to get you out on a night like this."
I stepped up into the trailer and pulled off my rain-drenched hat. The man I faced was attired in a loud brown-and-orange plaid dressing robe. It screamed for attention. He stretched out his hand.
"Let me take your wet things," he offered.
I slipped out of my coat and handed it to him.
He looked with dismay at the puddle of water that was forming at my feet.
"Have a seat. I'll be right with you," he said.
I sat down on one end of a roomy couch and fumbled in my pocket for a cigarette.
"I was stopped by a pair of stupid cops," I told Mr. Grass as he returned to the living room, smoothing his white hair with one hand.
A big diamond, the size of a car headlight, winked at me from his little finger. I was impressed.
He gave another nervous laugh, then he scowled, but it all was evidence of his solicitude.
"That's too bad, Mr. Donlon. I forgot about them when I talked to you on the phone. I could have warned you. I've been brushing cops out of my hair ever since this thing happened."
Depression seemed to surround him like a visible fog, and he laughed again, nervously.
"Can I fix you a drink, Mr. Donlon?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks." I wiped at my wet hair with my handkerchief. "Of course you are referring to the recent murder."
Sam walked over to the refrigerator. "Yes, the murder is a nasty business."
"Is Buslimill's Irish all right for you?" he asked, over his shoulder.
"That will really hit the spot," I replied, glancing around me.
The trailer was expensively, if not tastefully furnished. The couch on which I was seated ran across the entire front end. A drop leaf table stood at one side of the couch, an end table at the other side.
On the end table, a large lamp with a chartreuse shade stood, its base the figure of a nude negress in a pose of complete abandonment. White satin draw drapes, striped with gold, hung at the wide windows and fell in graceful folds to the floor. A sprawling coffee table was placed in front of the couch. An ornate silver cigarette box with a matching tray and lighter rested on the coffee table. A gold satin brocade lounge chair completed the furnishings of one corner of the front room. A white leather hassock and ecru wall-to-wall carpeting completed the living room decor.
My glance encompassed the sink where Sam busied himself pouring whiskey into two glasses. The kitchen was compact and complete as are almost all trailer kitchens. There were blonde cabinets from ceiling to floor, a built-in deluxe stove, double sinks, and a refrigerator with a table model television on it.
Because of the sliding doors which were closed, this was as much of the trailer as I could observe. I could hear faint sounds coming from behind the doors, a rustling as of taffeta, soft footsteps. Someone was back there, moving about, probably Sam's wife.
As he seated himself beside me, Sam handed me my drink. He took a long swig of his. Over the rim of his glass, his cold blue eyes measured me.
I finished my drink quickly, meanwhile returning his stare.
"Suppose we get down to business, Mr. Grass," I suggested. "Just why did you send for me?"
He gave the nervous laugh which seemed to introduce all of his conversation. I was beginning to expect it.
He spoke hurriedly. "Of course you've read about O'Dea's murder. The papers are full of it."
"Girl show operator, wasn't he?"
Sam laughed again. "Yeah. He was a damn good operator, but he also was an ornery cuss. Happened night before last. Time of death was two-thirty in the morning."
I nodded and massaged my left leg. It still bothered me in damp, rainy weather.
"Let me get the facts straight," I said. "Who found the body?"
"Dimples, Sheik's wife. She had been drinking with Dolly, Hank, and Sleepy in her trailer. Hank and Sleepy left, and Dolly had passed out so Dimples went to find Sheik."
He paused, clearing his throat, another nervous habit he had. I waited for him to continue.
"She had gone through the girl show top first on her way to the G-top, thinking he might be there. He was there all right ... he was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Of course, that's only her story. I didn't see any of it happen."
Being careful to keep my face impassive, I inquired, "And where were you at the time of the murder, Mr. Grass?"
Sam Grass shifted uneasily in his chair. "In bed. I'm a sound sleeper. I finally was awakened by a loud pounding at the door. It was Clem. He said Sheik had been murdered. So I told him to call the cops while I hurried up and got dressed.
"Shiek was shot with a thirty-two revolver, wasn't he?" I asked.
Actually, it was a statement, but you have to be diplomatic.
Sam looked troubled. He hesitated before replying. "Yes, he was. At close range. It had to be someone he knew."
"Nothing personal, Sam, but do you own a gun?" My gaze never left his face.
"I own a little twenty-five automatic," he replied, flatly. "Don't tell me that you suspect me, Mr. Donlon?"
Again the nervous laugh.
"I keep an open mind when I'm on a case. It's the only way one can be handled effectively. No offense intended."
Sam spoke in an annoyed tone. "The police are at a standstill. They don't know any more now than when I first called them. That's why I called you. I want to try and get this murder cleared up."
He cleared his throat. "You know the sheriff, Ran Johson? With all his loud blustering talk, no doubt he's capable, but the carnies just won't talk to him."
Sam paused and shrugged. The gesture indicated helplessness.
I put my empty glass on the table and stood up, frowning, in deep thought.
"I don't know how you expect me to get the carnies to talk if they won't open up for the police," I said. "They won't trust a private eye, either. To them, a cop is a cop."
Sam grew excited. "I thought I would introduce you as an old friend who is interested in buying the show. If they don't know who or what you really are, maybe they will talk."
I chuckled as I realized that I had underestimated him. "It might work at that, Mr. Grass. Of course it will be expensive, just as I told you on the phone."
I looked at him, questioningly.
"Expensive, Mr. Donlon? By the way, do you mind if I call you by your first name? No use being formal, now that we're going to be friends."
"Fine by me," I said.
I sat down again and stretched my long legs out in front of me. Then I shifted to a more comfortable position.
"Now what were we talking about? Oh yes, expense. That's no object." He leaned forward, his voice rising as he warmed to his subject. "This delay is costing me a fortune. We should've left town here yesterday. I've broken one contract already this week. I still have ride-help to pay. If I don't watch out, I'll be sued for breach of contract. It cost me a pretty piece of change to bring my outfit here in the first place. The overhead is terrific. There's a lot of hidden expense in this business, Same as in any other."
He gave me a sly wink.
"I hadn't thought about that," I said.
Sam laughed. "If you can catch the murderer for me so we can move on, you can write your own ticket. I've got dough, plenty of it. Plenty of it," he repeated, with a smug smile playing over his ruddy face.
"Fifty dollars a day is my price, Sam."
He reached over and grasped my hand, pumping it up and down. "It's a deal, Steve, and if you clear it up in a week I'll give you a five-hundred-dollar bonus. How about another drink?"
"All right, Sam. Now, suppose you fill me in on any details that weren't mentioned in the paper?"
The sliding doors opened, and a living doll stood before us.
My eyes bugged, devouring the luscious creature.
She was petite, about five feet tall. Chestnut hair, shoulder-length, hazel eyes with long sooty lashes, and a pouting, rosebud mouth. As she met my gaze her lips parted in a smile, exposing uneven teeth, the only flaw in her perfection.
She was wearing a black velvet hostess gown which molded her curves like a glove. A zipper ran down the length of the gown, and it was zipped down far enough to reveal the snowy swells of her breasts. She was a stunner! Mentally, I bedded her down. She was a lot younger than Sam.
Sam handed me a fresh drink.
"Steve, this is Lorette, my baby," he said proudly.
Some baby! I thought. No wonder he looks so old and tired. This gal must be using up any mileage he has left.
Sam draped one arm around her small waist, patting her shapely buttocks.
Lorette's voice was low and husky, surprisingly so for so tiny a person.
"Pleased to meet you, Steve," she said in the sexiest voice I ever had heard. It did things to my every nerve.
Lorette streched lazily in the lounge chair. Her robe fell open at her knees. She crossed her shapely legs and stared up at me.
I forced my eyes away from her and tried to focus them on Sam. He had a pleased smile on his face as he eyed Lorette, then looked at me. Mentally, I kicked myself.
Come on, son, I admonished myself. You're an old vet, not a punk kid on his first sight-seeing tour. The world is full of good-looking broads. You should know. You've had your share. I drummed my fingers on the coffee table, trying to quiet my nerves.
"Have the police singled out any one suspect as yet?" I asked, as I tried to divert my attention from Lorette.
"They suspect everyone. We all disliked Sheik." Sam's voice held bitterness. "Oh, the carnies talked to the fuzz all right. They just didn't say anything."
I rubbed my crewcut, speculatively.
"How about Dimples O'Dea, his strip tease wife?" I asked. " I should think she would be the obvious suspect."
"I don't think she did it," Sam said, shifting uneasily.
I smiled. "Why not? According to the newspapers, he gave her a rough time."
Lorette gave a brittle laugh. "He owned her. She's just a wild, mixed-up kid. A full-blown body he had taught to lure and to tease ... a child's mind, still intent on toys."
Lorette's eyes held a trace of tears. Sentimental, I thought, along with passionate. The ideal combination.
"We don't know all the facts, Lorette. Better let Steve meet her, then judge for himself," Sam said.
I was silent, thoughtful, for a moment. "What type of person was Sheik?" I asked, finally.
Sam bit his lip and frowned. "Sheik had been with me five seasons. He ran the G-top where the carnies drink and gamble. He made a lot of money. Some say he was crooked."
"A bad loser?" I queried.
Sam sighed, heavily. "Could be." He paused, then added, hastily, "I've heard that he also had some run-ins with his help on his wildlife show."
I nodded. "What about his other strip teaser? Any fire there?" I paused, then added. "Or was there some other hot current affair going on?"
Sam got to his feet, hesitated for a minute, then spoke slowly. "The other dancer, the one mentioned in the papers, is Dolly Vickers. According to rumor, Sheik showed no partiality between Dimples and Dolly. He divided his favors equally between them. As for any other current love affair, I'm afraid I wouldn't know."
I whistled. "Some setup. How about jealousy?"
Sam shrugged. His voice was glum. "Who knows?"
After her one outburst, Lorette had been I strangely quiet. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Sam gave each of us a fresh drink.
I accepted mine gratefully. The guy really could sling them.
He sank down on the couch beside me and spoke reluctantly. "There also are rumors that Sheik was peddling marijuana and horse in the G-top. I had never found any evidence, of course."
"Did you tell Sheriff Johnson about this?"
Sam smiled, sheepishly. "I'm afraid I didn't."
He paused and gave me a sharp glance.
"Conversation between a private eye and a client is like that between a doctor and a patient, isn't it?" he asked.
"As long as my license to practice isn't threatened," I conceded.
"I understand." He gave me a big smile. "You can get started on the investigation immediately, can't you, Steve?"
I nodded. "I've taken a room at the motel across the street. I made a reservation by phone this afternoon right after you called."
Sam smiled, sheepishly. "I prefer to have you close at hand."
"Well, it's against my policy to be away from my own apartment, but I'll see how it works out," I said.
"Fine. Suppose we go down to the G-top now, and you can meet some of the carnies."
"Good idea, Sam." I stood up.
Sam went over to a closet, and took out a bright yellow slicker and a rain hat. He slipped them on, and handed me my raincoat. Then he kissed Lorette lightly on the cheek.
"I won't be gone long, baby," he told her.
She smiled. "Okay, Sam." Then she turned to me.
"Good night, Steve," she cooed.
Sam opened the door and stepped outside. I followed him. The rain slashed at us and I felt like going right back in to the warmth and comfort of the trailer.
The G-top was filled with studs. I gazed around me, surprised at the layout. There was a portable bar about six feet long, built so that it could be knocked apart readily; easy to set up and to take down. The four bar stools were occupied by guys, who were drinking. A table behind the bar contained bottles of whiskey and cases of beer.
A thin, pimply-faced man stood behind the bar.
The tent also had a large portable dice table. Several fellows stood around it, their eyes on the active cubes. Another gaming table held a huge Chuck-a-Luck cage. This table was empty. At a third table, four engrossed characters sat, playing poker.
Sam removed his rain hat and stood, holding it in his hand. Activity had stopped, as well as conversation; all eyes were turned in our direction.
Sam laughed. "Don't let us interrupt, gentlemen. I just wanted you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Steve Donlon."
Acknowledgements of the introductions were mumbled and grunted by the various men, but from their stares, I felt as though I were in the lineup at headquarters.
I smiled broadly. "It's a pleasure, fellows," I responded.
"Let's get a drink, Steve. I'll introduce you personally to the man at the bar," Sam said.
I followed him over to the bar. The man behind it was patronizing.
"What'll you have, Mr. Grass?" he asked.
"Slats, I want you to shake hands with Steve Donlon. We'll have a couple of highballs."
Slats extended his hand across the bar. Our hands clasped, and his felt like a dead fish.
"Pleasure, Slats."
He mumbled, sizing me up, and put two glasses of whiskey doused with mix in front of us.
I sipped my drink, and studied the man next to me. He was conversing with a midget who was perched on the edge of a stool. One of his hands grasped the bar. He chewed the end of a stogie, working it back and forth in his mouth.
I nudged Sam. The big fellow was talking. "I'll tell you, Sleepy," he was saying, "I'd bet my bottom dollar that Clem killed Sheik."
He snorted, "Not that I'd blame him. Sheik worked the pants off Clem and of course, Clem is nuts about Dimples."
The midget took the cigar from his mouth, and spat. His voice was raspy. "I don't know, Red. Dimples is some gal. A lot of studs around here go for her. She might've done Sheik in."
Sam slipped down from his stool, walked over and tapped Red on the shoulder. "Red, I'd like you to shake hands with Steve Donlon."
He nodded toward me as he made the introduction.
"Steve," he said, "this is Red Swank, my brother-in-law. He's the show's legal adjuster.
I stood up and shook hands with Red Swank. He was a sharp dresser. He had auburn hair and freckles. I noticed that he avoided my gaze as our hands met. I made a mental note to watch this character. His eyes were shifty, and his chin was weak.
The midget kept staring at me, and Red. muttered, "Steve, meet Sleepy Austin."
"Hiya, Steve," Sleepy said, affably. Nature sure had pulled a boner with this poor little jerk. His head looked like that of an old man on the body of a five-year-old.
The dark-haired man next to Sleepy reached past him, his hand outstretched.
"I'm Fishpond Blackie," he said, heartily. "Put 'er there, chum."
The man next to Blackie had stood up and Fishpond Blackie turned to him, introducing us. "Steve Donlon, this is Cryin' Bert."
Cryin' Bert had a thin face. He was an ugly man, with protruding eyes and buck teeth. He sniffed, and his voice had a nasal twang. "Hi, Steve," he said. Sam walked over. "Hey Slats, give the boys another round on me," he said in a jovial tone.
Slats had just refilled our glasses, when a loud crash splintered the hubbub of voices.
I stood up and whirled around, facing the room. The poker table had been slammed over.
A tall young man, his face livid with rage, had leaped on a negro boy who fell in a sprawl under his attacker's weight.
The tall young man screamed, "I'll kill you ... you ... black mother...!" Dealing me a card from the bottom of the deck!"
The colored boy growled incoherently as he attacked, rolling from beneath the other man who had raised himself to a crouching position, as the colored boy's shoe connected with his guts.
I heard Sam Bark, "Stop it, Clem. Hank, break it up."
The midget had been jumping up and down, at the same time screaming. "Atta boy, Clem!"
He winced as the negro's shoe collided with Clem's belly. Now he was silent, as were the others.
Clem staggered. He shook his head. With the grace of a panther, he leaped at his opponent, swinging a bruising right into Hank's middle. As Hank hit the ground, Clem lunged on him, his hands closing around Hank's throat.
I ran toward them. Sam was at my heels. It took both of us to drag Clem off the other.
Sam was shaking with rage. He shook Clem roughly by the arm, and yelled, "Now you get out of here, Clem, until you Cool off."
Clem sullenly left the G-top.
Hank groaned, and sat up, rubbing his throat as he stared up at Sam.
"I could've taken him, Boss," he said. "Why didn't you let us fight?"
Sam chuckled sarcastically, pulling Hank to his feet.
"Right now I don't have a spare tilt-foreman," he said sourly, running his hand over his head. "Clem is nuts," Hand said. "He can't think or anything but fighting, and he's always resented me."
Sam patted him on the back. "You're a good boy, Hank. Forget it. I've always told you I would not allow prejudice here."
The colored boy smiled, sheepishly. "All right, boss. I think I'll turn in now."
I looked at Sam. "I might as well turn in too, if you don't mind."
"Fine. I'll see you in the morning, and you can get acquainted with the rest of the troopers."
I made my way out of the tent and started to walk slowly down the midway. I spotted the two policemen and exchanged a brief "hello." Then I proceeded across the street to the motel.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I mulled over in my mind the different people I'd met.
Clem really had a vile temper. I wondered if he could be the murderer.
My last thoughts before I dropped off into a troubled sleep, were of Lorette. I had a wild nightmare in which Lorette cavorted about in a cave woman's outfit. She was swinging a club, and chasing me. Then huge hawks, with the faces of Sam and Sleepy, swooped down at me from the sky.
Looking up, I saw king-size stars. They were lit up in bold neon lights: RUN STEVE, RUN! I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. But I didn't awaken, and at that moment Lorette caught me.
I reached out for her as she bent over me, breathing her hot passionate breath in my face. Then her club came down on my head, and there was only inky blackness.